ataraxionlogs | (closed) stopped looking for the people that are gonna save me

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(closed) stopped looking for the people that are gonna save me

CHARACTERS: Heather Mason, John "Kable" Tillman
LOCATION: The showers
WARNINGS: nudity and truly vile attempts at manipulation
SUMMARY: Demon gets bored, decides to make her own entertainment
NOTES: ...we're sorry?

The problem with people is that they're basically rotten. Most of them would push their own granny under a bus for a little bit of fortune or fame. Which was entertaining, sure, but when you specialized in turning people against each other it could make your job a little dull. So every once in a while it was therapeutic to find somebody with cracks and prod at them, just for fun.

She didn't even have to do the finding this time. She'd been in her new outfit all of thirty seconds before opportunity presented itself in the form of a strong, silent and suffering cliché who had cunningly concealed his pain by doing the psychic equivalent of hiding it under a large red button marked DO NOT PUSH. He was a big juicy steak and damn it, she wanted first bite. So she waited and watched, and really, a better opportunity to make him as uncomfortable as possible could be a long time coming. Certainly longer than she intended to be on this floating mausoleum.

So in the name of a little light entertainment she followed Tillman into the otherwise empty showers, ditched her clothes, silently padded over to him with more stealth than Heather ever had, and pitched her voice soft and warm.

"John."

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Tillman's spine straightened and he went very still. The sudden surge of adrenaline made the tiniest details in the tile wall in front of him stand out like he was eying them under a magnifying glass. It was not the use of the name, that garnered this reaction. There was at least one other person on the station named John and it was fairly common besides. It was not even that someone had referred to him by his first name when nobody on the station knew it.

It was the tone of voice. The inflection used. The familiarity and the expectancy and the warmth. He had not watched the locker rooms with the same efficiency that he usually used-- had spent quite a bit of time acquainting a new arrival with the idea of a space ship-- and his heart beat faster because she was here and he had missed her arrival, but she had found him.

There was an uncharacteristic amount of emotion on his face, all hope and relief and joy. It was followed by an unchecked flood of disappointment and disbelief and confusion. "Heather?" His voice was hardly above a whisper.

Oh, the look on his face. Beautiful. She had enough practice to keep a leer of joy off hers, but it could have been a close thing. Instead she looked up at him, filled her eyes with need and confusion and the kind of love that collects over the years, every day making it stronger. Or so she'd heard. Sounded painfully dull, but you worked with what you were given.

"No," she said with the smallest shake of her head, stepping closer. She took a breath and let it hitch, the sound of somebody choking on words that wouldn't come, and reached out instead brush her fingertips softly over the tattoo on his forearm - not the Tranquility serial number, but the other one. I am right here with you. The one that, with any luck, would kick him right in the heart.

Tillman stood, entirely unmoving except for his eyes. He swept across Heather's face, looking for any indication that this was a joke-- a cruel, impossible joke-- because even though he wanted nothing more than Angie's return, he knew that he was looking at Heather.

He followed her movement, his breath held tight in his chest as she touched his arm, paused, and then splayed her fingers. His heart beat faster because no one ever touched him like that. He looked back at her face. The little tilt to her head, the tentative smile, the curve of her brow, and even though Heather's eyes were dark instead of hazel, he would recognize the way that Angie looked at him anywhere.

He took hold of her jaw, still confused but so relieved that he could hardly breathe as he leaned in and kissed her. It was a hard, passionate kiss, as if afraid that she would disappear.

Two words. Two! Damn, she was good. She lifted her hands to his, curled her fingers around his wrists and gripped hard, gave a little shiver as he kissed her. Just a small one, none of this shaking like a leaf business. No sense ruining the whole thing by overselling it at such an early stage.

She leaned into the kiss, eyes closed, and whispered when they finally broke.

"I've missed you so much." Still trembling, resting her head against his chest. Okay, maybe she could oversell it a little.

Tillman wrapped his arms around her, one hand buried in her damp hair and the other stroking from neck to shoulder blades. His lips rested on the top of her head and the smell of her was wrong, but everything else was too right.

"You're what kept me going," he choked out before kissing her again.

Really, he was making it too easy. It almost took the sport out of it. Almost. She locked her arms around him, gripped him tight and kissed him back in an I-haven't-seen-you-in-four-years-and-now-we're-naked kind of way. Whimpered against his mouth and pressed in close. She could see where he thought his boundaries were, bless him. It was more temptation than she could fight to just throw herself against them and see how quickly she could knock them down.

Tillman continued to run his hands over her, as if to keep reassuring himself that she was real. It was not hard for him to ignore the fact that she was in the wrong body because every little touch was exactly right.

"How is this possible? Are you okay?" he asked, voice thick and eyes full of adoration. He tucked her hair behind her ears and kept smoothing his thumbs over her cheeks. He wanted to kiss her again, but that would not be conducive to her answering his questions.

Aw, nuts. Well, there was plenty of time for that method, anyway. better to lay a nice solid foundation for this particular house of horrors. She turned her face into one of those big hands and pressed a kiss into his palm, looked back and gave him the kind of smile that had never sat on Heather's face.

"I'm fine," she said, splaying a hand across his back and looking up at him. "I was so scared. It hurt. But then I saw you." Time for an adoring gaze. Bleh. She hoped this body wasn't living with diabetes. And then she had an idea. A lovely little idea that required a bit more improvisation, and a shade of fear and sadness in that look.

"I don't know how - the last thing I remember -"

She pressed her lips together briefly and let it hang.

Tillman pressed his lips to her forehead and closed his eyes, taking comfort in her closeness. He pulled back to watch her face as she spoke, concern tainting his features.

"What hurt? What happened?" He stroked her face, eyes searching.

There wasn't any need to put too much effort into what came next; she just looked him in the eye and spoke in a whisper. Made her voice say fix it, make it not true. Save me.

"I think I died."

Short and punchy, that should do it. What would he do?

Tillman shook his head, the movement twitchy and disbelieving. He kissed her, softer than before. "No, no," he whispered. If she died-- if she had been murdered (and, oh, the images popping into his head) it was only because he hadn't been there to protect her.

"Delia?" he whispered, his voice hoarse.

"I don't know," she said, letting her voice break on the last word, letting tears come into her eyes. "I can't remember! I try, and there's nothing." She shook her head and dipped her face, hiding it against his chest. She really was in danger of smirking. She'd had to go an awfully long way to find this kind of fun back home.

"I saw that little girl, and I thought maybe - well, it wasn't her. I wanted to ask you but I didn't know how. I thought you'd think I was crazy. I thought I was crazy." She paused, feeling for just the right amount of shame to put in the next line.

"I was happy. I thought we could be together again."

"Baby, it's okay," he soothed, rubbing her back. His mind reeled, but he had to hold it together. It didn't make sense and it wasn't fair, but she was here now, whole and okay. They could sort the rest out later.

"We can." He kissed the top of her head. "We can, it's okay. I love you."

Oh, no. You don't want to do that, sweetheart. Love'll fuck you up every time.

Even when she's not here to help.

"John," she said, soft but insistent. She skimmed her hands over his back, pressed in closer and gave a sad little laugh. "I've been waiting so long to say that to you. Just to use your name."

Tillman kissed her eyelids, the tip of her nose, her lips. "It's okay," he repeated. "Let's get out of the showers," he suggested, though he seemed more keen on kissing her again than doing that.

"Okay."

For fuck's sake. The man hadn't seen his wife in four years and here she was in a springy young body, naked, wet and pressed up against him, and he was trying to leave? She'd had her head on his chest, so she knew he had a pulse, but seriously. There was respectful, and then there was dead.

"Let's go."

Let's not. She didn't move. She kissed him back instead, leaned in to him and brushed her tongue over his lip while she snaked a hand down his back to a place that was a lot less darling-I-missed-you and a lot more darling-I-want-you.

Tillman inhaled sharply through his nose. He missed his wife, he loved his wife, and he wanted nothing more than to lay in bed with his wife day in and day out. But not like this. Not when he wasn't sure if Heather was an unwilling voyeur to the scene. He knew what it was like to be a prisoner in his own body, he knew what it was like to be subjected to the will and actions of a stranger in his head.

He grabbed her wrist lightly and pulled her hand up to his mouth. He kissed her palm. "Baby, no," he murmured. "You're in my friend's body. I can't."

...no, really? Her incredulity was so strong that she caught it starting to show on her face and scrambled to turn it into something else, something sad and maybe a little resentful.

"It's the only one I have," she said quietly, not meeting his eye. But she barely left a beat before she shook her head and dropped her hands to hold his, twining their fingers together.

"I'm sorry. You're right. It's hard to remember that, sometimes."

Tillman kissed her forehead again. "Maybe... maybe we can fix it, somehow. Maybe the doctors will know," he led her away from the spray of water and over to where their clothes were piled. "They've been discrete with things. Maybe this has already happened," he wrapped her in his towel and narrowly resisted the urge to rub her down with it. His hands lingered on her shoulders.

He pulled his pants on over his wet skin.

She formed her features into the picture of indulgent wifely amusement and shook her head.

"I did bring a towel." And she probably could have mentioned it a few seconds earlier, too, but if he was so eager to play the knight in shining armor then damp trousers were the least he deserved. But she smiled, dried off and pulled on the jumpsuit - a tactical choice, she'd left Heather's own clothes behind. No unnecessary reminders, thank you.

Dressed, she tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear and fixed him with what was hopefully a sufficiently nervous gaze.

"What if they think I've done something to her? Something to cause this?"

Tillman retrieved her towel and flopped it over her head playfully. As he fluffed her hair dry, his hands were warm and confident. The touch mirrored that of a certain morning, the aftermath of which likely resulted in the conception of their daughter. It was a wordless message of trust and love and want.

He tilted her face up and kissed her forehead. "Don't you even worry about that. They won't. They'll understand." Because if they don't... If they try anything... There's going to be hell to pay.

She smiled widely and only had to fake the tone of it, lifting an eyebrow in a flirty I know what you're thinking gesture to disguise the alternative of howling with glee. This had only been fun - build him up so she could knock him down later - but oh, he'd tipped his hand and he was going to be useful. Lovely. She tipped her face higher and pressed her lips to his - closed, chaste enough so he wouldn't object but warm and unmistakably proprietary - and slipped her hand into his.

"Think it can wait a little while?"

Tillman smiled against her lips. Their relationship had always been rife with difficulty, the fates keen on keeping them apart, their love driving them back together. Angie may have found herself in the wrong body, but she was here and Tillman's heart was lighter for it.

"Of course," he agreed. "Are you hungry? Tired?" ~~He can show her the ship, shining, shimmering, splendid.~~

It was awfully tempting to plead hunger, have him act out an approximation of domestic bliss in the kitchens. Or to have him take her to the gardens for the simple joy of the fit her host's lingering consciouness would pitch. But there was one surefire way to trap anyone, and that was to hold something they wanted just out of reach.

"I could use a nap," she said. Smiling, leaning heavily on his arm. "No funny business, I promise." The request to join her remained unspoken, hinted promises so much more delicious.

Tillman smiled in response. His gaze was fond and heated as he led her down the hall. "I'll call my medic up afterward, alright? See if he's had any other cases like this."

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