Ella's Oneshots

[Ella]

Fandom: -
Summary: based on a creative writing story and abandoned nano project
Words: 1040

Three Little Pigs

            The wind was blowing against the window of his white Ford Escort, and it almost surprised him that the car didn’t topple over.        
            Then I’ll huff, and I’ll puff, and I’ll blow your house in…
            His fingers were freezing on the steering wheel, and he couldn’t wait to get himself a nice cold pint of lager. DI Mills was insane to make him go out there. It wasn’t as if Richard Green wouldn’t see through him the moment he stepped foot inside the pub. Word went that man could smell a big from a ten mile distance, and DS Thomas Whitefield was not a man to disregard popular legend. There was usually more truth in the people’s talk than his bosses did it justice. His own wife for example – the kind of talk he didn’t want to listen to, but when he looked her in the eye at night, when he kissed her goodbye in the morning, their lips touching uncertainly, as if they were still blushing teenagers, he tasted another.
            He sighed. All he had to do was look interested, ask some nonchalant questions about a strip club Green owned, and he’d be out of there. He wouldn’t have to contact Green ever again. The idea of going to the Blind Beggar hadn’t appealed to him, but he was only a DS and they needed something for their case.
            Thomas was glad to finally leave his car. It wasn’t much colder in the streets of London than it was in his little wreck, and he huffed and puffed in the air. He wasn’t a smoker, but he liked to pretend.
            Then I’ll huff, and I’ll puff, and I’ll blow your house in…
            Despite the light outside walls, the Blind Beggar was as dark as any pub inside – even darker, some would argue. Thomas remembered George Cornell, of course. Took a bullet from Ronnie Kray, who was convicted only a couple of weeks ago. Still, the Blind Beggar wasn’t clean. Some places can never be clean again.
            “Pig’s ear.” He slammed a pound on the counter, and read yesterday’s paper while he waited for the man, 5’11”, slim, blue eyes, dark hair, hollow cheeks and a slightly crooked nose, to approach him.
            A flash of a smile. “You one of those Vice pigs? You must like ‘im.” Green pointed at an article on Davis, some Tory favourite, on the Telegraph’s front page.
            Thomas bared his teeth, unsure if he was returning a smile or a treat. “Not all of us are the same, you know.”
            “‘Aven’t ‘eard that one before.” The man ordered a lager as well. “What do you need from me?”
            “You know what I need. What we need.”
            Another smile.
            Of course Thomas had been told about Green’s charm, about his smile, about his entire personality. Of course he had been warned not to be drawn in by it, but nevertheless he felt as if Green was propelling all attention to himself. He was a man who walked into a room, a man who was noticed, even if his appearance wasn’t that charming at all.
            “I don’t know what you need.”
            Thomas sighed. “Anything. Anything that will ‘elp.”
            Green tapped the counter, the nervous tick of a smoker. “And what makes you think I will give anything to you?”
            “Nothing.” Mills wouldn’t be pleased.
            “I could kill you ‘ere and now.”
            “We’re almost in the seventies, not the Middle Ages. I’m sure we can think of more civilised conduct nowadays.”
            “Tell that to dear ol’ George. I bet ‘e begs to differ.” Green lighted a cigarette, his hands finally stilling and his breath relaxing. “I’ll huff, and I’ll puff, and I’ll blow your house in…” He pretended to shoot him with his right hand, blowing against his index and middle finger as he retracted.  
            “Not if I blow yours in first.” He patted his thigh, the revolver hidden under his coat.
            Thomas was treated to one of Green’s suffocating smiles again. “I like you, lad. Maybe I’ll give you something, if you can give me something in return.”
            “Such as?”
            “Anything. Anything that will ‘elp. ‘Elp me up the apples and pears, and you up yours.”
            Thomas held out his hand. “Thomas Whitefield.”
            A strong handshake. Thomas liked that in a man. “Dick to friends.”
            Those words sounded the deathknell of Thomas’s career as an undercover agent, insofar it had ever existed. He found that he didn’t mind too much. Dick was a great chap, really, if you didn’t take his profession into account. He gave him some information on his competitors, and he paid for the drinks.
            Thomas didn’t report that back to Mills. He was warned about Green’s charm again, but that didn’t stop him from meeting Dick again. His boss saw through him as easily as Dick had, and more warnings followed as the months flew by.  
            “I hope you don’t think you’re of any value to Green, Thomas. What could Green possibly want with a low Detective Sergeant such as yourself?” He blew smoke into his sergeant’s face as he spit out the words.
            That was below the belt. Mills knew Thomas had been hoping for a promotion for months… Had he opposed the idea of his promotion? There had been talk – they must have at least considered, he had been working in the Met for so long now… Was his own boss – a man he had at times considered his friend, and at others his worst enemy – the man behind the ridicule his colleagues and his wife spoke behind his back, and his father to his face? “What makes you think ‘e wouldn’t value my expertise?”
            Mills just laughed. “Your expertise? The bastard wants to get to me, don’t you see? I’ve been on that man’s ‘eels since 1961. That pig wants me gone.”
            Thomas blew against the window, the nervous tick of a smoker, as he watched the cars rush by.
            “Do you want me gone, Thomas?” Mills asked, his little, dark eyes on the man opposite his desk, a symbol of separation.
            Perhaps Thomas did, and the DI’s words certainly didn’t keep him from meeting up with Dick again.
            I’ll huff, and I’ll puff, and I’ll blow your house in…

[Ella]

Fandom: iZombie
Summary: Blaine is afraid of what will happen once he regains his memories. Luckily, he finds out he's not as alone as he might think. Set post-3x03 and probably AU after that episode. The title and the lyrics were taken from "Long long time" by Linda Ronstadt, the song Blaine sings at the end of the episode.
Words: 1246

Love Will Abide / Take Things in Stride

         “That was a brave thing to do, you know.”
         Liv had appeared next to his small stage, and Blaine shot a quick glance in the direction of the bar, only to see that Peyton was trying to drink the man who apparently shared his previous fate under the table. “I’m not a particularly brave person, but everything for science, right?” He fixed his eyes on the piano with a lopsided smile, and let his fingers glide over the keys. He was glad that while he didn’t remember a thing about his life, he still had this. Even just sitting behind a piano gave him a feeling of familiarity he missed with so many other mundane activities. He wouldn’t ever admit it to his zombie friend, if Liv could ever be qualified as such, but he had been lost on how to run his own business, how to use his own computer and his phone. He didn’t have any passwords, and with Don E sent away… He sighed. He figured it out, but it hadn’t been easy going through life completely blank. He liked his blank slate, surely, but it came with its drawbacks.
         “Right…” The man’s eyes seemed to be lost in the song he was playing, and she could help but feel something tug at her heartstrings. Every time she saw him like this – vulnerable and almost normal – it became harder to remember who he really was. Blaine DeBeers was a murderer, a criminal. He had ruined not only her life, but the lives of countless people. He had tortured Major, almost killed him. He had done nothing to deserve her kindness. And yet… the man sitting beside her was a far cry from the self-serving, confident Blaine she had known. The Blaine who would never have taken the risk of dying, not for any money in the world, and certainly not because Ravi told him it was the right thing to do. Moreover, the Blaine she knew would want to remember.
         “Is there anything you would want me to play?”
         “What?”
         “That is the question.” His eyes caught hers for a brief second, before he once again channelled his full attention to the sheet music in front of him. “Caught in my fears / Blinking back the tears / I can’t say you hurt me when you never let me near / And I never drew one response from you.” He allowed himself to stare at the beautiful woman at the bar once again, and he felt guilty for feeling angry. It wasn’t her fault that they happened to have a crappy night on the same day, but he could use her comfort now. Her hand on his shoulder. Her voice in his ears, telling him that he had a chance to start over, that what he did wouldn’t have to define him if he didn’t let it. He knew Peyton was wrong, of course. What he did would define him. He was a bloody murderer, and that wasn’t a coat he could just shake off and forget about, even if he had truly forgotten. No, in a couple of days it would perhaps have returned completely, and he would return to his murder and mayhem self. Wouldn’t Ravi just love that? Without granting the woman next to him another word, he got up and grabbed his coat, heading for the back door.
         “Blaine! Blaine, wait!”
         “What?”
         His mouth was drawn in a snarl, and the man in front of her reminded her of the old Blain, of his anger. But as soon as the memory came, it disappeared. Blaine’s features softened, and if she didn’t know any better she’d think she heard him mutter an apology. “What are you running from?” If the situation was normal, this was where she’d make a joke. Something about his skeletons finally escaping from the closet to come and get him. But it wasn’t a normal situation, and Blaine appeared to be in genuine distress.
         “I’m afraid, Liv…” he whispered. He closed his eyes and felt a cold hand on his shoulder, one that was all the same reassuring.
         “Of what exactly? Remembering? Dying?”
         He didn’t answer her question. She knew already. “I just don’t want to be alone when it happens. When I… Who knows what I’ll do?” A hint of panic coloured his voice.
         Liv shook the man lightly. “Hey, there’s an easy way to fix that.” A soft smile played across her lips.
         Blaine looked at her expectantly. He hoped, but she couldn’t possibly –
         “I’ll stay with you tonight,” she said, her hand not wavering from his shoulder. “Lead the way.”
         He chuckled, not willing to admit just how relieved he was. “It’s only a couple of minutes away.” As they walked, he let his hand slip into hers, and she didn’t pull away. He allowed himself to revel in the fact that there was at least someone who cared about him, even if it was not Don E, even if it was not his father. He could have friends in this world, and if maybe if he made up for his sins, if he worked hard enough… maybe this could be a first step.
 
         “You have a great cd collection.” They were inside his apartment, and Liv was appreciating Chris Cornell’s glorious voice.
         “Just you wait ‘til I show you all my vinyls.”
         “Do you remember which music you liked before, or is that also gone? Did you just rediscover it through” – she gestured widely – “all this.”
         Blaine shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess. I’d hear something and I’d remember liking it, but not why I liked it, or when I started liking it. I don’t think this was my prom song, though.”
         “I can’t picture you going to prom at all.”
         He handed Liv her drink and sat down on the couch, laying his head back against the pillows. “I don’t know what to picture at all anymore. If I should believe my father, I was a lying thief by the time I was eleven. I figure prom wouldn’t have been high on such a kid’s agenda.”
         Liv sat down next to him, her eyes fixed on him while he stared at the carpet as if those fibres were hiding all the answers. “As far as I’ve understood, your dad is a bit of an asshole. You were eleven – just exactly how malicious could you have been at that age.”
         Blaine buried his head in his hands. “I don’t know, Liv. I honestly don’t know. The guy murdering teenagers for money, for kicks? Couldn’t he have been a very malicious eleven-year-old.”
         Liv’s complexion darkened a little, but she didn’t answer.
         Then Blaine laughed. “I don’t know a lot, but I don’t think I’d ever have envisioned inviting you over anything like this.”
         Her eyebrow shot up. “So you remember imagining inviting me over? Don’t get any ideas, DeBeers.”
         He smiled, and let their legs rest against each other. “Thank you, Liv.”
         There was no need to tell her what he was grateful for, and she gave his knee a soft push with hers. “That’s okay. You’re kind of part of Team Z too.” She bit her lip. “And hey, you may have been a malicious eleven-year-old for all I care, but at least you don’t own a bust of yourself.”
         “You mean that –”
         “Yep.” As she heard his innocent laughter and saw his relaxed features, she thought that maybe, just maybe, he would be okay.

[Ella]

Fandom: - 
Summary: this was for some prompt, but I can't remember what it was
Words: 1240

I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)

            “We’ll need to do something cool to celebrate.” She sprung up from the couch, her smile wide as she grabbed the bottle of wine from the kitchen table.
            “I’ve never celebrated my birthday. I don’t even know which day it is exactly.”
            “But you know the year.” Even though her boyfriend was looking at her as if she he had just turned into a vampire, her smile didn’t falter. “We could just celebrate the entire year.”
            He took her hands in his, and sat her down on the couch again. “The only reason I know the year is because of the book, and that book isn’t right about everything. I’m sure it got the date completely wrong, as well as the place of birth.”
            “You’re also not as hideous as that book describes you. No bolts to be seen anywhere.”
            He kissed her forehead. “That’s only the film versions, love.”
            “I know, just keeping you sharp.” She took a small sip from her wine before she filled his glass with the dark red drink as well. “Still, I think we should do something. It’s not every year you turn two hundred.” 
            He sighed. “I just don’t want to think about it.” He looked at the young woman sitting next to him. Her eyes were full of light, and her hair full of colour. Compared to her, he was a rotting corpse – quite literally. His body may have been preserved in the ice that froze him that night, but that didn’t mean that aging didn’t have its consequences. Not that he was literally aging, or dying, or anything close to that. After all, he was dead already, so he didn’t get any older, and he certainly didn’t expect he was going to die. Not in the traditional sense. But he was decaying. Sometimes before he went to sleep at night, he found shards of skin he was almost able to peel of, or in the morning he’d find some of his hair on his pillow. He didn’t want to worry Mary without knowing for certain, but he knew he couldn’t hid this from her forever.
            “Why not?” She frowned and set her glass down on the table. “You’re not touchy about your age, are you?” She giggled. “I think Victor meant for you to represent a man of twenty-five, thirty years old at most. I’ve got forty-six behind me already, so if anyone is going to be touchy about their age, it’s going to be me.”
            “But I’m not a twenty-five year old man, Mary. I’m hardly even a man.”
            Mary placed a soft hand on his knee. “You are a man. You’re my man. My husband. Don’t ever forget that.”
            “Mary –”
            “We could celebrate it on the sixth of June, that was the day I found you in the ice. We could call it your fifth birthday, if you will. It’s been four years since we met, and you must have lived at least a year before that. Does that sound better than two hundred?”
            He let himself sink into the couch a little further. “It’s not the number, Mary.”
            “Then what is it? Is it… Is it that you don’t like the idea of a birthday because you weren’t technically born?” She bit her lip. “You know I don’t want to hurt you, right? I just thought to would be nice to –”
            “It’s not that, Mary.” His eyes were serious and while he couldn’t stand looking at her, he couldn’t look away from her either. “It’s – I’m not sure if I’ll still be there next year.”
            She let go of his hands as if he’d burned her. “What do you mean?” Her voice was sharp. “Do you mean to say that you’re going to leave me?”
            He chuckled, and that only made it worse.
            “Have you been cheating on me? Have I been such a fool that I didn’t notice that my own husband –”
            He cut her off with a kiss. “I’m not leaving. I love you, Mary, and you know that. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone.”
            “Then can you please tell me what the hell is going on?”
            His grip on his wine glass strengthened and for a moment he was afraid he’d shatter it, but he managed to put it on the floor before he crushed it into shards. He didn’t know his own strength. It was one of the smaller, less important downsides of consisting of body-parts that belonged to different people – his own limbs would surprise him sometimes, his one finger would be just a tad stronger than the other. The porcelain set Mary had inherited from her grandmother certainly hadn’t been safe in his hands – or whoever those hands had technically belonged to. He flexed his fingers and took a deep breath. “I think I’m dying, Mary.”
            Mary’s mouth opened a little, but no sound came out, and she just held onto his hands. She didn’t allow him to look away, even though he wanted to. Even though he didn’t want to see the pain written in her eyes. “What do you mean, you’re dying? You’ve been dead for almost two centuries, how could you die?”
            He raised one of his arms and let his sleeve slide down to his upper arm, showing the skin on his left arm. It was falling off, and near his elbow the bone was almost visible. “I’m falling apart, Mary,” he said, a sob catching in his throat. “The ice preserved me for a good couple of years, but let’s face it. I’m a dead man walking.”
            “We’ll find something to fix it.”
            “Mary…”
            “We will. You were created by a man, and somewhere out there is a man or woman who has learned even more than Victor has, who will know how to keep you alive.”
            He looked away from her, focusing on the small bunnies on her socks as if all the answers were written there. “Victor may have created me, but he didn’t know how to make me a man. He made me a monster, and if I go back to another scientist, I don’t know if – I don’t know what will happen to me, and I’m afraid.”
            “Society made you a monster. This time will be different.” She smiled. “This time you’ll have me.”
            He smiled too. He couldn’t help it. Somewhere along the way, he’d caught a spark of her optimism. He’d be lost without her.
            “And don’t think this is a way to avoid any birthday planning, because I’m going to get you the best birthday you’ve ever had.”
            “It’ll be my first, so that’s not a very hard record to beat. And besides,” he couldn’t help add, “it might all be for nothing…”
            She rested her head on his shoulder and placed her hand on his chest. “You may be dead, but I can feel your heart beating. You’re alive. And for now, you’re going to stay alive.”
            “Unbeing dead isn’t being alive.”
            “I doubt E. E. Cummings meant that as literally as you’re taking it.” She poked one of her fingers into his chest. “I think he meant that you, old man, need to get up from that couch, and live a little.”
            Tears shone in his eyes. “Even when it may soon be over?”
            “Yes,” she said, their hands entangled. “Especially then.”

[Ella]

Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean: Salazar's Revenge
Summary: Henry is convinced Carina is in love with him too. Carina isn't. Or: What Would Have Happened If Carina Had Really Just Slapped Him. / I was bothered by the fact that this film felt that it was necessary to push these two characters together, while they could easily have made a bit more effort to develop them as strong characters in their own right - hence my attempt to fix the ending a little. This is not meant as Henry-bashing in any way, he's a naive child who listens to Jack more than is good for him. Title taken from "The Nightmare Before Christmas."
Words: 956

For It is Plain, As Anyone Can See / We're Simply Meant to Be

He was still reeling from the impact of her flat hand on his cheek. He didn’t exactly see Carina as weak, but he hadn’t expected her to be so physically strong. Then again, he hadn’t expected her to slap him either.  
Carina had taken a step back, her brow furrowed and her arms crossed. “Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”
“I –” To be fair, he really didn’t. After everything that Jack had said, he had expected her to return his advances. Hadn’t he been kind to her? Hadn’t he been there for her when she needed him, and hadn’t she accepted his advances in return?
“Yes, you. You’re the one who just kissed me, after all.”
“I thought you wanted it,” he said, directing his gaze to her feet instead of her eyes. For the first time, he was afraid that those sharp eyes could look right through him. Maybe that was because her father’s eyes had intimidated him no less. The ground was safer. He shrugged. “I just thought – I mean, you seemed to show interest.”
Carina let out a frustrated huff. “I never did such a thing.”
“I saw your ankles.”
“And that’s supposed to be a sign of undying love? I took you to be smarter than this, Henry.” She turned her back on the boy and started to walk into the direction of the beach.
Henry followed in her sturdy footsteps, hardly able to keep up with her. Didn’t Carina understand what he felt for her? It wasn’t as if he had fallen in love with her immediately. At first he didn’t get her fixation with the stars, with the skies, with science – especially not when there was so much evidence to the contrary to be found. But he had watched her as she gazed upon the stars. As she drew in her small notebook, as she bit her lip in concentration. He had seem the wonder in her eyes, and she became a wonder in his eyes. She was the epitome of grace, even now, while she was lifting her skirt slightly so she wouldn’t trip in the long grass, as she briskly pushed her hair out of her face. When she had finally admitted that he was right – that there were things that couldn’t be explained by science – he thought he stood a chance. She saw his way, and he could see hers.
She stopped suddenly when they reached the beach, and fixed her eyes on the horizon. “Leave me alone, Henry.”
He could guess what she was thinking about. Perhaps she was crying. Wasn’t that what ladies did? The sun was still high up in the sky, a sharp reflection in the water. Maybe he should have kissed her at sundown – maybe that would have been more romantic. He wished he had read more novels as a child. “I want answers.”
“What makes you think I owe you anything?”
“I helped you. I rescued you, and I found you a boat.”
“Which wouldn’t have gotten you anywhere without my calculations.”
Henry bit his lip. She was right, of course. “We went on this great adventure together. We saw the stars, Carina. And what now? You’re just going to walk away?”
She shook her head, still refusing to face him.
“I love you, Carina. And I will love you ‘til the end of my days, if you let me.”
 “You’re like a prince from a storybook.” She turned her head to look him in the eyes. There wasn’t a tear to be found as she smiled at him, not gently, but rather as if she found him somewhat amusing.
Henry raised his eyebrows. “I shall take that as a compliment.”
Her smile widened into a careless grin. “You really shouldn’t. Fairy tale princes aren’t usually particularly thoughtful of women’s wishes, and they’re hopeless romantics.”
“But –”
“And they always expect women to accept their advances. And in the stories, they’re proven right.” Her blue eyes were burning into him now.
“So –”
“I love you, Henry. I’ve become attached to you during our journey, and you’re important to me. But I’m not in love with you. That is not something I will ever be able to offer you, and not something you may ever rightfully expect or demand of me. Life isn’t a fairy tale, Henry.” She looked away to the ocean, searching the horizon for what would never return. “You don’t always get what you want.”
Henry joined her, focusing on the waves instead of on the girl standing next to him. It was easier. He couldn’t mask the fact that her rejection hurt him. “I’m sorry,” he offered. “I misunderstood. I really thought – I’m sorry. I guess I just am a hopeless romantic.”
She laughed. It was a true laugh this time, not one at his expense, but that he hadn’t heard from her the last few days. “It’s no wonder, with parents like yours.”
Henry smiled at the thought of his parents. Of his father returning home after all those years of searching, his own visit to the Dutchman only a distant nightmare. He glanced sideways at Carina. “I wish the world was a fairer place.”
“So you could kiss me again?” she asked, her lips pressed together in a tight line.
“No.” He took her hand in his, and to his surprises she didn’t pull away. “So you’d get to have what I have. You deserve a family. You don’t deserve to be alone.”
Carina’s eyes didn’t leave the sea. “I have a family. I have a name.” She gave his hand a little squeeze. “And as far as I know, I’m not alone, am I?”
“No.” He squeezed her hand in return. “You’re not alone.”

[Ella]

Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean: Salazar's Revenge
Summary: Armando Salazar/Lesaro
Words: 1100

Ecce Gigantes Gemunt Sub Aquis et Qui Habitat Cum Eis

It seemed like it had been years since they had last heard another ship beating steadily against the current. Salazar knew better. He had counted the days since that accursed Sparrow had trapped him and his crew in the fires of hell. His life’s blood dripped from his lips, and he wondered if he would ever run out. If that would be the day it would finally be over. Eighty-six. Eighty-six days of death, and someone had to pay.
But it was not the Wench. That ship had been etched in his memory, as was the boy who had captained it. It filled him with the fire the sea had shot through him. She had taken his life and filled his dead body with rage. He had known he could be ruthless, be cruel, but not like this – not like the burning desire to snap the boy’s neck in two, to drive a sword straight through his heart.
It was Officer Santos who first appeared at his side. Even his dead features were still able to show his fear. “What do we do, Capitán?”
What are you afraid of?[i] [/i]Salazar wanted to ask. It is not as if their fate could become any worse. The nameless ship would crash against the rocks, and Sparrow would still be out there, bathing in the sunlight while he and his crew suffered.  
“They’ll hit the rocks, just like we did. They’ll die.”
Salazar looked into Santos’s forceful, pleading eyes, and realised it was not for himself the young officer feared. “Hundir el barco.”
“But –”
“That’s an order, Santos. Sink the ship.”
“Como desées.”
Salazar closed his eyes, and heard the ship come back to life around him. The remnants of the sails were raised, and just for a moment he allowed himself to imagine that nothing had changed. The shouts while they were preparing for attack were just like before the Triangle, just like the last time the [i]Silent Mary[/i] pursued a pirate ship. He would stand proudly amidst his crew, his heart beating from adrenaline – but the beat was not there. His heart was as dead as the rest of his body, his lungs filled with water and his hands unable to feel, to touch.   
Someone had to pay.
“Aim for the main deck. We’ll overtake her,” he told Lesaro. The man hardly left the helm, even though they had nowhere to go anymore. They’d found out fast enough that they weren’t to leave the Triangle again. That maybe they never would.
“Capitán, this is not a pirate ship.” His one remaining eye focused sharply on Salazar. “They sail under the flag of the French navy.”
“I know.”
The lieutenant knitted his brow, but didn’t comment.
“Do you have something to say to me, Lesaro? Do you doubt my command?” The words came out sharper than he intended.  
“Nunca,” the man said, but the doubt was clear in his eyes.
It stung more than it was supposed to. He wasn’t supposed to feel anything like this – hadn’t felt anything like this since the moment he had drowned. His lieutenant had never doubted him – would have followed him to the end of the world if he asked him to. He set his jaw, and felt the fire stir within him. Someone had to pay.  
The bow of the Silent Mary collided with the other ship’s deck, the Triangle filled with the echo of splintering wood. There was no fire, not this time. There was only silence, and the smell of death.
One of the Frenchmen began to shout. “Dieu! Dieu! Aidez-nous! Sauvez-nous!”
The Silent Mary didn’t change its course. There were no survivors, and Salazar retreated to his cabin. When his ship had sunken, the sea had become part of it, sinking into its deck and its sails. His Mary[i] [/i]now mirrored the remnants of the decaying bodies of each who gazed upon it, distorting their grey features even further. It was a cruel reminder of their fate, and Salazar often found him wondering what they had done to deserve this punishment. His cabin was one of the few places on the ship where he could avoid his own reflection. Here there were no windows, and no light to show him his face. They had run out of candles weeks ago, but it didn’t matter – there was nothing to see, and they didn’t feel the warmth. Salazar was shaken from his thoughts by a cautious knock. “Entre.”
Lesaro lingered in the doorway, seemingly unsure on how to approach his captain. “Armando.”
Salazar didn’t answer, but nodded for the lieutenant to come in.
“You shouldn’t sit here in the dark. It won’t help.”
“Nothing will help. Not until I kill the Sparrow.”
Lesaro raised one eyebrow. “Sparrow was not on that ship. The men on that ship were innocent.”
“We were innocent. Someone needed to pay.” He clenched his fists.
The lieutenant covered Salazar’s hand with his own.
He didn’t feel it. He could imagine the weight, the sensation of his hardened fingers, but he could not feel the touch. He knew it should make him angry – he knew that from the burning rage that constricted itself in his throat, from the sharp pain in his sides – but instead he found himself relaxing at the other man’s touch. “I’ve never shown mercy."
“I know. I understand your anger. Do not think I don’t feel it too. Every man on this ship feels it.”
“Santos doesn’t.”
Lesaro shook his head. “He does. He may fear his feelings, but he does.” The lieutenant pursed his lips together. “You should see them upstairs, feasting like beasts over a meaningless victory.”
“We need something to hold on to.”
“Not this. We need to be better than this. Better than this curse. Even if we do not feel it.” Lesaro brought his hand up to Salazar’s cheek, running his fingers down the cracks and wiping away the dark blood that coated his chin.
For a wonderful moment it felt as if he could breathe again. As if the heart that stopped beating had found its rhythm, as if he was alive. “Fernándo,” he whispered. Then his breath left him again, and he was pulled back into the darkness.
“We need to be better.”
A hand in his hair, stroking it back as if it was as beautiful as it once was, as if the sea hadn’t claimed it for herself. He almost believed the words.
“If not for ourselves, then for our country. For our God.”
Salazar pulled back, and closed his eyes. “No hay dioses en este lugar.”

---

I gave Lesaro the first name Fernándo, meaning ‘ardent for peace.’
Title taken from Job 26:5
ecce gigantes gemunt sub aquis et qui habitant cum eis (Latin Vulgate) = the dead are in deep anguish, those beneath the waters and all that live in them (The New International Version)
Translations (thanks to Google Translate & the Bible)
Hundir el barco = Sink the boat
Como desées = As you wish
Nunca = Never
Dieu! Dieu! Aidez-nous! Sauvez-nous! = God! God! Help us! Save us!
No hay dioses en este lugar = There are no gods in this place

[Ella]

Fandom: The 100
Summary: Bellamy Blake/John Murphy if you squint; John Murphy is absolutely fine. [Post-S3]; Title taken from "Life is Fine" by Langston Hughes.
Words: 1033

So Since I'm Still Here Livin' / I Guess I Will Live On

                “Thank you.”
                It took Murphy a fraction of a second too long to register who had appeared behind him, and he spun around, his body tensing up. He was met with Bellamy’s hazel eyes, and he could breathe again. He bit his lip. He startled too easy these days, but living in a Grounder camp did that to you, he guessed. You never knew when there was danger lurking behind the corner, or in this case, behind your back.
                “Murphy?” His voice was careful, as if he was approaching a wounded animal. He felt as if that might just as easily have been the case. He never knew what to expect with Murphy. When they first landed, he had only been vaguely aware that the boy was somewhat of a wild card. But with everything that happened after – he hadn’t thought the scruffy-looking seventeen-year-old would have been capable of that. Then again, he knew which faces would appear in his dreams if this day ever got to an end. He had killed far more innocent people than Murphy ever had – hell, Murphy was directly responsible for perhaps seven deaths. He had killed hundreds, with and without Clarke. He had done things he hadn’t thought [i]himself[/i] capable of. All of them had. On the ground, that was a given.
                “Yeah?” Murphy couldn’t keep the irritation from his voice. He wanted to be alone, and he turned himself towards water source again. The blood wouldn’t wash off his hands completely, no matter how long he scrubbed and how dark the water turned. Some of the black remained, and it almost made his eyes sting. Almost. It wasn’t as if John Murphy had any feelings. Especially not when Bellamy Blake was in close proximity.
                Bellamy annoyingly took a step closer in Murphy’s direction, invading his personal space too much to the boy’s liking, but Murphy didn’t move. Bellamy splashed some water over his arm, washing some of the grime off without any real commitment. “You okay?”
                Murphy gritted his teeth and bit back the first comment that came into his head. [i]I kept the woman who fucking raped me alive to save your girlfriend, what do you think, you asshole? [/i]He had learned that it was sometimes best to keep his mouth shut. If he wanted to be a survivor, he didn’t need to antagonise one of the few people who didn’t seem to loathe him, not now it became a possibility to return their own camp, so he nodded along. Besides, he knew it wasn’t fair on Bellamy. He didn’t have any way of knowing about what Ontari had done to him, if he even knew that he and Ontari had a previous connection at all. He’d rather die than tell the guy, and he didn’t think that Clarke would have boasted about leaving him behind. Bellamy hadn’t even been the one to ask him to do it. If he had known, he might not even have asked. No, scratch that, wishful thinking. Bellamy Blake definitely cared more about Clarke’s ass than about Murphy’s. Bellamy would have wanted to save Clarke too, even if he didn’t realise that the two of them were practically married. But still, he wasn’t the one to make the call, and he couldn’t blame Bellamy for something that happened while he was busy being pressed to the floor by a murderous Kane. He couldn’t. But he still did.
                “Verbal confirmation would be nice.”
                The younger boy huffed. “Yes, dad. I’m fine.” He couldn’t help but glance sideways, and he accidentally met Bellamy’s eyes. If he didn’t know any better, he thought he detected worry.
                “It’s just – Clarke mentioned that – eh – well…” Bellamy looked down, as if unsure how to finish his sentence.
                Clarke – well, it wasn’t the first time she surprised him. He wondered how much she had told Bellamy. He wondered how honest she had been. He knew it didn’t help to be this bitter. She didn’t owe him shit, and yet he had still expected her to care enough. That was always his mistake.
“She said that you were still there when Ontari took over command.”
                His hands were still black, and Murphy scrubbed a little harder.
                Bellamy remained silent, waiting for a response while he studied the younger boy’s hands. His skin was raw and red, and it took him a while to realise that the blood on Murphy’s hands was fresh.
                “Your point, exactly?”
                “Well, she’s shown herself to be kind of a crazy bitch.”
                The boy grimaced humourlessly. “That’s kind of an understatement.”
                “So really,” Bellamy said, and he covered Murphy’s hands with his own, darker ones. “Are you okay?”
                “I’m fine, Bellamy. Piss off.” Murphy tried to wriggle his hand away from Bellamy, but the latter’s grip was stronger.
                “I’m serious, Murphy. Your hand is bleeding.”
                “It’s not my blood. It’s Ontari’s,” he said, and he suddenly felt very small. “It won’t go away.”
                Bellamy wiped the blood away with the hem of his shirt, and then let go of Murphy’s hands. “It’s your own blood. It’s gone now.”
                “Oh,” Murphy said stupidly, and he stared at his hands for a while before shoving them into his pockets. He needed to find an excuse to get away from Bellamy’s nauseating puppy eyes, or he might actually spill. When the older man held his hands, it seemed as if he actually cared, as if he actually wanted to know what had happened before Murphy showed up in Polis, for once at the right time, not an inconvenience. No. He had bought Bellamy’s older-brother-act until he strung him up without a reason, and he couldn’t afford to fall for it again. “I should go and find Emori,” he murmured, and as he saw Bellamy’s sad eyes, he cursed inwardly at the transparency of his lie.  
                Bellamy didn’t stop Murphy as the boy scurried off, and he shook his head. Sometimes he did actually feel like the kid’s dad. And a really incompetent one at that.
                “Hey Bellamy?” Murphy called back. He was fine. Bellamy had to know that he was fine. He was wearing a comfortable smirk now he was at a distance.
                “Yeah?”
                “You’re welcome.”

[Ella]

Fandom: -
Summary: For the prompt 'Beach' -- warning for language & subject matter -- title taken from Walt Whitman's "On the Beach"
Words: 1369

Something There Is More immortal Even Than the Stars

            I heard Jacob groan when the first drops of rain started to fall.
            “Don’t.”
            “I told you it was going to rain. Why did we have to go to the fucking beach on the only rainy day we’ve had for weeks?”
            “Language, Jacob,” our father warned.
            I didn’t tell my brother that it had, in fact, rained only three days ago, when we had been visiting our aunt Sheela two miles down from the city. Or last week, when I waited for Louisa to come home from her date, drenched to the bone. Jacob never listened, he only talked. He was somewhat similar to our father in that respect, except that our father didn’t talk much either.
            “What kind of bird is that, dad?” Louisa asked, skilfully directing our father’s attention to herself. Part of me suspected she relished in it, being both father’s and mother’s favourite. It was for her that we made the trip to the beach in the first place. Today was the last day of her old life, she called it. She’d be off to study in Brighton, catching a train first thing tomorrow morning, and she wanted to spend her last day on Yorkshire soil on the beach, with all of her family members.
            It didn’t seem important at any rate, that day on the beach. In all fairness, I resented our last day together just as much as Jacob did. It was barely fifteen degrees, and the wind and rain bit away at my skin. And yet I remember it with a certain fondness, Louisa chasing a bird in her red dress, her hair dripping from the rain, not from the sea. Our father walking behind her, sometimes almost a smile upon his face as he looked upon his only daughter, pointing out mussels every now and then. Jacob trudging through the wet sand and crushing shells beneath his large boots as if he held a personal grudge against them, and me, following along with mother. It didn’t matter that I had hardly spoken to my sister at all, having been in a fight only the previous day. I regret that fight – a plate smashing as I refused to help her with the dishes, an angry scowl on her face and my father’s hand slapping mine with a spite only my brother had tasted before – and more so how I remember it even more vividly than our day at Bridlington, and yet I won’t let this taint my memory of that gloomy Bridlington day. My sister had been right, as she always was. It was to be the last day of her old life. It was to be the last day of all of our old lives.

            On the sixth of September 1975, all the front pages were filled with the devastating news of the London Hilton. The Bridlington Free Press was no exception to the rule, and yet we never mourned those dead. That day we got a phone call from down south, distorted and hardly comprehensible. A friend of Louisa’s, who had to give the phone to a police officer after a few minutes.
            I remember this very vividly as well. It was my father who answered the phone. It was only us two awake, as it was only seven in the morning. Mother always slept in due to her bad constitution, and she had caught a cold on the beach. Jacob followed her suit and pretended to be sick, roping me into lying about hearing him throw up during the night so our father would believe it. All I worried about that morning was if he would find out, and what he’d do to Jacob if he did. It wasn’t as if Jacob still went to school or had any job to speak of, but the grass had to be mowed and the roof still had some repairing to undergo, none of which Jacob was eager to lend his energy for.
            “It’s okay, Niamh. It’s okay. Just speak slowly for me, okay?”
            I immediately knew something was wrong. My father’s voice was soft, and his hand was clenched around the telephone was if it was his lifeline, his only hope. My father’s voice was never soft.
            He never gave us the details of the phone call. Never told us what the officer told him that made all the colour drain from his face. He went to identify the body on his own – I was too young, mother had her constitution, and Jacob didn’t want to go in the first place – and came back two days later, not saying a word before retiring to his private office.
            Only four days after the call, when I read the newspaper, I learned that they found her lifeless body on the beach. There were traces of violence, though I could only guess how she was killed, what he – for I always imagined the murderer to be a man – had done to her after the party she attended. Whether he had stabbed her, strangled her as she was drunk on the alcohol my father thought he had always taught her to keep away from, whether he had cut off her limbs, whether he had raped her and drowned her. The police didn’t have any suspects and were calling for eye witnesses and information. They would never find any, but back then I still had hope. I called Niamh once, to see if she would speak to me, if there was anything she could tell me that she maybe hadn’t told the police. She told me to fuck off.
            She haunted my dreams. She still does. I see her in her red dress, her hair dripping, but soon enough she turns into a dead girl, a sister I don’t recognise, with blue lips and lifeless eyes.

            “I told you it was going to rain.” Jacob looked smug, as if he possessed a great wisdom that I didn’t.
            “It’s England, it’s always going to fucking rain.”
            “Don’t let your wife hear your foul mouth, Michael, or you’ll go to bed without supper tonight.”
            I rolled my eyes at my brother. “She’s not my mother.”
            “Who’s not your mother?” Brianna’s smile would even have melted my father’s heart, had he still been alive. I picked my daughter up, and she nestled her wet crows’ nest against my neck. When I first picked her up, I had immediately understood why my father had always chosen Louisa, even beyond her death. You can’t say no to such bright blue eyes.
            She fell asleep in my arms on the way back to the car. I strapped her into the front seat, and rolled a cigarette outside of the car, pulling my hood down and allowing the raindrops to fall on my face.
            “She’s not her, you know.” Jacob looked at me, uncharacteristically seriously, and offered me a light.
            I sighed. “I know that, Jake. I know.” They looked alike, though. They both had the Hawthorne nose from my mother’s side, and sometimes when she called out for me in the night, I imagined my sister with strange hands upon her body, crying out for her brothers.
            “She’s irreplaceable.”
            I put my hand on his shoulder. Today would have been Louisa’s sixtieth birthday. I pretended I didn’t see his tears. “Let’s go home.”
            “Yeah,” Jacob agreed. “Home.”
            The rain came down on the window with a vigour as we turned out of the car park, and I looked at my daughter, miraculously still asleep through it all with her yellow coat still on, and I smiled. I knew I could never leave the beach behind, not really. It was as if a part of my sister had remained there in Bridlington’s sand, no matter how many miles away she had lost her life, crawling underneath our skins. For not being there when she needed us, for not doing enough. But when I looked at my daughter, her wet curls drying slowly as slept, I knew Louisa would always be here with me too, in her red dress, dancing in the rain like the little girl she was. And for now, that was enough.

[Ella]

Fandom: -
Summary: for some prompt or other
Words: 1176

Bang Bang

The door closed behind me with a bang. I struggled against the instinct to close my eyes. It wouldn’t do to show any sign that I felt intimidated, so I stared straight ahead, pretending I was alone in my house. In Vienna. God, how I missed Vienna. Vienna was white, and clean, but never stretched to coldness. I had always felt at home in Vienna. Here, the walls were a cool grey and looked as if they’d seen better days. The bed was made and, as far as I could see, clean, but it was the only piece of furniture in the room. There were no windows.
“Couldn’t you at least spare a desk,” I said. “I have work to do while I’m with you, you know. You know that there is some important business I need to sort out.”
Oskar laughed, finally walking into view. He was a hulking man with piercing blue eyes and an abundance of tattoos, meeting every stereotype I had ever had about gangsters. “We’re not going to lock you up here, dorogoy. It’s only to sleep. And to keep stuff.” He gestured at the suitcase I was holding in my hands.
“Well, a closet then. You must remember that I am a lady.”
“I remember,” Oskar said. “Or at least, I remember who you were married to.”
His use of the past tense hurt in all the wrong places. Oskar was right, of course. Before I had married Petr, I had been a nobody. Now he was dead, I was in all too much danger of being a nobody again. “Tell me what it is you want from me.”
“All your husband’s assets were left to you, and I don’t need to tell you that there were many assets. Some of us feel that it’s… how should I phrase it… unfair that all of it should go to you. After all, we were the ones to do all the hard work.”
I met his eyes. “Who exactly is ‘we’?”
Oskar shrugged.  
It’s not as if I hadn’t expected this. The day of my husband’s unfortunate demise, I had known the inheritance would go to me, and I had known that there would be other vultures out there, searching for just the smallest bit of Petr Popov. I had even anticipated that they would go after me, personally. I just hadn’t expected that I would be accommodating them in that endeavor by stepping on a plane myself, because neither had I expected that my husband kept half his papers in Bryansk. I had thought he loved me more than that.
“Just think about it, for a little while,” Oskar said, and he smiled. “Rest. You’ve had a long journey. We’ll see each other tonight. There are some papers we would like you to sign.”
“Naturally.”
“I’ll come and get you when it’s time.”
I kept staring at the door even after Oskar had left, sitting down on the bed. It was as uncomfortable as it looked, and I knew I wasn’t going to get a moment of rest in this room. I wondered if they were really going to make me sign something tonight, or if they were just going to kill me. I wondered what would be easier for them, from a legal standpoint. I supposed that murder was always the easiest.
Even though there was no place to keep my clothes or any other valuables, I decided it was best to unpack – if only to kill the time. I refolded my clothes and placed them on the bed, neatly, and placed my other belongings next to it: lipstick, two necklaces, a couple of magazines, a lighter, two packs of cigarettes, my father’s copy of War and Peace and a small package I brought for Oskar and his friends. I stashed the necklaces and the package in my small handbag and looked at the objects spread out in front of me. I felt like a refugee. Perhaps that was what I was. After all, there was no way I would be able to return to my home in Vienna after this was done. They knew Vienna, and would be able to find me there. I doubted if I would even be able to return to this room to gather my things; no, I would most likely have to leave immediately. Switzerland was my best bet. Everyone went to Switzerland these days, so there must be something pretty about it. It was where my husband had always wanted to go for his retirement. It bothered me that despite everything, I missed him still.
I must have dozed off at some point. Before I knew it, I heard a knock on the door. Oskar and his toothy smile. Only now I noticed that one of his teeth was silver.
He led me to a small room, just as windowless as my own. Karl was already waiting there for us, smiling at me as we entered. I knew I wouldn’t be alone in this.
Oskar sat down at the table, gesturing for me to sit down as well. Karl remained where he was, positioned against the wall, looking for relaxed than either of us.
“We want you to sign these,” Oskar said, pushing a stack of papers in my direction.
I forced a smile. “And why would I do that?”
“Come now,” he said. “You haven’t even looked at them yet. I think this deal is favourable for all of us.”
“What do I get out of it?” I looked at Karl from the corner of my eyes, and he gave a slight nod.
Oskar pulled a gun, and placed it on the table at his leisure. “You get to live.”
I took the papers in my hand, deliberating. Then, with one movement, I tore them in half. “He was my husband, dear Oskar. I was in the will. It is my money.”
“I was afraid you would say something like that.” Oskar took the gun in his hands and pointed it straight at my head. “It’s a shame, really.”
I was afraid before. But I wasn’t alone now. Karl appeared behind Oskar, placing the barrel of his gun against Oskar’s neck.  “Es ist. She dies, you die.”
“You son of a bitch,” Oskar cursed under his breath. He grinded his teeth. “I’ll gladly die,” he then said. “They’ll kill me anyway if I let her walk away.”
Now it was my turn to smile. “I was afraid you’d say something like that.” I pulled my own gun from my handbag, and pointed it at Oskar. “I think this is what my husband would have called ‘checkmate’.”
“Rot in hell,” Oskar said, his eyes not leaving mine for a second. They shone, but I knew I would forget them soon enough.
“Funny you should say that.” I placed the gun against his forehead, and gestured for Karl to move aside. “That is exactly what my husband said, right before I shot him.”
“You–”
Bang.
I closed the door behind me.

[Ella]

Fandom: Event Horizon
Summary: focuses on D.J.; warning for canon-typical gore/violence (this is a horror film guys); D.J. was never a soldier. He had never learned how to fight, only how to heal. How to save. And both of them were now beyond saving.
Words: 704

What Has Risen May Sink, and What Has Sunk May Rise

“If I am mad, it is mercy! May the gods pity the man who in his callousness can remain sane to the hideous end!” - H.P. Lovecraft

He closed his hand around the knife. Whatever Weir may have taken from him, from the crew, it would stop here. He didn’t know what had happened, but he trusted Miller more than he trusted the doctor. At first he’d liked the man. He came off as a bit strange, kept to himself, but then again, most people probably thought the same of D.J. He slowly turned around, scanning the room for any activity, when –
Shit. Before he even registered the fact that Weir seemed to have no eyes, or the blood that covered his face, he felt two strong hands around his neck, crushing his windpipe. He struggled against the man, and tried to kick and claw at him, but it was to no avail. It only seemed to anger the man – or the monster – as Weir threw him against the metal wall. For a terrifying moment he couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, but he quickly remembered his training. In… out… in… out…
D.J. saw the other man’s boots coming closer and he tried to struggle up as he once again felt the bloodied hands on his skin. He tried to speak, but his mouth was gobbled by blood. If only he knew how to speak to the man. Whatever had gotten hold of him – a strange form of cabin fever, or an actual hell-beast? – couldn’t have taken all of him. The real Dr. Weir had to be somewhere in there. If only he could – if only –
Dr. Weir! It’s just me! his mind screamed. I know we’ve never been friends, but we were never enemies. This isn’t you. You don’t want me to die. He felt tears form in his eyes. He thought he’d been afraid before. He thought he’d been afraid when he almost lost Justin, or when he’d discovered the true meaning behind the previous captain’s words. Or even way back, when he started his training and learned that you can’t save anything, you can’t cure everything. When he learned his father was dying and he wouldn’t be there with him. Before the Event Horizon, what had scared him most was being alone. Losing the people he cared about. Now neither could chill him. It was the company that he feared, and for his own life that he was crying.
This is me. It’s who I’ve always been.
D.J. didn’t know if he was imagining the words or if Weir was speaking them. They were distant, and yet so close. As if Weir had personally crawled into his veins and was whispering to him from beyond the abyss.
I am home.
He opened his eyes as he felt the metal against his back, and felt cloth being stripped from his body. He was naked on the slab, and his arms and legs were restrained.
Weir! Weir! He wanted to argue, to talk to the man, to have a rational conversation. The man was a doctor, he was medically trained. Surely he would listen to reason.
Cool on his skin. He was barely able to tilt up his head to see the knife Weir had placed against his chest, and logic was no longer within the realm of possibility. He could only scream.
Liberate tutemet ex inferis.
As he felt the knife cut through his flesh, he finally understood the true meaning behind the words. There was blood on his stomach, blood on his face and even with the counting trick his lungs wouldn’t work any longer. He screamed as the doctor cut him open, as he felt the last fleeting hint of energy leave his body. He was dying. Shit, he was dying. What were you supposed to think about when you were dying? All he could see what Justin’s bloated body, his father’s cold corpse. The mutilated bodies of the old crew, of Peters, Starck and Miller. His eyes widened as they met with Weir’s. Think, D.J., think for fuck’s sake. For your life. But he was never a soldier. He had never learned how to fight, only how to heal. How to save. And both of them were now beyond saving.
The last thing he heard was Weir’s voice.
Now you’ll never be alone again.

[Ella]

Fandom: Star Trek: Discovery
Summary: Captain Lorca and Lieutenant Tyler have a conversation. Post-1x05 oneshot.
Words: 938

We (Don't) Choose Our Pain

Gabriel Lorca placed both of his palms against the cold metal ridge of the window as his eyes rested on the stars, the universe spread out in front of him. It took less than two minutes before the pain became too unbearable, and he had to blink, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing at the temple of his nose. The Klingon captain had spoken of a universe filled with light, and she hadn’t been wrong. Even the stars were now to bright to his damaged irises.
He hadn’t been cleared for active command yet, and he wondered how long Cornwell wanted to hold him up. She called herself his friend, but if she knew him even a little, she would know that it felt as if she was pestering him. As if she didn’t fully trust him to be in command in the first place. She wouldn’t have been the first to doubt. After what happened on the Buran, many Starfleet commanders had looked for him to step down. But he wasn’t about to stop fighting the bastards that made him kill his crew in the first place, and who would murder so many others in their wake. He had had enough support back then, even when the wound was still fresh, perhaps because they had seen what he could do. What lengths he was willing to go to. And she had been on his side then. He smiled. Perhaps she had even pitied him a little.
It felt strange, walking through his ship without having the slightest thing to do. Recover, was the magic word. He didn’t need more time. He had lost so much of it already. Lieutenant Saru had proven to be capable in a time of crisis, and he trusted the Kelpien’s judgement, but it was his fucking ship. He wasn’t blind, and he wasn’t an invalid. If anything, he longed for the normalcy of the control buttons under his fingers, of pacing on the bridge. The abduction only brought him more determination.
A flash of light made him grown and he almost staggered. He was fine. He was fine.
“Sorry, sir.” Lieutenant Ash Tyler had appeared in the doorway, looking better than he had the day before.
Lorca waved his apology away, quickly regaining his composure. “I hope you are settling in well enough, Lieutenant?” he asked, smiling at the man who was standing in front of him, slightly uncomfortable at having startled the Captain.
Tyler nodded. “Snug as a bug in a rug, sir.”
“That’s good to hear. Have you been to see Culber?”
“I have. Nothing that’ll last.” A pained smile, and a raised eyebrow. “Have you?”
Lorca didn’t answer. He hadn’t. Not that he thought Culber would lose a night’s sleep over that. The man always said that the only patient more difficult than the captain was the doctor’s husband, and still he was a strong competitor. “Don’t you get on my back as well. I’m not having the operation.”
The younger man stepped closer, hesitating. “Permission to speak freely, sir.”
The Captain snorted. “I’m not even on active command. And even if I were, you could say whatever the hell you like, Lieutenant. I’m not afraid of other people’s opinions, as long as I’m allowed to disagree.”
“It’s been months, sir,” Tyler started. “That battle is over, but the war isn’t. Wouldn’t you be able to fight it better if you had your full eyesight?”
“Are you calling me an incapable Captain, Lieutenant Tyler?” Lorca asked. His voice was sharper than he had meant it to be. He had heard this particular phrase from Cornwell too many times.
“I’ve seen what you can do, Captain Lorca. And I trust you.” Tyler locked eyes with the other man. “I just wish you would stop punishing yourself.”
Lorca sighed. The man could become the Admiral’s apprentice. He rubbed his temples and looked out of the window for a minute, as if the answers could be found in the stars.
“It’s what [i]they[/i] made us do, choosing our pain. What they made me do, for [i]seven months[/i]. We don’t have to choose any pain if we can avoid it.”
How could Lorca explain to the lad that he couldn’t avoid it? He had done what he had done, and now he got to live with it. He stood by his decision, and he didn’t regret it – his crew would never have made it out alive if they have been captured by the enemy, and he [i]knew [/i]that he had spared them the months of misery that the young Lieutenant had to go through. And yet, in the end he was the one who pushed the button, and he could not forget that. If he forgot that, it was the first step to forgetting his crew. Forgetting his purpose. And that was the one thing he couldn’t do.
“We’re not like them, are we?” There was a desperation to Tyler’s voice that made Lorca wonder what exactly the man had gone through during the past months. He hadn’t asked, not in detail. He had assumed, and it was only now that he realised that perhaps he shouldn’t have. He hoped Culber would have picked up his slack.
“No,” Lorca said. But am I, when I slaughtered my own exactly as they do? When I lust for their blood?[i] [/i]“We aren’t.”
Lieutenant Tyler placed his hand on the Captain’s shoulder briefly, an unfamiliar sensation. “Go see Culber. He can help.”
Lorca smiled grimly, and turned himself towards the window again, facing the stars that were part of him. “Perhaps when the war is over.”