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Word Gets Around by Inkscribe
He was healthy and strong and lithe and, well – fine – when Team Sheppard and Team Stackhouse brought him back in a puddlejumper. A subcutaneous transponder under the skin, receivers scattered by dozens of gates, and a rescue mission that went, for once, perfectly. If his eyes were wild and possibly too open and maybe showing more than a bit of the shock of being rescued, no one was all that surprised. How many, after all, could survive an entire month in a Hive Ship without at least a some trauma, no matter how minor? Medical cleared him as hale and healthy, as healthy as someone could be who had been drained and refreshed and drained again. Traces of enzyme still burned through his system, traces that would, they hoped, dissipate out in due time, leaving him clean and clear and simply human again. He looked no older than before, nor younger either. Intricately-patterned tattoos wrapped his arm from wrist to shoulder blade, tattoos that weren’t there earlier, before he was taken. His eyes remained wild, open and sometimes unfocused, giving him a strange air that meant few looked too long, or too directly. And if later, when he was released, there were rumours of someone down on level three, close but not too close to the Botany labs, no one gave it much thought. That the someone lurked in darkened corridors, closets, and alcoves was likewise not so unusual in a place where stress and fear was the norm, a place where the undercurrent of imminent death flowed steady in currents both charted and unknown. That the someone would stay, huddled on his knees, miserable and asking – no, begging – for someone, anyone, to grab his face and fuck it hard, deep, and tight until he choked on everything but still whimpered and wanted it harder and deeper, that was the surprise. Word gets around. He could be found there, the smell from the city composter pervasive, rank yet sweet, the smell of fermenting food scraps and real earth, cloying and heavy. Even when the breezes from the ocean failed to make it into the city, the smell seeped through the corridors, closets, and alcoves where he was. Dark, it was always dark. Day or night, he could be found in corridors, closets, or alcoves with light that revealed little beyond the quivering, shivering mass of his body. His body waiting, miserable – asking, begging, pleading. That later there was no need to ask, no need to tell, that there was for all intents and purposes a queue that stretched one quarter around around the city – comprised of scientist or military, it didn’t matter – no one was surprised. He waited in the stinking dark, crying, whimpering, begging. Pleading. Word gets around. Someone discovered it could be better. Pinch him, slap him, choke him with firm hands. He took it all and then some. He pleaded for more. That now the queue stretched to encompass half the city, a queue still comprised of both scientist and military – it didn’t matter – surprised no one. He took it all, hard. Begged for more, whimpered for more. Shook and shivered in the anonymous gloom and pleaded for more. Nothing seemed hard enough, nothing stopped the torrent of broken begging. Whether military or scientist, those in the queue found themselves inflamed by the sound of his voice, low and harsh, rasping and torn. They kicked, they pinched, they choked; he cried only for more. Word gets around. The tattoos were complex, interlaced and woven together so tightly that the existence of something more buried inside them was discovered almost embarrassingly by accident. A broken arm, compound fracture through the forearm, both radius and ulna broken, the radius showing through the lacerated skin. Not the arm with the tattoo, but the other. Anaesthetic and surgery to set things right, and then someone noticed a word in the intricate design on the arm opposite. The first one to be discovered was receptacle, a term known to the scientists but never in this context, never in the context of something with no purpose other than waiting to be filled. Only then was the pattern examined closely showing that what appeared to be a pattern composed of whorls and lines was in fact one of letters, glyph, and word. Words that were written in a dialect of Ancient, words that were Wraith. The linguist paused over the tattoo, her eyebrows frowning in concentration, then fear, as she began to unravel the words and the meanings they held. Slut. Whore. Dozens of words, synonyms of debasement and demoralisation. Words that described the function of the man so inscribed: a toy for rutting males holding no privilege with their Queen. An entirely new take on heretofore unknown aspects of Wraith culture. She blinked back tears and called for the doctor. Word gets around. Carson gave orders, his voice tight with controlled emotion. Isolation, far from the city. Close to help from the Athosian village, but not close enough for casual visits. Supplies brought regularly from the city, with only members of Team Sheppard and Team Lorne allowed onboard for carefully-rationed contact. Isolation, Carson thought. Time to heal. Time to recover. They would be together, alone and isolated. Away from prying eyes, away from whispering voices. Away from the pain, away from the horrors he sought, the horrors he had taken within since returning. With red-rimmed eyes Carson walked briskly to the jumper bay, his lover asleep on the gurney pushed alongside him. Colonel Sheppard – John – he would pilot. Ronon and Teyla had already gone ahead to prepare their camp. They would debark, and none would remain except Carson and Evan. Alone, Carson thought. We can be alone. They would be alone and Carson would do anything possible in this galaxy or the next to ensure that no one would fuck with his lover ever again. Word gets around. Evan blinked against the bright light of the sky, overcast and white above him. He shook his head, disoriented. He heard voices nearby, scraps of conversation with no context or sense. Socialisation. Reintegration. He sniffed – something was burning. Only then did he notice the crackle, pop, and hiss of a wood fire, saw the scattered wisps of smoke pass between his eyes and the naked brilliance of the sky above. He glanced around, taking in the open jumper hold nearby to one side, the sturdy tent slightly farther to the other. The tent built for long-term use in the field. He couldn’t think straight, couldn’t form thoughts into statements or questions such as who? where? why?, though those questions flickered through his awareness nonetheless. He saw the fire, saw the men in the distance just behind. Saw John and Ronon and, no – Teyla, too. Not just men. And the last? Carson. Evan closed his eyes against the pain that surged within him. Carson. He glanced down then, saw the hard material encasing his arm, felt the ache that meant something as mundane and real as a broken bone. Wondered at how it happened, when he was treated, what they had done. What does Carson know? Word gets around. Carson waved off the group, watching the jumper as it rose swiftly and directly away, away to the city, away from them. Evan, he thought, and turned to his lover. Evan had awoken some time ago, then slept again, drifting in and out of his post-surgical fog, succumbing to his exhaustion. Ronon carried him from the gurney to the tent, placing him on a bed just inside the tent, flaps open to the sky, to the fire. Open to where Carson could see him, and he could see Carson. Carson’s eyes brimmed afresh with tears as Evan closed his eyes and turned his face away. He walked forward, sure and steady, so different than his heart, beating wildly and erratically with pain that tore through him every time he saw his lover, every time he thought his name. He knelt beside Evan, reaching forward to grasp one hand, squeezing the fingers lightly in his own. “Evan?” he asked, his voice soft. Evan did not turn to face him, did not reply. Carson waited, squeezing his fingers rhythmically, softly. Pouring his love into the man through his fingertips. “Love?” Carson tried again. Evan tugged at his hand, trying to pull his fingers away from Carson’s grasp. Carson only firmed his grip. “Nae, Love,” Carson said. “I’ll not let you go, not now.” Silence; then a sob, a gasp. A cry of primeval pain that nearly shredded Carson in its raw, ragged edge. Carson tightened his fingers around his lover’s, his silent tears turning to loud sobs that dragged through his lungs with pain, fear, anger, and remorse. “God, Evan,” Carson sobbed. “I’m so sorry.” Evan cried and cried. Long minutes passed defined by the despairing sound of the two men’s grief and pain. “I promise you, Love,” Carson whispered, his breath regained slowly only after he exhausted his tears. “I promise you, they will pay for this.” Carson didn’t make empty promises. He was a talented geneticist, one whose discoveries had opened new worlds for people like Rodney, not born with the blessing of the ATA gene but now able to partake of its wonders directly. One who had shown it was possible to pull the DNA of the human to the forefront of the beings they called Wraith. One who was not to be trifled with. Word gets around. Evan blinked through gritty eyes and breathed through a heavy chest. His arm, broken badly and surgically repaired, hurt with both a dull pulse and sharp sting that reminded him of nothing else, yet reminded him of everything else. Hurts, he thought. Hurts, hurting – pain that was real and tangible and dancing along his nerves with slippers made from shards of glass. He felt tears seep from his eyes, a response to the pain inside, the pain in his bones, the pain in his heart. He was alive. He heard someone breathing nearby, knew it had to be Carson. Carson, his lover. Carson, the Chief Medical Officer of the Atlantis mission. Carson who now knew or guessed too much about what Evan survived on the Hive Ship. Carson whose fingers were tangled into his, blended together like nothing was different. Everything was different. Evan tried to slip his fingers away, only to feel them held tighter. “Nae,” he heard Carson whisper. “No more running away, Love.” Evan began to cry again. “You can’t,” he began, only to see Carson rise suddenly from beside him, loom suddenly over him, his face both worried and angry. “Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do,” Carson whispered, hot and fierce. “Whatever they did to you, they didn’t make me stop loving you.” Evan looked into those eyes, blue that should be clean and pure, but now ringed by the red rawness of Carson’s tears. He felt a sob rise again to choke the breath from his very body, choke him as thoroughly as any cock, Wraith or human, had done in the long weeks of torment. He felt his own eyes flood again with tears as he fought to breathe past the tension, fought to release himself to a more forgiving world than he had yet imagined. Carson smiled, gentle and thin – not forced, no, just cautious. “Nothing,” he whispered. “Nothing they could do to you, nothing they could make you do, would make me stop loving you.” Evan looked into those endless blue eyes. He saw truth. He saw commitment. He saw passion. He believed Carson. Anyone would believe him, anyone would have to believe him – Carson’s eyes burned with a pure blue flame, hotter than any fire. Word gets around. “Aye, he’s doing better,” Carson replied to John. “Sleeping longer stretches now, his nightmares aren’t as intense.” John nodded and offered Carson a sealed envelope. “The results you were looking for,” he said. Carson smiled mirthlessly. “Indeed,” he said. “You’ll find it’s all in order,” John said, a cold smile on his own lips. Carson stepped close and shook his hand firmly. “Thank you,” he said, his voice almost cracked from the earnest truth of his words. “I’d expect nothing less.” He gestured for the man to sit, two camp chairs next to the constant fire. Carson opened the envelope and scanned its contents. He smiled in grim satisfaction. “Aye, very good,” he confirmed. He saw John let out a sigh, the tension held in the soldier lessening a little from its constant stranglehold on the man. Where Carson wanted to scream for his own foolishness in letting Evan spend even a moment supposedly alone after his ordeal, for believing that giving his lover space was not only what he wanted but needed, John carried a different burden that tore at him, a burden that kept his eyes black and dark from guilt and lack of sleep. Eyes that doubtless looked so much like Carson’s, so much like Evan’s. John was responsible for the military contingent of Atlantis, and on a greater scale, responsible for the safety and security of each and every member of the expedition. No one blamed him, even he didn’t blame himself, for Evan being snatched away by the Wraith in the first place – everyone on the mission lost friends, lost colleagues. The dangers of life in Pegasus were too prevalent, too close to the exhalation of the next breath, the thump of the next heartbeat. But like Carson, John had failed to hear the rumours, failed to hear or recognise that something terrible was happening within the bowels of their adopted city. Something that played out its line and ensnared men, military and scientist alike. Something that drew them down to the dark, sickly-sweet corridors, closets, or alcoves close to the city composter. Something that let them become other than good men of stead, other than good men, strong and true. Something else. Something that would let them use and abuse Evan in his time of need. Something that would let them walk away, only to return again, then walk away – never to whisper a word of worry to someone like John, to someone like Carson. For someone like John, Carson knew the burden was almost insurmountable. That people on his watch, his people, would do this, horrified him. That one of his own people had this done to one of his men, by anyone on the mission, hurt him. John hadn’t said, but Carson knew nonetheless – the paper he held in his hand listed the name of everyone, military or science, who had helped to take and take from Evan. Each one, down to a man, knew he had been caught. Knew he was being watched. Knew that a shoe had yet to drop. Word gets around. Evan walked next to Carson across the frost-covered ground. Though the thin snows and cold sleet of the mainland winter were long dissipated, cold nights and mornings still left the brush of frost-leaves across any surface more often than not. The cold felt good, even as it flared the pain in his arm, still mending. Pain that reminded him he was alive. Pain that told him he was somewhere other than in that ship, somewhere other than on his knees, choking on come. Pain that meant he wasn’t miraculously drained and then repaired by the strange workings of Wraith enzyme. Pain that meant he was still human, still alive. Regardless of the pain, he knew he was doing better. When the first truly warm day of the inland spring hit them, just a few days ago, and the fragrant air brought melted snow and thawed earth, the smell hit him not with the hope of spring, but with the despair of the Hive. The grotty smell of the organic ship, the smell of being fully within something living that permeated every pore of his skin long before the scabs of his tattooing healed. A smell not unlike that of snow moulds uncovered by the melt, or the smell of compost ripening in the depths of Atlantis. Yet on that day, he did not fall to his knees in the conditioned reflex of the Hive, did not beg, did not plead. That he whimpered at all was only from the memories that flicked through his mind, memories of pain and fear and disgust and overwhelming loss of a life he thought forever stolen from him by his captors. And when Evan whimpered, Carson understood. He pulled Evan close and held him, stroking his fingers through Evan’s hair, caressing his body gently through his clothes. He guided Evan back to their tent, carefully tucked them together into bed. Lest Evan not understand the touch, Carson spoke everything in words, words soft yet strong. Loving, not condemning. In response to his soft sounds of fear, he heard Carson: “I love you, Evan. I’ll not let you go.” Carson loved Evan, and Evan loved Carson, possibly more than either of them could have anticipated. Word gets around. Carson stroked Evan’s hands, caressing them with his fingertips, brushing the backs with his thumbs. He held Evan’s gaze, a gaze no longer quite so wild and open, a gaze with some small spark of brightness returning, like the glimmer of the first star in the evening showing the hope and promise for clear navigation through the inky depths of night. “You’re sure?” he asked, his voice soft and warm, offering all his love to the man before him, the man he would do anything to heal, if only it were in his power. Evan nodded. “Yes,” he whispered. Yes, he wanted Carson to make love with him, touch him intimately and closely and naked, skin-on-skin contact. Lick him and kiss him and oh so much, just not … Debasement and defilement by the Wraith was not entirely as one might expect, Carson now knew. The creatures’ own obsession with hunger drove even their sexual desires to something more akin to a feeding frenzy than lovemaking, and while for all any of them knew, Wraith reproduction involved the meeting of male and female genitalia, their use of a … a receptacle was likewise fixated around the figurative hunger of the mouth. A mouth not kissed, a mouth not cherished for its words or its smiles. A mouth to be fucked, brutal and hard and deep until they spilled themselves inside. A mouth that was nothing more than a place that collected their abuse, that accepted their rut. Carson would make love with Evan, aye. Their weeks of voluntary isolation gave them both silence and words, both speaking volumes, both bringing together the threads of healing and recovery for the broken man. Blood chemistry returned to absolute human-normal, physical contact limited to that which was healing and healthy, not harsh and abusive and deadly. Replacing the object, the receptacle with the man, the living, breathing, subjective-not-objective person, the person Carson loved. Carson leaned forward, his lips brushing against Evan’s in a gentle kiss. “All right then, Love,” he whispered. And then Evan kissed him back. End, Word Gets Around |
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Title: Word Gets Around Pairings: Beckett/Lorne Summary: Rescued from the Wraith, Lorne returns broken. Warnings: dark, includes situations of non-consent and severe abuse (but yes, in fact, it does have a hopeful ending!) Angst-o-meter: peta-angst (very, very strong) Rating: NC-17 Words: ~3300 Spoilers: none Art: Click here to download the wallpaper, Word Gets Around. Author’s Notes: For the LiveJournal community slashing_lorne’s challenge, “Spring,” where spring is incorporated either literally or figuratively as new beginnings. This story manages to incorporate both. Word Gets Around assumes a pre-existing, established relationship between Evan Lorne and Carson Beckett, one that was intense and strong. If you wish, dear readers, you could consider it an 11-degrees-from-centre sequel to Pict Nae Scot, which is a blessedly happier tale than this one. Outside of real-world practises that inform the backstory of this fic a great deal, I strongly encourage readers to read and enjoy In the City of Seven Walls by auburnnothenna; Human Condition, Hybrid, and The New Evolution by kyrdwyn; and Bound By Will by sheafrotherdon – stories that are not directly related to my own humble story but also connect to themes explored in Word Gets Around. Yes, some day I plan to write a meta on what I mean by that, but given the allergy headache I’m fighting at the moment, it’ll have to wait. *apologies* A huge thank-you to my beta mice1900. Thank you also to mice1900, nicke, and pushkin666 for listening to this as it poured out in all its ragged pain. This is also my first attempt at making fanart/coverart, and I am very very very pleased with the result. *g* Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is not mine; please don’t sue, we’ll both regret it in the morning. |
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