Title: Bloodied Scalpels
Author: ShadowDemon-Gengar
Character Pairings: Shilo/Nathan (Repo!Nathan)
Genre: Romance/Drama/Horror
Rating: T-MA+
Warnings: Incest, Gore, Profanity
Disclaimers: I own nothing REPO! The Genetic Opera
Summary: LJ's "30 Distractions" challenge for the Shilo/Nathan pairing.
Recommendation(s): Keep story's width at "3/4"; adjustment settings are at the top-right corner of the site, where the different font styles and sizes are located. "3/4" is the original width that this story was written in.
Author's Note: I can't tell you how much I obsess over this pairing; more than Shiloh/Graverobber, really. I seriously could not pair Nathan off with anyone else – not even Marni. There is just something about the tragic father and his desperation to keep Shiloh with him forever and away from the evils and corruption of the world that makes their pairing one of a kind. The last scene in the movie had me nearly crying . . . and as a friend said, it made the possibility of such a pairing very believable.
Distraction XII: Sleep-Deprivation
"Shilo . . . ?"
She looked up when she heard the soft, pained murmur, her hands pausing in the small basin of cool water. She felt her heart clench with emotion, her father moving restlessly in the middle of the massive bed, its thick, patterned covers pulled up to his shoulders. His pale, aged features were flushed with a fever, expressing misery and utter exhaustion, his light green eyes heavy and dazed and slightly anxious, searching the room for her as he struggled to surface from the Zydrate-induced sleep.
She quickly wrung out the washcloth and moved toward the bed. "It's okay, Daddy . . . I'm right here." She climbed onto it and crawled toward him, mindful to move carefully so as to not jostle his body.
She smiled softly when he eventually relaxed back into the pillows, his distress and confusion easing. She began dabbing the damp cloth against his forehead, wiping away the beaded sweat from his temples. She could feel his heavy gaze on her, but she refused to meet it. She knew what she would see harbored in them: sorrow and self-loathing; a desperate need to apologize for all that had been done to her . . .
And she wanted him to. She wanted him to beg her for forgiveness because she deserved it, damnit . . . but she didn't want to deal with it right now. For now, she just wanted to pretend that . . . nothing had happened; that she hadn't been lied to; that she hadn't been betrayed by the one person she had loved and trusted unconditionally.
Her lips thinned, and she fought against the hot tears stinging her eyes and blurring her vision.
The cloth was slid over his brows and cheeks; along his jaw and down the side of his neck. She gently tugged at the covers, pulling them down to expose the strong, bare chest that was tightly wrapped in fresh, white bandages.
She hummed quietly, the sound gentle and comforting as she pushed at his unbuttoned, flannel shirt until it lay open and wide, offering her better access to his fever-warmed skin.
She drew the cool, wet cloth down the front of his throat, along the solid ridge of his collarbone, and then back up the side of his neck.
Her fingertips smoothed softly through his short, unkempt hair, her humming a sweet, soothing melody in the silent, dimly-lit bedroom.
His eyes fluttered closed again and he breathed a shaky, heavy sigh before willingly falling back under the effects of the pain-killing drug.
When his breathing regulated into a deep, steady rhythm, she drew her hands away and sat back, watching him.
It was so cruelly ironic. She used to be the one who needed care – used to be the one weak and vulnerable and always in need of protection, and he used to be the one who always gave it . . .
'Even though he's the reason why you're so weak and vulnerable . . .'
The whispering thought was like a cold splash of water to her face. She squeezed her eyes shut, restrained tears finally breaking free to roll down her cheeks. Her throat burned from the searing knot and she bit back a small sob, her heart wrenching.
And now here they were . . . her father bedridden and struggling to recover from his injuries – struggling against his fevers –and her, always at his side, feeding him, bathing him, clothing him, changing his bandages and monitoring his wounds, and calming him whenever he woke, delirious and upset.
Wiping the tears away and sniffling, she opened her eyes again and breathed a shaky sigh. She gazed absently down at the taut bandages hugging his rising and falling chest. She tentatively brushed fingers over them, knowing that just beneath lay the line of stitches from his surgery, having been cut open to remove the bullet that had just missed his heart . . . the bullet that had nearly stole him away.
". . . What're you doing, little girl?"
She breath caught and she snatcher her hand back, as if she had been brutally scalded. She fell back, her eyes widening as they locked with the suddenly malevolent, calculative green eyes regarding her intensely. There was a malicious smirk on his lips, giving him an almost demonic appearance.
"Like touching Daddy, do you?"
She swallowed hard, scooting back farther, fear running ice-cold through her veins.
He was back again. The assassin. The Repo Man.
The monster.