Disclaimer: Ya'll should know by now that I am Yasuhiro Nightow's leech. I own nothing.
A/N: Behold now the twisted mind that is the authoress, for she has made a pairing that was once considered to be crack by all (including said authoress) plausible. Be afraid. Be very afraid.
Warnings: Rated M for strong language, violence, and adult (read: sexual) situations. Yaoi. Elendira/Livio followed up by Lazlo/Elendira. Implied Legato/Elendira (if you're looking for it).
Credits: Spicy-obsession (beta), Sunoko (Immoral Encouragement ™), and Imogen Heap's song "Getting Scared" (fic title).
Other: Elendira is written with the "she" pronoun in this story because that is how Livio refers to her in later volumes of Trigun Maximum. Also, this fic is set in Volume 8, prior to Vash's escape from the Ark.
"Tell me, tell me how does it feel
It feels so good from where I'm standing…"
Imogen Heap ("Getting Scared")
Getting Scared
A groan.
Eyes flickered open.
Blinked slowly.
What?
He sat up slowly, and rubbed his eyes, feeling distinctly disoriented as he got his bearings. What happened? he thought blearily, vaguely registering that he was topless. And where's my, his eyes widened when he saw his room, shirt?
The simple, Spartan quarters to which he had been assigned looked like a sandstorm had torn through it (minus the sand). Covers were strewn haphazardly along the floor, twisted and mangled where they lay, and he stared at them for a moment before taking in the rest. The walls were marked, lined with disturbing shapes and smears. His gaze, however, was immediately drawn to what appeared to be an actual hole, as though something had punched through it…
He cut off that train of thought.
The dresser was in disarray, drawers hanging out brokenly while the closet door had inexplicably been dislocated from its hinges—a gaping wound. Hangers littered the floor, his clothing in heaps, and as he stared, he realized…
I can't remember…
He slid off the bed, a little unsteady on his feet, more from shock than anything else. The place was a disaster area. How could he ever explain this? His master had been very adamant that while they were stationed aboard the Ark, they must be on their best behavior. Wrecking his room hardly seemed to fall under that category.
The door slid open behind him, but he was too distressed to notice.
"What did I do?"
"Me."
He whirled around, startled by the smooth, bemused voice coming from the doorway. She was there, looking at him, a small, knowing smile twisting her lips as he struggled to understand…he paused. There was something black and tattered dangling from her hand.
"Is that…mine?" he asked tentatively, the stress of the moment making him forget that he was addressing a superior.
She looked at the shirt, an almost bored look on her face. "Why, so it is," she commented, and carelessly tossed the article of clothing to him.
He caught it, feeling more bewildered with each passing second. How had she gotten his shirt? And why did it look like it had been shredded? And…wait…
"What…did you say?"
"Me."
She used to like the spaciousness there. It always made her feel as though she was standing on top of the world, watching the cool wisps of distorted white swirl about her. To be so high above it all, so aloof from the static below, so free…it always brought a smile to her face.
Until he came.
Now he stands there everyday, in her spot. It is very irritating, especially since she cannot tell what he is thinking. His expression never changes, nor does he move. The severity of his posture—a ramrod straight back, his shoulders squared—coupled with eyes turned inwards make him that much more irksome. He seems displaced from the moment, as though he is present, but never fully there. It annoys her.
Such a view should be openly appreciated, she thinks to herself.
Even now, as she watches him, his hands wrapped about the railing, she wonders why he comes. It is strange to see him—that statuesque, solitary figure—alone. The only times she can recall seeing him without his keeper are when he is here. It is odd, to say the least, as well as somewhat…intriguing.
She hates that—hates how he just stands there, hates how it's her spot he's occupying, hates how he never moves, hates how it interests her, hates, hates, hates, hates him. He isn't even that appealing to look at upon first glance. Leather is too tacky for her tastes, no matter how much it compliments his straight lines and edges, and the skull mask (what is he hiding?) he wears isn't particularly intimidating.
The hair, though…yes. Untamed and wild though it is, she can imagine what it would be like to twist her fingers through those silvery-gray knots and tangles, to drag her manicured nails over his scalp, to see some life crack that face carved from stone. She wants to know what it feels like.
She hates that, too.
And still he stands there, mocking her as the Ark sifts through the currents of air, guided by His hand. His twin is still below, and she can only thank the Deity she knows exists for not relegating the task of babysitting to her. Unfortunately, this arrangement leaves her with no one to verbally spar with. The cripple is good for that…as well as other things.
She lingers in the shadows clinging to the doorway, her arms folded over her chest as she continues to watch him. As always, there is no movement save for the subtle breeze ruffling his clothing and that scraggly hair of his. Her fingers twitch, wanting to touch, and twist, and pull—
He moves.
A slight incline of his head, no more, and the one visible eye turns towards her. It takes a moment for her to register that he is indeed looking at her, but she is not looking at him. There is nothing there to see—just a shell.
"You've been watching me."
The words are low and flat, as though the ability to speak is good for nothing besides simply stating fact. He is empty, and she takes that as a personal insult—a challenge. Cool, shrewd eyes flashing, she vows to wipe that blank look off his face by whatever means necessary.
"So I have," she says, smoothing the front of her vest—all casual.
She wonders how long he has known. Surely he didn't just realize it. After all, he is a member of the Eye of Michael. It would be a shame if their worth was exaggerated.
"Why?"
The question amuses her. So blunt, so tactless—the essence of candor. Can he even lie? Something else to look into, she thinks, smirking internally as she walks up to him.
"Does it bother you?"
He stares at her for a moment before answering, the brief pause telling—damning. "No."
She smiles, and leans against the railing, the ship's edges dropping off into a blue nothing. "Then why ask?"
His brow furrows, as though he is having trouble understanding her query. It occurs to her, then, that he is very…literal. How very curious, she muses. Chapel certainly isn't like that.
"Nevermind," she says, waving a hand dismissively. "Answer me this instead." A beat. "Where is your keeper?"
He understands that; she can tell, and watches the comprehension dawn on his face. Yes, you dolt, the disgusting old man that tells you what to do all the fucking time, she thinks matter-of-factly.
"He is resting."
She raises an eyebrow. "And you?"
"The same," he says quietly, and looks away, staring out across the deck.
"Is that so?" she asks, just as softly.
She trails off, distracted by the proximity of the black immutability next to her. Her eyes wander purposefully, appreciatively over him. He is taller than she initially thought, and the significantly reduced gap between them now reveals certain details, small ones, that she missed before. Buttons, buckles, straps and cords—they hold him together. If she releases them, will she release him?
Delicate fingers slide sideways along the chilled metal, and find the hand that dwarfs hers. She glances at him, gauging his reaction. He is looking at her. That is all.
There is no protest as she gently pries his grip loose and turns him about, his back to the railing. She is in front of him, a hair's breadth away from touching as her hands drift lower. Playfully, almost, she fingers the clasp of his belt, her eyes still locked on his—watching, waiting…there!
A flicker in his eyes, there and gone in a moment. She has seen it, though.
"What are you doing?"
She smiles. "What do you think I'm doing?"
There it is again. Eagerly, she peers through that chink in his armor, wanting to catch him unawares, but the window closes too quickly. Once more, she is on the outside. Damn him.
He hesitates. "I don't know…"
"No," she says simply, "I don't suppose you do."
Slowly then, she undoes his belt, fingers deftly pulling the material free of the loops and buckle's teeth. She has never seen its like before (custom Eye of Michael design, most likely), and finds it interesting that his belt's only function is to confine the long tail of his shirt.
A new trend, perhaps? she thinks wryly, remembering other belts she has toyed with that had the same purpose.
Then, when all is unfastened, one hand holds the removed article of clothing as the other slips under the loosened material of his shirt, lightly running over the ridge of hips, the crease of ribs, the arch of his back…when her fingers find something metallic imbedded there. Strange…
"What…are you doing?"
His voice hitches, stifling a nearly inaudible noise deep in his throat. She doesn't need to look at his face now, feeling his muscles tense beneath her gliding fingertips. He knows exactly what she is doing, she is certain. The perplexed look on his face almost makes her pity him—almost.
Her hand trails back around and up his front, fingers curling tightly about the 'V' of his shirt. She tilts her head, their noses mere inches apart. His unmasked eye—a hue, she realizes for the first time, strangely reminiscent of the psychic's—widens, his arms still at his sides…but she sees the tremors there. His body understands even if he does not. Smoothly, she leans up, and whispers in his ear…
"Enlightening," she breaths, "isn't it?"
She pulls him down with her, then, and their mouths—clumsy fumbling and practiced grace—meet in the center, no more than a light, teasing touch. Closing her eyes for a moment, she lets heightened sensations derived of her intentional blindness wash over her. Quickened breathing (his), subtle trembling (also his), virgin flavor (he's a novice)—all delicious.
Feeling the change in venue to be pending, her hand slips free of his shirt, fingers curling tightly around his wrists. She wrenches his arms behind him, then, and cuffs them with his own belt. He says nothing as she does this, which only emphasizes to her that he will let her do whatever she pleases.
Let's test that theory…
She turns him about, pressing hard against him as she pins him between her and the railing. A slender leg slides forward, grazing his thigh, and his entire body quivers in response, his arms straining, wanting freedom. His wants, however, are of no consequence.
Eyes following the downward path of her hands as they slip from view, she runs them smoothly over his sensitive skin, unsurprised by the smoldering heat there. She squeezes slightly, intending more when a low groan from above makes her pause. There is something urgent about it—something needful.
She looks up. Blinks. What?
His uncovered eye, partially obscured by that unruly mane, stares back at her, and the more she looks, the more she sees. He wants it. Badly. She can feel how much he wants it (as do I), his desire evident beneath her fingertips. But his eye…his eye…
She wanted to see what lay beneath the severe mold of his being. She wanted to peel away the layers, the trappings, everything wrapped about him that inhibited his reactions. But now she sees nothing.
Nothing but fear.
Disgust curls her lips as she recognizes the putrid emotion. Afraid, Doublefang? Of what? Of this? Something so trivial? Her eyes narrow, and her grip tightens, already guessing how much it must hurt when a desperate hiss escapes his teeth. Clearly, she was wrong about him.
"Fuck you."
She straightens and lets him pitch forward, her mouth thinning as she withdraws, leaving him bereft of her touch. He doesn't deserve it. What a waste of time, she mutters to herself. She will have to wash her hands now, after handling his filth, and turns to leave.
She is barely two steps away when she hears a resounding snap. What—? A hand clamping around her forearm interrupts the thought. Her back stiffens, and she whirls about, the broken belt dangling loosely from his left hand. His right, however, is grasping her left arm.
"How dare you," she seethes, fists clenching.
A split second later, she brutally rams her knee against his gut, satisfaction etching her features as he exhales sharply in response. There is nothing left to be said or contemplated. She gave him a chance, and he refused. She is finished with him.
He says nothing, his hair falling messily over his face. She wants to rip it out and beat him with it. He better let go of me…
But then she sees something…off. She squints at him, trying to discern. The barest suggestion of white behind the gray, the crooked slant of his lips, a strange, shambling posture—what is this?
"Bitch."
Her eyes widen, the fury she feels at being addressed in such a way by this ingrate tempered by surprise. She cannot reconcile this change embodied by the darker inflection of his voice, both foreign and abrasive to her ears. As if sensing her thoughts, he leans forwards, his face split wide by the chilling smile adorning his masked face.
"Don't cop out on me now. The fun's just beginning."
"Our 'fun'," she replies coldly, "is concluded. Let go. Now."
"No."
Then, before she can stop him, his other fist slams into her stomach, knocking the wind out of her. She coughs, the sound almost a croak as she doubles over from the force of the blow. He twists her violently about, punishing hands tying hers behind her back with the same belt that she used mere minutes ago to restrain him with. The buckle is broken.
He yanks her about, then, and crushes her against the nearby wall, leather edges digging into her wrists, shoulder blades chafing painfully against the cold metal. All of this done in mere moments—it stuns her. Ignoring the turbulent breaths she tries to discount, her leg whips up, meaning to strike him hard between his legs…
His shin clashes with hers, bone grinding against bone. Damn you!
"Feisty little bitch, aren't ya?" he remarks, his eyes glittering dangerously as he presses unrelentingly against her, forbidding movement. "I like that."
"Fucking piece of shit!" she snaps at him, thrashing, trying to deny, deny, deny…
"Well…" he drawls, his face inching closer and closer to hers until they are nearly touching, heated breaths mingling and dampening each other's skin, "you've got that first part right."
Something rips, and she catches a glimpse of black scraps of cloth scattering before iron fingers (fake arm, she realizes, the metal implant in his back suddenly explained) twist in her styled hair, pulling her head back. It's hard and cold and hurts like hell and oh god…
His mouth collides with hers, and she can't help but notice that he tastes different—raw. A moan rises in her throat, muted by the interplay of tongues and lips as the warmth of him, as well as her own inner heat, spreads and envelops her. This is torture, but it's the kind she likes, the kind that he excels at. And to make matters worse, now his hands are roaming, one over her front, the other her back, gripping her ass, down, down, down, and fuck yes!
No protest, not anymore, no fumbling, no questions, no wondering just what the fuck is going on, why he's like this, not now, just don't stop, don't don't don't, take it off, goddamn you it's already falling off and I can't do anything can't move you fucking bastard just.
Don't.
Stop.
What is she saying? he wondered, unease welling up within him. "I don't…understand."
"No?"
She moved smoothly into his room, and automatically he stepped back, a strange sense of déjà vu overtaking him. But that was ridiculous. He hadn't seen her in days, ever since…since…
I don't remember…
Suddenly she was in front of him. His feet rooted to the spot, paralyzed as a single, long finger rested lightly on his bare chest. His breath caught in his throat, the reduction in his personal space an almost physical sensation. And she didn't stop there.
Her fingertip trailed upwards, over his collarbone, until finally her fingers parted his hair, nails scraping his skin. His entire body tensed, muscles tightening. He couldn't help it, memories of a time had thought to be dead and gone threatening to resurface, when filth (dirty fingernails), heat (abusive), dust (suffocating), grime (after), and hopelessness (again) ruled his existence.
"What…are you doing?"
She paused, an eyebrow lifting. "You asked me that very question once before."
Something stirred within him then, and coiled tightly about his chest as she spoke. Her words rang true to him, brief flashes of blurred gray and white, of hands and snippets of clothing, of everything tumbling inwards, and then…nothing. What had happened?
"I…" he swallowed, his tongue sticking to the dry roof of his mouth, "did?"
Her eyes narrowed. "You don't remember?"
Soft laughter echoed and filling his ears as the question left her (familiar, his brain automatically provided) lips. It chilled him to hear it. He didn't understand this. Any of it. What was he supposed to remember?
"You don't remember."
Her voice was flat and cold, a statement of fact, not a question. He didn't answer, rendered speechless by their compromising positions. What didn't he remember?
He winced slightly as her fingers withdrew, uprooting tufts of gray as they went. She turned away, her back and legs stiff, and he could only stare, nonplussed. Then, it finally occurred to him…
Lazlo…what the fuck did you do!?
There was no answer.
"…not going to deal with his fucking shit…"
She was muttering under her breath, so low that he nearly missed it. What? His shit? He hadn't done anything. What was she getting mad at him for?
"You're late."
"I'm what?"
"You. Are. Late," she said, and looked over her shoulder, her eyes blazing. "You were due to meet your master three hours ago. I would go beg for his forgiveness," a subtle sneer was implicit in her tone, "if I were you."
With that, Elendira stalked from the room, leaving a bewildered Livio to try and figure out what had just happened, as well as how he would explain the state of his room to Master C.
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