A/N: Thanks for reviewing! As noted on several story updates, I am having life difficulties + computer problems at this time
(my desktop is broken) and I do not have my graphics programs/etc at hand to work on my website. I just put a message
up on the main page alerting people to this so as no one will think it's a dead site.
NOTE: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS MATURE SUBJECT MATTER, NC-17. DON'T READ IF YOU ARE UNDERAGE OR ARE OFFENDED
BY SEXUAL CONTENT.
-2-
En route to Belfast, Ireland
They have been on the ship for four days, holed up in a storage room, and she is surprised that Y has not gotten seasick as she
had expected. Rather it is she who feels nauseated, with her delicate senses. It is a good ship, a cruise ship, and by no means is
the ride rough, but she can still tell that they are not on land.
The room they are in contains kitchen supplies, which is fortunate, and has solved the food problem completely. There is still the
facilities problem; she finds herself having to use the washroom several times a day, much more often than the norm for her. They
have to ascend the stairs for that; then Y finds a public restroom, and solves the issue, as who is to know they have not paid for
their ticket, as long as they act casual.
For the most part, they sit in the darkness, not wishing to invoke inspections by risking light. There is a small window through
which they can see underwater; dim light enters through this. Peering out, they often spot bits of seaweed, and on occasion
a school of silvery fish. Y sees a squid once and is fascinated.
There is another activity, which commences on the third day, when they are less afraid of being discovered. It is begun by her.
She sits on the ground, leaning against a shelf, the pillow cushioning her back, which is cramping slightly in discomfort. Y sits
across from her against a sack of rice, his arms folded as he stares out the window, thinking about something. Whatever it is,
it is a serious topic; he frowns in concentration. She wonders if he is thinking about the camp again.
Then she begins to note the contours of his body. He is filling out again, having eaten three square meals a day for about three
weeks now, nutritious foods. She has made sure of that. She notes that he is still muscular from the camp, and suddenly she
realizes she is no longer watching him out of concern (as she had thought); she is admiring his aesthetical appearance,
something she has not done much of in her life, for anyone.
She feels an almost chemical hunger. She has felt attraction before, but not been much compelled to act on it. She must not. They
must be ready, in case they are detected….she bites her lip, her eyes on his throat.
Y senses her gaze and returns it, oblivious. She is frustrated, despite her decision that they should not engage in such…acts. Constant
vigilance. She tips forwards onto her hands and knees and moves towards him, defiantly, smiling slightly. "Hi," she says, wondering how
to explain what she wants. What is acceptable in this…partnership, of sorts. Uncertain if she should use techniques from her 'job', or if
that would be inappropriate.
"Hi," he replies, somewhat smiling as well, but not really, because he was thinking about something serious. Of course, when
she wants his attention, he's elsewhere, otherwise occupied.
Well. She does know how to get a man's attention. It is her job, after all. Business as usual. She hesitates, then sits back on her heels,
and her fingers circle the topmost button on her corset, flick it open. He's gazing out the window again, still not looking.
She undoes two more, clears her throat, still goes unnoticed. She is frustrated; he is ignoring her signals. She decides to take matters
into her own hands, leans forwards and takes hold of him there.
Yes, that gets his attention. He looks at her immediately, reacting, she can feel it under her fingers. Even just her hold is enough to draw
the blood in, like a magnet. He is young and does not have the problems some of her customers have had (and had to take chemicals for;
she could smell the medication).
He doesn't say anything, just stares, with wide eyes as she begins to move her hand around over his jeans, her fingers creeping up,
finding the zipper tab, and undoing it as she bites her lip in that way men like for her to do.
She touches his shape for a few moments, scoots closer and undoes the button on his jeans, then hooks her fingers expertly into the
waist and begins to work them down along with his boxers. He swallows, raises his hips to assist her. He seems almost afraid to move,
as if he will scare her away. This makes her want to smile and she does.
"What?" he asks, his breathing a bit heavier.
"Nothing," she says, working his lower coverings to his knees. She bends forward in this movement and flicks her tongue across a
particular area she knows is sensitive, something she has not done before for him. He moves—something like a squirm—and she
places her hands on his thighs, willing him to be still. Her black-painted thumbnails bite lightly.
She runs her tongue down, and finds another area she knows to be sensitive in a large demographic of men, due to her
knowledge of male anatomy.
Y is no exception. He takes a deep breath as she slowly rubs the tip of her tongue against this juncture, and he actually makes a
slight vocal sound as she forms an 'O' with her lips and takes him in, all the way in, knowing how to depress her gag reflex through
much experience.
He lasts longer than she thinks he will, through the first few strokes, and even as she picks up the pace, but when runs her tongue
over the small pore at the end, he arches against the rice bag, trembling. His hands find her shoulders.
"Don't. I'll—"
She slides her lips around the head and repeats the motion. This time he loses control, his fingers gripping her shoulders almost painfully
tight. He's silent as he twitches, which surprises her, as well as the technique that has caused it. He is unusual in his preferences on both counts.
He likes to talk, to make noise. She had expected him to enjoy noise in this, as well. It is illogical.
She swallows, as she has been trained to. He tastes like mushroom soup.
He removes one hand from her shoulder, tilts her chin up and kisses her, hard, pushing her back against the pillow on the
shelf. She responds, surprised that he doesn't mind his own taste; he is finishing the unbuttoning of her top, now.
"Are you not going to rest?" She asks, surprised, also, that he is continuing the action. He pulls away to look at the last buttons he is struggling
with. "No," he responds, still panting. Pop, pop as the buttons open.
"You should rest," she says, her forehead wrinkling slightly. This, too, does not fit in with the norm. Perhaps it is his youth. He pushes the top
open and runs his hands over her flesh. "Plenty more where that came from," he says, his thumbs finding the centers of the heavy round shapes.
The rest of the afternoon is spent coupling on the floor, in frenzied tempos. This satisfies a sensation almost like an itch, and she
realizes that his movement inside her (quite violent at some stages) mysteriously irradiates her back cramping.
He finally cools down to just nuzzling her shoulder and breathing hard, unable to perform any longer. Which is somewhat frustrating, as
she does not feel inclined to stop; but he presses along her spine and the warmth lulls her to sleep.
-x-
"Go take a walk or something," Y says, on day six. They will arrive in Belfast tomorrow, and she is restless. She has, so far, taken out her
energy on him; he looks exhausted, his hair disheveled and his eyes half-lidded. He is leaning against the wall, looking out the window at
the ocean again, while she in turn leans her back against his stomach, her head tilted up to examine his expression.
She hugs her knees to her chest and looks away, petulantly. She thought this was what he wants—to be close, to couple as much as
possible. However when she catches his eyes now, he looks away, unwilling to initiate another session.
"Are you sulking?" he asks. There is a quality to his voice—amusement?
"No." She looks at the floor.
"I'm sorry." He rests his chin on her shoulder. "I don't have whatever-it-is you've got going for you. Give me, like, an hour."
"Okay."
A moment later he has nodded off; his heartbeat has steadied and his breathing is regular, soft. She looks out the window and thinks
of where they are headed. What will she do with Y? And this infant? She doesn't know the first thing about raising children—she is an
assassin and a street walker. A drug dealer, at times. She is unassociated with emotions and morals and illogical practices such as she
has seen parents encourage their children to believe (she has witnessed families in parks). Stories, imaginary people, brightly-colored
objects, and loud voices. Screaming and crying and requiring food constantly.
She wonders if she should give the child away, but she doesn't know how Y would react. She also wonders if she could just leave it
with him while she continues her life, but she doesn't especially wish to terminate her association with him. And yet if she continues
to be associated with him, she will undoubtedly be involved in the infant's upbringing.
It is a frustrating, enigmatic puzzle.
-x-
"Someone is coming!" She hisses, shaking Y's shoulders. He wakes with a start and stares at her groggily. "…huh?" he asks. Then he
seems to understand and his eyes widen with panic.
She looks around. There is only one door, and the person is already in the corridor. There are only bare, steel shelves, up against the
wall; the components are thin and the bottom shelf is low, almost at ground level (eliminating the possibility of hiding beneath it).
So X looks up, and with relief she notes that the top shelf is relatively out of view—and has about two feet of space between the ceiling.
"You are telekinetic?" she whispers.
"Up there?" he asks.
"Yes. One per shelf. Stay against the wall and be quiet."
She watches as his eyes suddenly change color; light travels up through his optic nerve, fills his retina and then the rest of his eyes. It is
green in color. She feels a sharp yank behind her navel as she is pulled off her feet and tucked on top of the shelf. Y has just hidden himself
when the door opens.
The light is turned on, and she presses herself tightly against the shelf, breathing very, very shallowly through her nose. She stares at the
ceiling, afraid that the shelf will creak at any moment due to the added weight. The tiniest noise could draw the person's attention.
Y seems to be employing a similar policy; she can hear his heart hammering in his chest, but his breathing is satisfyingly softer than
normal. She can also hear the breathing and pulse of the individual below—a male, approximately forty years of age, smoker. He coughs
and pulls several cans off the shelf.
"What the—" he mumbles. She almost tenses but stops herself. She hears him shifting cans, one, two, three, four, and counting out loud,
under his breath. He has noticed the missing cans of food, then.
He grunts as he counts the last can, then makes a scuffling noise, reaches up and pulls the light cord again. Leaves, closing the door with a bang.
They remain in place for about fifteen minutes, afraid that he will return, then Y finally whispers, "Is it safe?"
She nods tersely, then realizes he can't see in the dark, like she can.
"Yes. We must be more cautious."
"I don't see how we can be," Y mumbles as he brings them down. "We're already sleeping in shifts. You're monitoring people who come within
twenty feet of the hallway to this room. We have to eat…"
She is silent, knowing he is correct.
-x-
The rest of the voyage passes without incident, and they escape customs by slipping to the bow of the ship and climbing over the rail when no
one is looking. The bags containing their possessions are water tight; when they reach the shore, they find a small wooded area and, after
toweling off, change into dry clothes. Following this, they make their way into town and take stock of their situation in a small pub that
accepts American money.
Y wants to order alcohol (he seems excited at the idea) but she orders water for the both of them, reminding him that he does not have ID
and that she should avoid consumption, at the moment. The truth mostly lies in the fact that she does not know how he tolerates liquor,
yet; he has probably not drunk before, and drunken behavior would be undesirable. Two beers for him might be equivalent to twenty
beers for a regular adult male who has experience drinking. When she thinks about it, she decides she does not want to see him drunk;
she has seen enough men who become violent and stupid, and she does not want to change her opinion of him.
"In England, then," he pouts.
She fiddles with her napkin. "We need to plan now."
"Okay," he says. "Well, we just pick a town, right? Or a city. And find jobs…I guess I'll need fake ID…you know how to get that, right?" he whispers.
She nods.
"Uh," he looks awkward. "I thought…that we…I mean, you and I…if you want to…I really like you." He's rambling.
"I know." She smiles slightly. It's time to ask. "Do you want to keep the infant?"
He stares. "Uh…yes?" he says, as if he's shocked she's asking such a question. Which is strange, it's a perfectly logical question. They are in
no position to bring another individual into the picture, which will most likely be a mutant as well.
"Are you certain? It may be a burden," she says reasonably. "I will offer my assistance when possible, of course, but I cannot allow it to get
in the way of my employments. My fields of work may be unsuitable for an infant."
He continues to stare, as if she's said something odd, outrageous. She wonders if it has to do with the lack of emotional consideration she
has towards the developing infant. It is best to be perfectly clear, however, on the situation.
"Are you saying…" he seems to find something amusing, leans back, grinning. "You can't be serious, X. I must be hearing you wrong. You're
saying you've got a job…so you're leaving me with the kid?"
"In essence, yes," she says seriously. "I will arrange your quarters, in the same city I can find a satisfying amount of employment opportunities in,
and I will visit often. You will be able to raise this infant in a more diligent manner than I am able to." She paused. "It is your fault, after all," she
adds, then wonders if that was a mistake, assigning blame. She would like this to be as businesslike as possible.
"…" Y leans over the table, his expression serious now. "I think you're on a completely different page than I am, X. When I meant I want to be
with you…I mean it, not just some drop-in. And that kid is totally not my fault. You came onto me first. And—" he seems full of arguments. He is so difficult.
"I have allowed you to accompany me," she reminds him.
"You're completely the opposite of most girls, you know," Y says analytically. "Any other girl would be trying to get me to commit…to keep the
kid…I should be harassing you to get rid of it…but I want it, X…" he touches her hand. "It's something alive we made together…in a place that
was made for dying."
She considers this. She has heard many 'romantic', 'poetic' things quoted by men; she's had three johns fall in 'love' with her (one attempted to
kill her but failed miserably), and so she is not unused to having such things said to her (although she is not certain why they feel the need to
speak like that). Y does bring logical points into his argument, however. She feels annoyed, like she did when he wanted the apples, and she
wonders if she is going to give this to him as well, just to see him be happy. She has no idea why she humors his whims. His happiness does
not benefit her in any way, except to cause her facial expression to change to a slight smile.
"You're going to live with me," he says confidently. "We'll get married, and—"
It is her turn to stare at him. "What for?" she asks.
"Or not," he says, frustrated. "I insist that we stick together. And you're going to raise the kid with me, end of story. You're it's mom, for God's sake."
"I would not make a good mother," she insists. "My career would endanger the infant. Besides, I do not understand many frivolities
that parents humor their children with. They are illogical."
"You sound like a Vulcan," Y says.
"What?"
"Never mind." He sighs. "X…it's up to you how you want to raise it. If you don't care about stupid little things…fine, don't do them. Just being
there is enough. You'll forget all about wanting to take off when you actually have it, from what I've heard about kids."
She is silent. Perhaps he is talking about the mysterious 'maternal instinct' that she entirely lacks.
"Look. All you need to do is find us a place…and help me get some ID. I'll do the rest. I'll make sure you don't need to work, you can just
concentrate on what you want to teach the kid," Y says.
"Not work?" she says, at a loss. She's always had an assignment, a mission, even while street walking. The mission then is to satisfy the
individual—the 'john', as the pimp who introduced her to the profession called her clients—in exchange for money. A good job occasionally earns tips.
"I'm sure it'll be a nice break for you," he says. "What do you do anyway?"
She is silent. She continues to have the feeling that informing him of her occupation would result in his anger, and further complications.
"Fine, don't tell me," Y says. He takes a sip of his water.
The food arrives, fish and chips, and they are both distracted from their argument. From Y's occasional glances, she thinks that he appears
to believe he has won. She remains silent and eats, thinking.