Set just after 'Twin Destinies' and told slightly out-of-sequence for absolutely no reason. After a long dry spell of no writing, this just sort of happened.
Non-con/lack of consent warning.
III:
When they finally come together, it's messy and violent. Young slams Rush's shoulders against the wall, closing one eye reflexively as the smaller man's palm comes up to dig against his socket. He twists the hand viciously until Rush gives, bending his arm at the elbow as Young pins it beside his head.
After a moment, he seems to regroup, bringing his head forward, butting against Young's already aching skull, making them both swear. Young uses his body's superior weight to twist them both, bearing down on Rush's shoulder until they both sag to the side and into the floor.
The fight is more earnest here, legs and knees and elbows, but Young is stronger, has always been stronger, and Rush is already so very tired.
"Why does it always..." Young gasps out, voice ragged and raw. He pauses as best he can, still holding Rush's wrist in one hand, his other fisted on the collar of his layered shirts. "Why does it always have to be this way... with you and me?" He spits, tasting the tang of blood with surprise before recalling Rush's brutal elbow to his cheek a few moments before.
"Because it has to," Rush hisses, sounding as cracked as his lips look when he draws them back over his teeth in a snarl.
I:
"If there's anything you need to talk about, Colonel..." Camille broke off abruptly, apparently having become very interested in the bottle of water in her hands.
Pinching the bridge of his nose against the headache brewing there, Young let his hand slip down to press against his mouth. He exhaled a deep breath, eyes glancing up at the ceiling. "...Rush is alive." He said finally.
"Yes," she replied, clearly not following his segue. "But the loss of Col. Telford, even if he is technically still with us in some ways..."
"We end up where we started. One Telford, one Rush." He interrupted, voice dropping as fatigue finally crept over him.
"Except the Telford you knew is dead. And his double is gone back to Earth."
"Yeah, well," he replied, voice falsely cheerful again, "These things happen."
"Colonel..." She called after his retreating form.
He didn't have to turn around to know her posture - one hand on her hip, the other raising the water bottle in a questioning gesture. "I'll be in my quarters if anyone needs me. Please don't need me."
He had expected to find his quarters empty - to crawl into an exhausted and turbulent sleep, tangled in slippery bed sheets and unspoken remorse. Nicholas Rush, of course, had had other ideas.
IV:
The sound of Rush's breathing is loud in his ear, and Young shivers despite himself. He presses down harder, tightening his grip on the other man's throat, squeezing tighter. He can feel Rush's panting growing more shallow by the second, and when he reaches his other hand between them, there is no resistance this time.
Rush's fingers scrape at the side of his neck, just under his ear, and Young rolls his head into his hand, letting him scabber in his short, thick curls. The angle allows him to slam their mouths together, and he releases Rush's throat to steal his breath this way instead.
One of them makes a soft, keening sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and Young realizes he could not answer for the life of him which it had been. He can feel Rush's hips jutting into his own thigh as the smaller man kicks and writhes beneath his hand. When Young breaks off the kiss, he slaps Rush's face lightly, making him open his eyes in confusion.
The other man is dazed; his brown eyes wide, pupils cavernous in the dark of the room. His eyebrows are drawn up in confusion - he stares at Young as though he does not quite remember where he is or what is going on for the moment. Rush curls his left wrist against his chest, the backs of his knuckles against the material of his shirt. He peers down at his chest as though something has surprised him.
Feeling his throat tighten, Young curls his own fingers downwards, making Rush yelp and jerk forward, hands coming up to press against his chest, trying to shove him away. The disorientation passes and Rush seems to remember what is happening - their fight, the brutal scuffle, and the slow burn of two of Young's fingers already inside him.
II:
"What the hell are you doing in here?" Young snapped.
Rush watched him stalk across the room, keeping his hands loosely clasped in front of him, arms braced on his knees. He didn't move from the sofa as Young sat on his bed and began tugging his boots
"I said, what the hell do you think you're doing in here?" He repeated finally.
Shrugging, the other man pressed his mouth together in a flat, tight line. "You want to explain what that little show in the Gateroom was about earlier?" he began eventually, voice clipped and high.
"'That little show' was me trying to deal with the worst day this ship has ever had!" Young snarled, feeling something loosen in his chest, uncoiling like a viper preparing to strike.
Rush chuckled mirthlessly, running a hand through his hair. He grinned tightly, eyes sharpening as he spoke, "Oh, yeah. The absolute worst."
His voice sounded so mocking that Young found himself across the room before he'd even registered getting to his feet. Rush continued to smirk at him until the first punch cracked into his face.
V:
Snarling, Rush kicks out at him, but Young shoves one knee hard between his thighs, separating them as he twists his fingers deeper. Another yelp, this one a bitten off swear, and Rush is clawing at his throat again. When Young grabs hold of his neck once more, he can feel the corded muscle and the hammer of a pulse against his fingers. Rush stills, staring up at him with an undeniably frightened defiance Young can barely stomach.
"Why do you have to make this so damn hard?" he snarls, his voice gritty and hot. He can taste blood in his mouth and see it smeared across Rush's cheek from where his lip has been ripped across teeth.
"It can never be easy," Rush spits back, and Young lifts with his wrist, pulling him up awkwardly before letting him thud back down again, hair fluttering as his head cracks against the steel floor. He hates Rush's determination, hates his apparent need and fucking ability to always get the last word.
Young has never had much skill with words, always finding himself caught up in thinking through and choosing his position carefully. His caution translates to a slower speech, whereas Rush's firecracker personality is easily seen in the sharpness of his tongue.
Instead, Young has always found solace in the physical - the concrete and the tangible. He can hold Rush in his hands, can feel the muscle and sinew, can taste the sweat and the blood and that damned tinge of mint that never quite seems to go away. He can part his thighs and slam his hips between them, can bury his hands in his hair and his mouth in the crook of his shoulder and throat. He swallows the sound Rush makes when he aligns himself with his entrance. The smell of the condom seems so alien in the sterile air of Destiny.
He can feel Rush's hands pressing against his collarbone, fisted in his shirt. He can feel the way the smaller man trembles against him - more like a grand mal seizure than a lover's embrace. This is not sex. This is just violence, violence of the body and of the self, as Young pours everything he has into fucking the man pinned beneath him on the floor.
This is not consensual. It is not advisable. It is wrong, Young knows, on every level that a thing can be wrong, but he cannot stop himself. The other man is there, twisting and gasping beneath him, and he can feel his blood in his body and under his skin, and he is alive. Young himself feels both half-dead and more complete than he has in years. He knows he is hurting Rush - it is hurting him to push in and deep like this, so it must be unbearable for the other man.
But Rush bears it, without a word. He does not cry or swear or demand he stop. He does not beg. He endures it, as he has endured everything Young has thrown at him, or said, or done. He can feel and hear Rush panting against him, ragged, desperate sounds, but Rush does not break. Instead, Young can feel himself breaking, unraveling into splintered fragments, spooling down into nothing but the delicious counterpoint of painful heat and searing pressure as he thrusts deeper against and into the other man.
He reaches for Rush, rhythm faltering when he finds him soft. He can feel nails digging into his wrists, but he ignores them, stroking and cupping him as gently as he can, coaxing the flesh into a state of arousal. Rush seems to go quiet when he hardens in Young's hand, the gasping breaths becoming shallow and less defined. His hips jerk up between them, bone bruising against Young's skin, but this only makes him bear down harder.
Young knows he should stop, should pull away, should be ashamed of the grunts and snarls spilling from his lips, falling with spit and blood into the other man's hair. He knows he should let go of Rush and this connection and these desperate, screaming thoughts that only seem to end where their bodies meet. He kissed him again, one hand fisting in his hair to twist his face to a good angle, and Young realizes he still wants to crawl inside Rush. He invades him from both ends, trying to turn him inside out, to force him to give up his secret places and hidden agendas and coded thoughts.
He comes before Rush does, grunting as their teeth clack so hard it rattles him. In this moment, he owns Rush, but he knows the moment will end.