AUTHOR: Kristen Kilar
TITLE:Catharsis (9/11)
RATING: PG. Language. Alcohol. Talk about sex. Angst.
DISCLAIMER: Don't I just wish? Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda and all related characters and plots belong to Robert Hewitt Wolfe, Tribune, Majel Roddenberry, and a bunch of other people besides, none of whom are me. "Curse of a Fallen Soul" still belongs to the Dropkick Murphys.
SUMMARY: Catharsis: Any cleansing or release, as of pent-up emotions. In the aftermath of "Bunker Hill", Harper and Rommie bond.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Because I can't update on FFN as often as I do on EI and SF, you're getting two chapters at once...here's the second. Enjoy.
As always, much love to my beta, Myna/Allie/niki blue/rah rah replica/etc.
Please read and review.
Harper smiled to himself, watching Rommie dance with all the enthusiasm and grace of any Bostonian woman. If he couldn't die at home, this was damned sure close enough.
"Now let's all gather round in our costume suits and ties, telling now this soul was a source of inspiration, (Love him now, he lives no longer), but you never tell the tales of the times you turned your back, on this friend who never found the righteous path… So may this round be on the corpse of a dead man, with a toast that tells of a love you never shared, so as we dance on the grave of the misbehaved, raise your glass and sing the praise of a fallen soul…"
As the last strains of the song faded out, replaced by the Pogues' "The Body Of An American", Harper collapsed melodramatically on the floor. Rommie snickered down at him. "What's the matter? Worn out already?"
"Laugh it up, doll, just remember that I'm the one with the death sentence."
Her smile disappeared. "Listen, Harper—"
He groaned aloud. "Look, if you're going to get morose every time I bring up death, I'll throw you out now. This is a wake. The point is to laugh about death."
"Fine, I won't 'get morose'. But if you want me to laugh about your death…I'm sorry, Harper. I can't do that."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah." He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Listen, back in Boston, I had this friend. This girlfriend, actually…anyway, she used to say that before she died, she'd slaughter a Dragan honor guard to see her to hell in style."
"And…?"
"And when I die," he said, "I want you to get the sons of bitches for me."
Her face was the picture of innocence. "I can do that, but which sons of bitches would you like me to 'get'?"
"Magog. Nietzscheans. Spacer slave traders. I don't care. Just get them."
Her voice was soft, barely audible over the Pogues. "It's a deal."
"Good. Now let's try to remember that this is a party?" He made himself grin at her.
"You have any more whiskey?"
He found an intact bottle and passed it to her. "So one more promise, Andromeda, and then we'll party without any thought towards tomorrow."
"What promise is that?"
"Before you die, you make sure that Earth is free."
She closed her eyes for a long moment. Then: "I promise," she said before taking a long drink from the whiskey bottle.
"Then let's party."
TBC
