A/N: Excuseexcusebusybusylifeblahblahblah
CB73: Thanks for reviewing yet again! Yes, it was a bit of a clusterfuck trying to get each scene done and then chronologically have them work. Kim's not giving in quite yet, as this chapter will show. And I don't think Ron is gonna let her either. He's her rock. IRONically O_O
Jane: Thanks for the review! Here is MOAR. Finally.
I hope you all like this chapter. Please R&R!
Several miles out into the Atlantic Ocean, where most everything was consumed by darkness and water, a lone orange-lit oilrig hovered above the inky abyss. Only two employees were on deck, sitting in the dark control room, each in rickety plastic and vinyl swivel chairs. One was chewing on the end of his pencil, his brow furrowed as he glared at the crossword puzzle in his hand. His co-worker's head was lulled back on his shoulders; his eyes closed and mouth agape. A choked snore gurgled at the back of his throat, and the other worker looked up from his puzzle. He shook his head; he really should wake him up. He set his puzzle down on the control panel, scanning over the screens and switches that depicted the inner workings of the rig. All was well.
"Kev," the worker said, tapping his sleeping partner's chair with his foot. The chair merely squeaked, swaying slightly to the left.
"Kevin," he repeated, this time gently – but firmly – kicking the chair. Kevin was jolted awake as his seat tipped back, and he let out a terrified yell as he fully toppled over.
"Shit Sam!" Kevin cussed, coming to his feet.
Sam snickered as he took up his puzzle again, and filled in a column.
"How long was I out?" Kevin asked, yawning and picking up his chair.
Before Sam could answer, the incoming beats of helicopter propellers distracted both men.
"We're not expecting anyone, are we?" Kevin spoke, peering out the window at the lit helipad just outside the control room.
Not answering, Sam joined his co-worker's search before exiting the office. He stepped out onto deck, his head turned towards the dark expanse surrounding them. The blackness made it impossible to distinguish the meeting place of water and sky. Sam crossed the deck to a large, tarped bundle, and unwound the equipment. He tossed the fabric off of the large spotlight, and turned it on. The lamp burst to life, sending a pillar of yellow-white light into the sky above. Grabbing hold of the handles, Sam maneuvered the heavy light so that its beam washed out over the rig and water. The black helicopter was nearly on them. He followed it with the light until it pulled right above the helipad, hovering there for a moment before carefully descending to the concrete surface.
Sam turned off the searchlight and Kevin came out of the control room as the blades of the helicopter slowed. Cutting hopped out of the cockpit and rounded the pad to the other side, and assisted Anya out of her seat.
"I need the control room and a first aide kit," Cutting yelled as Sam approached them.
Sam hesitated for a moment before dashing back into the control room, ignoring Kevin who tried to ask what was happening. Kevin turned back to the new arrivals. He stepped forward, offering help as he saw the older gentleman lift the young woman – who clearly hurt – into his arms. Cutting didn't respond, or acknowledge Kevin, as he brushed past him.
Cutting set Anya down in a chair. She hissed in pain before relaxing into the cracked vinyl. Kevin stood in the doorway, confused. Who were these people? Why were the dressed like they had just come from a ball? What had happened to the girl?
Before Kevin could voice his line of questioning, Sam barreled past him, a large first aide kit in hand.
"Is everything alright?" he asked, clearly dismayed.
Cutting took the case without responding. He set it aside, and began to take off his suit coat. "I need hatchet," he said calmly.
Sam's heart thudded against his ribcage. "Come again?"
"A hatchet. Just in case something needs to be removed."
Sam paused, and Kevin could've sworn he heard him whisper, "Yessir."
Sam turned to leave the control room, and gestured Kevin to follow him. Kevin looked back at the man and girl once more before staggering after his co-worker.
"Who is that?" he asked, as they marched up an open steel staircase.
Sam didn't answer, opening and stepping through a metal door into the observation deck. The room was small. It held only a small panel of buttons, a red phone was holstered to the far wall, near a thick plated window that looked down into the pulleys and levers of operating rig. The machinery thudded and clanged rhythmically as the drill bit worked.
Kevin stepped forward and looked out the window, before going to the rig panel. He turned back to Sam, but instead saw a flash of fire engine red, then a burst of dark, shiny liquid. His feet collapsed under him. Too surprised to say or feel anything, he hit the ground without protest. There was one more flash of steely red, a soft crunching sound, and no more.
"Can you stand?"
"Yes," Anya answered, unsteadily coming to her feet.
Cutting stretched out his arms and she used them, gripping his forearms firmly. He guided her to the control panel, and she shifted her weight and balance to the table. Once he was sure she could hold herself, Cutting stepped around her. He located the zipper to her dress, and carefully pulled it down. Anya let out a sigh as the fabric pulled away from her body. Gently, Cutting encouraged each arm out of its strap. Having no frame to hold it, the dress crumpled to the floor in a soft, white pile, leaving Anya only in white underwear and strapless bustier. Cutting plucked the diamond-encrusted comb and birdcage from her hair before kneeling down to scoop up the dress. He placed them on one of the chairs, and then went to open the first aide kit. As he did, he glanced over his shoulder. Anya's back was to him, her eyes still staring out the control room window. Pools of blood had collected under the skin of her shoulder blades were Ronan had slammed her into the table. Her right wrist was swollen and puffy. Two holes had been burned in the whalebone bustier where Shego's plasma had eaten through, and red skin glared through the garment. He knew the thing that was hurting her the most were her hips. The drink cart that Kim Possible had shoved into Anya had at the very least bruised the bone, possibly cracked them.
Cutting took up a bottle of Bactine, hydrogen peroxide, medical scissors, tape, and gauze before returning to his assistant. After inspecting the wounds at her side, he took up the scissors and cut into the fabric, creating circles around each burn. He set the scissors down, and began to unclasp the small hooks that ran down the back of the lingerie. Carefully, he peeled it from Anya's skin. She let out a whimper as the remaining circles of cloth tugged at the wounds that they had nearly fused with. Cutting couldn't deny that the little, pained sound excited him ever so slightly.
He tossed the bustier near the other pile. He wheeled around the second chair, coming to sit facing Anya's injured side. He delicately began the process of removing the cloth stuck to the burns. He needed to cut away some of her skin and then sew it up again. Anya stood well for the procedure, letting out small gasps and hisses of discomfort, but otherwise not moving. Finally, Cutting patched up the wounds with gauze and taped them in place.
"How does that feel?" he asked.
"Better."
"Can you turn to face me, please?"
Delicately, Anya shifted her feet, keeping her right hand on the control panel. Cutting folded down the waist of her underwear, revealing reddish-purple splotches on each hipbone. He looked up at her, before carefully feeling the bones with his fingers. Again, little grunts and sighs of pain escaped between Anya's lips, but she was all together stoic and behaved.
"I don't think they're cracked," Cutting said, his fingers caressing the battered skin.
Anya wordlessly took a step closer and placed her hands on his shoulders. Cutting sighed and rested his head against her firm stomach, his arms winding around her back.
"You did it," she finally spoke. "You got Hench Co. Legally, technically speaking."
Cutting smiled into her skin before kissing her injured hips. Anya let out a stumbling breath as she stepped closer to him. She carefully placed herself onto his lap. Her burns and hips were displeased with the changing position, but she ignored them as Cutting pulled her his face to his. His hands wandered roughly over her body, enjoying the surprised, pained gasps she would breath into him whenever he touched her hips or side. One hand came to rest on her left bare breast, massaging it firmly, relishing the feeling of her nipple growing taut against his palm.
A cautious knock at the control room door stopped the two from delving any further into their frenzy. Anya gave Cutting's lower lip one last, loving bite before pulling away.
Cutting turned the chair to right, holding Anya to him, and said, "Come in."
Sam opened the door and almost jumped at the sight in front of him. There were, of course, rumors among the Black Rabbits about their leader and his young assistant. But up until that moment that's all he thought they were: Rumors. Sam averted his eyes from the topless woman sitting in Cutting's lap, abashed at the situation and how Anya unapologetically watched him, as if she were fully dressed.
"Well?" Cutting cued calmly.
Sam cleared his throat and tossed a bloody hatchet at Cutting's feet. Both and he Anya eyed the blade.
"What now?" Sam asked, looking at the floor.
"A quick jaunt to New York City," Cutting said. "To Worldwide News Network Broadcasting."
The galley of Margo and Rooke's yacht was turned into an infirmary as the group made their way back to the Miami mainland. Shego was laid across a table on her uninjured side. Karen and Ronan sat in chairs nearby, their heads tilted back to keep their respective injuries from bleeding out over their faces. Ron sat across the room, Kim at his side, holding a towel to the bump on his head that hadn't quite clotted over yet.
Margo stood at the galley counter skimming over the medical supplies. She pulled out a small orange pill bottle, opened it, and shook out three large, white pills into her hand. She gave two of the pills to Derek who was standing at her side. He stepped around to the seats Ronan and her mother were sitting in, and handed each a pill.
"Need water?"
Ronan tilted her head in the negative tossed the medicine in her mouth, swallowing forcibly. Karen held the pill up, squinting at it through her swollen eyelids.
"What is it?"
"A pain killer," Margo answered, giving the third to Shego. Karen carefully slipped the pill between her lips and swallowed.
Derek inspected her face before saying, "We'll give it a few minutes to kick in. We're gonna need to snap that back in place." He tapped his own nose.
Sutton was at the galley sink, soaking towels with warm water. He finished his task, gave a couple to Margo, and placed the rest between Ronan and Karen. He took one up and began to gently scrub away the dried blood from Ronan's face and neck.
Margo set herself up behind Shego, and began to cut away the fabric surrounding her wound. Once the leg was exposed, she wrapped a thin piece of rubber high up on her niece's leg, creating a tight tourniquet. Using a cloth soaked in antiseptic, she wiped away the blood on Shego's thigh, before painting the area orange with iodine. She finished the prepping process by spritzing the wound with Bactine.
"Derek," Margo called, setting down the sponges and taking up a pair of forceps, "I need you, please."
Obliging her, he stepped forward and Margo handed him a small stack of gauze.
"I'm going to pull out the shard and you need to cover it back up right away. Apply pressure, but try not to open the cut further."
Derek nodded in understanding, and hovered expectantly above the piece of china.
"Ready, Saoirse?" Margo asked, gripping the shrapnel with the forceps' prongs.
"Just take it out," Shego irratiably growled.
Margo pursed her lips and did so. There was a light sucking sound, and the piece of china was released. Derek quickly pressed the pack of cotton to the open wound as a fresh wave of crimson blood flowed forth.
Margo set the bloody shard down and said, "Hold it for a couple minutes."
Derek nodded again as Margo walked over to Ronan. Sutton had wiped off most of the blood caked to her face, and was now applying pressure to the still oozing cut. She brought her attention to Karen.
"How are you feeling?"
"Fuzzy," Karen answered through lazy lips.
"Switch," Margo mumbled, taking up Sutton's task.
He stepped around her and gently held Karen's face in his hands. He peered intently at her bent nose, trying to decide just how he was going to fix it. He pulled the tissues out of her nostrils, tilted her head back further, and placed his thumbs on either side of the break.
"This is still probably going to be uncomfortable," he warned. Karen's green eyes sluggishly slid over his face, unconcerned. Sutton set his jaw and quickly pushed her nose back into place with a horrifying crack. Karen cried out and pulled her face away from Sutton's grip.
"Kim, hand me the popsicle sticks and tape," he said gesturing to the items on the counter.
The redhead hesitated a moment before getting up from her place next to Ron. She grabbed what Sutton had requested and handed it to him. She watched as he snapped a popsicle stick in half taped it to either side of Karen's reset nose.
There was a gentle clatter outside of the galley and Angela opened the door.
"How we doing in here?"
"Fine," Margo answered.
"Rooke would like to see you, Kim," Angela said, looking to the teen.
Wordlessly, Kim followed her out of the galley.
"Stay seated, Ronald," Margo ordered, as he made to follow Kim. Ron sat back down and said, "Please recite the United States in alphabetical order."
"I can't even do that when I haven't been knocked in the head."
Margo stopped examining Ronan's injury to glance over her shoulder at Ron, a perfect eyebrow lifting exasperatedly up her forehead. Staring at her profile for a moment, Ron switched which hand he was holding the cloth with.
"Alabama . . . Alaska . . . Arkansas . . . "
Listening to Ron prattle behind her, Margo once again turned her attention to Ronan.
"The blade missed your eye," she stated. "We'll just have to stitch you up. I'll need the styptic powder."
The last comment was directed at Derek, who was still holding the gauze to Shego's hip. He reached around the table, picking up a small vial just behind Shego's figure.
"How's the bleeding?"
"Clotting a little bit now," he answered, peeking under the saturated fabric.
"Sprinkle some of the powder on it, and have Sutton sew and wrap it up."
Leaving Ronan's side, Sutton stepped over to the table and slipped on a pair of latex gloves. He sprinkled some of the powder over the wound as Derek uncovered it, and then passed the container on to Margo, who took it delicately.
"Derek, would you please hand me the other needle and thread please?" asked Margo, pulling out another pair of latex gloves from a nearby box.
Derek set the requested tools onto the counter next to Margo, as well as a cushioned swivel seat.
"You'll need to slouch down in your chair, dear," Margo instructed, as she perched herself on the stool. Ronan obliged and slid down in her seat until her head rested on the edge of the chair's back.
"Were you planning on telling us that you kick started Hench Co.?" Shego asked dully.
The vixen hadn't spoken since before they had left the Bermuda Triangle, so the sound came as a surprise. Everyone stopped what they were doing to look over at her.
"Until recently it didn't bear divulging," Margo finally responded, curtly.
"And now? You're giving money to Leirian Anarchists. We're going to go fight them, you know."
"I know, Saoirse," Margo said, her usual monotone giving way to annoyance. "That is news to us as well."
"What're you gonna do about it?"
"I don't know. Please stop talking."
Silence, except for Ron stumbling through the states' names, filled the galley as Sutton and Margo sewed and fixed diligently.
Rooke was in the yacht's main cabin, perched atop the vessel, overlooking the bow and ocean. When Kim and Angela entered the room his back was to them. Angela returned to Brotherson's computer, which she and Derek had brought aboard.
Kim's head was still ringing and didn't notice that Rooke had turned to face her. Somewhere, in the depths of her brain, a sound toned. Her name.
"What?" she asked suddenly and loudly, looking to Rooke.
"Are you all right?" he repeated.
Kim's voice caught in her throat before she answered, "Yes."
"How's Ron?"
"A little banged up, but he's fine."
"How are you?"
"I'm fine," Kim repeated firmly.
"Just checking."
"What do we do when we get back to Miami?"
"Stay on track, unless Angela uncovers something," he answered, nodding to the petite girl working feverishly in front of the monitor.
Kim's eyes followed his gesture to Angela, whose cherub features were bathed in the eerie florescent light of the computer screen, and whose hands flew impossibly fast across the keyboard. Once again, Kim fell into the ambiguous mind space between conscious and subconscious, and she didn't realize she was staring vaguely ahead of her, didn't realize that her jaw was locking and her tongue had affixed itself to the roof of her mouth.
"Kimberly," Rooke called softly yet firmly, jolting Kim as if he had jumped out at her yelling 'Booga booga booga!'
He eyed her remorsefully before continuing, "Hench's death is not your fault. It was . . . a timing issue. Besides, had you got to the seaplane in time, you would've been blown up as well." Kim muttered something under her breath, and avoided Rooke's sympathetic gaze. "What was that?"
"I can do anything," Kim repugnantly responded. "I'm supposed to be able to do anything. That's my motto."
Rooke considered her for a moment, his grey eyes kindly staring at her. "That seems somewhat defeatist," he finally commented.
"What? How?"
"Well," he began, "no one can be good at everything. It's just not possible. And, yes," Rooke diverted before Kim could speak, "I know your father's saying of 'Anything's possible for a Possible'. But it is just not realistic. You have several talents, Kim. But you cannot do anything and everything, and trying to convince yourself otherwise can only lead to disappointment and despair."
Kim continued to look directly into Rooke's eyes, her jaw once again set determinedly. She was unwilling to agree with him, but her moral fabric was beginning to unravel. She didn't save Vrishkov in Chernobyl, she didn't see through Anya's masquerade, and she couldn't save Hench.
Taking note of Kim's tryingly stoic face, Rooke stepped nearer to her and gently gripped her shoulders. "It's alright."
He was unsure of what to say beyond that. He saw much of his former self in the girl before him: Someone trying to do the right thing as fairly and justly as possible; someone unwilling to sacrifice their core values and beliefs, despite the overwhelming opposition surrounding them. She would learn. Hopefully.
"Last stitch," Margo as she brought the needle through Ronan's cheek one last time. She tied off the thread and cut it. "I'll just clean up around the wound and wrap it up, and then your done."
Ronan didn't say anything, and continued to sit quietly as Margo worked. Once the older woman had wiped away the remaining iodine and dried blood, she hesitated a moment, caught off guard by the new mark on Ronan's face.
Noticing Margo's surprised pause, Ronan flatly said: "I know who I look like."
Reaching for a square of guaze, Margo quickly said, "I can give you more of that super strength Neosporin stuff. Hopefully the scar won't be as prominent. Where are you going?"
As she was speaking, Ronan had carefully gotten up, wobbly coming to her feet.
"I don't need a bandage," the agent said. "I need a cigarette. That won't create any negative reaction with whatever I'm on right now, will it?"
"No."
With that, Ronan disappeared from the galley and traveled up to the upper decks of the yacht. She took out the pack of cigarettes from her jeans pocket and smacked the package against the heel of her hand before taking one out. She tucked it between her lips and lit it. Taking in a deep inhale, she leaned her forearms on the rail before her staring out at the open expanse of water they were streaking across. The horizon was beginning to light up with the silhouette of Miami.
A quiet moment passed before a door a little ways down the deck opened and Kim stepped out. She was surprised to see Ronan, even more surprised to see the new series of stitches angled across her left cheek. Kim couldn't help but stare. Anya had to know exactly what she was doing when she attacked Ronan's face. It was too perfect.
"Anya must think she's really funny," Ronan suddenly said as if reading Kim's thoughts. She took the cigarette from her lips, blew a stream of smoke, and flicked the ash off its tip. Instead of bringing it back up to her lips, Ronan just let the hand holding the cigarette rest on the railing.
Kim's feet carried her over to Ronan's side, and she also rested her forearms against the railing, staring out at the ocean. Ronan peeked a look at the teen out of the corner of her eye, and, after a moment's contemplation, offered the smoldering cigarette to her. Ordinarily, Kim would've scoffed at the gesture, but she merely held up her hand and shook her head.
"I don't smoke."
She was fully expecting Ronan to say something demeaning, something along the lines of mocking her for being a 'goody-two-shoes'. But Ronan simply brought the stick back up to her own lips.
"Why didn't you shoot when I told you to," Ronan asked after a minute of silence.
"She would've killed you."
"So?" Ronan responded. "We – you - had an opportunity to take down Cutting's right hand lady."
"What good would've that done? Cutting would probably continue with his plans without Anya's help," Kim pointed out.
Ronan shook her head. The girl still didn't get it, and she was too tired to try and make her see the difference.
"Kim?" called a voice. It was Ron.
"I'm on the upper deck," Kim replied. There was a clattering of feet on stairs and Ron appeared from around the corner.
"Finished with the states?" Ronan asked.
Ron ignored her and went to Kim. "What did Rooke want?"
"Nothing. He just wanted to see if we were okay. How's your head?"
"It's fine," Ron answered. He paused, his mouth opening and closing slightly, trying to figure out how he wanted to break the news. He opted to question Ronan. "Did you know Margo and Rooke kick started and owned part of Hench Co.?"
Kim stared at her boyfriend, and then turned to Ronan. The Syndicate agent was once again staring back at the approaching horizon.
"Huh," she snorted emphatically. Finishing her cigarette, she tossed the butt into the ocean below and came up to her full height. Walking for the stairs back down to the galley, she said, "Are you really surprised, Mr. Monkey?"
Once she was gone, Kim admitted, "I'm not surprised either."
Upon returning to the yacht, Drakken went back to the cabin he and Shego had changed in. He was still holding the diamond necklace he had removed from her neck. How easy would it be to steal? He could use any one of those stones for a myriad of schemes: lasers, currency, a bargaining chip . . .
He set the piece down and went about removing his tuxedo. He took off his suit jacket and white button up shirt, and examined the holes his vines had made in the fabric. Large rips all down the back of both tops had made them unfixable. He grimaced and tossed them aside. Turned his back to the vanity mirror and craned his head over his shoulder to see the gaping holes in the white undershirt he wore. Then something else caught his eye. He turned to fully face the mirror, inspecting his reflection carefully. Something was different. He turned to his side. Drakken pulled the hem of his shirt behind him, making the fabric lie taut across his frame.
He was thinner. Noticeably so.
Not that he had been fat before. Well, there was that Hank's Gourmet Cupcake slip up several months back, but he had lost the extra weight since then. For most of his adult life he been what he would call 'average' – not overweight, but not necessarily strong or muscular.
He once again turned to face the mirror, and lifted up his undershirt. The thin layer of soft tissue that once covered his abdomen had inexplicably melted away, revealing the flat muscle underneath. He turned again. The flesh around his hips was still slightly soft, however the musculature of his upper back was more distinct than he remembered. Along his spine the skin was tinged an unmistakable green, and a series of small welts looked as if they were healing over.
This had to be somehow related to the superhypollinator mutagen. He didn't think it was possible to undergo such a dramatic physical change in such a short period of time. Certainly the green stripe down his back was connected; he figured the welts were where the vines had shot out of him previously. Why hadn't he noticed before?
The cabin door snapping shut jolted Drakken out of his own head. It had to be Shego. Who else would come into their cabin? He self-consciously tugged his shirt back down over his body, and whipped around to face her. He didn't want her thinking he was 'checking himself out' in the mirror. That would surely bring on a new snide remarks and abuse.
Shego was still standing by the door, her hand gripping the knob. She was staring at the floor, her brow furrowed, swaying slightly. She looked as if she might suddenly become sick.
"Are you – "
"Don't talk!" she snapped and Drakken pulled his lips between his teeth. She let go of the door handle and immediately stumbled. Drakken's arms shot out to help her, but she shooed him away. Regaining herself, Shego inhaled deeply and said, "I'm a little high."
"Okay," Drakken said, confused. "Why?"
"Quiet!" Shego exploded again. Another pause, and she muttered, "I need to sit down."
Begrudgingly, Drakken pulled out the chair from the vanity and set it in front of her. She plopped down in the chair, and curled over into her lap. The skirt of her dress split over her thigh and he saw the red tinged gauze wrapped around it. He felt his stomach knot.
Shego sat folded in on herself for more than a minute, and Drakken was about to ask if she was okay when she brought herself up a sitting position. Her eyes were closed and her whole person gave the impression of utter exhaustion.
"I need to talk to you," she finally said, with all of the determination of drunk trying to sound sober. Not wanting to get yelled at again, Drakken waited for her to begin.
"I hate that you have a kid," she admitted, not looking at him. "It's not that don't like Ronan. I do, for the most part. She gives Kimmie a hard time, gotta respect that." Shego paused here before continuing, "I know why you helped Karen. She couldn't help herself. I get that. It's just . . . it made me realize something."
"And that would be?"
"She and Ronan are a package deal. Karen will never not be in your life. I don't share well," Shego muttered, finally looking up at Drakken.
Ever since the moment Drakken had swept Karen away Cutting, all Shego heard was her Aunt's voice: You're very possessive, Saoirse . . . you're jealous that Karen knows Drakken in a way you never have, and that she is forever joined to him through Ronan.
"You're not sharing me," Drakken assured, squatting down to look at her.
An expression that was a mix of a smirk and a grimace clawed at Shego's face. "Why did you never tell me about her? You made me listen to all your whiney tales about being a geek growing up, about getting your ass handed to you by bullies, about not being able to get a date in college, why didn't you mention her?"
"I never thought it bore bringing up."
"Do-Did you love her?"
"No," he answered. He didn't have to think about it. During their brief relationship, he had cared for Karen, had been infatuated with her. But he knew what he felt for the woman in front of him infinitely more profound than anything he had shared with the mother of his child. Being careful not to press any of her bruises, Drakken delicately grabbed Shego's face and kissed her. "I love you."
"I can't keep you from seeing Ronan when this is all over," Shego said. "But I don't want you to see Karen."
Drakken never thought he'd be in a position where he would be forbidden to see or be in contact with someone. No, he didn't love Karen. Yes, to some extent he was still upset with her. But she had molded his life in a way that was so unexpected and so permanent that her purposeful absence made him uncomfortable. She was Ronan's mother, his one and only other girlfriend before Shego . . .
"Ronan's an adult. Custody isn't an issue. There's no reason for either of us ever to see her again when we're done with this shit," Shego rasped. "If you love me, you'll promise me."
Drakken was silent for a moment as Shego stared intently at him. Finally he said, "Okay. I promise."
A wave of relief washed over Shego, releasing the tense muscles in her face. She fell forward into Drakken's mouth, kissing him slightly off-center and sloppily. He barely had time to return the gesture before he head slid down heavily, coming to rest on his chest. Clearly, whatever she had taken was draining her. Drakken thought about how strange they must've looked at that given moment: him, half dressed and squatting, she, seated, dressed to the nines (save for the bruises and the tear in her dress) and resting her head drunkenly against his frame. Carefully, he propped her back against the chair. Her eyes were closed and mouth agape. He couldn't help but shake his head at the sight. This was the love of his life: drugged up, drool starting to seep out of the corner of her mouth, slouching in her chair.
A knock at the door pulled his attention away from the beautiful sight in front of him. He went over to the door and opened it a crack. It was Margo.
"Is she doing alright?" she asked, peeking over Drakken's shoulder and smirking at the sight of her niece.
"Yeah. She's fine. What did you give her?"
Margo puckered her lips mischievously. "A pain killer that might . . . not be completely legal. How are you? You disappeared after getting aboard."
"I'm fine, thanks. How's Ronan?" Drakken answered.
"She's fine. She can still see out of both eyes."
Drakken let of sigh of relief blow through his nose. He quickly peeked over his shoulder to make sure Shego was still out. He turned back to Margo and asked in a hushed voice: "How's Karen?"
"She's fine as well. Her nose is broken, but its been reset, and she's about as aware as Saoirse is right now," Margo answered. "We'll be coming up to port in about thirty minutes. Thought you should know. I'll be needing my jewelry."
"Uh, yeah. Sure," Drakken muttered. He stepped back to the vanity and placed the heavy necklace back in its velvet box. Back at the door, he handed it over to Margo.
"Thank you," she said, and left.
A/N: Thanks for reading. Please leave a review! It helps keep me motivated! Have a great weekend guys!