TITLE: Mercury - Chapter 2
AUTHOR: Vicinity
SUMMARY: The idea of redemption leads Yves - and Jimmy - into the heart of something more dangerous than she could have imagined. Formerly titled "The Immortality Solution."
RATING: PG-13
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, not mine.
SPOILERS: Takes place after "Jump the Shark." Makes reference to another one of my stories, "Madrigal."
AUTHOR's NOTES:
*****************************************************************************
She parks the car, knowing that most likely it will not be here when, and if, she returns. He follows her silently up to the ticket counter, not reacting when she books two tickets to Seattle. He only moves when she reaches for her bag to pay, and his well-intentioned gestures are cut short by a sharp glance. He is quiet as they pass through the security screening and she is relieved that the contents of her bag go unnoticed. He does not speak until they are sitting in twin patterned chairs, waiting for the plane to arrive.
"Why are we going to Seattle?" he asks then, sounding nonplussed.
"We are going to Seattle to meet someone," she answers. "A friend of my father's." He looks like he wants to ask something else, but he knows that she does not want to answer. She decides to oblige him, because he will have to know, eventually, and it would be better to tell him now than in the middle of something important, something vital. "A group outside of Seattle is attempting to develop a drug that will allow them to live forever. It is believed that they may be close to a breakthrough."
"They're finding a way to live forever?" he questions excitedly.
"Attempting to find a way, yes. But the breakthrough in question is more closely related to a nanotechnology revolution than an actual immortality . . ." She sees that she has lost him at some point in her response, and she pauses. "What?"
"Nanotechnology," he says, shrugging
"Incredibly tiny structures, machines, if you will," she replies. "One design of which is used for medical purposes."
"Ah," he replies, settling back into his seat. "So we're going to Seattle to look for someone who's building tiny machines so that he can live forever."
"That's about it," she agrees, not wanting to argue semantics. And it is somehow comforting, his innocence, something that she has not really seen for so long. Not since the funeral. Not since both he and his friends - they were hers, too, she reminds herself - paid for her mistakes. He has not laughed near her since the funeral, and she wonders if it is only her or if he hides from everyone else as well. She wonders if he feels guilty for any happiness he would know.
"Cool." His smile fades slightly. "And then you were going to leave?"
She lets out a deep breath. "Jimmy . . . please. Not now." Not ever, she wants to add, but she knows it is something that she cannot avoid forever, simply because he will not forget. It is important to him, and he has shown her so many times that he does not abandon the things he deems worthwhile.
They do not speak again until they are on the plane, crowded aisles darkened with the idea of encouraging sleep. She appreciates the attempt as it means that she will not have to try to hold a safe conversation with him for the next several hours. They have been given a two-seat row near the back, and so he sits near the window while she is next to the aisle. She would have preferred to be separated, for peace of mind, if nothing else, but he refuses to let her out of his sight, though he does not say as much. He seems to think that she will disappear if given the slightest chance, and though it appears so cruel when he implies it, she thinks that on some levels, he is right.
She sits stiffly in her cramped seat, trying to appear unaware of his proximity. She has been avoiding him for this reason, among others, and she thinks that he would cling to her simply because the others are no longer here. But that is not fair to him, in all honesty, because she thinks that she would do the same, and perhaps before he would.
He has told her that their deaths were not her fault. He says this blatantly, and when he does, she wants to describe to him the nuances. She wants to tell him about the variations and degrees of death and of guilt. She wants to watch understanding dawn upon him. She wants him to know how she lives.
But she has said nothing. She would not break him again. He already does not understand that part of her, and she does not want to widen that gap. She does not want to have him look at her and see her as the destroyer of his best friends. She sometimes thinks that this would be better, though, because then perhaps in his revulsion he would leave her alone. She doesn't really believe this, though. She thinks that he would try to love her, try to rehabilitate her, and this would be the undoing of them both.
He shifts next to her, and she glances over at him. He opens his eyes when he feels her gaze upon him. "Aren't you going to sleep, Yves?"
"I can't sleep on planes," she replies, for lack of anything else to say. How can she tell him that she cannot sleep for more than a few hours at a time? She is not sure that she would like to sleep for any longer, though, because her dreams are visions of death and loss and pain. She wonders what he dreams about. Is he able to forget, or is he haunted as she is? He should not be, because while he may remember them, he has not known everything that went before.
"You could try," he suggests, and before she can react, he slides over and reaches around her, moving her slightly towards him. "Lean against me." With his arm guiding her, she does so, and then she can hear the evenness of his breathing, and she knows that he is sleeping. He has not removed his arm, and so she is trapped for fear of awakening him. She wonders why she worries about this, and she decides that she does not want to think about it. Instead, giving in, hoping that this time will be different, she closes her eyes.
Darkness. He sits down beside her on the worn sofa, and she thinks that she should have heard him coming. He is quiet, though, and she thinks that this has intensified since . . . then. "Couldn't sleep, Yves?" he murmurs, and she wonder if it is directed more at her or toward himself.
"And you?" she asks.
"You left," he says simply.
"Go back to bed, Jimmy," she tells him, more harshly than she intends to.
"So you can sit in the dark by yourself and think about little Jimmy sleeping soundly in the next room?" The sarcasm is unexpected and painfully accurate. She does not respond, though, because he is right. A moment later he sighs. "You're not the only one who wonders."
"I should be," she answers softly. "I should be."
"Why? Because I'm too dumb? Too innocent?"
"Because you shouldn't have to." Her whisper is choked and she can almost hear him wince. And then he is gone in a burst of red, the room explodes with smoke and gunfire, and she falls into consciousness, cutting off a scream before it passes through her lips. The plane is still dark, he is sleeping beside her, and they are descending into Seattle.
AUTHOR: Vicinity
SUMMARY: The idea of redemption leads Yves - and Jimmy - into the heart of something more dangerous than she could have imagined. Formerly titled "The Immortality Solution."
RATING: PG-13
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, not mine.
SPOILERS: Takes place after "Jump the Shark." Makes reference to another one of my stories, "Madrigal."
AUTHOR's NOTES:
*****************************************************************************
She parks the car, knowing that most likely it will not be here when, and if, she returns. He follows her silently up to the ticket counter, not reacting when she books two tickets to Seattle. He only moves when she reaches for her bag to pay, and his well-intentioned gestures are cut short by a sharp glance. He is quiet as they pass through the security screening and she is relieved that the contents of her bag go unnoticed. He does not speak until they are sitting in twin patterned chairs, waiting for the plane to arrive.
"Why are we going to Seattle?" he asks then, sounding nonplussed.
"We are going to Seattle to meet someone," she answers. "A friend of my father's." He looks like he wants to ask something else, but he knows that she does not want to answer. She decides to oblige him, because he will have to know, eventually, and it would be better to tell him now than in the middle of something important, something vital. "A group outside of Seattle is attempting to develop a drug that will allow them to live forever. It is believed that they may be close to a breakthrough."
"They're finding a way to live forever?" he questions excitedly.
"Attempting to find a way, yes. But the breakthrough in question is more closely related to a nanotechnology revolution than an actual immortality . . ." She sees that she has lost him at some point in her response, and she pauses. "What?"
"Nanotechnology," he says, shrugging
"Incredibly tiny structures, machines, if you will," she replies. "One design of which is used for medical purposes."
"Ah," he replies, settling back into his seat. "So we're going to Seattle to look for someone who's building tiny machines so that he can live forever."
"That's about it," she agrees, not wanting to argue semantics. And it is somehow comforting, his innocence, something that she has not really seen for so long. Not since the funeral. Not since both he and his friends - they were hers, too, she reminds herself - paid for her mistakes. He has not laughed near her since the funeral, and she wonders if it is only her or if he hides from everyone else as well. She wonders if he feels guilty for any happiness he would know.
"Cool." His smile fades slightly. "And then you were going to leave?"
She lets out a deep breath. "Jimmy . . . please. Not now." Not ever, she wants to add, but she knows it is something that she cannot avoid forever, simply because he will not forget. It is important to him, and he has shown her so many times that he does not abandon the things he deems worthwhile.
They do not speak again until they are on the plane, crowded aisles darkened with the idea of encouraging sleep. She appreciates the attempt as it means that she will not have to try to hold a safe conversation with him for the next several hours. They have been given a two-seat row near the back, and so he sits near the window while she is next to the aisle. She would have preferred to be separated, for peace of mind, if nothing else, but he refuses to let her out of his sight, though he does not say as much. He seems to think that she will disappear if given the slightest chance, and though it appears so cruel when he implies it, she thinks that on some levels, he is right.
She sits stiffly in her cramped seat, trying to appear unaware of his proximity. She has been avoiding him for this reason, among others, and she thinks that he would cling to her simply because the others are no longer here. But that is not fair to him, in all honesty, because she thinks that she would do the same, and perhaps before he would.
He has told her that their deaths were not her fault. He says this blatantly, and when he does, she wants to describe to him the nuances. She wants to tell him about the variations and degrees of death and of guilt. She wants to watch understanding dawn upon him. She wants him to know how she lives.
But she has said nothing. She would not break him again. He already does not understand that part of her, and she does not want to widen that gap. She does not want to have him look at her and see her as the destroyer of his best friends. She sometimes thinks that this would be better, though, because then perhaps in his revulsion he would leave her alone. She doesn't really believe this, though. She thinks that he would try to love her, try to rehabilitate her, and this would be the undoing of them both.
He shifts next to her, and she glances over at him. He opens his eyes when he feels her gaze upon him. "Aren't you going to sleep, Yves?"
"I can't sleep on planes," she replies, for lack of anything else to say. How can she tell him that she cannot sleep for more than a few hours at a time? She is not sure that she would like to sleep for any longer, though, because her dreams are visions of death and loss and pain. She wonders what he dreams about. Is he able to forget, or is he haunted as she is? He should not be, because while he may remember them, he has not known everything that went before.
"You could try," he suggests, and before she can react, he slides over and reaches around her, moving her slightly towards him. "Lean against me." With his arm guiding her, she does so, and then she can hear the evenness of his breathing, and she knows that he is sleeping. He has not removed his arm, and so she is trapped for fear of awakening him. She wonders why she worries about this, and she decides that she does not want to think about it. Instead, giving in, hoping that this time will be different, she closes her eyes.
Darkness. He sits down beside her on the worn sofa, and she thinks that she should have heard him coming. He is quiet, though, and she thinks that this has intensified since . . . then. "Couldn't sleep, Yves?" he murmurs, and she wonder if it is directed more at her or toward himself.
"And you?" she asks.
"You left," he says simply.
"Go back to bed, Jimmy," she tells him, more harshly than she intends to.
"So you can sit in the dark by yourself and think about little Jimmy sleeping soundly in the next room?" The sarcasm is unexpected and painfully accurate. She does not respond, though, because he is right. A moment later he sighs. "You're not the only one who wonders."
"I should be," she answers softly. "I should be."
"Why? Because I'm too dumb? Too innocent?"
"Because you shouldn't have to." Her whisper is choked and she can almost hear him wince. And then he is gone in a burst of red, the room explodes with smoke and gunfire, and she falls into consciousness, cutting off a scream before it passes through her lips. The plane is still dark, he is sleeping beside her, and they are descending into Seattle.