A/N: Ah, well, thought I'd finish this one off. About the caffeine, I
figure that if medical science in the PB verse can give people 'shined'
eyes, then caffeine can get you high. Because...why not? Also, I'm completely
screwing with medical technology in this chapter. Watch as I make stuff up!
Anyway... Review? Pleeeeeease?!? I love ya'll! Riddick P.O.V. this time.
R/J.
Summary: Rule number one: Self-preservation above everything else. At least, that's what he'd always believed.
Warnings: Language, Riddick thinking inappropriate things about Jack. Yes, she's only (almost) seventeen, but do you really think Riddick is one to care too much about age? S'what I thought.
Part Two: A Critical Part of Me
So small.
When he'd first met her, his upper arm had been bigger than her waist. She'd had the lithe half-starved look of someone who didn't know where his or her next meal was coming from. She had been thirteen, and there'd not been a trace of body fat on her entire body. A steady supply of food over the past three years had taken away the protruding ribs, but she had retained her long, thin form.
He didn't understand how something so small could be so powerful. But somehow she'd managed to meld herself into his life, till it was like she'd always been there, till he couldn't imagine not having her there anymore. So small, and yet within the first four weeks she'd known him she'd become a part of him to the degree that when Iman had asked him to leave Jack on New Mecca he'd almost killed the man.
Why? It was something he'd thought about for the last three years. Why pin the holy man against the wall, knife almost slicing skin before the human side of his brain even realized what was happening? And it had all boiled down to the skinny little girl with the big green eyes and the long thin hands that he could smell blood all over.
So small.
And yet how many times in the last year had he found himself standing beside her bed while she slept, watching her when she whimpered and twisted up into a ball and wanted to hold her, soothe her, comfort her? And how the hell had some skinny kid managed to get under his skin and in his veins to the point that he didn't want other women? He couldn't pinpoint when he had started comparing all other women to Jack, anymore than he could pinpoint when all those women in their short, tight clothes had started coming up wanting.
But they had, and he came back frustrated, to stare down at Jack and tell himself that tomorrow he'd be in that bed with her. Every day for a year, he'd be telling himself tomorrow, and everyday for a year tomorrow had not come. And he looked down at her small body and wondered what the hell was wrong with him.
The merc today changed everything, because though there had been mercs before none of them had ever dared get that close before. And he had finally, finally, touched those lips, and felt her small body pressed against his, and felt whole for the first time in his goddamn life. And it had almost been the tomorrow that he'd been waiting for.
So small.
The doctors were all around her, white coats that gleamed bright, wet crimson where her blood splattered on them. He'd watched enough things die to know that she was losing way too much damn blood, that her heart was pumping her dry. He wished he hadn't given the merc a quick death, wished he could go back and make the man suffer.
For a moment, he wondered what he would do if she died, in there on the table with the doctors darting around her with distress written all over their faces. Someone was telling him to "please sir, go sit in the waiting room", but he ignored them and after a moment they left. And Jack's blood fell in bright droplets to land on the white floor and his hand clenched the back of a nearby chair and he felt it bend.
Ten minutes ago he had been kissing her, pleased to note that her body felt like heaven pressed against his, even if she was tall and skinny. Ten minutes ago the animal in his head had been making pleased rumbling noises, and he had been thinking that tomorrow had been well worth waiting for. Ten minutes ago he had been whole and he had understood why he had almost killed Iman, and why other women were nothing, and why he hadn't left Jack.
So small.
And yet she was a part of him, and he'd known that on an unconscious level for years. She was a piece of him, the last piece of him, the one that made him whole, complete, finished. She was a part of him and so she couldn't be allowed to die because Rule Number One was Self Preservation Above All Else, and Rule Number One must never be broken.
One of the doctors was bitching that they were wasting to much of their precious blood supplies on a skinny little thing that was as good as dead anyway. The others were agreeing and he could smell the defeat all over them, threw their white gowns and their bright eyes. And so he was pushing his way threw the doors while some poor nurse screamed at him that "Sir, you cannot go in there! Sir!"
After a moment one of the doctors looked up and saw him, and the man's eyes almost doubled in size, his sentence, something about running out of blood, trailed off, unfinished. Riddick extended his arm, palm up, and shrugged. "Use mine," He didn't know exactly how his blood might react in Jack's body. There'd been things done to him that had assured him that he wasn't strictly human, but something inside his head kept telling him that she was a part of him and so of course everything would be fine.
So small.
And he wasn't going to let her die. The doctor gapped at him, before he set his face full of righteous indignation and snoted something about that being "against every medical guideline in the book". Riddick had discovered that most people didn't give a shit what 'the book' said when faced with someone twice their size who really wanted something.
So he shrugged, and decided to reason with the man. "She lives, or you die," he left it at that and after a moment the doctor swallowed and barked out an order for some piece of equipment that Riddick had never heard of. It turned out to be two needles, a tube, and a few mechanical devices that looked liked they'd been thrown in as an afterthought.
They stationed Riddick beside her left shoulder, and he tried not to take up very much room as they hurried around him, all of them covered with blood to their elbows. Time passed though he could not track it, till he began to feel lightheaded, and had to rest his weight on the edge of her gurney so that he didn't sway.
So small.
The big white bandage they had over her neck looked foreign, but at least the bleeding had stopped and the doctors looked relaxed for the first time since he'd burst into the hospital, with her limp and barely breathing in his arms. They were pulling the needle out of his arm, but the spots in the corners of his eyes remained.
He waited till they had removed their tubes and wires from her before scooping her up to the sound of their protests. She was light in his arms, and for an insane second that made him realize that maybe his blood loss was more serious than he'd been assuming, he thought that she was hollow. But then she made a rumbling noise in the back of her throat, and it grounded him, and he turned to leave.
There was a doctor blocking the door, whimpering something about, "you can't just carry her out of here!" And he cocked his head and felt a smile hitching up the corners of his mouth. Sometimes he wondered if people were ever going to realize that there was very little he couldn't do. Somehow he doubted it.
So small.
"You gonna stop me?" For a moment the doctor stood gaping at him, and then slowly stepped out of the way. And so he carried his Jack out of the hospital, and was pleased to note that he wasn't swaying to bad. Some part of his blood-loss deluded mind wanted to know why sharing blood with Jack had made him dizzy. Weren't they the same person?
He shook his head, making his way back to their ship, wanting only to fall into bed and curl around Jack, and sleep with her long thin body pressed against his. And when she woke up...well, it was about damn time that tomorrow got here.
Summary: Rule number one: Self-preservation above everything else. At least, that's what he'd always believed.
Warnings: Language, Riddick thinking inappropriate things about Jack. Yes, she's only (almost) seventeen, but do you really think Riddick is one to care too much about age? S'what I thought.
Part Two: A Critical Part of Me
So small.
When he'd first met her, his upper arm had been bigger than her waist. She'd had the lithe half-starved look of someone who didn't know where his or her next meal was coming from. She had been thirteen, and there'd not been a trace of body fat on her entire body. A steady supply of food over the past three years had taken away the protruding ribs, but she had retained her long, thin form.
He didn't understand how something so small could be so powerful. But somehow she'd managed to meld herself into his life, till it was like she'd always been there, till he couldn't imagine not having her there anymore. So small, and yet within the first four weeks she'd known him she'd become a part of him to the degree that when Iman had asked him to leave Jack on New Mecca he'd almost killed the man.
Why? It was something he'd thought about for the last three years. Why pin the holy man against the wall, knife almost slicing skin before the human side of his brain even realized what was happening? And it had all boiled down to the skinny little girl with the big green eyes and the long thin hands that he could smell blood all over.
So small.
And yet how many times in the last year had he found himself standing beside her bed while she slept, watching her when she whimpered and twisted up into a ball and wanted to hold her, soothe her, comfort her? And how the hell had some skinny kid managed to get under his skin and in his veins to the point that he didn't want other women? He couldn't pinpoint when he had started comparing all other women to Jack, anymore than he could pinpoint when all those women in their short, tight clothes had started coming up wanting.
But they had, and he came back frustrated, to stare down at Jack and tell himself that tomorrow he'd be in that bed with her. Every day for a year, he'd be telling himself tomorrow, and everyday for a year tomorrow had not come. And he looked down at her small body and wondered what the hell was wrong with him.
The merc today changed everything, because though there had been mercs before none of them had ever dared get that close before. And he had finally, finally, touched those lips, and felt her small body pressed against his, and felt whole for the first time in his goddamn life. And it had almost been the tomorrow that he'd been waiting for.
So small.
The doctors were all around her, white coats that gleamed bright, wet crimson where her blood splattered on them. He'd watched enough things die to know that she was losing way too much damn blood, that her heart was pumping her dry. He wished he hadn't given the merc a quick death, wished he could go back and make the man suffer.
For a moment, he wondered what he would do if she died, in there on the table with the doctors darting around her with distress written all over their faces. Someone was telling him to "please sir, go sit in the waiting room", but he ignored them and after a moment they left. And Jack's blood fell in bright droplets to land on the white floor and his hand clenched the back of a nearby chair and he felt it bend.
Ten minutes ago he had been kissing her, pleased to note that her body felt like heaven pressed against his, even if she was tall and skinny. Ten minutes ago the animal in his head had been making pleased rumbling noises, and he had been thinking that tomorrow had been well worth waiting for. Ten minutes ago he had been whole and he had understood why he had almost killed Iman, and why other women were nothing, and why he hadn't left Jack.
So small.
And yet she was a part of him, and he'd known that on an unconscious level for years. She was a piece of him, the last piece of him, the one that made him whole, complete, finished. She was a part of him and so she couldn't be allowed to die because Rule Number One was Self Preservation Above All Else, and Rule Number One must never be broken.
One of the doctors was bitching that they were wasting to much of their precious blood supplies on a skinny little thing that was as good as dead anyway. The others were agreeing and he could smell the defeat all over them, threw their white gowns and their bright eyes. And so he was pushing his way threw the doors while some poor nurse screamed at him that "Sir, you cannot go in there! Sir!"
After a moment one of the doctors looked up and saw him, and the man's eyes almost doubled in size, his sentence, something about running out of blood, trailed off, unfinished. Riddick extended his arm, palm up, and shrugged. "Use mine," He didn't know exactly how his blood might react in Jack's body. There'd been things done to him that had assured him that he wasn't strictly human, but something inside his head kept telling him that she was a part of him and so of course everything would be fine.
So small.
And he wasn't going to let her die. The doctor gapped at him, before he set his face full of righteous indignation and snoted something about that being "against every medical guideline in the book". Riddick had discovered that most people didn't give a shit what 'the book' said when faced with someone twice their size who really wanted something.
So he shrugged, and decided to reason with the man. "She lives, or you die," he left it at that and after a moment the doctor swallowed and barked out an order for some piece of equipment that Riddick had never heard of. It turned out to be two needles, a tube, and a few mechanical devices that looked liked they'd been thrown in as an afterthought.
They stationed Riddick beside her left shoulder, and he tried not to take up very much room as they hurried around him, all of them covered with blood to their elbows. Time passed though he could not track it, till he began to feel lightheaded, and had to rest his weight on the edge of her gurney so that he didn't sway.
So small.
The big white bandage they had over her neck looked foreign, but at least the bleeding had stopped and the doctors looked relaxed for the first time since he'd burst into the hospital, with her limp and barely breathing in his arms. They were pulling the needle out of his arm, but the spots in the corners of his eyes remained.
He waited till they had removed their tubes and wires from her before scooping her up to the sound of their protests. She was light in his arms, and for an insane second that made him realize that maybe his blood loss was more serious than he'd been assuming, he thought that she was hollow. But then she made a rumbling noise in the back of her throat, and it grounded him, and he turned to leave.
There was a doctor blocking the door, whimpering something about, "you can't just carry her out of here!" And he cocked his head and felt a smile hitching up the corners of his mouth. Sometimes he wondered if people were ever going to realize that there was very little he couldn't do. Somehow he doubted it.
So small.
"You gonna stop me?" For a moment the doctor stood gaping at him, and then slowly stepped out of the way. And so he carried his Jack out of the hospital, and was pleased to note that he wasn't swaying to bad. Some part of his blood-loss deluded mind wanted to know why sharing blood with Jack had made him dizzy. Weren't they the same person?
He shook his head, making his way back to their ship, wanting only to fall into bed and curl around Jack, and sleep with her long thin body pressed against his. And when she woke up...well, it was about damn time that tomorrow got here.