CHAPTER 5: NEED
Morning. Finally.
Michael stretched under the covers, his clenched hands connecting solidly with the headboard, and groaned. Well, this sucks. Mornings always sucked, but this one more than most. His stomach felt like - well -
Not to put too fine a point on it, like he'd been on an all-night drinking session and was paying the price for it now. Unfortunately, the unopened bottle of whiskey left by Bester was still on his nightstand. All hail complete confusion.
Okay. Work.
With another painful groan he rolled to a sitting position, blearily pushing the covers away and somehow trying to get his body mobile. He managed to get to his feet and padded barefoot to the bathroom, locking the door.
It's not paranoia when they're really out to get you. He stepped out of his slacks, shivering as the cold air hit his skin and raised goosebumps all over. Strange that he should feel so uncomfortable undressing in his own room. Stranger still that he should lock his bathroom door, as if fearing for his virtue. As if some trace of the psi cop remained on his nightstand, watching him silently through the amber liquid. Hell fire, that's what it is. Hell fire. So sayeth the preacher.
He turned on the shower and sighed as the hot spray hit him, coating him in a liquid blanket of warmth. Steam licked at his still dry arms and pooling water tickled his toes. God. Maybe he should have gone with the cold shower instead....
He closed his eyes and thought of calculus. Nope. Ivanova pissed? Definitely not! Uh...
Blindly reaching for the shower gel, he poured some of the oily mixture into the palm of his right hand and rubbed his hands together, quickly working up a lather he transferred to his torso. Damn Lyta for being off station. I bet she'd know what the hell was up with Bester last night... He rubbed the lather into his forearms, reaching up to massage tired shoulder and neck muscles. Stephen would say I'm too tense. His fingers tapped a tattoo over his collarbone. Stephen'd be right.
Then again, Stephen hadn't had Bester turn up at his quarters last night and bring him alcohol. Stephen hadn't had his worst enemy rub his shoulders or - or - or - well, whatever Bester had done! Damn the psi cop. Always one step ahead. Here, on Earth, on Mars...
That was a bad choice for a thought. Thoughts of Mars always brought thoughts of Lise, and thoughts of Lise always....
His right hand automatically strayed downwards, stroking his hipbone - had he lost weight, recently? Felt like it - and moving on to his thigh. He braced himself against the wall with his left hand, always mindful of the logistics of his position. I thought it was only soldiers who did everything from an attack/defence viewpoint? And what a thing to choreograph!
Fingernails dug into the tense muscles on his inner thigh, scraping gently, slowly stroking upwards. The lather made the contact all that more pleasant, letting him rise to a fullness it normally took him quite a few minutes to reach before. That was the explanation, perhaps, for the twisting in his stomach. It wasn't quite an ache, and not quite a pain of any definable kind. It spiralled outwards, reverberating through him and causing him to shiver. Strange that pain would feel so good.
Strange that it was present at all, though.
Garibaldi's breathing quickened. It didn't feel like anything was wrong with him...
Need need need needneedneedneedneedneed...... His brain chanted, locked in a litany that he couldn't stop. Damnit.
All Bester's fault. Somehow, this entire thing could be blamed on the psi cop, of this he was sure. Blame him for the pain, blame him for the confusion, blame him blame him --
There was something deeply wrong with masturbating to such destructive thoughts, Garibaldi knew, however, at this moment he could have cared less. The hot water pelting him had ceased to exist, shoved far back into the recesses of his mind. The station could have exploded for all Garibaldi cared. The Shadows could have reappeared and danced the polka in a tutu, and he wouldn't have paid the slightest bit of attention. All that existed was himself, his hand, the coldness of the bathroom tiles and the something in his stomach that felt heavy as lead but scalded him whenever he looked too close. Whenever he thought too much on it. Bester's fault. He did this, the sonofabitch wasn't satisfied with before and this time I'm going to kill him, I swear to God --
His grip tightened, the thumb rubbing at the underside ridge, his fingers becoming entangled in coarse curly hair. He's gonna pay for what he did --
Someone was making a soft keening sound, delicate, broken, almost a sigh. Someone, but not him. Kill him - put a PPG blast right between his eyes and cut out his smug little smile-
Nearly there.... Past the pain in his belly, stabbing upwards through his lungs and pressing at his chest, he started to laugh. Deep, rich, throaty, his fingers tightened to the point of pain, ignoring the entire universe, safe in the knowledge that Bester's gonna die, somehow nearly there -
Dead, in the ground, buried --
Almost, almost....
Dead, gone, away from me --
And the world turned upside down.
The next thing Garibaldi knew, he was kneeling on the floor of his shower, retching. His erection was long forgotten in favour of the pain in his belly. Pain?!
Pain was too mild a word. In fact, had he stopped to think on it, Michael wasn't entirely sure that he could have described the feeling that gripped his stomach in a vise and suspended him upside down. Someone was trying to force hot pokers through various crevices in his body, and they weren't being received well.
In fact, it was lucky that Garibaldi had decided to take his shower before he had breakfast. Somehow he didn't think that Captain Lochley would appreciate him throwing up all over her.
Another spasm racked him and he groaned, bracing his elbows on the floor. The world had evidently decided to take up bungie jumping.
End Chapter V