Between Hell and Oblivion

AN: Alright. I caved. You guys won. And Rhade started talking to me. Again. I really have to see a pyschologist about that... Anyway, this story is going to take the form of a series of vignettes about Rhade and Beka throughout season five, as Beka attempts to force Rhade back into shape. I should also warn you that udates are likely to b irratic. I'm working on a major, major epic called 'String and Chewing Gum' about the crew's future kids coming back to try to save their parents from some unknown fate (you wanna meat Beka and Rhade's future daughter? And Rhade's future son? Go see! Seriousely. Hannah is... out there.) and I also have a lot of exams in the next six months, so the amoutn of time I can spend doing this sort of thing is limmited.

Thank you so much to B.L.A. the Mouse, Iara, Snupi3, Harper's Doll, Vee017, Heather, Jade Rebel, Jamieson Z, vampiregirl081, Jenn11, eris, Elanna, shastalily, ANS4Christ, Donna Lynn, ChelleyBean, prin69 and Irishclover. You all reviewed! That is the most reviews I've ever had for the first chapter of any story in one sitting! I'd normally reply to everyone, but it's currently quarter to midnight where I am and I have to be up early tomorrow, so I'll do it next chapter, I promise. I need you all to keep reviewing! I need your feedback! Tell me what you want to see happen! Situations, conversations, etc, etc.

Anyway, I'm going to bed, so enjoy!

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Maybe redemption has stories to tell,
Maybe forgiveness is right where you fell,
Where can you run to escape from yourself?
Where you gonna go?
Where you gonna go?
Salvation is here.

I dare you to move,
I dare you to move,
I dare you to lift yourself up off the floor,
I dare you to move,
I dare you to move,
Like today never happened,
Today never happened before.

-Switchfoot 'I dare you to move'

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Sometimes, when I'm about halfway between reality and oblivion, things get hyper-real. Over real. I can feel everything, sense everything, see, hear, taste, touch, everything elevated in lurid colours that make me want to shut my eyes and never open them, lock myself away somewhere dark.

That's when I hear the voices, the whispers, caught somewhere in my head. Like yesterday, or two months ago, or last year; all stuck there, regurgitated for my own personal torture, when I'm halfway between here and oblivion. Usually they come with some kind of tune. Vivaldi's sonata in C minor, or Beethoven's ninth, or…

My mind is beyond messed up.

Beka says it's hardly any wonder, considering the amount of alcohol I consume everyday. And she's probably right. I might be able to think a little straighter without all the crap currently in my system. I might be able to see a little clearer, feel a little faster, talk a little slicker.

But I'd never hit oblivion again, and I can't live without the blackness. I can't live with this constant awareness. This guilt, this loss, all caught and tangled until I want to tear it out of my gut and beg please, please let me be.

The shaking starts not long after that. I can't lift things, touch them, without my hands trembling to the point where anything I pick up gets dropped. But I don't mind the shaking, the way my breath catches and skids, juddering out of my lungs in uneven rasps, the way everything goes blurry if I stare too long. I'm closer to the blackness, closer to oblivion, to that easy drifting where the feelings aren't there anymore.

On the Maru now, and the shaking starts. Odd. It always starts quicker with Beka around. She reminds me too much of Louisa, I think, makes me want to get to oblivion quicker. But everything connected to the past reminds me of Louisa.

Normally it's an easy progression through the day. In the morning, my mind and head ache until I can't tell which hurts more, so I take a drink, and let the pain subside. By midmorning to afternoon, things are getting hyper-real, lurid, exciting, intense. By early evening, things are a little fuzzy, warm, suspended, like time has stopped. By dark, the shakes set in, and by midnight, I get to Oblivion, and know nothing until I wake up on the floor of the bar the next morning, and the whole thing starts again.

But the shakes are here early today. Beka's fault, really, for reminding me so much. Every time I come near her it's like seeing the past step out of a darkened doorway in my mind and yell at me pay attention. She hasn't changed that much, really. Any loyalty she once felt for Dylan is gone, certainly, or buried in a place so deep she is unlikely to ever fully recover it. But when we're on our own together… drinking ourselves under the table in the bar (she's lost her problem with taking stuff to get away from reality, that's different too), or waiting for Dylan on the Maru, or meeting on the Andromeda… she seems so much like the Beka I knew so long ago. Full of insults and smart remarks and sarcasm and a vaguely psychotically depressing charm.

What's changed, I suppose, is the my attitude, rather than hers. I would never have guessed how much like her I am, once you strip away everything, and leave me with the bare bones of what makes me. Just a survivor, after all. Not very different from Beka. I don't find her insults off putting anymore, or her authority intimidating, or her sarcasm irritating.

She's like me. Just dealing with the crap the universe has hurled at us.

And if my way of dealing with it is to drink myself into oblivion everyday, I guess that's just how it's going to be.

We're waiting for Harper and Doyle to get back with some spare parts. I'm sitting on a bunk in the Maru. Beka's clanking around somewhere. Dylan is snoring in a seat in the tiny living area behind the cockpit.

And my hands are shaking something chronic.

Damn it, the world hasn't even gotten fuzzy yet! Hyper-real and shaking is not a pleasant combination. I want to be sick.

"Hey, slugger," Beka's voice, clear as crystal and far too loud for my hyper-sensitive mind, from just off to my left.

I don't bother to look at her. The shakes will get worse.

Her footsteps, then she sits down next to me, and offers me a mug, "you have to drink something other than moonshine, y'know."

I can smell it from here. Water, she's offering me. Just water. Water she's probably had to steal. Water I'm not interested in. I shake my head. There is no point in me taking that mug. I'll drop it. My hands wont stop shaking, my mind wont stop vibrating. I want to be sick. I'll only drop the mug.

"You drink it," I tell her. It's wasted on me, anyway.

She raises an eyebrow, "generosity from a Nietzschean?"
I shrug, "I'll only drop it."

She looks at my hands, still shaking in my lap. Shivering. I can't hold still. The world is buzzing round my head. If the voices start now I might just go insane.

Then Beka does something totally unexpected.

She reaches forward, and presses the metal cup between in hands, then wraps her hands around mine. The shaking stops. "You have to drink, big guy. Fluids, liquid that wont destroy your liver. Have you any idea how dehydrated you are right now?"

"You care?"

"If you die, who's going to hang around looking jaded and sulky?" Her voice is overly careless. She does care. Perhaps I'm just that little piece of her past she thinks is worth clinging to. Harper, as well. Even Trance. She's spent a lot of time sitting with her in hydroponics, just talking to her, trying to get her to remember. Beka cares, about all of us, I think, except maybe Dylan. She was always the mother.

I can't lift my arms without them beginning to shake too, so she does it for me, keeping her hands firmly over mine to keep them steady, lifting them up, then ordering me to drink.

You don't disagree with Beka when she uses that kind of tone.

In the end, I downed half of the water, as she held the mug gently up to my mouth, then told her to have the other half or let it go to waste. She didn't argue. Water is hard to come by, these days, and I think she was thirsty. The mug lay discarded on the floor when all the water was gone, and only the sound of my shaky breathing and Dylan's quiet snores could be heard.

My hands started shaking the minute Beka let go of them. Strange how she can cause them, then make them leave, then let them come back, probably without even realising.

"You have to do something about the shakes," she tells me, "it isn't good for your aim."

"You care?"

"We've been over this."

"I can't stop them," my voice is cold. I can't seem to make any expression come through it any more.

She tips her head to one side, "I can."

She grabs my hand, and holds onto it, wraps her fingers tight about it like nothing matters anymore. She pulls my hand against her, runs her other hand down my arm, grips my wrist, then wrests her chin on my knuckles, watching me calmly all the time, raising an eyebrow.

The shaking stops again.

The alcohol has it's uses, otherwise I would never normally use my other hand to touch her shoulder, just gently brushing the skin of her arm, wanting the contact. It's easy to forget how much human contact a person needs to keep them sane, until they go without it for nine months, then suddenly find someone willing to hold your hand.

It's all we need, for now. Two points of contact. A little feeling. All we need. For a second, I feel on the brink of oblivion, without the blackness, because the pain has subsided. Not gone. But easier to bare.

I pull her closer, and for a second she hesitates, then puts her free hand around my neck, and I let myself except the embrace. She smells much cleaner than I do, and I can feel her breathing is as shaky as mine, now she's pressed against me. I wonder if she's on the verge of crying, or is just tired. It's… comforting. The pain is vague, now. This is what comfort means. You don't have to say anything, or cry. All it takes is a hug, and I feel better. I know I'll go straight back to feeling how I normally do, the minute she lets go.

It suddenly occurs to me that the last person I held like this was Louisa.

I let go abruptly, and push Beka away, as gently as I can manage.

The shaking has stopped, but the world really is buzzing, and I can hear those voices, lurking somewhere under my subconscious.

Beka doesn't look hurt. In fact, I think she understands. She does understand, I can see it. But I don't know what to say. I want to curl up, and lock myself away somewhere dark where I'll never be found.

Then Harper's voice, mercy of mercies, echoing through the Maru. He's back, and can we please get the hell out of this creepy place.

Beka jumps up, perhaps as relieved as I am, and goes to help him with whatever he's carrying.

I wrest my elbows on my knees, and let my head hang down, knitting my fingers behind my neck. Louisa, Louisa, Louisa…

The shaking has stopped. But the demons wont be going away any time soon.