Author: Savage Midnight
Email:
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Any characters/concepts familiar to the Pitch Black universe belong to David Twohy and USA Films.
Summary: When Jack falls sick, Riddick is rendered helpless.
Authors notes: Firstly, thanks to everyone who has reviewed/read this fic (I was surprised by the sheer amount of people who did) and thanks for being patient. It's been months since I've updated this fic due to college work and exams, but I've finally managed to squeeze this chapter out.
Secondly, a huge thanks to Artemis Aristoboule for the medical beta. She's helped me immensely with this fic and without her it wouldn't have made the slightest bit of sense. Gracias to you, babe.
On one last note, I must warn you all that the events depicted in this fic are in no way related to The Chronicles of Riddick or Kyra. When this was first written, the sequel had yet to be released, and thus it will continue to play out in the Pitch Black universe. Thank you. Now on with the next part.
---
Part Two
"--we've run several tests and they've all come up inconclusive. The scans show nothing abnormal; her reproductive system is functioning normally and there are no signs of abdominal damage. All I can suggest is a course of antibiotics. I'll prescribe you some painkillers for the pain, but apart from that there's not a lot we can do."
Blinking rapidly, Jack tried to clear the waving blackness from her vision. She shrugged off the last vestiges of sleep just in time to see the dark look that graced Riddick's stony face.
"The kid's passin' out and puking her guts up all over the place and there's nothing you can do?" he growled fiercely, "How about you do your fuckin' job and find out what's wrong with her."
"Mr. Riddick," the Doctor added hastily, "we've done everything we c--"
"Like fuck you have. You call yourself a doctor, you incompetent prick. Any fuckin' moron could see there's somethin' wrong."
Jack watched the flustered Doctor as he adjusted his glasses on his nose and nervously looked up at Riddick. "Ah, it's--it's not uncommon for a girl Jack's age to experience increasingly painful periods. There have been occasions where girls have been bed-ridden for several days at a time. I assure you, Mr. Riddick, Jack will be fine in a couple of days. The painkillers should help to ease the cramps--"
"--cramps don't knock a girl unconscious, Doc," Riddick countered tightly. "And if you won't help her then I'll find someone that will."
He strode over to her bed and noticing that she was awake, he attempted to smile at he reassuringly. Jack didn't buy it but she didn't argue when Riddick suddenly scooped her up in his arms despite the protests of the Doctor standing nearby, and carried her out into the white, pristine corridors of the hospital.
"Where we going, Riddick? she questioned groggily, resting her spinning head against his shoulder.
"Home," he replied gruffly and Jack smiled in gratitude.
Maybe bad things are happening, she thought before she allowed herself to succumb to sleep. But at least Riddick's here to take care of me.
---
Riddick, of course, remained true to his words. Four days later, after getting in touch with every contact he knew, one Doctor Emma Roberts arrived at their door.
She was a beautiful woman, dressed in an un-Doctor like red suit, her long, black hair pulled back into a soft bun. She had a beautiful face - almost handsome - and perfect, white teeth. When the Doctor settled herself down on Jack's bed, the teenager briefly wondered if this was one of Riddick's infamous lovers.
She restrained the need to ask, though, and instead shot a wary look towards Riddick, who was stood in the centre of her room, arms folded over his chest and a reassuring smile curving his lips.
Swallowing heavily, Jack re-directed her gaze towards the woman on her bed.
"What's going on?" she asked groggily, her voice thick and hoarse from too much pain and not enough sleep. She moved a hand to wipe away the sweat beading on her forehead, but Riddick was there first, washcloth cradled in his hand. He settled it against her forehead and she sighed, eyes sliding closed at the cooling sensation.
"My name's Doctor Roberts," the beautiful woman informed her, smiling at her softly. "I'm here to help you, Jack."
Again Jack turned to Riddick for confirmation. He simply nodded, arms folded over his chest again. Licking her dry lips, Jack said, "You know what's wrong with me?"
Doctor Roberts shook her head. "Not yet, but I have a good idea. Riddick filled me in on your symptoms, but I still need to know a few things from you. Then we can start the tests."
"Tests?" Jack echoed nervously, eyes widening slightly at the Doctor's words. She didn't like the thought of tests. Tests meant bad things were happening. Her father had had tests and he'd died, as had Imam.
Oh God, Imam, where are you? she begged silently, childishly hoping he could hear her. But some part of Jack knew that he couldn't and the thought made her nausea, because she missed him so very, very much.
The Doctor smiled again and moved forward to place the back of her hand against Jack's cheek. Jack found the gesture strangely comforting, but it didn't help to quell the panic welling in her chest.
"Yes, but don't worry, Jack, they're painless. Just a few blood tests, some X-Rays and an MRI scan. If my theory is right, it shouldn't take long and this whole thing will be over in a few days."
"Riddick--" she addressed him nervously, panicked eyes darting to his own cool ones.
He didn't move, simply said, in a low, gruff voice, "It's okay, kid. Let her help."
She studied him for a long moment, fought the terror sliding through her bones because this was Riddick and she trusted him. He always looked out for her, always made sure she was okay and if he trusted the doctor, then so did Jack.
She turned her face back to the doctor and nodded. "Okay," she croaked, and moved a hand to wipe at her tired eyes. "But the tests, they--they're not painful, right? And everything's gonna be fine?"
Doctor Roberts face split into a gentle, reassuring smile. "No, Jack," she answered, shaking her head. "They won't hurt. I've dealt with cases much like yours a hundred times over, and nine times out of ten, it turns out to be nothing. Sometimes it's what we call Dysmenorrhea, which occurs a lot in young women. They suffer from severe period pains that can progress into a full-scale ovary infection. It's easily cured, though, so there's nothing to worry about. Or it could be another illness known as Gartner's cyst, which is somewhat similar but often goes unnoticed. Most tests don't pick up on it, and if you're not looking for it specifically, it's likely that it won't be identified. But that's why I'm here and hopefully these tests will prove my suspicions and we'll be able to get this thing sorted."
Jack swallowed, ignoring her parched throat for the time being. "O-okay," she agreed, pushing aside her nervous apprehension. If this doctor knew what was wrong with her, if she knew how to help, than Jack was definitely willing to give her a chance. She was tired of being holed up in her bed, tired of feeling weak and weary all the time. She wondered if maybe Riddick was growing tired of her current predicament, too. It wasn't in his nature to care for people (though he'd done a good job with her up to now) and playing nurse had never really been his strong suit. That irrational part of her brain started to flare up again and she found herself constantly wondering if, after this was all over, Riddick would finally realise that she was nothing but a burden, one he could not afford. Would he leave her? Trust her to the care of somebody else while he disappeared off to explore the planets?
Would he finally realise that choosing to look after a sixteen-year-old orphan had been the biggest mistake of his life?
God, she hoped not. She hoped that when this was all over, when she was back to her old self again, Riddick would not think any differently of her, would not think her weak, and would forgive her for this recent lapse.
The thought never occurred to Jack, as she was transported to Doctor Roberts' private surgery, that there might be a chance things could go wrong. It never occurred to her that something bad might really happen and there would be no reverting back to her old self. Jack never considered that thought as they ran the test after test after test.
But secretly, Riddick did.
---
They had to wait twenty-four hours for the test results to come through. Jack had been forced back to her room, where a stoic, silent Riddick demanded that she stay in bed and rest.
Jack was tired of resting. She felt drowsy and achy; her muscles were heavy with fatigue and her head throbbed from lack of sleep. It wasn't that she didn't want to sleep, it was that she couldn't. Though the cramps were not constant now, they still flared regularly, awaking her from her slumber whenever she managed to salvage a few moments of peace.
It was now that the lack of sleep was really getting to her. She felt overly-emotional, like she would burst out crying at any moment, and the lack of control over her body was grating on her. She felt helpless and weak, and the familiar feeling of powerlessness brought with it aching memories from a past she wanted to forget.
Jack could feel the faint whisper of bruises long since faded on her flesh. Her arms felt heavy and sore (from years of fending off her mother's fists), her stomach muscles burned with agony (from years of baring the brunt of her mother's kicks) and her temples throbbed intensely (from years of suffering blows to her head). Her body screamed with old memories that were just too much.
Despite her heated flesh, the tears welling in her eyes scorched her cheeks as they spilled over. She didn't brush them away this time, but left them to trail down her face as a reminder of how weak she truly was.
She'd failed Riddick. She'd not only put herself in danger, but him, too. He'd spent years teaching her how to guard herself, how to side-step her weaknesses by fine-tuning her strengths. He'd taught her how to use her body so it wouldn't fail her, because if you're body failed you, he'd said, you had nothing. In a physical confrontation, if you gave in to your weaknesses, your enemy would take full advantage of the fact. You'd be dead within a second, because a second was all it took.
Riddick had driven those lessons and those skills into her, and even Jack, at such a young age, had known it was only because he cared. Maybe he wasn't an affectionate companion or an idealistic father-figure, but he loved her in his own way.
But now his lessons had failed her, or rather, she'd failed him. She knew that on occasion their home was prone to attacks, sometimes from stray mercenaries who had been lucky enough to stumble upon Richard B. Riddick, sometimes from bounty hunters that worked alone or were hired specifically. It wasn't often, and Riddick usually dealt with them easily, but he'd taught her lessons on weakness and strength for the sole purpose of protecting herself against these attackers, should Riddick find himself unable to.
They'll use you to get to me, Jack. And I won't give 'em the chance. Neither will you.
What would have happened if they had attacked yesterday? Or the day before? Or heaven forbid, what if they attacked today? She couldn't fend for herself. She didn't even have the energy to crawl out of bed and hide. Anyone could walk in her right now and kill her or abduct her if the opportunity presented itself, and then she truly would be a liability to Riddick. Jack knew he would go to hell and high waters to protect her, even at the cost of his own life, and she couldn't let that happen. She wouldn't.
Riddick's sudden presence in her room reinforced her fierce testament and as he set a glass of orange juice and two sleeping tablets on her bedside table, she wiped the drying tears from her face.
The sight of the orange juice brought fresh waves of tears to her eyes, though. It was her favourite drink, but fruit, especially oranges, were rare around these parts. Most of the orchards had been ruined by decades of chemical pollution from the local factories, and because of that only certain kinds of fruit were grown out here. Citrus fruits, such as oranges, lemons and melons, had to be imported, and only those who lived on a comfortable income could afford such luxuries.
Riddick and Jack lived quite comfortably, thanks to both Riddick, who, before he was sent to Slam, had invested the healthy income he'd gleaned from his years as a bounty hunter, and Imam, who had left to Riddick his home and his fortunes. Jack was also due a healthy sum as soon as she reached the age of adulthood, which, on this planet, was eighteen, but she'd vowed months ago, shortly after Imam's death, that she would not touch the money, but leave it to grow in interest. And then she planned to donate it in hopes that Imam's money would one day find the cure for the disease that had poisoned the holy man's blood and taken him from herself and Riddick. It was a distant goal, but Jack was determined.
"How're you feelin', kid?" Riddick asked, his gravely voice strangely soothing to her throbbing head.
"Good," she lied, ignoring his pointed look and moving to take the glass of orange juice he offered out to her. She drew the glass up to her dry lips and took a healthy swig, opening her other hand out for the sleeping pills and curling her fingers around them. She almost groaned in satisfaction as the refreshing juice slid down her parched throat, but she quelled the urge and pulled the glass from her lips at Riddick's insistence.
"Go easy, Jack. You'll make yourself sick."
Riddick took the glass from her and set it back down on her bedside table. She uncurled her fingers to reveal the two small sleeping pills resting in her palm. She stared at them with a mixture of disgust and wariness.
"They'll help you sleep," Riddick explained, as if she didn't already know that herself.
"Pills make me sick, Riddick," she said, moving to drop the pills onto the table beside her. She twisted back around just as Riddick was settling himself down on her bed. She looked over at him, and her dazed state she wasn't sure if it was quiet concern written over his features, or disappointment.
I'm making a fuss again, she thought, and found herself picking the pills back up, ready to swallow them down just to erase the dark look shadowing Riddick's face. She didn't want to disappoint him anymore, though she was finding it increasingly difficult to accommodate Riddick while her mind was thick from lack of sleep and her muscles were sore from too much bed rest.
She was just about to swallow the foul-looking pills when Riddick's large hand encircled her wrist, halting her hand before the medication reached her lips.
"Leave it," he said gruffly. "We'll try somethin' else. Don't want you getting sick again."
Of course not.
"I'm okay," she croaked. "I'll sleep once I'm better." Her face cracked into a small smile.
"What about that lavender crap?" he said, ignoring her comment.
Jack's face screwed up with confusion. "What?" she said, her hand falling back to the bedcovers. She stared across at Riddick, her brow furrowed.
"Shit's supposed to relax you."
Oh. Now she understood.
"We have lavender bath oils," she said. "But I'm too tired for a bath, Riddick. I just wanna stay here."
"It'll help."
"Riddick--"
"Shut it, kid."
He was already rising from the bed, moving towards her bathroom to run a bath. Jack sagged tiredly against her pillow and let her eyes slide closed. "You're mean," she grumbled playfully, lips curving up in a sleepy, amused smile.
"So you're always telling me," his gravely voice sounded from the bathroom.
She fell quiet and settled back into her pillows. She listened to the thumping of his boots on the linoleum floor, the sound of the taps running on full power and the vibrations of the heater. She followed the swirly, inky blackness behind her eyelids and they seemed to grow heavier and heavier, until, before she knew it, she was cloaked in a fuzzy blanket of darkness and sleep.
---
"On a guess I'd say parental abuse, given her background," Emma Roberts said that evening, seated in Jack and Riddick's dining room, opposite the stoic man sitting at the table with her. She sipped at her coffee absently, concerned eyes trained on Riddick, who was staring fixedly at the file in front of him. Riddick had asked for a full background check on Jack -- her medical history, her home life, grades, everything -- and now the results lay in plain view for him to see. Emma hoped that Jack would forgive them both for this breech of privacy.
The file contained Jack's -- or Audrey Burnstone, as her real name was -- complete medical history up until her disappearance, among other things. It included detailed information on her every injury and the written suspicions of the various doctors who had treated her. Some had considered contacting Child Services, but none, it seemed, had gone through with it. Emma understood why -- it was unlikely that anything would have been done, and in the end Jack would have suffered more by the hand of whomever was beating her for getting the authorities involved.
Emma's guess was her mother. Jack's father had died when she was only eight, and after the death of her aunt, the records showed a distinct increase in her injuries - both in severity and consistency. She couldn't blame Jack for fleeing -- in her situation, Emma would have done exactly the same thing.
"She never talked about her parents," was Riddick's only response. He was still staring at the file with a mixture of compulsive interest and anxiety, and Emma wondered if he was debating whether he was ready to read what was inside. Emma figured it was best that she give him her opinion on the matter, before he headed for the cold, hard facts.
"Her father, David Burnstone, died when she was eight. Her aunt died a few months later, and I'm guessing, from the records, that the beatings started sometime after that. Constant abuse over a long period of time would have caused severe internal damage and that usually results in a build up of scar tissue of the years. Beatings to the stomach sometimes leads to a tissue build up on the vestigial mesonephric duct, which is a small duct that lays parallel to the uterine tube. It's what they call Gartner's cyst and nine times out of ten it goes undetected. Most tests don't pick it up and unfortunately, if the cyst is left untreated, it can grow into ovarian cancer. It's only usually identified through a pelvic MRI and most doctors--"
"Ovarian cancer?" Riddick's head had snapped up at that and now he was gazing across at her with cold, mercury eyes. "Jack has cancer?" he questioned her, worry and, dare she say it, fear, creeping into his voice. Riddick was afraid? That was a first.
"Not necessarily, Riddick. I'm just saying--"
"But there's a possibility?"
Emma looked across at him solemnly. The bare horror in his eyes made her swallow, but she nodded. "Yes," she answered truthfully. "I'm not certain how severe the problem is. I'm still waiting for the test results to come through. But for all we know the problem could be minor. We may have caught it in time or it may be something completely different. We don't know. All we can do is wait." She paused and then added, "You're a patient man, Riddick. Sixteen hours is nothing to you."
His shined eyes flickered up and connected with hers. She grazed the hard lines of his face with her gaze and the naked worry she found there pulled her lips into a small, sad smile.
"You really care about her, don't you," she said softly, lifting her coffee cup to her lips. She glanced at him over the rim.
He didn't answer, just stared at her, his gaze unwavering and intense. That was answer enough.
He broke the stare a second later and sighed heavily. "I'm not made for this shit," he said gruffly, running a palm over his scalp. He rose from the table and began to pace the length of the dining room, pinching the bridge of his nose as he went.
"I don't think anyone is made for this shit, Riddick," she said, tracking his movements with her eyes. "We just make it up as we go along."
"I don't do sick people, " he elaborated. He moved into the living area and settled himself down in one of the large arm chairs. Emma followed and took a seat on the couch opposite, watching Riddick with concerned eyes. She'd never seen him look so helpless before, and the usual alertness she often found in his eyes was now smothered by a quiet, steady panic that Riddick was struggling to control.
"Imam usually dealt with this kind of stuff. I just taught the kid how to fight and take care of herself." He paused and looked across at her. "I'm a murderer," he said plainly. "Not a parent. I can't be what she needs me to be."
Riddick wasn't used to people being this dependent on him. Emma knew that from his days as a bounty hunter. Despite what people thought, Riddick had had people he cared about before and after he'd been sent to Slam, including herself, but he'd always been a lone soul. He'd lived his life alone, done his job alone, and hadn't appreciated being tied to any one person for any amount of time.
And now here he was. Tied to a sixteen-year-old child who -- despite how indifferent he pretended to be -- he cared about and maybe even loved. As a daughter. As a friend. And as the only girl who served as unwavering link between himself and humanity.
Riddick wasn't used to people needing him for more than just favours. He was foreign to the idea of emotional comfort and reassurance, the need to know you were protected in more than a physical sense. Jack had lost that security years ago, had probably lacked any real form of affection and love for the better part of eight years, and had lost two father figures in that time, too. It was no surprise that she'd come to depend on Riddick, to trust him. She'd invested all her faith in him because he was the only one left who really cared, and maybe he didn't show it, but Emma figured that Jack knew. She had to. The way the two acted towards each other spoke volumes of the affection that lay between them.
Jack's dependency had probably been a lot easier for Riddick to handle when Imam had been around. The holy man would have taken care of the more domestic matters, while Riddick stuck to what he was good at and taught Jack basic combat and survival skills. No emotional problems, no dealing with the usual teenaged dilemmas. Riddick probably hadn't stepped out of his role as fearless fighter, protector and murderer in all the years he'd spent with Jack and Imam, but now with Imam gone, Jack needed much more than lessons on how to disarm and kill your opponent. It wasn't exactly what dreams were made of.
But Riddick, it seemed, wasn't ready to take on the role of carer. Oh, sure, he undoubtedly cared about the girl, had looked after her well enough since Imam's death, but it was in moments like this, when it was made clear that Riddick didn't know how to handle the emotional needs of others, that it was obvious something would have to change. He wasn't used to being afraid for someone else, wasn't used to fearing something he couldn't see, and that was what was making him unsettled, edgy.
Riddick didn't know what to do, and he hated it. He didn't know how to be useless, and that was exactly what he was. Richard B. Riddick was helpless.
"You're going to leave, aren't you," Emma said. It wasn't even a question. She could see the possibility swimming in his mercury eyes.
His gaze was steady when he looked at her, a little ashamed, but unflinching. "Might be for--
---
"--the best," Riddick's voice sounded from around the corner, and Jack heard every word. The last vestiges of sleep was swept away as Emma's words echoed, ringing loud and clear in her pounding head.
You're going to leave, aren't you...
She stared at her bare feet absently, anger and disappointment bringing tears to her eyes.
How could you, she thought, swallowing past the sudden lump in her throat. Her chest ached and something inside of her was breaking. I trusted you. I thought you cared. God, I thought you cared!
She moved backwards on unsteady feet, bright eyes taking in everything that made this her home. The warm, earthy colours of the walls, curtains and carpets, the low lighting -- just for Riddick -- and the pictures she could just make out from where she was standing. A few of Riddick, taken without consent, some of her and Imam wearing wide, proud smiles, and some of her alone. But there weren't any of her and Riddick together, or the three of them. Not one where he'd actively chosen to be a part of their lives so she could have something to keep, a memory all her own to frame and cherish.
The obvious absence of such memories said it all, and Jack found herself stumbling backwards as the pictures blurred in front of her eyes. A sob caught in the back of her throat and terror welled in her chest, because she didn't want to hear anymore, didn't want the pain to spread until she was numb and broken again. It wasn't fair, none of this was fair, and for the first time since she'd met him, Jack found herself hating Riddick.
That hurt, too, the thought that she hated him. There was no guilt, though, just an unquestionable knowledge that things had changed. Things were different now, and so was she.
She turned and fled down the winding hallway back to her room, swallowing her sobs so he wouldn't hear. Not that she cared anymore. Let him think she was weak. What difference did it make? He was leaving her, anyway, running. He was the weak one, not her.
It took her less than five minutes to pack her bag and slip into her clothes. Her shoulder length hair was pulled back and tied with a black band, and then she was slipping into her jacket and out of her room, eyes and ears alert for the sound of approaching feet. Satisfied the coast was clear, Jack swiped the tears from her eyes and allowed her anger to take over and fill the hollowness in her chest. Then, with her resolve firmly in place, she slid out into the dull buzz of the night.
---
Jack didn't know where she was going, but the lack of destination had never really stopped her before. The only thought running through her head was that she had to leave before Riddick did. Then she'd prove to him how independent she was, how strong. She could look after herself perfectly fine.
Heading for the city centre, she pulled the hood of her jacket up over her head to cover her hair and face, and relaxed her body into a boyish slouch. No way would Riddick recognise her now (if he even bothered to come looking for her) and people were less likely to mess with her if they thought she was a boy.
It was all too easy to slip back into the persona she'd gradually let go of over the years. She supposed it would always be a part of her, in the end, because it was what made her who she was. A little hot-headed, but brave, too. She wasn't as impressionable as she'd once been, but she still had that fierce need for someone to understand her and take care of her. That's what had drawn her to Riddick in the first place. No one had understood him back then, but she'd wanted to, because she thought that maybe if she did, he would respect her that much more. He would take care of her, because she'd take care of him.
And now, after she'd spent years rebuilding her trust in people and weaving herself into Riddick's life, he'd simply ripped her and her trust away. In a blink of an eye he'd managed to destroy any faith she had in him, and some part of her would never forgive him for that. She would never forgive him for making her hate him.
But no matter how she felt, no matter how much she wanted to turn around and run back home, to beg Riddick to take his words back and erase this hatred in her, she knew she had to leave. She couldn't just sit and wait for him to take off first, because then he'd be taking so much more than her trust. He'd be taking her pride and her dignity, too. He'd be taking everything that made her Jack.
She wouldn't let that happen. She was tired of people taking from her, and just when she'd started to think Riddick was different, he'd proved her wrong. Bastard.
She wiped at her eyes angrily, silently trying to convince herself that the tears were a result of the cramps gripping her insides and not her heart breaking. It was one thing to have your body betray you, but she refused to add her heart to the mix. She didn't need Riddick, he wasn't even worth her tears, and she'd be damned if she let him get to her. The selfish, cold-hearted, cowardly bastard.
It wasn't long before Jack found herself in the city centre, surrounded by the late night hustle and bustle. Here on this planet, the night life was found on the streets, crowds spilling out into the roads as music blared from unseen speakers. Clubs and bars were a thing of the past, and were usually only found on the outskirts of the city.
Weaving her way through the throngs of people, Jack headed for the back alleys, away from the noise and lights. She took a number of complicated turns, losing herself in the intricate maze of side streets, and then, finally satisfied that Riddick would not be able to find her, she slipped into one of the derelict warehouses lining the street.
It was dark inside, and relatively quiet. She could still hear the throbbing beat of the music coming from the city centre, but it was bearable. She settled herself down on the hard, dusty floor and rested her back against the side of the warehouse, letting her head fall on to her raised knees.
She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She wanted to hit something, or kill something, but instead she just sniffled and rubbed at her tired eyes with heel of her hand. Losing control wouldn't help. It wouldn't change anything. Riddick would still be a bastard and she'd still be homeless and afraid, and no amount of weeping or screaming or violence would erase the fact that things were different now. She was a runaway again, and she wondered if anything had really changed in three years. It didn't feel like it.
Fighting back the sudden urge to vomit, Jack discarded her backpack and slid sideways slowly, until she was laying on the cold floor, her back against the wall of the warehouse and her head pillowed on her arm. She curled her knees up to her chest and stared absently ahead, her gaze focussed on some distant point that not even she could see. She took a deep, shaky breath and let it out slowly, feeling the week-long fatigue crawling back over her again. Her eyes felt cold and clammy, her muscles achy and stiff, and her temples throbbed with suppressed tears and tightly-leashed anger. Sleep tickled at the edge of her consciousness, pulling at her, and this time she allowed it to take over without a fight.
---
Jack was awake and alert the moment she sensed someone nearby, years of training pulling her from her slumber instantly.
It wasn't fast enough, though, because that someone had already managed to grab her by the scruff of her neck and was pulling her up from the concrete floor. She flayed wildly, lessons forgotten, panic taking over. She moved to slam her elbow into the stranger's stomach, but a strong hand caught her arm before she could complete the move and twisted it up her back.
She let out a yelp of pain.
"Mind telling me what the fuck you're playing at?" a low, tight voice rumbled near her ear and she immediately recognised it as Riddick's. She froze, her struggles dying, but the grip on her arm never loosened.
"Get the fuck off me, Riddick," she hissed fiercely when she finally managed to gain control of her voice box. The venom in her tone surprised even herself, and she sensed her earlier resentment and hatred boiling beneath the surface, not as controlled as she'd first thought.
"Not until you tell me what's going on," he said. "So I suggest you start talking."
"Why? It's not like you'll listen." She tried to pull herself from his grasp but found herself slammed against the wall instead. The wind was knocked out of her and for a brief moment panic swallowed her when she found herself unable to take a breath. It didn't take long to gain her momentum again and she glared up at Riddick with sharp eyes. He was looming over her, strong arms braced each side of her, irritation written clean across his features.
I irritate him, she thought. I'm just an annoyance. I can't even make him angry.
The thought only seemed to fuel her bitterness and her defiance hardened into full blown rebellion. Hatred seeped into her eyes.
"It's four in the mornin', kid," Riddick said. "I've been looking for you for nearly three hours, so trust me, I'm not in the best of moods."
Jack could tell. She could hear the tightly leashed fury in his voice, see the ice in his eyes. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe he was angry.
"Now you can either start by telling me what the fuck you're doing here and why I've spent most of the night searching for your sorry ass, or you can keep playing the spoiled brat and piss me off a little bit more. I warn you, though, Jack; it won't be pretty if you do. My patience isn't what it used to be."
If Jack hadn't been so angry herself, maybe she would have listened to Riddick's warning. But she didn't. Instead she took advantage of her partial freedom and dove beneath Riddick's arm, feet carrying her to the door before he had chance to drag her back. She raced out into the pre-dawn light and down the alley, breath escaping her in ragged gasps as she ran, hair falling loose and fluttering behind her.
If Jack hadn't looked back, she would have made it. But she did. She turned her head to peer over her shoulder, saw Riddick standing, watching her, arms folded across his chest, visibly pissed, even from here. He didn't seem to be pursuing her, though, and for that Jack was thankful. She wasn't sure she was ready to face him. She wasn't sure she ever would be.
She turned to face forward again, but in that second she lost her footing and found herself flying towards the floor. Her arms shot out instinctively to stop her fall, but it wasn't enough and the next thing she knew the ground was rushing up to meet her, scraping the skin from her hands and knees.
She cried out, a bitter, defeated cry that echoed in the dark alley. She lay on the ground, panting, sobs threatening to erupt from her chest as pain lanced it's way up her legs and arms. The pain in her stomach was silent, for once.
And then the sobs burst free and the tears spilled over her cheeks. She was tired, so tired. She'd been pulled this way and that and now she felt as if she was falling apart, tearing down the middle. She just didn't know what to think or do. Riddick didn't care about her, was ready to leave her behind, yet here he was having spent the night seeking her out. Did that mean he did care? Or just that he felt obligated to her? Was this his last act of kindness before he fled, leaving her to live alone on this God forsaken planet?
It wasn't fair. None of this was fair. She just wanted to die. She found herself wishing the pain in her stomach would spiral up and steal her breath away until there was nothing but silence. It was too loud in her head these days.
She managed to pull herself up-right before Riddick's booted feet came into view. Without thought she found herself crawling backwards, away from him, because he was the reason why her head was hurting right now, why her heart ached. She kept her eyes cast to the floor as she slumped into the crevice between the wall and a dumpster, because she didn't want to look at him. She hated him.
"Go away," she whispered when her sobs finally quietened. Her tears wouldn't stop, unfortunately. "Go away," she said again when he showed no sign of moving. He moved this time, but he didn't leave. Instead he stepped forward and crouched down before her. Jack fought the urge to look up at him and kept her bright eyes lowered.
"How much did you hear, Jack?" he asked, his voice the same hypnotic rumble she remembered. She tried to ignore it, because it reminded her so much of the Riddick he'd once been -- or the Riddick she'd thought he was, anyway.
"Enough," she answered plainly.
She heard Riddick sigh, a deep, weary sigh that puzzled Jack. He sounded... upset? Worried? No, that wasn't right. Riddick didn't get upset or worried or any of those things. He was Riddick.
"Look, Jack, I know you're scared, but it might not come to that. Doctor Roberts said it's only a possibility, not--"
Jack's head lifted. She stared across at him with questioning eyes, her earlier anger forgotten. "Riddick, what--"
He was solemn when he looked at her, and there was naked pain in his eyes. Jack had never seen Riddick look that anguished before and the sight was so unexpected that she almost didn't hear what he said next.
Almost.
"Not everyone dies of cancer, kid," Riddick said, and the world dropped out from under her.
