Augments Chapter 11

Apologies again for the wait! Things have been crazy…

I hope you're enjoying it so far!

-XXX-

2258

She shows up at his flat nearly two weeks later. It is evening. He's drinking a cup of tea and preparing to meditate when there is a knock. She's standing in the hallway, with snowflakes still scattered in her dark hair, annoyance radiating off of her hotly. He's feeling a similar annoyance, though, likely for different reasons.

"Have you been avoiding me?" she demands, pushing her way in.

"Not particularly, no."

"It's been two weeks," she snaps. Off comes her coat. It's thrown on the nearby breakfast bar. She tosses her gloves down, the hat follows, then the scarf is unwound. Overall, the sight is rather amusing. "Over fourteen days, and you haven't bothered me once!"

"I should think you'd be please," he responds dryly. "So, what is it that's troubling you enough that you should seek to invade my living space."

She looks around, snorts, then shakes her head. "Hardly."

Khan returns to the couch, reclaiming his tea. "If you just wanted to insult my interior décor, I'm sure you could have done a suitable job over comm messages," he replies less-than-kindly.

"Why haven't you…spoken to me?" she asked, voice small.

His brows rose. "I have been busy. I did not realize I was expected to contact you within a fortnight." The augment turns the question back on her. "Why are you here?"

There is a pause. "I was worried," Alya manages.

He stares at her for almost a full minute. The young academic warily gazes back, unsure. Finally, he speaks.

"I assumed I made you feel…uneasy…in my behavior the last time we met. I lost control. Perhaps I was foolish to assume some temporary distance would serve us both well."

"Distance?" Frowning, Alya moved to sit on the couch.

"For at least a little while."

For a moment she mulls this over. Then, with a great sigh, she says, "I respect your decision, but it was a foolish one."

He merely looks at her. Though she does not color, Alya does grow sheepish, adding, "As was, perhaps, burst in here. I apologize."

"Forgiven."

-XXX-

"What had been bothering you that night?" I ask lowly. After he'd forgiven me, we had left for a drink out. In a secluded corner booth of a nearby pub, I'd been working to coax some more information out of him. Unfortunately he wasn't forthcoming, nor did he appear to be enjoying his beer.

"Which night?" he shoots back, looking into his glass with a measureable level of boredom.

I roll my eyes. "You weren't just hurt you, you were quite angry. Disturbed. What was troubling you?"

He is silent for a long time. I almost think he's ignoring me or simply didn't hear. He can be like that, sometimes – lost in his thoughts so deeply it's as if the world around fails to pass. I am patient, however, and wait. John finally speaks.

"I have been working for Starfleet for nearly nine months now," he says slowly. "And in those nine months, I have not seen my crew. I have not been given any kind of information on their status, their holdings…."

His knuckles are white, veins and muscles popping, he is gripping the glass so tightly. Fearful that the glass might very well break, I pry his hand from it. The fingers curl into my own.

"Nothing," he finishes.

"Why not?"

He closes his eyes. "Marcus believes the would…distract me from my work. Besides, how am I to be productive if I had the only thing in the world I wanted?"

I stare. "He's truly doing it? He's using them to manipulate you?"

"The admiral is holding the lives of the seventy-two people I hold most dear, my family, over my head."

"But – why?"

He barks out something like a laugh. "Your admiral Marcus wants to weaponize Starfleet," John hisses. "He's using my intellect, my savagery, my drive to create a stronger offensive organization. He is building a battle-ready Starfleet – and he's already planning a war to kick it off!"

"What?" I squeeze his hand, my nails biting into his flesh. "What do you mean?'

John chuckles darkly. "The recent tension between the Federation and the Klingons? It's something that has been entirely executed by Starfleet. Marcus has been doing everything in his power to ensure that there is a war ready to fight when he's at his leisure. The whole weaponry and defense develop sector is at his whim." Leaning in, his eyes are vast in their dark. "That's what I've been doing, Alya – creating the next generation of firepower that will guarantee a Federation victory. Marcus is bullying one race of people to show the galaxy that his pathetic planet can handle a war, that they're significant players on the map, not merely sniveling beings with a diplomatic services and their little fleet of ships made for peace-keeping missions. War is on the horizon."

I can't move nor speak nor think. John sits back to observe me. I'm left staring into my beer. Completely floored. Silas's words come back to me. His warnings against Marcus….He was right. How many more people suspected this.

"I knew…" I manage after several minutes spent in stunned silence. "I knew he was going to try to use you. But I didn't realize that it would be to…to start a war. A petty, petty war meant to boost his damn ego!" Shaking my head, I close my eyes. "He's not told you anything about your crew?"

"Nothing. I have accessed all of the records I could, but they're entirely off the books. There is a very small party that is aware that we even exist, and an even smaller group from that which has any knowledge of my crew's location."

"If they're keeping this so under wraps, why haven't I been approached or anything?"

"They're watching you," he says, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. Why do you think you're so near a base?"

"I choose to come to London," I protest.

"Did you?" His brows rise. "Weren't you offered a position by the East London University after you'd returned Earthside without expressing any interested? Didn't it seem as though it came out of the blue?"

Reflecting on the exact terms of my employment, I pale. "No…."

"Oh yes," John assures me. "We're both here as pawns of the Federation."

His hand is still in mine. I make to release it, murmuring an apology. John doesn't appear to notice.

"What are you doing to resolve this?"

He looks at me, impassive. "What do you mean?"

"Someone has to know. Have you tried…I don't know, applying pressure in the right places?"

John snorts. "No, I have not, though it I find those places, I will certainly consider doing so."

"I am serious! You're not one to take things lying down. You can get them back. What about bargaining with Marcus? Surely there is some way –"

"You underestimate the level of scum your admiral has reached," John spat. "There is not way to bargain with a psychopath."

"Surely. What's he going to do with them? At some point you'll stop being useful, John. And he can't keep them forever. Make a deal."

The expression he gives me is pitying. Perhaps I am being naïve. But I can't simply loose heart. Someone needs to be a little optimistic. And if not Khan Noonien Singh, then let it be me.

"So…that night. It all just…hit you."

John, who has picked up his glass, pauses before taking a drink. "No. Marcus had just threatened my family were I to not produce a few prototypes fast enough for his liking."

"Threatened?"

"Their lives."

"Oh."

"Indeed," he murmurs darkly before downing the glass.

-XXX-

My trips to San Francisco aren't exactly my favorite thing – travel is always a pain, even with the last advances of the century - but I don't mind it so much. It's nice to get a little sun after the seemingly-endless overcast skies of London. Sometimes I even manage to pop up to Portland to visit Silas, if my parents don't monopolize the weekend.

However, this weekend, I'm stuck in the city, specifically on-base at the academy. Someone decided it would be a good idea if I gave cadets a lecture on the importance of cultural respect and understanding when encountering new species. It's better than pulling teeth, I suppose, though I'm not too enthusiastic. Cadets usually don't want to be there, and they don't hesitating in making their feelings obvious. It makes hours pouring over notecards seem rather pointless.

Following my talk on Sunday morning, I am deposit back at my quarters to pack. Approximately two hours later I am retrieved again to be taken to the airport. This time, however, I am not alone in the Starfleet shuttle. It's not really surprising – I've ridden with others plenty of times. But it's the person who take me aback.

Blonde, pretty, slim, with massive blue-grey eyes, the woman is roughly my age and extremely familiar. Reading from a PADD, she only just glances up when I climb inside, giving me a vague smile. She wears a grey woolen coat that falls just past her knee, though it's open just enough at the top to reveal blue. A science officer. A very familiar science officer? Had she been on the Union, or the Preserver?

Over the drive I continually peek out of the corner of my eye at her, but I cannot for the life of me place her. I write it off as a mystery.

We're dropped off at the same terminal. At the curb, both of us standing beside our bags, we're practically forced to look at one another.

"You're headed overseas as well?" Her smile is shy, but friendly.

"Yeah. Back home."

"I'm Carol Marcus," she says, thrusting out a hand. Her nails are beautifully manicured. "Science officer…currently not employed on any ship."

I laugh. "Alya Nejem. Recently of the USS Preserver and Union. Anthropologist. Pleased to meet you."

Something flickers in her eyes – recognition – when I list my associated ships. "You as well. Where are you headed, Ms. Nejem?"

I don't correct her. My title is just that – words. I've always disliked the asshole who insist that you recognize their achievements. So what they spent a few more years in school?

"London. I was just in town for a few lectures." By now we're inside, lining up at the security checkpoint.

"Really? I'm going to London as well." We compare flight numbers. "Oh, we must sit together!"

And just like that, I've made a new friend. We set up camp at the gate, chatting easily over coffee. Surprisingly, we hardly touch Starfleet-related topics. Sure, for a time we compare experiences, but all too soon we've moved onto London and my experiences there. Carol recommends a few restaurants and museums. By the time we're seated, we're already good friends.

Just about halfway into our flight, I realize why she is so familiar. I've seen her face, framed, on a shelf beside rows of medals and ribbons on display.

I wait for an opening in the conversation. Carol finishes describing her favorite shoe store _.

"So, Marcus…you aren't related to the admiral by chance, are you?"

She half-smiles. "You caught me. My father is the admiral. I try not to advertise it much. I don't want it affecting my work."

"Or how people treat you."

"More of that, yeah," she admits. "It's tough, being the boss's kid. I don't think they trust me, you know, not to run off and tell daddy…."

"That's got to suck."

Carol sighs, then smiles brightly. "But it's not so bad. Got my foot in the door. At the moment my main goal is to not be assigned with him anywhere, and so far it's worked out. I'd hate to be on the same ship as my father – I had enough of that when I was a kid."

And just like that she regales me of tales of her youth. Her mother died when she was quite young, leaving her in the care of a very English nanny and her father. When she was ten the nanny left and Carol began accompanying her father on longer missions. She spent a lot of time on ships and on base. After college, she turned to the academy. "It just seemed natural," she finishes, shrugging.

"And are you happy?"

Again, she shrugs. "I'm not unhappy."

Our flight is over too quickly. Once past the gate, I turn to her.

"How long are you in town? We should get dinner sometime."

Carol assures me she'd love to, giving me her comm number. We part ways friends.

-XXX-

It's nightfall. The pair of moons are high, but with a cloudy sky it isn't clear enough to show me the lay of the land. I stumble through the darkness, tripping over the rocks that make up the landscape. It's a barren place filled with high stone bluffs, riffs, craggy hills. A wind howls past me, sending my hair flying like a whip. I keep surging forward, but seem to cover little ground.

For what seems like the thousandth time, I tumble. Except, this time, I am slow to steady myself. With a cry, I fling myself against the nearest support, a large rock to my right, only to find myself slipping further. Just when it seems like I am about to fall to my death, a pair of strong hands find my arms, pulling me up until I make contact with a solid chest. I sob, leaning into my savior. The cool hands, pale, long-fingered, strong, stroke my back. One settles against my waist, moving me closer.

I feel safe. My sobs subside.

"Alya…."

Tilting my head up by my chin, my savior looks down upon me. It's Khan.

My relief is short-lived. His eyes change, becoming crystalline and hard. It's the gaze of the senseless creature that cornered me on the Botany Bay. Another cry threatens to rise within my throat. Before I can twist away, the grip on my waist drifts upwards, closing around my throat. Beneath the strength of his hand, I am sure my neck feels like a mere twig. A twig he could snap with just the twitch of a few fingers.

He speaks again. "Alya."

It's a mournful sound. Even so, the pressure on my neck increases. I struggle, crawling at the constricting hands, scratching every inch of flesh that I meet. I'm choking with desperation.

"Khan –" I wheeze before blacking out.

-XXX-

I woke with a start. For several minutes I stared at the ceiling, wondering at the meaning of the dream. But I don't ponder long. With a sigh, I toss over, curling into my pillow, resolving to fall back to sleep. It took fifteen minutes, but I was soon dozing again.

-XXX-

I honestly didn't mean to show him my flat. Truly. If I'd had any say, I wouldn't have let the supposedly homicidal augmented man historically responsibly for leading massive armies of genetic superhumans against my species anywhere near my place of residency, but I'd had little choice in the matter. It's just my luck, I suppose, for wearing heels on a rainy day.

Though only my third trip to the Kevlin Memorial Archives, it was my fifth time running into John Harrison since moving to London. And I do not use the term "run into" lightly – four out of five encounters had began with some form of physical contact that was less than consensual and quite surprising. You would think in a city so large it would be near-impossible to continually meet a person in such a manner, but it would appear I had the worst luck. Or maybe it was just luck. Because, so far, these encounters had resulted in semi-pleasant interactions. We'd even gone for coffee, once.

On this day I'm running a little late – my mother had called just as I was leaving the flat, keeping me back by fifteen minutes. Naturally. And, of course, I fail to beat the rain. Despite the use of an umbrella, I enter the archive cold and damp, shivering all the way across the lobby into the lift, down into the stacks. For two hours I browse, quite irritated with the feel cool, wet fabric against my skin. The worst were my shoes – not only were they a little damp, they skid across the floor scarily. I'd been lucky to catch myself every time – though, most of the credit could go towards the shelves that I'd steadied myself upon.

There is something about sinking my focus into old records that is utterly calming. In my zen state I go through eight pages of my notebook at rapid pace, filling the narrow lines with my less-than-neat scrawls. Taking notes steadies me after a rather hectic morning, putting me in a sort of mechanical academic mindset that causes me to be incredibly productive, so I am slow to take a break. Two hours pass before I even think to stop.

I am annotating a few weather manuscripts when a set of pale fingers skirt my shoulders, closing in on my neck, massaging my tensed muscles. I nearly shriek, jolting terribly at the touch. Behind me there is a chuckle. Peering up I am met with the amused blue eyes of John Harrison.

"You're very focused," he observes. "I've been here nearly five minutes."

Turning in my chair, I rest one elbow against the head, curling one leg beneath me. "I don't believe that," I protest. "I would've heard the lift, at the very least –"

"You didn't even look up!" John chides. He pulls out the chair beside me to sit. Casting a glance along the floor, I am pleased to see that we're entirely alone. When I look back at him, he reaches out to push a few stray locks from my forehead – from the drizzle and wind my hair must be a wreck, and I've been too focused in my notes to care much about my appearance. John's arrival does nothing to change my level of consideration, though he appears to have some regard for how I look when in his company. The motion is oddly personal and tender for him, causing me to sit stalk-straight. His fingers linger along my brow, sweeping down my cheek and jaw before he settles back.

Feeling ill-at-ease, I watch him watch me for several moments before asking, "What are you doing here?"

"I believe the archive is open for the use of all academics and Starfleet personnel," he answers snidely. Sliding my notes over, he browses the small markings in black ink, brow furrowing as he scans the paper. "You call this handwriting?"

With a growl, I move to snatch the notebook back. He teases it just within my reach before pulling back. In frustration I lunge, nearly toppling myself over, falling into his lap. My cheeks flame when he chuckles – I'm acting as a silly tweenaged girl, completely immature, utterly disgraceful. But the way his gaze softens upon me reminds me that I'm nearly twenty-five and while I'm very young I'm also not a kid by any means. I straighten with a cough. John smirks, placing my notebook delicately upon the table. When I reach for it he catches my wrist in a snap, drawing it up to his cheek. I smooth my fingers against his skin.

"What are you doing here?" I ask again. "Don't you have…work, or something?"

"I've had a personal project I've been working on. It has been successful, so I thought I might celebrate."

"With me?"

"Naturally."

I drop my hand, letting it rest in my lap. "I've got loads to do here…."I say wistfully. "Tons of records to go through still. But I might be able to do lunch."

"I'll take it."

He helps me with my jacket – now spring, it is still a touch chilly. We take the stairs up. Thankfully, things have been moped up. The only thing that makes me unsteady now is my own unwise decision in footwear.

"Lot of research?" he asks conversationally when we hit the first landing. This is not the aloof John I know, but I choose not to question his friendlier attitude.

"Loads. I'll probably be here all week. But I've gotten some great leads, so I don't mind it so much."

Oddly, John seems to still beside me upon hearing my answer. "Are you coming in tomorrow?"

"Probably, yeah."

"How fun." His smile is tight. "I'll get the cab."

-XXX-

At the bistro, John seems to go back into himself. He's quiet, seemingly thoughtful. I stab at my salad, letting the silence roll without question. The conversation is spotty, at best, with little flow. I don't let it bother me. Clearly, he's got something heavy on his mind.

"You're planning on returning to the archives tomorrow?" he asks again, rather abruptly when I'm in the midst of observing an elderly couple selecting a paper at a stand across the street.

"Yes, I think so," I reply. "Like I said, got a lot to do."

"You let yourself get lost among those musty old papers far too easily, Dr. Nejem."

I smile into my plate. "Maybe," I admit. "What about you, with your secret projects? Hiding in your little lab for weeks on end."

Somewhere within the last couple months, he had let slip that the basement of his apartment building was sort of his make-shift laboratory. The landlord had been quite kind in letting him use the space. I've never gone down myself – if anything, I avoided going to his flat. It depressed me.

John allows a slight smile. "One must have a few hobbies."

"What are you doing down there?"

"Oh, you know…experimenting."

I twist my lips, but don't push him further.

When leaving the restaurant, John suggests we walk for a bit in a nearby park. I agree easily enough – fresh air would be nice before I sentence myself to another couple of hours in the achieves. It's stopped raining, however, the paths are still a little wet. I'm tempting to seek John's arm for support. But I carry on, trying desperately to maintain balance.

We're in the middle of observing the change in weather when it happens. I misstep, accidentally slide on a leaf, trip over nothing or something . Some how I fall. Shrieking unattractively, I stumble, landing on the ground – hard. John lunges to catch me, but does not manage to grab me in time. But the time he's lifted me up, the damage is done.

One arm automatically goes beneath my knees, the other to my back, and before I can register what's happening he's swept me up and carried me to the closest bench. I am laid out across the bench as he examines me. Long pale fingers probe all of my joins swiftly. When he touches my ankle I give a sharp intake of breath, followed by a low cry of pain. John looks at me. He's already moved up my leg. "Your ankle?"

I nod, tears welling in my eyes. He feels it again, focused on the feel of the bones. I bite my lip as he examines me.

"Not broke," he finally announces. "But at the very least twisted or sprang. You'll need to stay off of it for a while."

"But I –"

"At least a few days," he cuts across sternly. "Now, let's get you home."

"Oh," I say hastily. "You can just toss me in a cab, I'll manage fine."

John Harrison appears mildly insulted at the mere thought. "I'm taking you home, Nejem. Someone needs to look after you while you're in such a vulnerable state. Come along."

I protest to being carried, insisting that he instead help me hobble to the curb. With a dramatic eye roll, John helps me sit up, then stand. When my injured limb touches the ground, I hiss. Instantly his arm is around my waist. "Don't be foolish," he murmurs in my ear. "Slowly."

Together we move towards the nearest exit. On the sidewalk outside of the park's gates John managed to hail a cab rather swiftly. He eases me inside before following. I give the driver my home address, though it is with reluctance.

"What happened to 'er?" the cabbie asks, looking in his rearview mirror at us.

"She fell," John says shortly. There's something in his tone that quickly cows the driver, who turns his focus to the road with an unintelligible mutter. John slips an arm around my waist, keeping me close by his side, as though I'm about to burst from the vehicle. The rest of the ride is awkwardly silent.

Once at my building, John lifts me from the car, pays the cabbie, and carries me up the stoop. Despite being quite comfortable with my head against his chest, I protest every step.

"I can at least hobble!"

"Give me your keys."

Digging in my bag – which he's tossed around his shoulder – I fork over the key ring with a scowl.

He jiggles them in the lock, then slips us inside. Two flights later, and we're at my apartment door. Again, I select a key.

I am deposited on my bed unceremoniously. Bouncing off the mattress, I ought to feel annoyed, but I'm too relieved to have finally made it home to muster up too much irritation. John casts an eye around my bedroom, taking in the piles of books, the over-filled hamper, half-open, exploding closet, and various knicknacks. Thankfully, it's a bit cleaner than usual.

"Usually a guy has to buy me dinner first before he's allowed in here," I murmur, adjusting my pillow. My savior stops me to move the pillow himself.

"I've bought you many dinners," he replies dryly. "And coffees, and cab fares…."

"And yet I doubt I'll be having much fun in this bed tonight."

His lips quirk. "You should be getting sleep. Do you have any ice?"

"Going to fetch me a cocktail?"

John stands, crossing to the bathroom that connects to the bedroom, through the door just to the left of the closet. Struggling to maintain an eye on him, I am defeated by the distance, though I can hear him rummaging around. He emerges several minutes later with a pressure bandage.

"Ice?"

I direct him to the kitchen. Another several minutes are spent laying in bed, listing to the noise of someone moving through my flat. John is back at my bedside in a few minutes, this time bearing a bag filled with ice, wrapped in a dishtowel. He then sets to work bandaging my foot. The jostling causes me to wince. John ignores my discomfort. When he finishes, he snags a throw pillow from the living to prop beneath the injured limb.

"Will I make it?" I ask dramatically. "Tell me, will I live to see another day?"

If John Harrison were the eye-rolling type, I have no doubt he'd be gracing me with a heavy one. "You'll be fine, Nejem. Just stay off of it for the next several days and be liberal with the ice – on an hour, off an hour."

Snuggling into the pillow, I grin. "You make quite the nurse, Mr. Harrison."

"You don't go through a war or two without learning a few things in field dressing."

"I forgot you were a great general."

A brow rises. "Great?"

"You made quite a few history books."

"Good to know. Does that qualify one as 'great?'"

"That does not necessarily mean good," I add. "Just…impressive."

"That is a word that has been applied to me many a time." He moves to sit closer to my head. "Do you need anything?"

"Are you leaving?"

Surprised, John confirms this. "Did you want me to say?"

At the moment, I'm feeling very sleepy. Nodding heavily, I reach out for his hands. John leans in. "For a short time. I've got work left to do today."

"Okay." The back of my hand is stroked lightly, the bones traced by light fingers. "Thank you," I murmur. "For doing all of this. You didn't have to."

"Oh, but I did." He turns my hand over, drawing lines long against my palm. Lingering at the tops of my fingers, his lips twist into something tight, unpleasant. "Promise you'll stay in tomorrow?"

His delicate touch has put me into a trance. For a beat I stare. A pointed look from John shakes me of it.

"Yes, yes, I promise," I swear with a sigh. "I'll stay right here. Cancel all of my appointments, rest up, all of that."

Relaxing by a fraction, John turns my hand again in his, twining our fingers. "Good."

-XXX-

Awwwww. Things are getting fluffy!

We're reaching something of a culmination here. Why oh why could Mr. Harrison be so keen to keep her indoors? Hm…

Once again, thank you for your lovely support. Feedback is my life blood, and certainly a wonderful little-pick-me-up.

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