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Chapter Text

There is still a white bandage taped to Rush's throat, standing out starkly against his fair skin. It's not a line of leather though, even though there is still the rubbed strip visible where it had been for so long. TJ thinks the cut will scar. Volker wonders if the abrasion from the collar will as well. Knows Rush would hate that even more.

They're sitting on Volker's bed, like they do every night; Volker reading one of his books on his tablet, Rush playing a game of sudoku on his. Rush is wearing his thin tee-shirt and a pair of soft, white sleep pants that are almost too thin as well. Volker is wearing a pair of flannel pajama bottoms and his green tee-shirt. They've been sleeping side-by-side for over a month now, just a chaste arrangement, under the covers but turned opposite ways. Volker sleeps on his back on the right side of the bed and Rush curls onto his left side and takes up the other side. It's so achingly wonderful and not nearly enough.

Volker knows he has it, and he has it bad, has since Icarus, maybe even since the first night during the science briefing in Pegasus. Rush is a genius, moving code and calculations so fast it makes his head spin trying to keep up with him. He's always been the one going too fast, thinking too hard - to be playing catchup to someone like Rush should be humiliating. Instead, it's exhilarating.

He realizes he is no longer reading his book but staring over it at the other man, who remains oblivious, in his world of numbers and columns and rows. Rush's hair is free from its ponytail, hanging long and loose around his shoulders and obscuring part of that striking face. Volker can't see his eyes behind his glasses, but he knows they are narrowed in thought, as he moves the stylus from his mouth to the touchscreen and back again. He realizes he can't remember ever finding another person so beautiful before in his entire life. Dale had never thought of himself as gay before, but he'd never met a man like Rush before either. Strong and proud and confident, even when the world had been treating him as a non-entity. He'd helped smooth the road between people walking over Rush and up to him on Icarus. By treating Rush like a whole person, one who was obviously the one most qualified to be there, the others had fallen in line, coming to respect him and follow him, even though he'd been nothing more than a slave.

Volker has always despised slavery. It's cruel and a social construct designed to procure labor and even sex from another human being as though they mean nothing. It's utterly disgusting. He looks at that white bandage on Rush's throat, taking a deep sigh of relief. He just doesn't understand it though - thought he'd had Colonel Young all figured out. He came over Rush sometimes like a deadweight, holding him down and making him into a thing to order around. A thing to control. Rush had broken down one night on Icarus, telling him about the ugly fight they'd had, the things he had threatened, and the things he'd thought he'd meant to do. It had made Volker sick. He'd hated Everett Young. Tried to come between them when he could, tried to protect Rush, even when he insisted things were different, that things had changed. He'd never trusted Young with Rush.

But he'd let him go. In every sense of the word - he had released Rush. And now Rush wasn't hiding anymore. Wasn't avoiding going back to Young's room, to his bed. He was here, with Volker, on his. And that had to mean something. It had to.

"Rush," he says quietly, telling himself not to do this, to keep quiet, to shut the hell up.

"Mmm?" He doesn't make a full sound, just a little hum in the back of his throat. But he does look up from his tablet. Sensing Volker wants to say something important, he sets the tablet and stylus down on his bedside table. Shifting, he turns to face Volker fully. Their knees are brushing now, and Volker finds himself setting his own tablet aside as well. "What's wrong?" He looks wary now, eyes becoming a bit guarded behind his frames. When he swallows, the bandage on his throat shifts with it. It's easy to remember the swell of a collar there, but it's gone now. Rush is his own man. This is his decision to make, his life to live. And this is Volker's one shot to take.

So he takes it.

Rush goes stock still under the kiss. It's as gentle and as non-pressuring as he can make it, but even he can feel the earnestness and the almost pleading in his brush of lips against the other man's. Without forcing the issue with real pressure, he sits back, resting his hands on his knees, bowing his head. This is the part where Rush slaps him, Rush snaps at him, Rush leaves the room.

But instead, there's a hand on his cheek then, tilting his head up. Their eyes lock, light and dark brown. And suddenly, Rush is surging forward onto his knees, clutching at Volker's shirt as they nearly overbalance off the bed. They end up clinging to one another, Volker holding Rush by the shoulders while Rush holds onto the collar of his shirt. Their mouths lock, Rush's kiss hungry where Volker's had been gentle, bruising where Volker's had been light. And Dale finds himself lit up by that intensity. Wrapping his arms around the smaller man, he tugs him forward until Rush is practically in his lap, kissing back with more force then, flushing the air from Rush's lungs with the possessiveness of the gesture.

Instead of being cowed or frightened or angry, Rush only redoubles his efforts, teeth and tongue in Volker's mouth, challenging him and cresting back and forth to draw him out more. And Volker rises to the occasion, thrusting his tongue into his mouth as he clenches a hand in that thick, soft hair. He's wondered for so long what it must feel like - like silk, like summer. Rush's kiss is like rain.

Finally, he pulls back with a gasp. "I..." he tries to begin, unsure when Rush's lips became so bruised and reddened. "I wanted to..."

"I don't care," He replies simply, kissing him again, with as much passion and enthusiasm as he's already shown. They remain like that, Volker holding Rush by his shoulder and hair, until his hand drops, falling from his left shoulder to his hip instead. Rush is fully seated on his lap now and their clothes are so thin. He has to be able to feel Volker's growing erection, but, as he said, he doesn't seem to care.

Rush bows his head finally, gasping for breath, shoulders shaking with his efforts. Volker isn't much better, clinging to the smaller man as the only thing anchoring him to the world. He wants to explain, wants to tell Rush how he feels. But he's afraid that Rush wouldn't understand, knows he probably doesn't feel the same. But he's not rejecting this - not rejecting him. Whatever Rush wants, whatever he needs out of this interaction, Dale is willing to give it to him. He doesn't know what he's doing and he's terrified he's going to blow this somehow, going to fuck everything up. But Rush isn't saying no, isn't pulling away. Isn't slapping him or leaving the room. He's straddling his lap, clenching his legs around his hips, locked in a strong and hungry embrace. He can't risk ruining this by telling Rush how he really feels. So he doesn't.

Using the hand in his hair, he yanks his head back up, and kisses him again instead.

~*~

Chapter Text

It feels good, he thinks to himself. It's strange, it's exciting. It feels good.

Volker's hands are wide and warm, not as strong as Young's, but more gentle and definitely even more hesitant. Young had touched him like he wasn't sure if he was hurting him, but Volker is touching him as though he can't believe he's even real. Rush is just enjoying being touched at all.

It's all different now, he thinks, catching his breath as he chokes on a gasp. Volker is kissing his shoulders and into his collarbone, gentle, swift pecks traced randomly with almost sharp, experimental nips. One good one makes him yelp and twist in the other man's lap, making Volker stutter an apology. Rush shuts him up with a kiss, biting lightly at Volker's lower lip in response. The teeth skate a little more firmly over his body then, making him groan. The other man seems to be understanding Rush's body language and following his leads, which is refreshing. He's not the virgin in this bed this time, which makes him feel safer and more in control. (But, part of him reminds the rest, two whole sexual encounters hardly make him an expert).

He's never been confident, never felt good with sex. He'd been a nineteen-year-old virgin when Gloria had purchased him. She had been twenty-three and experienced in the ways of the world, had taken him and taught him and showed him what love and pleasure and joy could feel like. He'd forgotten what joy had felt like before Gloria. And then, after more than twenty years, she'd slowly faded until there had been nothing left to hold to. And he'd been lost. But the time they'd had has been the best and greatest part of his long life. She'd shown him how to live, and he'd finally become more than someone's computer, someone's abacus. He'd been a person. And then, just as suddenly as she had come into his life, he'd lost everything and become an object again.

Until Young.

He thinks suddenly to that first day, when he'd been on the verge of a total break into despair, sitting chained to a holding block in an empty paddock; the only one left again. And then someone had been unchaining him and hauling him to his feet, to an unflappable-looking, severe man who looked at him as though he was both appraising and avoiding him at the same time. He'd been terrified.

In some ways, Young still terrifies him, has terrified him for so long. And yet... He had loved him. But that man is now gone, just like so many other iterations before. The Nicholas Rush who had loved Gloria Donnell is gone now, he knows. He'd been lost somewhere along the way, somewhere in math, somewhere in code, and somewhere in a flash of green light that had wormed and slimed its way into every corner of his mind, looking for things to take and repurpose, repossess. The Nicholas Rush who had begun the Ninth Chevron project was not the one who completed it. Something in his mind had been pressured, been bent, been cracked. He forgot those years, things fading to the background as new things rose to the forefront. The sound of her voice fading to an indistinct murmur in exchange for complex cryptography, the scent of her hair dimming into a ghost while a language untangled and appeared fully-formed in his mind. David hadn't given him a choice when he'd assaulted him with the reprogramming device, but he had made him a promise. Offered him the one thing he'd wanted since those days at the orphanage. Freedom.

There is no collar around his neck now and he rolls his head, baring his throat for the man holding him. Volker kisses his throat gently, heaping little murmurs of praise that actually do warm him inside as he presses kiss after kiss to the still-worn band of skin on his throat. He prays this will fade in time, won't scar like the cut under the bandage is. Shifting up onto his knees, he disengages his body from Volker's then, making the other man groan - a long, low sound of disappointment. Smiling softly, face burning with what is half-embarrassment, half-arousal, he climbs back until he can flop backwards on the bed. Volker hesitates, so he reaches out and catches hold of his arm, tugging until Volker is coming forward, rising up onto his knees. Gently, he settles between Rush's thighs, their still-clothed bodies coming together in a warm crux.

It feels good, like it had with Young. He's not afraid of Volker, though he'd never quite been able to shake his fear of Young. But the man who had loved Young is gone too - that person cut into, something taken out, something moved without proper cadence or solution. The Nicholas Rush who had been made into a Lucian agent is gone now too, and with it has gone a huge tangle of emotions and hopes and dread. The interface had repaired him, for the most part. But the reversal had severed something tightly-woven inside of him, and he's still not even sure if he misses it or not. What had that man felt? For Young, about Young, about himself? It's hard to remember quite who he'd felt like before his brain had been repositioned, again, against his will. Once again, he's lost part of who he's been. That Nicholas Rush had been so certain he was in love again. He just couldn't remember whose idea that was - his, or the brainwashing. Because once it had been removed, the feelings had shifted, had muted, had changed. Where there had been fierce certainty, there was now lingering doubt. He feels compelled by Young, feels drawn to Young, still feels owned by Young. But he is no longer certain that is what he ever even wanted at all. It has been easy to shake it all off and become another man, a new Nicholas Rush. How many is that now, he wonders, moaning out loud when Volker presses another searing kiss to his mouth. How many men has he been, must he be? If this dust ever settles, will he ever find all the pieces and fragment that have been shifted or drifted or been just plain destroyed?

He still wants to have Young, wants to please Young, maybe even still wants to love him. But that ship has sailed. That chapter of his life is over and he's never going back. Young is a trap of memories and past lives and this is his first step towards something new. He likes Volker, cares for him pretty strongly. He's never had a real friend before. And here they are, tangled sweating and twisting together in their bed. He knows he doesn't love Volker, isn't even sure if he'd really want to. But this is his - his body, his mind, his choice to make. It feels good. It's exciting. It's strange. It feels good. And he's never going back.

~*~

Chapter Text

"The good news is, you're still going to live," TJ says gently, careful hands replacing the gauze and dressings on the side of his throat, down where the joint sinks into his shoulder. It's an awkward angle to have bandaged at all, but it was a very lucky shot. Any higher or lower and it would have ripped his jugular or shattered his clavicle. Brody was a pretty decent terrible shot.

"Colonel Telford," she says, just as she's finishing up. He doesn't look towards her so as to avoid tugging his stitches, but he makes a soft sound of affirmation to indicate he's heard her. "Colonel, sir... Have you considered talking to him about it?"

He laughs then, a bitter, rueful sound. Petting a hand over his hair, he feels the opposite shoulder flex and burn with the jostle. "What am I supposed to say to him? He's made it clear he doesn't want to interact with me beyond a professional capacity. I'm willing to give him that. He deserves that."

"Neither of you are happy right now. Ever since Rush left, he's been... out of sorts. And your friendship has suffered here more than anyone's."

"Not more than Rush," he remarks, a tad too sharply. She understands a lot about this tangled mess they've found themselves in, but there are things she never saw, things she doesn't know. She doesn't know how Rush has been broken down and remade, even though she's done her part in that business herself. She doesn't understand how his relationship with Everett is over now. No one has broken their silence on what really happened that day in the Gateroom. Only the four of them know what he did - what he wanted to do. So she doesn't understand why their fragile peace is only just that - fragile. TJ means well, but she can't possibly understand. "No one here has suffered more than Rush," he reiterates. "But Everett comes close."

~*~

When it's time for the daily briefing, he makes his way down to the mess. Everett is sitting at one of the tables in the corner, chin in his hand, staring off into space. He's wearing his reading glasses and has a pile of folders and paperwork open in front of him. Forcing a pleasant smile on his face, he makes a broad stroke of the room, coming to stand beside the other man all while staying visible in his line of sight. He doesn't want to creep up on him. It feels too invasive now. Still smiling, he plops down next to Young on the bench. "Everett," he greets him, shifting until he is half-turned to face him.

"David," he says back with no real emotion behind it. He realizes Young isn't looking at his paperwork, or into empty space. Across the room, in the corner by the coffee station, Rush and Volker are leaning against the table there, talking lightly.

At first glance, it's nothing unusual. They sleep in the same room now, since Rush officially packed up and decamped Young's. That had been two weeks ago. Volker is sitting on the table, fiddling with a kino remote in both hands, the orb in question spinning aimlessly above their heads. Rush is standing next to him, one hip on the table, holding a mug of coffee in both hands, eyes closed behind his glasses. He really isn't a morning person, everyone here knows well. The stark white swatch of bandaging flexes on his throat as he takes a long swallow from the cup.

And then the shoe drops and he realizes what has Young so distracted - Rush's hip isn't against the table's edge. It's against Volker. They're leaning there, overlapping, settled into a comfortable silence that is suddenly way too intimate to just be companionable anymore. And as if to confirm this, Rush says something with a rueful smile, shaking his head. A lock of long, soft hair, free around his shoulders today, falls across his face. In response, Volker turns slowly away from the remote, making eye contact with a smile of his own. With one hand, he gently brushes Rush's hair behind his ear and makes a soft comment that only Rush can hear.

"Well, that's certainly surprising," he hears himself saying dumbly.

"Is it though?" Everett says, voice still absent. His staring is more open and obvious now, but neither of the men across the room seem to notice.

"I mean..." He grasps for a way to have this conversation without making it awkward or upsetting for the other man. But surely he must need to talk about this. David knows he would. He does. "I know they're always together, I just didn't think that they were..."

"Together?" Young looks at him then, expression drawn and shuttered off. But David Telford has been his best friend for twenty years and he knows sorrow when he sees it staining through Everett's every pore. He isn't even jealous, he thinks with a pang. He's just sad.

"Everett..." He begins, lifting his hand to touch his friend's shoulder before remembering himself and lowering his arm back down again.

"We need to get started on this briefing," he answers, voice still distressingly detached. TJ is right - they need to talk; really talk. And soon.

~*~

It takes him another three days to work up his nerve.

Hesitating just a moment, he squares his shoulders, pops his neck (making his rows of stitches scream in protest), and knocks lightly on the door. Without waiting for an answer, he palms the doorlock, letting it snap open.

Everett is laying across his sofa, boots on one arm, crossed at the ankle. His head is propped against the other side, one arm up over the arm, crooked around his head, fingers digging into his short hair. He appears to have dozed off reading that ancient copy of War of the Worlds he's been dragging around since college, but he wakes with a start when the door closes again.

"David, what's going on?" He asks, voice still thick with sleep, as he sits up slowly, dragging his legs until his boots are on the ground.

"Nothing, I..." He swallows, feeling a sudden bolt of nerves lock up his throat for a second. "I just..." Combing a hand through his hair, he looks at the floor, at the ceiling, and finally, at the other man. "Everett, can we talk?"

"You got something you need to say?" He sounds wary.

"I do." He replies solemnly.

"Okay," Young puts the book on the table, shifting until his elbows are resting on his knees, hands clasped lightly in his lap. "So shoot."

~*~

They sit side-by-side, Everett with his hands in his lap in a relaxed, practiced pose. David has his left arm braced lightly against his own leg, keeping the bandaged wounds flat, but his other arm is held to his chest, hand smearing over his mouth. "We need to talk..." he begins finally. "...About what I did."

With a bitter chuckle, Young smiles faintly. "You've ah... You've done a lot of things, David."

"You know what I mean."

"I thought we agreed not to talk about this." He sounds testy now and that makes something in David's ire rise in return.

"Did we agree to that or did you just decide?" He snaps, hating the way it falls out of his mouth.

Young's face quirks downwards in annoyance. "I decided, yes."

Taking a moment to catch his bearings, Telford closes his eyes briefly and sighs. "Everett, what I did to you-"

"Tried to do," he interrupts.

"I wasn't trying to do anything. I was doing it."

"Yeah, well, you didn't. Nothing happened. It's fine." He says shortly, voice dark with suddenly vehemence. "All that's over and done with."

"And us?" He asks then, looking past his hand to make eye contact with the other man. "Are we over and done with too?"

Young looks at him for a long moment, mouth a hard line. Finally, he ducks his head, pressing his chin to his chest in a gesture that Telford knows means he's feeling vulnerable. "...I think we're done here," he says finally, pushing to his feet.

Reaching out with his bad arm, he catches Young's right wrist, halting him mid-rise. "Everett, please." He can hear the desperation in his voice but he's not too proud to let that show.

He stays there, not sitting back down, but not pulling away either. Keeping his head turned and eyes on the tabletop, studying the paperback abandoned there, he says finally, "What do you want, David?" He sounds tired.

"I was not in control of myself. Not that day, not that month. Not even that year. They had me so bad, Everett, six ways from Sunday. The brainwashing was intense, it was complete. They owned my ass. Made me think, made me spy, made me plan. But they didn't make me feel, Everett. They didn't make me want. They just made me give less of a damn about what other people felt about it." As he talks, he can hear himself starting to lose it a little - there's a tremor in his voice and one in his right hand.

With a sigh, Young sits back down on the sofa beside him, letting him relax his burning shoulder. "What's your point, David?" He rumbles finally, and Telford can't tell if he's pissed off or just emotionally exhausted. (Why not both, he thinks).

"It wasn't a powerplay. I mean, it was. It certainly was. But it was more than that, Everett." He swallows hard and tries to choose his next words carefully because he knows he's ten seconds from being thrown out or Young just leaving the room on his own. "It was a confession."

"A confession of what?" He replies, voice still whisper-quiet.

"Everett, I did those things to you because I wanted that from you. I wanted... you. I did. I do."

Leaning forward on his knees again, Young braces his arms on his knees, staring straight ahead. David can't read his face from this angle. "...For how long?" He asks finally.

David sighs, shaking his head along with the long, drawn-out breath. "...Probably the last ten or so years, give or take?"

The silence is long and stifling. Finally, Young drops his chin down into one of his hands, letting it slip up until he is cupping his own forehead. He lets out one short, harsh, gasp of a laugh. "Ten years?" He says quietly.

"Give or take."

"Give or take," he repeats.

When Young rounds on him, Telford freezes, unable to stop himself from jerking abruptly as his shoulder tightens and rolls, flexing the stitches uncomfortably. He braces for a blow, certain that this is it - that this is the way this ends between the two of them.

"You're a goddamned idiot, David," he growls, grabbing him by the face, fingers under his jaw, pulling him to face him head on. "...Try eighteen years and get back to me," he advises, before smashing their lips together in an electrifying kiss, two decades in the making.

~*~

Chapter Text

They're taking it slow.

It's hard, hard on both of them. There's so much lost time, lost space, lost words to make up for. But there is a fragility here, something delicate that could easily be overcome and damaged beyond repair. Perilous ground, he knows. David is still mending, still spends most of his time resting or doing light physical therapy. His shoulder is healing, is going to be mostly all right. The muscle might pinch, might be a bit weak, but it was a clean shot. The wound on his neck is a little more serious, but it's healing as well. TJ is confident there will be no ill side-effects from Brody's wild shot. Just Young's more confidently and controlled one. It's hard to imagine that just two months before, David had been choking in a pool of his own blood, two gunshot wounds in the same shoulder, fifteen minutes apart. That he had been a puppet, been a tool. Almost been something much, much worse.

Young has nightmares sometimes now. He dreams of lying there, paralyzed and completely helpless, unable to do more than think and breathe and feel. Feel hands on his body, stripping away his clothes. Hands on his skin, squeezing and pulling. A sloppy, savage kiss, not unentirely like the one he is currently receiving, held snugly between one strong arm and a door arch, though this one is actually welcome and he can move his own body in response this time. It straddles the line of exciting and uncomfortable, doing this sometimes. He doesn't know how to explain it to David. Probably never will. Instead, he holds him by the back of his neck, hand gentle against the edge of his wounded throat, just brushing, not touching. Lets David wind his good arm around his back to clutch Everett to his chest, his back pressed against the doorway. It's an odd fit, the way they've come together, but it had been so organic to be standing there, talking. David had raised one hand and brushed his cheek and chased it with his lips. Everett had turned his head into the gesture and they'd met in something hungry and entirely too honest. And now they're sagging into the doorway of Young's quarters, lips locked, bodies flush from groin to chest.

When Chloe clears her throat, they both freeze.

Red creeps across Young's features as he staggers forward a step, pushing David away gently but quickly. "...Chloe," he offers, voice a grit of gravel, much to his dismay. David doesn't look embarrassed at all - the bastard is smiling.

"You, ah... You wanted to see me?" She asks, doing that quick neck bob that would have made her collar pulse once upon a time. They'd been more careful with hers. Brody hadn't even left a mark. The thin strip around her neck where the skin has been worn smooth over the years is still visible, but there are no masters for this girl now. Not for anyone anymore. Some of them had been outraged, but most of them had seemed to understand. Out here, there is no basis of weighing someone's worth by a ring around their neck. They are a community here, a crew. No one owns anyone on Destiny anymore. Young will see to it that no one else ever will.

"David, would you mind excusing us? There are some things we need to discuss." He offers finally, still feeling flushed from his chest to the top of his head. Caught necking in the hallway like teenagers. Some commanders they are.

"Sure," he replies lightly, leaning forward to cup Young's cheek in his hand for a moment, giving him a light squeeze. "I need to go see TJ anyway. She thinks she can cut the stitches sometime in the next few days."

"Good, that's great. I'll see you for dinner."

Telford smiles, giving him a peck on the cheek he's just released. "It's a date."

Once he's satisfied the other man has ambled on down the hallway, Young motions Chloe into his room. Shutting the door, he turns to where she's settling on the sofa, both hands on her knees. "What is it you wanted to talk about? We haven't started trying the medications yet so I don't have anything to report there."

"It's not about the nightmare medication," he says quietly, coming around to sit on the coffee table across from her. "...I wanted to talk to you about Rush."

She's nodding as though she saw this one coming. "About Dr. Volker, you mean."

Sighing, he runs a hand through his hair. It's getting longer by the day and he doesn't feel the need to shave it into submission anymore. Wonders if it even still curls. "Are they..." he hesitates on his words, trying to decide what he even really wants to ask here. "...happy?"

Her head cocks to the side and she considers him then, curious. This doesn't seem to be the angle she thought he'd take. "...Dr. Volker is ecstatic," she offers finally. "Mr. Rush is... He seems comfortable. Seems really content." She allows herself a warm smile then, meeting his gaze fully with her pretty blue eyes. "He's happy."

He smiles back, but it's a touch more wan. "That's good. I'm happy to hear that." And he is. He really is. But it still stings. Even with everything he's building with David, he's finding himself unable to let go of what has been. Rush has only been in his life for less than two years, but it's impossible for him to let that time go without a fight. It's wonderful, what he's uncovering with David. But he misses what he had for so long, took for granted for so long. It's lonely to sleep with his arms folded around a pillow. It's lonely to come back to a room that's shared with no one. To a bathroom with only one bottle of shampoo on the shelf. Rush took his things and half of Young's heart and moved on to Dale Volker's life. The one thing he'd always been jealous of, always feared. He has David now, so there is absolutely no reason for him to feel this way, not any excuse for it, and it almost feels like cheating to even be thinking these things right now at all.

"You still love him," Chloe says softly, more perceptive than he'd given her credit for, and he'd already known she was smart.

Sighing, he closes his eyes. Dropping his shoulders, he grabs at the edge of the table beneath him. He can't lie to her anymore than he can himself. "I do," he says quietly, feeling hot shame and bitter sorrow tear through him at the admission. "I do."

~*~

Chapter Text

Their silence isn't uncomfortable, but there's an edge of undercurrent that usually hasn't been there lately. He's not sure why. Both of them are sitting across from one another at the Observation Deck table, working on their joint project - Rush takes the white, him, the black. Together, two sets of pocket knives are creating chunky, but artistically-designed figurines. They'll figure out the board when they're done. Even though they haven't discussed the overall look of the pieces, there's an obvious similarity in their designs that manages to surprise him. They're still very much in-sync. Something about that still bothers him but he's not sure why.

"So," he says finally, not looking up from the rook he's notching. "You and Volker."

"What about us?" Rush asks with a bit of bite, trimming carefully around on of his own bishops. He never takes his eyes off the piece.

"He treating you all right?" He asks, trying to keep it light, though he is concerned.

"Volker treats me like I'm made of gold," he answers, sighing.

"Isn't that a good thing?" He counters, carving into his piece a little more slowly as his thoughts begin to run a bit more wild. Rush doesn't sound too happy about his assessment. In fact, he sounds a little annoyed.

"The man thinks I hung the moon," he replies, running a hand over his head, scratching at his hair before coiling his ponytail around his wrist briefly. "...It's a lot to live up to sometimes."

"Everett used to be the same way about you," David offers, setting down his rook in favor of the other, much more raw twin.

He shakes his head, dark hair shot with silver in the lights of the windows. "Not like this. Colonel Young was... emotionally invested in me. Volker's affections border on hero-worship."

"I know the man, Nick," he replies with a slightly sardonic smile, "He thought you hung the moon too."

"Well, it's a shame I never have."

"Who exactly are you angry at here, Nick? Everett? Volker? Me?"

There's a long swallow of silence and the blue light plays with shadows over his face. "...I'm not angry with Volker," he says finally.

"So just us then," he says carefully, not even sure where this is going to go. Rush has been getting stranger and stranger lately, seemingly more tense around the edges, crackling with something David can't identify or define. He'd thought getting involved with Volker would mellow him some, and in some ways it has. But in others, it's making something splintered rise to the surface that David doesn't know how to read. Rush seems brittle now, and part of him is getting sharper, even as part of him seems to fade at the edges.

The scar on his throat is two inches long, almost completely vertical, an angry red line of raised, bruised flesh on the left side of his throat. There's a hickey buried low near his collarbone on the right side, also red and bruised, but in a more organic and less cruel-looking manner. The ring from the collar is fading but is still there, a dark tan line ringing his throat and bisecting that red scar.

"There's something wrong with me," Rush begins softly.

David doesn't interrupt him when he tries to explain. He just listens. Figures it's the least he can do. They understand one another more than they ever have before now. And suddenly it seems that actually might be the problem.

~*~

When he steps out of the shower, Young is already asleep on the bed. He hasn't even undressed, let alone made his way under the covers. He's just laying propped against the pillows, one hand pulled up to his chin, the other folded across his chest. David watches the gentle rise and fall of breath. Knows Everett hasn't been sleeping well lately. This isn't the first night he's come to spend in his room, and he knows the man has woken them both up with a sharp gasp or swallowed cry a few times. Wonders how many times it's happened when he's alone at night. Wonders if it's because of him.

"Everett, you at least need to take your boots off," He says quietly, reaching out with one arm to gently shake him by the shoulder.

The other man lets out a low groan, shaking his head wildly for a moment, freezing under his hand before going still. "...Must have dozed off," he says quietly, clearly embarrassed by his reaction.

"Must have," he agrees. Tapping his thigh, he gestures at his legs. "Come on, boots off."

Following his fellow colonel's orders, Everett makes quick work of his boots, kicking them off to fall against the wall a few feet away. When Telford sits on the bed, he throws one arm around his shoulders, pulling him to his side to press a kiss to his temple. "You want a shower tonight or tomorrow?" He asks quietly, reaching up to toy with the soft fluff of hair starting to grow out around Young's nape.

"Tomorrow," he murmurs, leaning into the other man's embrace. Hesitantly, he wraps his own arm around David's back, hugging him tightly. "How are your injuries?" He asks softly, letting his head roll against his chest.

David lets him burrow, still combing his fingers through that soft hair. He wonders if it still curls. The stitches had come out three days ago, leaving raised and red lines, like the one on Rush's throat, but across his shoulder blade instead. "Still hurts," he offers finally. "But not so much." He smiles faintly, remembering the ease with which Young had shot him in the Gateroom three months ago. He hadn't even hesitated, using Rush as a hostage and then just sinking a bullet into him instead. Everett knows when to fight hard and dirty and David loves that about him. Loves a lot about him, and has, for the longest time. But not as long as Everett, he thinks ruefully. How things might have been different, for everyone involved, if he and Young had been better and more honest about expressing themselves years ago. Would he have ever even fallen prey to the Lucians? Would they have ever gone to that slave auction? They probably wouldn't even be sitting here, on Destiny, billions of lightyears from everything they'd come to know. But they are here now. Young bought a slave and that slave changed everything, for Everett, for him, for the entire Stargate program. It feels pointless to linger on the what might have been, in the face of the what is now. They have each other. But Rush is still here, a third party to this romance, no matter how involved he is with another man. Everett still loves him, he knows. He can't really expect him to stop. But that doesn't quelle the simmer of jealousy that slinks around whenever he thinks of the two of them together. Rush had had him first, and that stings. But he has him now. And that feels pretty damn good, he decides.

Tilting his head, he leans down to press a kiss to the corner of Young's mouth. His lips twitch, and then Young is lifting his head to press their mouths fully together.

Shifting his hips, he turns until he can kneel up and half-over the other man. Deepening the kiss, he rolls Young back on the mattress, planting his right arm to hold him up as he lets his left arm trail over the man's face, his cheeks, his hair, his throat. Young lets him push him down on his back, and he opens his mouth into the kiss, sucking him in and drawing him deeper. One of Young's hands curves around his neck, palm around the right side, and the other flattens on the small of David's back, pushing him down towards him. He goes with the other man's directions, and gently lowers himself until he is kneeling on either side of Young's legs. Everett nips at his lower lip, rolling his hips upwards with a soft groan when Telford pulls back to lick and suck at the side of his throat. Everett's skin is smooth and soft, unblemished by scars and stitches and rings. This is the prize he's longed for for over a decade now, he tells himself. He doesn't want, or need, anything (or anyone) else. When he sits back on his heels, Everett shivers, running his hands through his own growing hair as David begins to slide his down his sides and then to his hips. This is it, he thinks to himself. This is the night when they finally go through with this - finally really become lovers after all this time. Gently, but firmly, he squeezes those hips, feeling the corded muscles beneath his palms, through the thick weave of Young's military pants. When he moves his hands even lower then, he pauses, sensing something has gone wrong.

Everett is still underneath him, one arm draped across his eyes, the other cradling his own head. He's taking slow, deep breaths - not out of regulating passion, but of something else. "Everett?" He asks quietly, disconcerted by the man's stillness and off breathing.

"I don't know if this is a good idea," he admits softly. His voice sounds far-away. Sounds sad.

David's heart sinks and he suddenly understands. The dreams, the way he's gone still when David touches him. Young is afraid. They've barely spoken about what happened in the Gateroom all those months ago. Never spoken about what it would mean for their own current relationship. But he knows now that this is why they haven't been intimate yet - that Young is uncomfortable, is probably traumatized by what happened that day. "I'm not going to hurt you, Everett," he says quietly, withdrawing his hands. "I'm sorry I ever have."

"I know you are," he replies, letting his arms fall off of his face so he can look up and meet his gaze. "I know that you didn't mean for what happened before to happen. I just... I thought I could just get past it. Nothing happened, not really, so I thought it just wouldn't be that big of a deal in the end."

"But it is."

"It is," he repeats solemnly, dark eyes swimming with sorrow.

"Would it be..." He hesitates, trying to figure out what he's trying to ask. "Would it be different if... if..." Reaching down with both hands, he catches Young by the shoulders, making the man stiffen. Gently, but quickly, he moves, rolling them both until their positions are reversed. Now Young is kneeling between David's spread knees on the bedspread, pressing him into the mattress instead. "We can try it like this?" He asks, feeling a little breathless, with worry, with tension, with hope.

Young takes a long moment, gathering his bearings. He is looking down at him now, expression still severe, eyes wide and wet. Slowly, he leans down to press a lingering, tender kiss to David's half-open mouth. He seems to be weighing his options, testing the waters with his deepening kiss, seeking more passion and more control. David lets him have it. Clutches at his arms for grounding but not to push or pull him one way or the other. This is something only Everett can ask for, only Everett can decide if he wants or needs.

Gently, Young reaches between them, stroking wide, warm hands down David's chest, across his hipbones, and around his waist, hugging him tightly to press their bodies flush together. "Everett..." he hisses, hips snapping up of their own accord when those hands curve around to grope lightly at his backside. "Don't you dare fucking stop," he warns, voice half playful still. To his delight, Young is smiling lightly, a dusting of pink across his cheeks. His eyes are still wide but they're dilated now, and his next kiss is more bruising and breathless.

"Trust me," he murmurs, taking the tiniest nip at the corner of David's wounded throat. "I've got no intentions of stopping..."

"Good," he answers, pulling him in for another kiss with one arm wide around his head. Young responds by popping the first button of his trousers. It's awkward with one hand, but he manages, and leans back to catch his breath and to gently tug at the fabric around Telford's waist. Raising his hips, he lets him.

He'd been feeling hopeful but not too optimistic when he'd shoved the little tube of KY Jelly into his pants pocket hours before, but now Young is smearing the stuff on two fingers and gently, ever so gently, rocking one inside. It's good - it's been a very, very long time, someone in the Alliance, back when he'd first been recruited, and all that information is spiraling away as Young gently unmakes him with his fingers. He wonders how many men he's slept with to be so good at this - tender but thorough. He can feel his muscles relax and loosen at the same time, and he lets it happen. This is Everett, after all these years, this is Everett. Sighing, he spreads his legs wider, jutting his hips up to press against Young's obvious arousal, thick and insistent behind his dark slacks.

The mirrored groan they both let out as they finally settle together is musical and magical. It's everything he'd ever hoped for and more. Everett is hot and thick, probably the best girth he's ever had. He feels so warm, pressed flush against him, shaking hands on David's muscled legs, pushing them back so he's bent in half. It makes the thrusts deep and thorough, as thoughtful as Young himself always is. It's perfect. It's everything he's ever wanted. And more. He forgets about the rest of it, the ghost of the other man that won't leave their bed, the things that man had told him earlier that day, the things he can't get out of his own head half the time. It's all out now. All there is, is the movement of the body inside his and the way it draws breath after strangled breath from his lungs. It's perfect, and nothing this perfect can last, he knows with a slice of sudden regret. Reaching up, he catches Young by the shoulders, pulling him down into another hot, hungry kiss. He devours Everett like a starving man, and is met halfway with exquisite pressure forcing him open at his deepest point. When Young reaches down to grasp his straining erection, he hisses a gasp through grit teeth. It's perfect. Everett is perfect. And this time, he swears he will find a way to make this last. No matter what, after all this time, he will make this last. He will make this work. Won't be the one shuttered to the sidelines again. They're together, really together.

"I love you," he murmurs into the other man's mouth suddenly. "You don't have to say it back. But I love you, Everett."

There's a long pause as the man above him stutters out a sigh of his own. "I've always loved you, David," he whispers, leaning in for another bruising, owning kiss. "Always. Always loved you..."

A warm, gentle smile breaks out over David's face at the admission. "Good," he says finally, threading his arms around the other man's neck as he speeds up his thrusts, "That's good."

When they fall asleep, he's folded into Young's arms, being spooned to his chest. Still smiling faintly, a flush still hot about his features, he lays there, breathing deeply and slowly in the other man's arms. Everett is asleep, laying there, holding him. And finally, feeling like a weight has fallen and crumbled off of him, he lets out a deep sigh. There will be no nightmares tonight, he knows. Just this. Just them. After all this time, and against all of these odds. Just them.

David falls asleep in Everett's arms, lost in the afterglow and the bliss. There's still a lot to think about, with them, and now, with Rush. But those are problems for another day. Tonight, there is nothing but the two of them, here in this embrace. And it's heartachingly perfect. David feels tears in his lashes. It's beautiful. And, after all this time, it's real.

~*~

Chapter Text

He pauses before knocking on the doorframe, listening instead. It's mid-morning, but no one has seen either one of them so it's highly likely they're still in their bedroom, doing god-knows-what (he knows what). There are murmured voices on the other side of the wall - one low and warm, the other higher and breathy. Someone yelps, and he knows it's Rush, doesn't want to know what would cause a noise like that. But there's a shaky laugh afterwards that can only be Volker and he feels his mouth turn down hard in a brutal frown. It's not fair.

When he knocks, there's frantic rustlings and he can hear Volker swearing, voice higher now and panicked. It is funny so he lets the frown lift into a small, faint smile instead. Needs to get better at schooling his features.

Without even waiting for someone to tell him to come in, he tries the door. It's not locked, which is both surprising (because surely Rush would remember) and not (because surely Volker would forget). He doesn't get quite the eyeful he's expecting because they're both under the blankets, but Volker is clearly pressed between Rush's spread legs, and both of them are breathing heavily, faces stained pink with exertion and now embarrassment. Even Rush is embarrassed, even though he seems so cool a customer. They all three stare at one another for a moment, and then Rush lets his gaze slide off side-ways, face painting darker into something else entirely. He just doesn't know what that is. "Hey, guys. We're ah - we're going to start the robot on the repairs in a few minutes. Colonel Young wants the two of you to be there." (He'd only asked for Rush, but they don't need to know that).

"You couldn't ask to be let in?" Volker swears, pushing up and off of Rush, who lets out a low keen that he swallows down with single-minded determination.

"I thought you were both sleeping," he lies simply. They don't need to know he could hear them. "Next time, lock the door."

"Why are you so pissed off?!" Volker demands, grabbing his slacks and yanking them on with his back to the doorway. The blankets protect his modesty from Brody's gaze and it suddenly occurs to him he should be averting it. But he doesn't. Let them squirm.

"You think I want to be walking in on this?" He lies again, but the indignant tone covers his bases.

"Well, your message has been delivered, so you're free to go," Rush says finally, sitting up with a low hiss, letting the blanket drape low across his lap. He's still wearing a thin, white tee-shirt and his hair is a mess around his shoulders. He isn't wearing his glasses. He looks gorgeous. Brody can feel a blush creeping around his own cheeks now. This is beyond jealousy, he knows. This is something else entirely.

"Yeah," he agrees, swallowing hard. "I'll see you in the control interface," he manages, spinning away from the door, leaving it open to spite them both. Tells himself he is not running away as he strides down the hall to the place he knows he belongs.

~*~

When the two make an appearance in the control interface room finally, Young, Park, Telford are already waiting. Telford is leaning in the doorway, as usual. Young is chatting with Park, looking absently at the monitor she's operating, though everyone knows he doesn't understand what he's looking at. Brody stands to the side, manning his usual console, next to where Volker usually stands. He tries to keep the scowl off his face when Volker absently shoulders into Rush, who is pulling his hair back in a loose ponytail as they walk. It's a playful, intimate gesture, and one that Brody doesn't think Rush will allow without some kind of reaction. But he just smiles and shakes his head gently, letting his left arm brush Volker's right when he lowers it from the nape of his own neck. It's disgusting how comfortable they are. He looks over to see Colonel Young watching them with barely disguised interest and he feels a stab of sympathy and a sense of connection. But it's time to get to work and Rush and Volker separate to stand at their consoles, Volker with Brody and Rush close to Young and Park. The colonel goes to look over his shoulder as Rush powers up his own device, and they make idle chitchat about the robot and the rivets they've managed to synthetize. Young doesn't touch Rush, merely leans slightly past him as they talk quietly, and Brody feels the scowl threatening again. Everyone seems comfortable in Rush's orbit and he doesn't seem as interested in dissuading them as he once did. Infuriating. But it's time to get to work, so he powers up the robot and the day begins.

~*~

It shouldn't be his pride and joy, but it is. The still is simple, yet elegant, taking up most of the long counter, yet leaving room for people to sit in front of it and partake of its wares. It had been criminally simple to build, compared to the rivets and the bulkwork they've been stuck on for weeks. And the yield is more fun. Even if it tastes like battery acid and bad weed all rolled into one.

Rush has never been here before though, so this is new.

He makes an effort of polishing the cloth over the still itself, giving it an air of cleanliness and himself something to do. (No one had better point out that a couple of the components are a little worse for wear and could use a touch of rust removal. It's made to create booze, not win awards, he thinks.) But here is Rush, looking over the thing like he's never seen one before, not even in pictures. Which, Brody realizes with a start, he probably hasn't. Who shows a slave pictures of moonshine distilleries?

"Can I get you a glass?" He asks casually, always enjoying the aspect of roleplaying a bartender. He even throws the rag over his shoulder in a theatrical gesture to lay it on thick. It's fun.

"I'll have a Manhattan," Rush remarks dryly, with a slight smile. It's hesitant and small, but it's there. It looks like the one he uses when he's speaking to Volker and that hurts at Brody somehow.

"Hmm, one fancy, mixed drink, coming right up!" He promises instead, running the still to pour a good heft of moonshine into a plastic thermos lid. When he places it on the table in front of Rush, the other man stares at it for a long moment like it's going to attack him.

"I've never-" Rush starts to talk and shuts up, still not picking up the cup.

"I figured," he replies, going back to cleaning the still. Gives the man his space. He's still not sure why Rush is here - is he trying to prove something? Is he just curious? This seems like a big deal to him for some reason, much bigger than a thermos lid of bad alcohol in an empty room. "Have you ever even drank before?" He asks, suddenly curious himself.

"Wine," Rush answers, picking up the cup and examining the liquid. He lifts it to his nose for a sniff and jerks his head back in surprise, making Brody laugh out loud at his face. "Some cocktails. I like whiskey sours," he offers.

"This is not a whiskey sour," he promises, still chuckling. When he sees the way Rush's hand tenses on the cup in preparation, he cautions "It's best if you just sip-" but Rush is throwing it back like a shot, long throat swallowing it in one go, the angry scar still showing red there when the skin flexes.

It only takes a moment for Rush to start choking and spluttering, gasping for air as he pounds at his chest. "I tried to warn you!" Brody admonishes, reaching one hand out gently, touching the unscarred side of his neck. The sensation distracts Rush from his misery and he gets a hold of himself finally.

"Fuck," he spits, eyeing the still balefully.

"You're not the first person to do that," he promises, still smiling. Rush is bright red and there is sweat beading on his brow. His ponytail has slipped a little during his choking and he coils it around one hand absently, reaching for the thermos lid with the other. "No, I don't think that's a good ide-" Brody begins when he puts the cup under the still.

"Please," Rush says quietly, voice almost subdued. "I want to get drunk."

"Have you ever even been drunk?" He asks, feeling guilty, but he fills the makeshift cup as asked.

"A few times. It's fine," he replies, but he does carefully take only a small sip this time.

"At least sit down. That shot is going to hit you and lay your ass out if you don't. Have you eaten today?"

Rush shakes his head, taking another sip. "Wasn't hungry."

"Rush," he says severely, feeling a rush of irritation. He's going to have a drunk man puking in his tavern, he just knows it.

The other man sits in the chair as directed, nursing his thermos lid like a rag against a split lip. He holds it close to his face as though he's afraid it's going to be taken away. Brody has half a mind to do just that, before he makes himself sick, or worse. Finally, his curiosity gets the better of him, and, against his own better judgement, he sticks a glass measuring cup under the still, cutting himself a drink as well. "So," he says, sitting across from the other man, who watches him almost balefully as he nurses his liquor, "Why do we want to get drunk today?" He tries to sound conversational and not mocking but a trace of bad humor is noticeable in his voice.

"No reason," Rush lies, the untruth hanging so obviously in the air Brody can practically see it.

"You get in a fight with Volker or something?" He half-jokes, fishing obvious. The lure catches immediately because Rush's face crumbles. He looks so sad that it hits Brody hard in the chest - the man looks as though he's about to cry for fuck's sake! "Okay... So you did. You wanna talk about it while you drown your sorrows?"

"...I think I just got dumped," Rush mutters, draining his glass before plopping it down in front of Brody, who sighs. He pours Rush more alcohol against his better judgement, but he needs to hear more of this and if he doesn't keep him drinking, he knows the other man will just swallow it all up and leave.

"Volker wouldn't dump you," he assures him, passing over the thermos lid.

"You don't know what I said to him," he answers, carefully sipping at the liquid. He looks like he's about to pass out already, the shot obviously going straight to that brilliant brain of his and leaving him very little in the way of sobriety. "I told him I can't love him," he offers finally, taking a slightly longer drink. "I think I broke his heart."

"It's good that you were honest with him," Brody replies, trying to sound gentle. "If that's how you really feel. Dale, he... He's an emotional guy. Wears his heart on his sleeve," he adds, nursing down his own swill. It tastes like shit and he can't believe Rush is drinking it as easily as he is - he must somehow be more accustomed to foul tasting liquor (and not whiskey sours and Manhattans) than he lets on.

"I've been... taking advantage of his kindness," Rush says quietly, studying his reflection in the liquor still in his container. "I knew how he felt; I just didn't care so long as I got what I wanted," he admits, sounding far away. "I just... wanted to know what it felt like."

"You were in a relationship with Colonel Young," Brody interjects almost sullenly. Rush is right, he knows - he did take advantage of Volker's crush on him, to enter into a relationship where he didn't care the same way back. Assuming Rush even knew how he was supposed to care back. The man is a mystery at all times.

"I was his property," Rush spits back, his upper lip dragging in a brief snarl. "Ownership is not a relationship."

This flat admission stuns Brody. They'd been romantically involved, everyone had known that. They'd even turned up reeking of sex the day the ship had first entered a star. For Rush to not feel like this was a relationship... what did he think it was, Brody wonders darkly. He said he'd wanted to know what 'it' felt like. To date? To love? To get a chance to say 'no'? He takes a long drink and it burns all the way down. He has some thoughts of his own now and they're not good ones.

He knows Volker used to hate Colonel Young. Had assumed it was a healthy dose of jealousy and nothing more. But it had never occurred to him that things between Rush and the Colonel had been anything but good. They fought sometimes, he knew - in the end, Rush had even left the other man, moving his things into Volker's room, even before he'd been freed. If Young had been a cruel slaveowner like Rush is implying, he would never have allowed that, Brody reasons. Rush just must be thinking of thinks darker because they'd gone badly in the end. Right?

After all, during the mutiny, when Telford had been brainwashed and poised to do the unthinkable to Young, Rush had tried his damnedest to stop him. Why would he help him if things were bad between them? He'd even offered himself in the man's place. And Telford had made a crack about 'Stockholm Syndrome,' he recalls with a sort of muted horror. Is that how things had been? Maybe Rush had even thought he was in love at the time. Maybe Young wasn't a rapist - maybe he really hadn't known any better. That day is a flashbulb memory for Brody now - being rounded up by men with guns, locked in a room, only to be yanked out for Telford's special project. He had been so afraid but he had tried to keep his cool. Rush had betrayed them, he'd thought at the time. But he'd been brainwashed too, and offered the only thing a slave could ever really want, all at the same time. And he'd still come through in the end.

Telford never speaks to Brody, after that awful time in the Infirmary after the botched deprogramming. Rush barely speaks to him outside of the necessary these days, apart from all this. Suddenly he wonders how much Rush really knows about that time in the Infirmary. He knows Telford talks with him from time to time, that they spend time together when Telford is not plastered to Young. Now that had been a nasty shock and no surprise all at the same time, he thinks. So soon after Telford had almost assaulted him, and suddenly Young is his boyfriend? Do cool military guys call each other 'boyfriends'? He takes a long, deep drink of his glass. He doesn't understand anything that's going on on this ship anymore, he thinks sadly. Except that Volker might be nursing a broken heart. And that's the best shot he's ever going to get, he realizes.

He's just not sure which way he wants to go.

~*~

Chapter Text

He raises one hand and touches the door with a hint of hesitation before lifting his wrist to knock on the door properly. There is no sound from within and he realizes suddenly how late it is growing, making him feel foolish but also a bit desperate at the same time. He can find an empty room somewhere surely but he knocks again a little louder this time. Now there is movement in the room, a rustling and the indistinct sound of voices. He blushes when he realizes the room's occupant is not alone after all.

After a very long moment, Chloe opens the door.

"Mr. Rush!" She says, clearly surprised to see him.

"Chloe, I..." He tries not to slur his words after the drinking he's done. "I'm sorry, I can come back another time..."

She closes a loose hand over his wrist, her grip light and gentle as she tugs him back towards her once he's turning away. "No, no, it's fine. It must be important for you to come so late."

He looks back into the room where Lisa Park is slipping her shoes on at the foot of the bed. "I didn't mean to interrupt..." He begins again, feeling like he's interrupted more than just a friendly hang-out session, if the way Park's blouse is misbuttoned is any indication.

"It's fine. I have an early shift tomorrow so I needed to be going anyway," Park says breezily, pecking Chloe on the corner of her upturned lips as she passes them, ambling out the doorway. She seems completely at ease and comfortable in her environment. Rush envies her with every fibre of his being.

"Come inside, please," Chloe offers, finally releasing his arm. She's making decisions for herself that leave Rush uneasy but he knows Park is harmless and will hopefully not break her heart. All of the day's ugliness comes rushing back to him and he winces as his head twinges in protest. Brody's rotgut has done a number on him and he really needs to sit down soon.

"I was wondering if I could..."

"You can have the left side," she says lightly, palming the door shut behind them as they finally enter the room fully.

"How did you-"

"I talked to Dr. Volker earlier and he was... upset. I didn't think you'd be going to sleep there tonight." She makes it sound so simple when it is ripping Rush into pieces inside. He can find an empty room. But Rush has never been alone before, doesn't know how to do it. He's not sure if he can sleep without someone else in the bed anymore. He's never tried.

"You talked to Volker?" He asks, unable to keep the sliver of hope out of his voice. Maybe things weren't as dire as he feared.

"He was... upset," she says again, crossing the space to sit back against the headboard. "Come sit down; you look like you're about to fall over!"

He gratefully sinks down beside her on the bed, drawing his knees up to his chin as he leans against the headboard. The beds on Destiny are a generous size and both of them are slight so there's plenty of room. She doesn't crowd him and he's thankful.

"Does he hate me?" He asks, voice small, as he rests his sweaty forehead against the dirty knees of his jeans.

"He is sad. He doesn't hate you. He just might need some time. He said you had a pretty ugly fight."

"I told him I can't love him," Rush whispers sadly, recalling the angry way he'd spat it earlier in the day, the expression on Volker's face like he'd shot him with a gun or slapped him across the face. He might as well have done both, he thinks ruefully. It had been a simple spat, Volker looking for sex and Rush not being in the mood, that had soured the situation until they were arguing about nothing and finally Volker had cracked, admitting his affections and asking Rush to be less mean to him in consideration. But Rush has never known how to give in the face of other people's gentleness and he had struck him with the coldest words he could, just to make him more upset. It is a nasty habit and one he isn't proud of. He realizes he is saying all of this out loud, blundering through an explanation to the only other person on the ship who might stand a chance of understanding.

But Chloe is kind, Chloe is sweet. But Chloe also knows what it is like to have no sense of agency except the kind you can claw up for yourself and perhaps she has felt the same bubbling resentment and anger that eats at Rush day in and day out.

"It's okay to be angry sometimes, Mr. Rush," she offers quietly, crossing her legs and folding her arms in her lap. "But you don't have to... to lash out all the time, you know?"

"I know," he whispers back, closing his eyes. But to know and to do are two different things and he has always had so much trouble behaving like this. It used to get him in trouble when he was a child and only with Gloria had the nastiness seemed to stop. She had dissolved his barriers with consideration and he had never felt lesser or degraded in her presence. She had asked for his kindness and he had given it in spades but he has never known that peace again or apart from her and he just wishes he could be normal but he doesn't even know what that is.

"I'll apologize tomorrow," he promises, and he really does mean that. Volker deserves that, at least, even if he's truly ruined things between them now forever. But Volker had changed the game by declaring his feelings, taking it from something casual to something loaded with emotions Rush doesn't know how to give. He has never known how to give.

"He'll forgive you," Chloe promises, reaching out to squeeze his hand where it is wrapped loosely around his knees.

"But do I deserve that?" He wonders, turning to look at her, cheek on his knee. His hair is coming out of the hair tie and starting to fall around his face and he can't bring himself to care.

"Everyone deserves another chance. Things might still work out between you."

"But I don't love him," he says sadly, closing his eyes again. His glasses are starting to fog up from the way they're pushed against his face.

"Could you? If you had the time? I mean, I don't know if I love Lisa, but we're... taking things as they come. It's good so far. You seemed to be doing well. What happened?"

He shrugs as best as his position allows him to. "Too much of a good thing. I've never known how to be satisfied with what I have."

"It's not because..." She hesitates and he opens his eyes to see her biting her lower lip.

"Because what?" He asks, sitting up and taking his glasses off to wipe them on his sweatshirt. He needs to get his things from their - from Volker's rooms - if things are really truly over, he thinks ruefully. And he cannot stay in Chloe's room for very long, especially if she is entertaining company.

"Because you're in love with someone else," she says quietly, almost breathlessly.

And it's like he's been punched, the air sucked out of his lungs as he blinks back what feel suspiciously like tears. Does he love someone else? "What a ludicrous concept," he sneers, but there's not much bite to it with his head still swimming with Brody's swill.

"If you did... love someone... you could tell me," she says gently, raising her hand to pat his thigh in a timid but tender gesture. "I won't tell him anything."

"I like women too, you know," he protests airily, trying to glare at her as he replaces his glasses on his nose.

"But none of the ones here on Destiny. Unless... You didn't like Lisa did you?" She sounds concerned now, a hint of anxiety in her voice.

"No, no, Park is a good lass but she is not my type, I can assure you," he promises, chuckling lightly at that. Chloe need not worry about him stealing her girlfriend, he thinks. And then he really thinks. "You said you wouldn't tell 'him'," he drawls, sitting up to look at her. "Who did you mean exactly?"

"I... I shouldn't say. I don't know if it's supposed to be a secret."

Someone else besides Volker is in love with him? There can only be one candidate, he things almost sourly.

"Colonel Young and I were through a long time ago," he cautions her, trying to sound flat and not as bitter as he feels. He can feel the acid rising in his throat as he thinks of the other man. His former master who 'thinks he hung the moon', he thinks darkly, recalling Telford's words those weeks ago. Young was everything to him once, even though he terrified him half to death half the time - he'd wanted nothing more than to please and adore him. That it had come with all of the brainwashing baggage was unfortunate. And now? Now... He felt... For Young, he felt...

Rush puts his head in his hands, sinking his fingers into his long, dark hair, combing it back from his face and letting his hands really dig into his scalp.

"Mr. Rush?" Chloe is concerned now, raising one slim, white hand, but not touching him this time.

"Call me Nicholas," he rasps hoarsely, suddenly craving hearing another person using his given name for the first time in years. Young had done it a handful of times but only when things had been very intimate or very dire between them. It felt loaded to hear Young use his name. But a woman's voice... That might be nice, he thinks, calming slightly when her hand finally flits across his shoulder and back.

"Nicholas," she whispers, making it sound as tender and intimate as her touch has been. "Are you... all right? I didn't mean to upset you."

"You didn't. I upset myself. Has he... What did he say to you?" He asks finally. He has to know. Does Young even still care? He's with Telford now, playing at a real relationship between two equals, with a loaded personal history that can't make for the easiest of bedfellows. Is he... concerned... for Young?

"He still loves you," Chloe says solemnly. "He still cares just as much as he did before. He never stopped."

"But Telford..."

"It's different with Colonel Telford, but he still cares a lot about you. If you went to him-"

"I'm not about to make him choose between Telford and me," he snaps, finally letting up on the death grip on his hair.

"Does he have to choose?" She says with a playful tone, at odds with his cross one.

"What are you playing at, girl?" He still feels that bolt of anger, but it's not really directed at Chloe. More anger that he can't stifle coming out at the wrong people, he thinks sadly. This thought slakes some of his rage, making him feel hollowed out and cold.

"Things are different out here. We can make our own rules. Do whatever we want, even if it would be considered 'wrong' back home. We're free here, Nicholas. You have to really embrace that."

"By running back to my... to Young?"

"By learning to ask for what you really want, and accepting that you can have everything you've never thought you could."

He sighs and plants his cheek back on his grubby jeans. Looking away, he thinks about what she's saying and what she's implying. They are billions of lightyears from Earth. They are free. There's so much he wants and he doesn't know how to reach for it. But for the first time in a long time, he finds he has a place to start.

~*~

The next morning finds him at another door, preparing to knock. When it opens of its own accord, he steps back quickly, clamping down on the need to flee, to pretend like he was just passing by and not waiting to see the other man.

"Rush," he says, sounding completely caught off-guard by his presence.

His hair is free around his shoulders as he shrugs elegantly. "I was just about to knock," he says finally.

"Come inside. Unless you'd rather walk?"

"Am I keeping you?" He asks, uncertain suddenly. He can still back out of this. He hasn't committed to the plan just yet.

"I was about to head to the mess."

"I'd like to talk to you in private."

"Of course. Come on in. My office hours are technically over so we won't be bothered."

As soon as the door is shut, he reaches over to spin the lock, making the other man arch an eyebrow in surprise.

"We gonna fight, Rush?" He asks calmly.

"I think I'd rather do something a bit different," Rush says, catching the taller man by either side of his uniform jacket's lapels. Without a warning or permission, he leans his whole body into the other man and smashes their lips together.

After the longest moment of all moments, a hand fists in his hair, not yanking him back but dragging him closer. David Telford closes what little distance remains between them and kisses Rush back fiercely in return.

~*~

Chapter Text

This is wrong.

This is oh-so-wrong, on so many levels.

But he holds Rush in both arms, one gripping his ridiculously long hair, falling halfway down his back now, and the other around the small of that back, holding him in place as he plunders his mouth and grinds their hips together. Rush is already hard against him, trembling like a leaf and making Telford harden fast in his own slacks. He's watched Rush for years, physically attracted to his best friend's slave from the moment he'd laid eyes on him, all that time ago at Homeworld Command's security gate. It had only grown more intense, and he'd begun to flirt with the other man once he'd had him with the Lucian device, making him silky promises and slinky innuendo. Rush had never really flirted back but he had never rejected his advances for what they were, even if he never acted on them. He sure as hell is acting on them now.

Telford moves them backwards through the room, pushing Rush towards the bed on the far side of the room. He thinks of Everett briefly, with a pang of guilt that stutters his breath and his arousal. Everett would understand, he decides, promising to himself that he will explain to the other man after everything is said and done. 'Better to ask forgiveness than beg permission,' Jack O'Neill had always said. He knows he's not likely to get another shot at this, whatever it is, if he fucks it up now.

Rush's knees hit the bed and the other man sits abruptly, falling away from Telford into a shivering heap on the bed. Telford is between his legs instantly, spreading them and groping his hands up those lean thighs as he leans down to plunder his mouth again. His jeans are dirty and he's wearing the brown sweatshirt, the one that Telford always finds so distracting and he wonders how Rush has figured this out, if he had dressed for this seduction, and what exactly he's playing at.

"What are we doing?" He asks finally, planting one knee on the bed between Rush's legs, deliberately putting pressure against his hard cock.

"Isn't it obvious?" Comes Rush's flippant reply.

"You've never been interested in me before, Rush, not like this. What gives?"

"Volker dumped me," Rush says breathlessly, looking away finally, his eyes unreadable behind his glasses.

"I find that hard to believe," he answers, reaching to stroke his hands up and down Rush's spread legs, as though warming him from the cold. Rush shivers in his arms.

"Well, he did. And Chloe said I should... Act on things I've wanted. So I'm doing that. Is there a problem?" He reaches for Telford's shoulders, pulling him down and back until he is laying on his back sideways across the bedspread, drawing the other man to kneel on top of him, hands finding their way to his hips.

"What about Young?" Telford says, trying to keep his voice light, but a hint of gruffness smothers that effort.

"What about him?" Another flippant reply.

"I thought... you wanted..."

"Young and I were finished a long time ago," he answers evenly, pressing a wet kiss to the side of Telford's mouth, seeking a deeper one that Telford denies him. "Seriously," he complains airily, still seeking that kiss, "You know how I feel about Young."

"Do I? I don't even know how you feel about me. Hell, I didn't even know you liked me!"

Rush chuckles at that, finally letting his head loll back on the bed, pillowed on his soft, silky hair. "...Who says I have to?"

"What are you playing at here, Rush? What's your angle?" Telford asks suspiciously, reaching down to palm his hand down his scarred, pale throat, toying with the zipper of his sweatshirt with two fingers.

"Just shut up and let this happen, David," Rush says simply, clutching at Telford's hips with both wide palms, warm weight against his rumpled clothes.

"That's the first time you've called me 'David'," he says with a warm smile, finally giving in and giving Rush the kiss he desires. He takes his mouth thoroughly, enjoying his tongue and licking his teeth, suckling like he's drinking honey from a flower.

Rush practically purrs underneath him and he finally manages to draw the zipper down on his shirt, revealing a firm, slim torso to his hungry gaze. Rush is just shy of boney, but his chest is decently filled and only a few ribs are visible. He makes Telford's mouth water and he traces his way down his throat to his collarbone. Rush shudders when his mouth briefly sucks against his scar and he pushes back with one hand to dissuade David, who is already taking note and moving on. He nibbles at Rush's clavicle, making the man moan beneath him, so responsive and hard against Telford's knee. He licks and sucks his way lower, down Rush's chest, taking a moment to sample one of his nipples, earning a sharp, breathy cry that stabs straight to his own arousal. And then he smooths his hands up Rush's dirty jeans to dig his thumbs into the waistband. "You ready for this?" He asks with a smirk, feeling ten feet tall and bulletproof (the muscles in his shoulder protest otherwise but it's easy to ignore them right now when faced with all of this).

"Show me what you've got, David," Rush says cockily, lifting his hips to let Telford slide his pants down his hips. The jeans fit him well enough but Rush is thinner than he used to be on Icarus so they slip easily down his thighs and legs. Rush, of course, isn't wearing shoes or socks, as is his wont, so the jeans are easily discarded. He's wearing a pair of dark grey briefs and Telford reaches for those next.

"You have no idea what I'm capable of, Nick," he says, a touch too breathlessly for the menace he's going for.

"I think I've got a fair idea, actually," Rush replies, but there is a faint flush in both cheeks now that he is completely naked and Telford is still completely clothed. It makes Telford feel powerful, feel in control. He is a bit worried about hurting Rush but he has some KY stashed in his bedside table for when Everett comes by sometimes, even though they prefer to make love in Everett's quarters (the bed is bigger and it makes the other man feel safer and that's all that matters to David). He has another pang of conscious when he thinks of Young. Would he hate him for this? Could he begrudge him this, after all the things he's felt for Rush (and still feels, David is not stupid). He thinks that, if given the same opportunity, Everett would take this chance as it comes and not be too angry at him for this. He hopes.

He moves Rush with both hands on his waist, dragging and turning him until he's lying properly against the pillows, reaching past him for that tube of KY hidden in the dresser drawer. Rush looks content with this, but he is reaching for his own glasses, setting them on the tabletop, nearly dropping them in his haste. His hair slithers across his bare shoulders, a shining brown mass, streaked ever-so-lightly with the beginnings of grey. Telford wonders for the first time how old Rush even is, to be so uncanny and so bold. It makes Telford feel bolder, makes him want him more, teased by those traces of silver in all that dark hair. Rush is perfect and in this moment, Rush is his. He knows there is something off about this whole thing - that Rush is playing at something, planning something, using him somehow. But two can play at this game and he can use the other man right back, he decides firmly.

His teeth are back at Rush's neck, careful to avoid his scarred side, teasing a bite before sucking the skin into his mouth and really worrying it this time. Rush makes a sharp squealing noise of surprise and his hands fly to David's shoulders, but he doesn't push him away, just clings to him, moaning shakily as David goes back to suckling the welt he's just made. He's never marked up Everett like this, too busy taking things slow and being cautious and unassuming with the other man. Everett is still skittish around him sometimes and he has never topped him during these past few weeks, out of fear of reawakening Young's distressed feelings that have all-but faded over time and David's constant giving. He doesn't want to be the one to give this time - he wants to take. And so he bites at Rush again, lower this time, sinking his canines into the joint of muscle where his shoulder meets his neck. This time, Rush cries out softer, but he is squirming his hips. He is fully erect and leaking against Telford's thigh, the glans of his penis drawn back revealing his head. He wonders if anyone's ever given the other man a blowjob suddenly and thinks back at Everett and his skilled hands and deft kisses and feels a bolt of jealousy. Of which man, he's suddenly not quite sure.

Taking pity on Rush, he takes him in one broad hand, cupping his length and squeezing. Rush sobs out a shaky noise and bucks up into his fist. "Shit, David-!" He cries, scuffling from side to side and shivering. His neck is bruising fast and it makes David's mouth water for more.

"I warned you, Nick," he says silkily, clasping his hand tighter and letting him fuck up into it. "You wanted this, remember that."

"S-Shut up and fuck me," Rush spits at him like an angry cat, but the illusion of outrage is shattered when he chokes on another moan when Telford pushes his leg to the side, spreading his thighs to splay on either side of David's rough-weave pants. He grasps a little harder than he would dare with Everett, leaving red fingerprints on the other man's fair skin. Rush has no marks on his body apart from the ones on his throat and Telford bites his shoulder this time, raising more blood to the surface and earning a string of broken curses from the other man's lips. The KY is on the pillow next to Rush's head and Telford reaches for it as he draws back.

"You're gorgeous, you know that? You look so good covered in my marks. Think I'll leave more wherever I want, show everyone how good and fucked you've finally been after all this time. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" The dirty talk falls easily from his lips. Rush is blushing hot scarlet and panting for air. His cock is still rock-hard in Telford's hand. Releasing him to the disappointed cry the other man makes, Telford reaches instead for his thigh again. This time, he squeezes hard and twists his wrist, raising a red mark on that white flesh. Rush is as pale as a ghost and completely smooth. It makes David want to wreck him.

And so he does.

When he dips his head down, it isn't to take Rush in his mouth, but rather, to sink his teeth into that reddened skin of his thigh. Rush lets out a sharp yelp of surprise and levers himself up off the bed and against Telford's body, a quick, helpless buck that leaves him collapsing back against the pillows.

"F-Fuck, David..." he whimpers as Telford worries the bite in his teeth, bringing a bright blossom to the surface of that smooth flesh. "Don't do that..."

"Shut up, Nick," he advises, drawing back slightly only to bite a few inches to the right. Rush's erection hasn't flagged and he isn't struggling to get away so David thinks he still has a handle on this. No one has every been rough with Rush before, he realizes, not Everett and certainly not Volker. He doesn't know much about any other sexual experience Rush might have had in his life but from Everett's fumbled talk on the subject, he'd been pretty much a virgin. He likes the sound of that. Tries to imagine Rush as a virgin, being spoiled for the very first time. He's all wide, owlish eyes and shimmering hair and pale, soft skin, so it's an easy picture to paint. No one has certainly ever had Rush like this.

When he reaches for the KY again, he's not gentle with the resulting probe of his fingers. He doesn't take his time. Rush is swollen and leaking against his uniform shirt where he's leaning over him and he knows he can't want to draw this out any more than necessary. He wants to be inside Rush yesterday, so he circles his entrance with two fingers, playing with the tight ring there and delving his clever fingers right inside. Rush howls again, thrashing against him, but he is biting his lips now and trying to be quieter and that just won't do. He sinks both his fingers in a little deeper and twists them immediately, wringing another shout. Now that is music to David's ears.

~*~

After about twenty minutes, the mist shuts off in the shower and Rush steps back out into the room. He's wearing his dirty jeans and nothing else, his sweatshirt lying across the freshly-made bed. The room still smells of sex and Rush of Telford's body wash. It's still intoxicating and Telford cannot keep the smile off his face. Rush is limping a little but he knows he didn't leave him too bad off in the end, even if it was rougher than Rush is surely used to. He wanted to use Rush, and he has.

The smaller man sits on the bed, shrugging on his shirt before easily and casually zipping the front. Telford mourns the loss of the sight of that pale skin and those red blossoms he has left on his neck and shoulder. Only Rush's scarred area remains untouched, as he'd wanted. Telford wonders if he will ever want Everett to run his teeth over the scars on his own shoulder once they are fully healed but he isn't sure. It's a question for another day. He's just fucked Nicholas Rush for the first time and flying high as he does up his fresh uniform so he pushes Everett from his mind just for right now.

He wonders if anyone will notice that he's changed into a new uniform for the day but Rush had left his clothes a sweaty, semen-stained mess so it had been necessary. He wishes he'd tasted the other man just once but he wonders if there will be another chance.

"You good?" He asks lightly, toying with the sleeve of his jacket. Rush looks up, an expression almost like alarm on his face. His eyes are still huge and wide without his glasses. Reminded of their existence, Telford crosses the space to the bedside table and picks them up to hand them to the other man.

Rush takes the glasses warily, examining them as if for damage before setting them on the bridge of his nose. "'m fine," he says softly, studying his lap. He'd been so bold before but now he seems... almost shy.

"Are you sure?" Telford presses, unsure why he is bothering. Was he disappointing? Is Rush unhappy? He'd seemed to enjoy what they were doing while they were doing it but Rush is nothing if not mercurial.

"I need to talk to Volker," he says, voice still almost meek with quiet.

"That's what you're thinking of? Now?" He is unable to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

"I need to get my things. Find a new place to sleep." Rush sounds defeated and sad, so different than the firebrand he'd been when he'd slammed into the room.

"You could sleep here," Telford offers immediately, and regrets it almost as fast. He doesn't sleep in this room though, he sleeps in Everett's, but being somewhere that's not... alone... might be an acceptable compromise for Rush? He knows he's never slept alone before and wonders where he'd spent the night before. And who with.

"Could I?" Rush blinks, looking up at him, surprised.

"I mean, I sleep with Colonel Young, so you'd have the bed to yourself. But I work from here so we'd cross paths."

"I don't want to be in the way."

"You're fine, Rush. Think about it. The door's unlocked when I'm not in."

"Thank you. For... for today. All of it. It was..." He smiles then, a secret, warm smile that lights up his narrow face. "It was damn good."

And Telford is grinning again too, the cat that got the cream. He knew he still had it in him to give a good fuck. "Thank you for your assessment, Nick," he says, letting his pleasure show in his voice. "...Volker is probably in the mess. I was on my way there before... things happened. I can walk you?"

"I'd like that," Rush admits, standing from the bed. He brushes his long hair behind his shoulders and tugs the zipper of his sweatshirt all the way to the top before smoothing the fabric down. It's wrinkled but Rush's clothes are always sort of suspect so it's not very noticeable in the grand scheme of things.

"Do you want to talk about this whole thing?" He pushes his luck.

"No," comes the curt reply.

"Suit yourself. But you and I are going to talk someday, Rush. Really talk."

"We're too similar to do anything else," Rush nods.

"It's not just the deprogramming fiasco, you know," Telford says, unlocking the door before palming it open, daring a glance over his shoulder at the other man. They never speak of the deprogramming fiasco. "We really are similar people, Nick. The Lucians taught us that."

"They taught us a lot of things," Rush murmurs, smoothing his hand over his hair in a gesture that is too eerie in its familiarity to Telford - he does it himself all the time. He mourns briefly the man Rush used to be, before, well, everything. He hadn't know him very well, but Rush had been different. Less cracked. Less caustic. Less brittle.

David took a lot from him when he brainwashed him with that Lucian device.

As they amble, side-by-side, down Destiny's curved hallways, he vows he will do what he can to bring that original man back. Somehow.

~*~

Chapter Text

Rush is limping.

That's the first thing he notices and he doesn't like it, immediately. He is holding himself a little delicately, a bit stiffly, arms wrapped around himself in a hug. And Telford is walking beside him looking like he just won the lottery and it leaves a sick taste in Volker's mouth. He's always been excellent at math and this is not complicated in the least. It makes his face turn down into an ugly frown, a deep scowl that makes Lisa break off mid-sentence and look behind her to see what he's glaring at.

"Oh, Colonel Telford, Mr. Rush," she calls cheerfully, giving a little wave. Rush nods at her and Telford continues to grin like a goddamn Cheshire cat. "Anyway, like I was saying..."

"Actually," Rush interrupts, voice soft and overly-delicate, "Might I borrow the good doctor for a moment?"

"Oh. Oh. Sure!" She steps aside like water and Telford is patting him on the shoulder lightly before ambling off in the direction of Becker and their supply of rations. This leaves Volker face-to-face with Rush for the first time since their ugly spat and he realizes he has no idea what to do or say.

"Take a walk?" Rush asks and he nods dumbly, following him back the way he'd just come, out of the mess and into the hallway.

They walk down the hall until they come to a crosspace and Rush palms the door of a small room, probably some kind of meeting room if the tiny table and handful of chairs are any indication. Rush has clearly been in here before since he goes to stand against the far wall, still hugging himself through his brown sweatshirt and Volker closes the door, trying to fight the flush threatening to creep into his face.

"You, um... You wanted to talk to me?" He sounds pathetic to his own ears. Knows Rush must think he's an idiot. It's not far from the truth, he thinks ruefully, and that knowledge kills some of his embarrassment and replaces it with bitterness.

"I wanted to apologize." Rush sounds quiet, voice so soft and velveteen. He sounds shy and it doesn't suit him at all. He's apologizing? Rush never apologizes, not for anything, not even the mutiny.

"For what?" He hears himself ask and wants to disappear into the floor when he sees the miserable expression that takes over the other man's face.

"What I said... What I did... was cruel. It was uncalled for. You didn't deserve it," Rush's words tumble out in a stumble. He straightens his glasses and Volker wonders if he is about to cry. He'd seen Rush almost cry once before, when he'd told him about the night he'd thought Colonel Young was going to rape him, back on Icarus. He seems just as defeated and aching now. Volker longs to take him in his arms and soothe him but he knows that's probably not wanted, will probably never be wanted ever again. And that makes him want to tear up instead.

"Does that mean you'll come back?" He asks softly, curling his own arms around his own shoulders. His formerly broken arm is hurting with phantom aches today and he is doing his best to ignore it.

"We both know I can't do that," Rush replies gently. He's being so soft and it makes Volker actually lose his battle with tears then.

"I thought... What we had was working..."

"We both wanted different things, Dale," comes the breathless reply. It's true. Rush wanted sex and affection and passion and Volker... Volker wanted love. Was in love. Is in love. Probably always will be. And this is too much and he wants to leave before he really breaks down in front of the other man.

To his shock, Rush is crossing the space and reaching up to pull him by the shoulders then, down and into his arms, into a soft, tender embrace. He smells strange, not like his usual shampoo, and Volker thinks again of Telford and the way Rush is limping. His hair is still damp and Volker takes a deep breath of the wrong scent and hugs him fiercely, not wanting to let go.

"Goodbye, Dale," Rush says quietly, jaw moving against Volker's chest as he speaks. "It was... It was good. Don't forget that it was good."

"You either," he chokes out in reply, stroking a hand through that soft, silky hair. Rush chuckles against his collarbone and he shivers from the ghost of breath against his throat.

"Thank you. For... for everything," Rush says, voice stained with tears and regret. Volker's heart is breaking and the fact that he doesn't know how Rush really feels after all of this is making him hurt even more.

"Goodbye, Nicholas," he says, his own voice a rasp.

They part, and Rush silently leaves the room.

Volker sits in one of the empty chairs and puts his head in his hands. He begins to sob, one hand in his growing curls, the other on his own throat. He cries, noisy and violent, heedless of the open door.

~*~

When he returns to his room later that afternoon, Rush's things are gone. He lays down on the too-large bed, fully-dressed, hands folded over his chest and holds himself as the tears threaten again. Lying on his back, it's harder to cry but the punched feeling in his gut isn't going away so he drifts in that space between sleep and wakefulness and just feels endless regret.

~*~

His heart spikes in his chest at the sound of a knock at the door. He has no idea how much time has passed. He's too disoriented to dig his phone out of his pocket and his arms and legs feel like lead. The knock sounds again, a bit louder. Would Rush knock?

Stumbling slightly, he gets to his feet and makes his way across the small room to the door.

Adam Brody is standing on the other side, one hand on the back of his own neck, the other slung down low, a thermos knocking against his knee. "Dale," he breathes, sounding surprised to see him standing in the door of his own room. "Were you sleeping?" He asks, and Volker realizes he has been drinking his own alcohol based on the cadence of his voice and the scent on his clothes. Brody is good at holding his liquor, so how much has he had?

"Something like that," he answers, stepping back to allow the smaller man entrance. Brody moves around him like he's wary, like Volker is dangerous. Is he really that drunk? Part of him is so disappointed that it isn't Rush and he tries to crush that sensation, knowing it isn't fair to Brody at all.

Brody looks around the room as though searching for something and finally he turns to look at Volker, still rubbing the back of his neck. "Can we, ah... sit?"

"Are you okay?" Volker asks, placing one hand on the other man's shoulder. Brody feels warm and solid under his palm.

"I just need to sit down. Had a bit too much to drink?" Brody offers, and he takes the gentle shove Volker gives him and moves towards the bed. Sitting awkwardly, he looks like he's going to keel over even sitting down so Volker ushers him up against the headboard so he can lean against the thing. The thermos comes to rest between Brody's crossed legs.

"You brought more booze?" He asks archly, sitting across from him so their knees are brushing as he folds his own legs into what his brain helpfully provides is 'criss-cross applesauce'. Useless information that makes him wonder if he's catching some kind of brain malady. He's been stupid for Rush today so apparently Brody is no different. He always feels awkward, always feels foolish. Never feels quite like enough.

"This is for you. I thought... You didn't come to the still but I thought you might like to get hammered."

The idea is not without its merits, Volker thinks, taking the thermos silently. Unscrewing the lid, he tilts the bottle and fills the thing with the clear, strong-smelling liquid. He's sampled Brody's booze more than he cares to admit but he's never gotten drunk before. Brody still seems tipsy now, even though he's firmly anchored to the bed. It isn't like him to drink so much.

"Why are you drunk?" He asks bluntly, downing the thermos lid like a champ, only coughing and choking a little on the back burn.

"I wanted..." Brody starts strong and trails off abruptly, becoming very interested in his hands, clasped tightly in his lap. "...To talk to you," he finishes finally, looking up through the fringe of curls that frame his face.

Brody's hair has become a cloud of dusky strands lately, more impressive than even Volker or Colonel Young's curls. Volker's face warms when he thinks it's pretty and wonders where the hell that thought came from. He thinks of Rush's soft, silky hair, spilling down his back and all around him when he's lying down and he wonders if Brody's hair is scratchy or soft. And he's only one drink in, he thinks ruefully, before pouring another.

"What did you want to talk about?"

"So you and... and Rush... is that really over?" Brody sounds like he's trying to be tactful but it hits Volker like a blow to the chest.

"...We wanted different things," he echoes Rush's words, clutching the thermos lid and draining it dry.

"What is it you want, Dale?" Brody sounds breathless now, and he's looking at him with such a puppy-dog expression that now Volker's chest clenches for a different reason.

You.

And where the hell did that thought come from? He wonders desperately, fumbling with the thermos to buy him the time to organize his thoughts. He doesn't want Brody. He's mourning Rush. Does he? Isn't he? Brody is his friend - his best friend, really. They've been as close as anything since Icarus and only Rush has been more in his orbit, more at his side. But Rush is gone, cleared out and God-knows-where, and there is only Volker and his empty, too-large bed.

"Dale?" Brody sounds confused now, and he unclasps his hands to reach out and place one slim palm on Volker's wrist. His hands are warm and solid, just like the rest of him. There are callouses on his palms that remind Volker that he does more than work with computers all day - he works in the walls, in the still, building and repairing things. Brody fixes things. He's good at it.

Can he fix this? Can Volker let him? Is that even what he's here for?

Volker is nothing if not observant but he's never noticed this sort of emotion coming from Brody before. Maybe he's kept it hidden, out of respect, out of fear. No one likes to be rejected and he'd been so firmly entrenched with Rush that it must have seemed impossible to approach him with these feelings, if indeed, Brody has felt them.

"I love Rush," he says softly, capping the thermos and letting it rest against the inside of his knee. Then, slowly, oh-so-slowly, he takes his free hand, smooth and soft from nothing but computer work and no practical labor, and places it on the back of Brody's palm. "But I like you too."

"Who says I like you?" Brody says, face twisting into a grimace as he tries to pull his hand away.

"Don't you?" Volker insists, feeling the headiness of the liquor and his own desperation. He's just had his heart broken into pieces and here he is, offering those pieces to a man he isn't even sure wants them. What is he doing? What is he doing?

"I..." Brody hesitates and stops trying to pull his hand away. He curls his fingers around Volker's wrist, under his smooth palm, and he looks at their joined hands before raising those wide brown eyes to meet Volker's. They aren't the same shade of chocolate as Rush's, but they're close and they're nice, and he feels his chest flutter with an emotion he doesn't know how to name.

"Why did you come, Adam?" He asks, using the man's given name for the first time in their acquaintance.

"You're making this too easy," Brody counters, eyes wet and wide.

"Who says it has to be hard?"

"Now you sound like Rush."

"Rush isn't coming back," he offers softly, and then, he lifts Brody's hand until the man is leaning forward with him and slowly, he presses a light kiss to the back of his captured hand. "You don't have to compete with him."

"I'll always be competing with him," Brody says breathlessly, a hot flush staining his cheeks.

"Isn't that my decision to make?" And maybe there will be moments of comparison. But only as Volker learns the differences between the two men. Rush had been his first real relationship since college, since women, a lifetime ago now. And he has only just lost the man and things will still be awkward between them as they work on the ship day in and out from now on. But he doesn't have to do this alone. Brody came to him in his darkest night. That has to mean something. Maybe Brody is just his best friend, trying to do his best to comfort him. But then why get drunk first? No. Brody came for this. Came for all of this.

"Can I kiss you?" He asks breathless now himself. He shifts until he is kneeling on the bed, closer to where Brody is sitting. He releases his hand to sink one hand in his hair. It's soft, so soft, and wispy like the cloud he'd imagined.

"Aw, God, yes," Brody says simply, closing his eyes and licking his lips.

Watching that tongue move over those pink lips does something to Volker and he practically lunges to close the space between the. His free hand goes around Brody's shoulders and he continues to cradle his hair. He kisses him lightly, but firmly, slotting their mouths together and tasting the booze and the slightly salty taste of Brody's saliva. It's gentle and tender and he tries to feel every inch of the other man's mouth beneath his before oxygen makes them part at last.

Brody looks miserable and it gives Volker pause. "Adam?" He whispers, thumbing his cheek and curving his broad palm around the other man's small skull.

"I don't want to be your second choice," he says quietly, a single tear tracking down his cheek and disappearing in the collar of his hoodie.

"How about my next choice?" Volker tries to keep his voice from breaking and mostly succeeds.

And Brody smiles. "I can live with that."

They don't make love but they curl under the blankets together, fully clothed, Brody wrapped snuggly in Volker's arms. It's different, so different than Rush. But it's good, and for the moment, it's enough.

~*~

Chapter Text

Something is wrong with Telford.

It starts abruptly. One night, he doesn't come to bed until long after Young has given up and fallen asleep alone. After that, the man is a ghost. They share meals, share a bed, but the other man seems distracted and distant. Young wonders if it's something he's done wrong, some test he's failed, some duty on which he has not delivered. Maybe the honeymoon is over and this is how they are to be from now on.

They keep separate office hours in different parts of the ship, Young in their room and David in his old quarters. Sometimes Young hangs out in the Control Interface Room and watches Rush and the other scientists work but he has very little understanding of what they actually do there so he limits his visits to progress reports and stressful situations (of which there are an infinite amount). He knows Rush is sleeping in that room David works out of and it makes him feel some kind of way, as Chloe would say, but he does not know quite what.

When the door of his office opens, he expects to see Chloe, or even David, but it is Rush who slips through the open door like a wisp, dressed in his blue sweatshirt and jeans that actually look like he's washed them for a change. He's still barefoot and his hair is loose around his shoulders in a shimmering wave of brown, spiderwebs of grey and gold catching in the light.

"Colonel Young," Rush says smoothly, voice mellow and soft. He sounds a bit breathless, like he's almost surprised to see the man in his own room. Young is stunned to see him, alone and up close, after all this time. Completely caught off guard, he remains sitting as Rush palms the door shut and locks it. Now that is unusual, he thinks dumbly.

"Rush," he says simply in reply, fiddling with the papers on his desk. After a long moment, they just regard one another in silence and finally Rush sighs and runs a hand over the top of his head, petting down around his hair in that soothing gesture that is so familiar and so alien on him all at the same time. It clicks suddenly, where he's seen it before, because he's been seeing it a lot lately - Rush is mirroring Telford's body language and that is just bizarre given their differences over the past few years. He knows they spend time together, carving the chess set that is almost done now, but the pair have never been friends, especially after the mutiny.

"I wanted to talk to you," Rush offers finally, coming to stand closer in the room. He circles closer to Young's desk like a shark scenting blood in the water and Young wonders when he sprouted a wound. He'll always be wounded when it comes to Rush. Time has done nothing if it has not taught him that.

"What about?" He replies, clearing the grit from his throat. It feels tight suddenly, with emotion, with remorse, with remembrance. It's been six months since Rush left this room and a week since he broke up with Volker. Everyone on the ship knows, apparently, but Young had to hear it from Chloe, because no one else wants to gossip with the ship's commander. Rush smells like the vanilla lotion they used to use as lube and Young feels his pulse quicken at the sensory memory. This feels wrong, all of it, and he can't quite pinpoint why. Rush is on a mission and he isn't sure if he likes the shape of it. The blue sweater, the vanilla, his clean clothes and hair. His eyes are owlish behind his glasses and he finally perches on the corner of Young's desk, one hip on the edge, and crosses his arms to his chest in one of his self-soothing hugs.

"What about?" He says again, voice a bit firmer, and Rush has the good grace to look embarrassed now.

"This was easier before," Rush mutters to himself, and Young is even more confused. To Young, he says simply, "I've been thinking about... things. Us. You. Me. Things."

Now all the air seems to have been sucked out of the room. "Us," he says so simply, as though there had ever been such a thing.

Unbidden, a memory of a lifetime ago floats up in Young's mind - "I thought you wanted me to teach you," he'd said. "I thought I'd want to know," Rush had replied. What has changed?

"There is no 'us', Rush. That bridge has been fully incinerated, don't you think?"

"Does it have to be?" Rush asks calmly, reaching one hand out to brush along Young's shoulder. It's a bold move and he wonders almost hysterically if Rush is drunk but there's no scent besides that damned vanilla and it's early in the afternoon so the odds are slim. But Rush is touching him and he doesn't know what to do besides panic and flash back to all the times they have done so in the past. The fistfights, the lovemaking, the embraces. Rush used to let him hold him, let him kiss him. But that was an act, part of his brainwashing by the Lucian Alliance, and none of that was real in the end. Was it?

"Did you ever really love me?" Young asks suddenly, staring at the hand on his sleeve instead of the man settled on the edge of the desk beside him. Rush sucks in a breath and holds it and withdraws his hand as slowly as he'd placed it. Young looks up then, watching him huddle back into his self-hugging state as he stares at the desk and not Young.

"I... I wanted to love you," Rush whispers and it sounds so honest it makes Young's heart break with the hope it gives him. "I wanted to please you, to make you want me too. I wanted... things to be good between us..." He looks up then, making eye contact at last. "And they were, weren't they? Before... before you found out the truth about me. You loved me, you told me so." The hand is back, petting along his shoulder in a gentle brush of fingers against thick, black cloth. "You love me still, don't you?"

Young feels like he's been punched and shot and stabbed all at the same time. There is no air and he's going to throw up. He doesn't though, instead, he reaches up and closes one thick palm around Rush's elbow. He tugs the man forward and Rush overbalances, sliding off of the desk and into Young's lap in one smooth, if overly-heavy movement. Young lets out a soft 'oof' and Rush makes a high sound of surprise but he doesn't try to get up. He sits there in Young's lap, his other hand coming up to clutch at his jacket for purchase to stop from falling into the floor instead.

Young holds him with one hand around his hip and the other on his elbow. Rush has never sat on him before and the man is as lightweight as Young has always imagined he would be. He knows he can bring Rush to the floor in a controlled fall and he has no doubt that he could lift him easily. But now he is holding him and he has no idea what to do with him now that he has him. He looks at that thin, pink-lipped mouth, and longs to kiss the other man, but that might be too much. Rush had asked him a question and he hasn't exactly answered it, but he wants to show the other man how he feels without having to let those precious words escape. It's been so long since he's said them to anyone but David and he realizes suddenly he is betraying David in doing this, and it's like a dose of cold water over him. How is it so easy to forget his current lover when faced with the one who got away?

Because he has never stopped loving Rush, something David knows as well as he does. He will die loving Rush. But what can he do with him, in this moment, at this moment in his life? He can't betray David, distance or not, but he can't just push Rush away and let him slip away, perhaps forever this time. He'd thought this already was forever and here is the other man to throw him into confusion once again. Rush is a whirlwind of torment and joy and he feels green around the gills from this carnival ride.

And then Rush moves.

His hip shifts, sliding along Young's lap as his leg hitches up, half-between them, not creating a barrier but pulling them closer together. Rush's grip on Young's jacket changes, going from startled clutching to clever fingers slipping into his clothes to grip and pull. And Rush's mouth is moving, opening and turning until he is placing an open, desperate kiss to Young's surprise-slackened lips.

The kiss is as electric as he remembers, all hard, sharp teeth and soft, chapped lips. He can feel the corner of Rush's glasses digging into his cheek as Rush bumps their noses together as he deepens the kiss. Young lets him, lets it all in, takes every ounce that Rush is willing to give him. This is crystalline and beautiful and everything Young has missed with his whole heart. It has been so long since they kissed, really kissed, and this almost feels like the first time after so long. He is not breathing because he has forgotten how, but he tangles his fist in Rush's long, dark hair, feeling those spiderwebs of light with his fingers as he clutches the back of his head. Rush is so small against him, bird-light and tastes of the sun, that beautiful, terrible star they'd made love in once, when Rush had whispered those precious words and Young hadn't heard him. He hears him now.

Young holds him, one hand still on his hip and the other in his hair as he returns the kiss, still not breathing as he nips and licks at the other man's mouth. Rush lets out a shaky moan, one Young swallows with their mingled saliva and replies with a low growl of his own. Letting his mouth slip sideways, he kisses down Rush's cheek, and lower, moving down on the right side of his throat, and now Rush makes a soft cry of startlement as his lips come into contact with the pulse-point on the side there.

He uses the grip on his hair to pull it aside at last, giving him full access to Rush's throat - and stops abruptly when he opens his eyes as Rush makes another soft sound, this one tinged with a bit of pain. Rush's throat is a mess - mottled purple and green bruises, teeth marks clearly visible against his pale skin. Someone has made a ruin of the man's neck and Young knows it wasn't Volker who did this. The marks look old, possibly a week or so, but they are clearly still tender to the touch if the sounds Rush is making are any indication.

Pulling back, he can't help himself from clenching his fist on the hip he holds, the other tightening in Rush's hair. "Rush?" He rumbles, voice grit and low with desire, with confusion, with lust and some revulsion. Who has Rush been with? Who has done this? It couldn't have been Volker. Though it's been only a week since they went their separate ways, Volker doesn't have this sort of violence in him, Young knows the man well enough to know that. Then who? Who would Rush let touch him?

"It's nothing," Rush murmurs, shaking lightly now in Young's hands, as he clutches to his chest and licks those kiss-swollen lips, so distracting and almost meek in his embarrassment and hint of distress.

"Who did this to you? Did you... Did you let..."

"It was consensual," Rush replies acidly, his sharpness overcoming what had looked for a moment like fear.

"Tell me," he growls, shaking him again, a wringing motion that sends Rush into Young's neck as he struggles to keep his perch on his lap.

"...David," Rush whispers, eyes on Young's left shoulder and not his face.

Young stands abruptly, dumping Rush across the desk, wrinkling papers and knocking folders into the floor with the violence of the motion. Rush goes with the shove, falling back onto his elbows where he stares up at the man who has just let go of him completely.

Young can feel his breath increasing as his vision narrows to the other man's pale face and mottled throat. David. David. His brain is screaming in agony and betrayal and he's not even sure whose hurts the most. That David would lay hands on Rush or that Rush would let him, but he knows if he does not leave this room he will do something he will regret for the rest of his life. He could hurt Rush. He could lay his hands on him and wrap them around that bruised throat, feel that raised scar where his knife had kissed it months before. He could hurt Rush, make him feel regret and remorse and pain and desperation and hurt him. But he is not that man anymore, will not put his hands on the smaller man in anger, in violence, in retribution. He is not that man anymore and he could hurt him so easily that he is trembling with the terrible knowledge of it, of what he could do. Finally, he turns instead and practically runs to the door. It doesn't open when he slaps his hand against the mechanism and he remembers Rush locking it when he came in and finally disengages the thing and the door snaps apart with a grind of gears.

He strides down the hallway, sweat trickling down the back of his neck as he moves, one thought burnt into his mind. David. They are going to talk. He is very eager to hear what the other man has to say.

~*~

David is not in his office, nor is he in the mess, or the Observation Deck. That leaves the Infirmary and the Control Interface Room and Young has a gut feeling this is going to be as public as possible so he heads to the latter next. And there the man is, leaning casually in the doorway as he always does, watching the science team chatter and work.

He looks up when he sees Young storming down the hall towards him and he has the good grace to look startled by the angry expression he can feel twisting his features. Good.

When Young catches him by the collar of his uniform jacket and slams him into the wall, David's hands fly up to wrap around the ones holding him, but he doesn't try to wrest free. Instead, he hangs there, half-sagging down the wall, staring up at the other man who is the taller of the two for a change.

"Everett-" He begins and Young shakes him angrily, snarling long and low, right in his face.

"You really did this, didn't you, David?" He hisses, lips brushing the hair growing out past his ears and around his chin. "Did you think I wouldn't find out?"

"I knew you would," he offers back, voice hoarse, and he blinks back what might have been tears for a split-second, making Young's grip on rage falter slightly. "I knew," he repeats himself, and licks his lips. "Can we please take this somewhere more... private?"

And Young looks up to see the other four people - Chloe, Park, Volker, and Brody, all staring openly at them. Volker has a hard, knowing expression his face and Brody, stunningly enough, reaches over and brushes the knuckles of his hand across Volker's clenched fist. So Volker knew. Hell, maybe they all know. Maybe Young is the last to learn the truth once again, about Rush and Volker, about Rush and David...

"My office. Now." He snaps, letting go of Telford who almost collapses from the off-balance position he's been pulled into. Nodding at the others, he storms down the hall the way he'd come, content that David is following in his wake, hands jammed into his pockets and looking like a man going to his execution. Well, maybe Young hasn't decided if that's still on the table yet.

~*~

Rush is long gone by the time they arrive in their room. The papers have been straightened on the desk and the scent of vanilla lingers, a ghost of what could have been, in the air.

"I thought you'd understand," Telford says as soon as the door lock spins. He leans against the door, not flinching when Young slams a fist against the locking mechanism. "I thought..." He runs a hand through his growing, black hair. "I thought it would be okay..."

"You slept with him," Young's voice is harsh and deadly as he retreats before he punches the other man straight in the face. He leans against the corner of the desk, where Rush had rested his hip not an hour before. "You fucked Rush."

"I wanted... Christ, Everett, you should have seen the way he came at me. It was like I was the only thing he'd ever wanted and he fucking needed me and I wanted... to give it to him so badly. I fucked up. I know that. Why do you think I've been avoiding you this whole time? I feel like shit. I fucked up. I shouldn't have touched him."

"Damn right you shouldn't have!" Young snarls, crossing his arms to his chest in an attempt to keep his limbs to himself. He wants to grab Telford again and do more than shake him. He can see the edge of the scarring on his throat where his jacket has been yanked down and he wants to prise and pry at the wound until it reopens and bleeds- Swallowing and struggling to get ahold of himself, he reminds himself that he let Rush go without hurting him and he can do the same for Telford. Maybe.

"I know he's... He had just broken up with Volker, and he was looking for a rebound I guess? But he seemed so hot and hungry for it and I thought... I thought you wouldn't begrudge me indulging in the one thing we both know you want more than anything..."

"That's not fair." Young snaps, letting his head shoot up from where he'd been staring at the other man's throat to look him in the eye.

"Isn't it? You've never stopped loving Rush. If he came to you-"

"He did. I sent him away."

"He- What?" David sounds absolutely stunned now, and he flattens his palms against the door, cradling the metal with his hands as though he is struggling to stay upright. "Rush was here?"

"He came to me, smelling of vanilla and wearing the blue sweater. He came to seduce me and then I saw the bruises, Christ, David, did you have to use him like that?"

"I didn't do anything he didn't like. No one's ever been rough with him before but he loved it," Telford protests hotly, hands in fists at his side now.

"The point is you... And I... I thought we had something here, David. I thought you loved me."

"I do love you, Everett. By God, I love you, but Rush was so tempting and so passionate... I couldn't help myself and I convinced myself you'd have done the same. Why didn't you do the same?" He sounds almost distraught, so confused and wound up. He sounds sincere in his declaration of love, but he slept with Rush, Young battles with the desire to remain angry versus the desire to make peace with the man he still loves.

"You didn't have to cheat on me, David. If you'd asked, I..."

"You would have said yes?"

"I don't know! You never gave me the chance! I couldn't be with Rush today because I'm committed to you, you fucking asshole! But apparently I'm not due the same sort of respect and understanding!" He lets his own voice break with the weight of his grief.

"I am an asshole," Telford agrees quietly, looking away at last, colour in his cheeks and sorrow written across his strong features. "I fucked up. Shit, I... I regretted it as soon as I saw you that day, I felt like I'd betrayed you..."

"You did," Young says flatly, lips pursed.

"I love you, Everett. Rush intrigues me and I know how much he means to you. I thought it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to know something I've wanted forever and I took it. I just didn't expect to feel this guilty."

"Good," he says, voice still cold.

"If he came to me and he came to you... He said Chloe had told him he could finally act on all the things he's always wanted to do... So if he came to both of us..." Telford sounds conspiratorial, sounds thoughtful.

"What are you getting at, David?" Young snaps impatiently.

"I think Rush is still in love with you."

"...He told me that he used to want to love me. And then he kissed me."

"I think he loves you and that this was some scheme at breaking us up or something so he could have you in the free and clear," Telford says breathlessly, pawing a hand through that shaggy black hair. He needs a haircut, they all do, but it feels nice to have his curls again after so long spent with military styles, out here, on the edge of the universe, where so much and so little matter anymore.

"I think that's a pretty bold assumption," he says finally, shuffling to rest against the desk in a more comfortable position, one less likely to end in a lunge for Telford's throat.

"Is it? He loves you. He uses me. We break up. You're free and still in love with him. It's not as complicated as his usual math."

"If Rush still loves me then why has he been so distant and so avoidant for so many months? He left me, remember?"

"Rush is confused. He's conflicted. He's got a lot going on in his head and I think he wanted to be sure he loves you, so he tries dating Volker to get more experience. Tries using me to get some more. And then he can make up his mind and comes to you."

"You sound so sure."

"I kind of am."

"If Rush still loves me... I blew that chance when I threw him away from me earlier today," Young says mournfully, wrapping one palm around the back of his head to sink his fingers into his own soft curls.

"Not necessarily. We just have to convince him to... to like me too."

"David, what the hell are you talking about?" Young looks up then, confused.

"We're in the middle of nowhere, where all cultural barriers and rules are falling away. Rush thought he had to break us up to have you, Everett. But I'm proposing to you... What if he doesn't have to?"

"I'm only going to ask you one more time what the hell you're playing at."

Telford smiles, running a hand over his hair in a self-soothing gesture he'd just seen Rush appropriate once again earlier that day. "Haven't you ever wanted a threesome, Everett? Not a one-night-stand, but something more... permanent. We could do that. We just have to convince Rush." He leans back against the door and crosses his arms lazily to his chest, the cool, confident David Young knows and loves so well. "Come on, Everett," he cajoles gently, still smiling. "What do you say?"

~*~

Chapter Text

Rush is positive that someone is watching him eat.

He takes his rations in the mess, same as everyone else, only this time, he's come during 'normal' hours so the room is actually filled with a fair scattering of people. The food tastes better when it's freshly made, he realizes as he spoons another mouthful and continues working on his calculations in his notebook. They are finally repairing the last of the outer hull damaged in the first trip through the star six months ago and soon they will have to start assessing more of the ship for safety as they reclaim more territory from the elements and neglect. It is a daunting task but they are making it work. If only all of his other pursuits had gone as swimmingly, he thinks ruefully.

How had he miscalculated so badly? How could Young have been so... impossible? It should have been a simple seduction, like Telford had been. He'd even put more effort into his attempts anticipating a little more confusion from Young but never outright resistance. And then he had been so angry... Truth be told, Rush had been terrified when Young had thrown him down on the desk. It had all shifted and gone sideways and he was vulnerable and distressed in the face of that rage. And then Young had simply... left. So he had cleared out and gone to hide in Chloe's room again, too scared to even go to Telford's room that night. And now he is trying to bury himself in work and distract himself from his resulting misery and discombobulation. He feels lost, adrift, confused. He feels utterly rejected and utterly alone. And there it is again, the prickle of hairs on the back of his neck as though someone is dissecting him with their gaze from far away.

When he looks up, he finds himself meeting the eyes of the last person he expected and his heart leaps into his mouth when Colonel Young slings his weight into the table bench across from him.

"Rush," Young says in his customary growl.

"Colonel," he offers coolly, uncertain of the other man's mood. Young looks... thoughtful, and his hair looks as though some effort has been made to tame it for a change, so Rush is puzzled by this little tidbit of data. He had brushed his hair before going to Young's room yesterday, he thinks almost bitterly. (It is still down around his shoulders today, hiding the remains of Telford's bruises from sight).

"I wanted... to apologize..." Young practically mumbles, uncharacteristically shying from Rush as he looks at the tabletop, at his notebook and hands, instead of his face.

"What for?" Rush asks, momentarily stunned. Young has only apologized a handful of times in their relationships and most of the time it has been for truly horrific things. What is he sorry for? For rejecting Rush? (Rush's heart leaps in his chest at the thought). Or for pushing him down again? (He deflates then at that memory).

"I shouldn't have shoved you," Young begins, and Rush slinks away from him, curling his arms around his chest, notebook forgotten. "But..." He raises his head then, finally meeting Rush's eyes again. "I really shouldn't have reacted like that. David and I... we talked. I understand what happened between you two and... I'm not angry anymore."

It's a lot for a man like Young to say and Rush sits silently, still hugging himself as he digests it. Young is sorry he reacted in anger but he has not offered anything more than that, really. It's not what Rush longs to hear. But it's a start.

"What happened between Telford and myself was... Well, it wasn't an accident," he replies finally, skating his gaze to the side and flushing faintly at the memory of David's mouth between his thighs. His throat is not the only part of him that is still bruised.

"Why did you go to David?" Young asks softly, warm brown eyes shining with moisture. "Why not come to me first?"

"You know why."

"You wanted him to cheat. You knew he would."

Rush licks his lips, feeling caught out in the open at last. "...I'd hoped."

"Why?" Young pushes the envelope, the way he always does.

"Because I wanted you two to... stop... being together. It makes me sick."

"You mean it makes you jealous," Young corrects, but there's no malice in his tone. Just confusion. "But why? You left. You had Volker. You made those choices."

"And isn't that the point?" Rush hears his voice raise along with his hackles. Here he thought Young actually understood him at long last.

"You wanted something you could choose, all on your own. And you had it. But it didn't make you happy."

"Volker is a good man," Rush protests weakly, running one palm over the top of his head in that damned gesture he can't seem to stop making but it feels so soothing, so comforting, and so normal and that's the part he hates the most about it. It shouldn't feel normal to mimic Telford. But the man is literally inside his head. And Young still has no idea and he has no idea how to broach that subject without breaking down somehow and losing what sense of self he has left. So he ignores his own distress and focuses on the matter at hand.

"Volker was good to you, I know that. But he wasn't enough. But Rush, do you really think I am?"

After all they have been through and all that has happened to him, his heart yearns to simply say 'yes' and throw himself into the other man's arms despite the table between them like a wall. "I don't know," he says slowly, resting both arms on the table, his sweater sleeve brushing Young's hand where it is lying on the other side.

"Do you... want to find out?" Young rumbles quietly, an ocean of hidden things in that moment.

"What exactly are you offering. You and Telford..."

"David and I are still together. What I'm offering is to..." Young falters, voice tripping up, and the man actually blushes, his olive skin turning quite pink in the bright lights of the mess. "You could come to our room. Tonight. And see what happens."

"See what happens?" He asks incredulously. Young cannot possibly be inviting him into what he thinks he is. This has to be a misunderstanding, a mistake, a prank, a joke. But Young doesn't look like he's joking. He looks like he's three seconds from hyperventilating or bolting from the room. He looks sincere. A memory then, unbidden, of two men sitting in a room universes away on a very different spaceship in very different lives. "You go where I go," Young had said. And it had been true. It could be again.

"I'm tutoring Chloe in coding tonight until around eight. We could..."

"I'll bring us some dinner. But come to our room. Please." Young doesn't just sound sincere. He sounds desperate.

"Don't make me regret this, Colonel." He says, standing from the table. It's almost time to meet with Chloe and he wants to get a quick shower in before that happens. Needs to be as presentable as possible if they are really going to do... whatever this is.

"You won't. I promise."

He smiles then, reaching down to brush his knuckles over the back of Young's hand as he scoops up his notebook. "Then it's a date."

Rush can feel Young's gaze following him out of the mess and he can't contain the bounce in his step as he moves, feeling elated for the first time in a long time. Whatever this is, they are going to make it work. Rush, Young, and even Telford somehow. Whatever they are offering, he wants it. Might even need it. But it's so much to take in that he needs a bit of air so he makes his way to the showers to refresh himself and think.

~*~

It is a mistake to tell Chloe.

He knows the girl won't gossip, not to anyone but Park at least, but he really doesn't want this to get back to Volker until he absolutely has to and has a better handle on the situation himself. Something is going on between Volker and Brody now anyway, he knows, though he is not certain just what, but he is happy for the other man and hopes it is not just a mere rebound and awkward separation. The entire science team is in bed with one another and this is a mess, he knows.

But he has to tell someone or he feels like he'll explode with it, this new development, this new possibility, this evolution. He'd wanted Telford enough to use his body to get him out of the way but if Young wants him to stay... Telford is not completely repellant to Rush and Young, Young... Young is everything. He's spent months trying to figure out what he wants and discovered it just might actually be what he'd had all along. There are details he doesn't want to consider, baggage to this setup, but he can put all that aside and just ride this out wherever it leads. Can't he?

"Can you really just... I mean... Both Colonels?" Chloe is teasing but her voice sounds full of wonder as well. Wasn't she the one who had set all this in motion, implying this very same scenario, just last week?

"We don't have to all fuck at the same time, Chloe," he deadpans and she smacks him in the arm with one slim palm.

"Nicholas!" She is giggling now like the schoolgirl she never was and he smiles back, warmed by her happiness for him. And she is happy. The nightmare medication, combined with her growing relationship with Lisa Park, is helping her sleep and rest and she's learning more and more science and mathematics by the day. She wants Brody to teach her Ancient and Volker to start on the basics of astrophysics. And she and Rush are working on coding nearly every night now, how to read and translate the math Destiny spits at them and that they scramble to feed her back. They've got to find the Master Code and unlock all of the ship's systems, but it's slow going and there is always so much to do. Rush feels like he is two people again, but instead of being a spy and a mathematician, he's a scientist and a lover now and he's finding he likes this rhythm better.

There is a knock at the door.

It's a solid, almost desperate thumping, like something is wrong. Rush looks at his silent radio on the bedside table and over to the door.

"I'll get it," he offers, unfolding his legs and smoothing his grey sweatshirt down his chest, careful to keep his hair over his battered throat.

Chloe sets her laptop to the side, looking concerned, when the knocking comes again, loud and solid.

"Yes, yes," Rush calls, letting his crossness show in his voice as he makes his way from the bed to the door. On the other side is a stranger.

He's a military man, dressed in an away mission uniform instead of his standard-issue one, with no rank on the collar and no name badge affixed to his chest. Rush has seen him around the ship, in larger meetings and in the mess, perhaps even earlier today. The man is large and bulky and utterly unremarkable.

"Can I help you?" He asks haughtily and then gasps when the man's arm shoots out and he wraps one meaty fist right around Rush's throat. It all happens so fast - one minute he is opening a door and the next he is choking as the man strangles him easily. He can hear Chloe over the roar of blood in his ears and he struggles in the man's grip, raising both arms to wrap around that burly arm that holds him so easily. The hold changes, the man releasing his windpipe and sinking his fingers instead into his long, loose hair, twisting his head until he is forced to turn his body into the other man's, so they are standing back-to-chest.

Chloe is on the floor, having obviously been thrown, hair tangled in her face as she struggles to get back to her feet.

"Stay down!" The man shouts angrily, shaking Rush for emphasis and he groans as air washes back through his lungs and his head screams in protest of the man's mistreatments.

"Let him go!" Chloe cries, rolling into a crouch but not getting up all the way. The man looks poised to snap Rush's neck and he thinks for a hysterical moment that he is about to die here in the doorway of Chloe's room. One minute, they had been laughing and now it is a struggle to breathe.

The gun is both a surprise and not when the man reaches his free arm into his waistband and produces a Beretta. He thrusts the weapon into the soft skin of Rush's throat, making both Rush and Chloe freeze.

"You wouldn't shoot him," Chloe gasps, still crouching in the floor, just shy of hyperventilating.

"You don't know what I'm capable of, little girl," the man snarls, fat fingers coming around to stroke the side of Rush's face, brushing his hair back and giving him better access to his throat. When Chloe sees the bruises, her eyes widen slightly but she is barely breathing and no longer talking. "Now, I want him alive, but I don't need you, so here's the deal - if Rush comes quietly, I won't shoot you, how does that sound?"

"Please don't hurt the girl," Rush chokes out, vision swimming wet at the idea of Chloe being shot. "I'll do whatever you say."

"Good. Good. That's what I like to hear." The man steps backwards then, through the door that has remained open all this time. Dragging Rush with him, he hugs him to his chest with one burly arm and smacks the door release, shutting it and sealing Chloe inside. "And for good measure," he says, almost to himself, he raises the gun and shoots the door mechanism, making it spark and splinter. Rush shakes in his grip, turning into that broad chest out of fear spiked by the gunshot, so close and loud.

"This isn't going to feel good but you'll live," the man says darkly, and raises the butt of the gun. Rush cries out, a low, keening sound, when it slams into the upper right side of his head. When his vision swims and blackens, he hits the floor on his knees as the man pistolwhips him across the back of the head again, and this time, the darkness swallows Rush whole.

Colonel Young..., he thinks as he fades to nothing.

~*~

Chapter Text

Young is a nervous wreck.

It's endearing, really, since David has only seen him nervous a couple of times. First dates have always made Everett a mess though, and he supposes that's what this actually is, even if the circumstances are so unique and unusual. Can you go on a 'first date' with a man you've already slept with, a man you've literally owned? Can you do all that when you already have a boyfriend who is coming along for the ride? It's a mess and Young is right to be anxious, he thinks. But he takes it all in stride with his usual laconic amusement because it is funny and it's novel and it's going to be fun.

Fucking Rush had been exhilarating and the idea that he could do it again? Amazing. His intimacy with Everett is also nothing to sneer at but the idea of spicing it up by adding another lover is just too good to be true. He's had threesomes before, one night stands and things, but never anything sustainable and never with someone he really loves like he loves Everett. Could he come to love Rush the same way, he wonders? Rush is excitable and interesting and whip-smart. He's certainly been interested in him over the years and wanted to embark on something with him and again, he thinks back to that day in his office and nearly blushes with how sinfully good it had been. Rush is still sporting his bruises and he's ready to leave some more.

Young has just returned to their room, carefully balancing three bowls of rations and a thermos of tea with three cups in both arms, resorting to knocking on his own door because he can't reach the mechanism. Telford lets him in and relieves him of part of his burdens, taking the cups and tea, setting them on the coffee table with overly-careful hands. They both want this to go well. So well.

It is then that Young's radio crackles.

It's his private frequency, one only a handful of people know, the science team and TJ mainly, and David himself. Young thumbs the radio and answers but there is only silence for a moment. Then they hear it, a muffled crying coming over the airwaves. Both men freeze and David can't help but let his hand fall to the gun at his hip.

"Colonel Young?" Chloe's voice finally breaks through her tears, thick and quiet, barely a whisper.

"Chloe? Are you all right? Where are you?" Young sets the food on the table in a hurry and cradles the radio in no-longer nervous hands. He is in crisis mode and David loves that about him. He can be so calm, so calm, when he's needed.

"He took him. He had a gun. I can't get out."

"Who took who? Chloe, what's your location? Are you all right?" He repeats, voice crisp and stern.

"It's Mr. Rush. The man took Mr. Rush."

They both exchange looks and David is stunned to see a sliver of fear showing on the other man's face.

~*~

It is going to take some time to get the door open. Brody is working on it, up to his elbows in mechanical guts, pulling spare parts from the kino sled he's prepared for his tools. In the meantime, Chloe is on the radio nearly-constantly, calmer now and less frightened now that work is being done to free her. But no one knows who the man is or where he has taken Rush.

There is no convenient way to muster the crew with just radios scattered here and there, but no one has been reported missing for duty and the man honestly could have been a handful of the people they have on this mission, so even identifying him is slow going. Until Young checks the weapons room log and begins ferreting out everyone who has checked out a handgun in the past week. Only fourteen guns have been issued, all for men and women on guard details in the Gateroom and all are accounted for except four.

Finally, they have a name. Jordan Spencer. A sergeant marine who had been part of the Lucian mutiny all those months ago. His deprogramming had been unremarkable, much like the man himself. A few of his peers who seem to know him describe a physically imposing, gruff man who keeps to himself and doesn't like to interact with others. There are reports of anger issues flaring recently and Young is upset that he wasn't informed. He lays the blame at Camile Wray's feet, who had fielded the complaints about Spencer's behavior but decided they were an interpersonal matter and not a military one. After all, Spencer had never been a danger to anyone.

Except now.

He has Rush and he has a gun. And he is not in his rooms, or any of the rooms they have searched so far. They are beginning to fan out, taking in more and more of the ship, using only those who were not involved in the Lucian mutiny as a precaution. Young still has a hard time trusting those people and Telford both hates that on their behalf and can't really bring himself to fully blame him. But it makes him wonder how much Young really trusts him.

When he finds a smear of blood at the nexus of two hallways, he radios his position but he does not wait as he is instructed by his fellow Colonel. Blood means human suffering, Rush suffering, and he is in a part of the ship that is still being assessed for safety after the hull repairs so he does not want to linger, does not want to take any chances.

He chooses a hallway and begins his search, palming doors and aiming his weapon into each room, searching for signs of life. When he comes to one of the seemingly endless doors in this corridor, his senses prickle lightly the way they do right before a firefight or an ambush or some kind of danger. The last time he'd felt this way, Young had slung into the Gateroom holding Rush hostage and ruined his mutiny before it had even gotten off the ground.

He lifts the radio to his lips when he hears it, a muffled groan on the other side of the door. The voice is unidentifiable but he immediately swaps the radio for his sidearm. The door is unlocked.

The room is dark, the lights low and faint, leaving the room cast nearly in blackness. There is a figure on the bed, a small body folded in a heap and he moves into the room, gun still raised. The trap is stupid and he is stupid and falls right for it and the gun meets the side of his neck right as the other hand fists in the solid mass of his hair. He lets his own gun twirl down around his fingers as he raises his hands. "Spencer," he says quietly.

"I hoped against hope that it would be you," the man says, voice burning like a fire, and he realizes the man is seething with hatred for him.

"Why don't you let Mr. Rush go and we can talk about this?"

"'Mr. Rush' ain't walking so good right now, so you'll understand if he stays right where he is," Spencer says simply, taking the gun from his lax hand and shoving it into his waistband. "Hands behind your back."

When Telford complies, he considers his options. Spencer has a gun, both guns, and is clearly angry. Rush is apparently injured but not too seriously, he hopes. Young knew where he was fifteen minutes ago. He is deeper in the ship than most of the search parties so it will take some time to reach them, but how much time? How much time does he have before things get even more dicey? He's just handed Spencer another fine hostage, because he was too stupid to check a room properly when he knew he was walking into danger. He's getting rusty, he thinks bitterly. And that might just have killed them both.

"Walk to the bed and get on beside him," Spencer orders, snapping the zip tie around his wrists, pinning them behind his back. Feeling miserable and like the world's worst failure, Telford does as he's told. When he reaches the bed, he puts one knee on the black bedspread, and Rush flinches, curling tighter into his ball. His wrists are bound in front of him, and his hair is a tangled mess around his shoulders and face. But he isn't wearing any pants and his sweatshirt does nothing to protect his modesty. Even though his eyes have adjusted to the low light, Telford can't see the state of his body enough to discern any bruises, fresh or otherwise, but he realizes when he sits down beside the man that Spencer has done something even more cruel than just rape. Around Rush's neck, two zip ties have been linked into one another and pulled tight, cutting into his skin, leaving a faint line of what looks like blood - Spencer has collared him, even more cruelly than any slave auction. He has put a collar back on Rush.

Telford feels his anger spike and he swivels on the other man, features twisting into a grimace. "How could you?" He spits, voice gravel and rage.

"How could I not? He needed to be reminded what he is, what he really is. You all have fed him a bunch of lies about his place in this world and it was up to me to set him straight."

"Rush is a free man. There is no slavery on Destiny."

"Your Destiny maybe. Not mine." Spencer comes close then, combing his fingers through Telford's shaggy black hair in a gesture that is almost tender. And then, just as suddenly, he whips him across the face with the back of one palm. "But you don't care about my Destiny, not anymore. Our Destiny. What we were sent here to do."

"The Lucian Alliance brainwashed us all," Telford protests, spitting blood from his split lip. "But you... You were a true believer, weren't you?"

"They showed me the truth. About weakness and strength and what we ought to be as soldiers and as men. But you, you betrayed all that. Turned your back on it."

"I was forced to do those things," he snaps, shaking with anger now. Rush hasn't made a sound and has only moved that one time and it is taking Everett far too long to find them and he feels that twist of fear in his gut, that maybe things end differently than all of his other encounters with danger and maybe this time, he doesn't walk away.

"You were our commander! You were supposed to lead us and instead you gave up on us just because you got shot and things got hard! I'm not going to let anything stop me this time. I'm tired of the pretending, tired of the lies. From now on, things are going to go my way!" Spencer sounds completely deranged and that knot of fear grows stronger.

"What's the plan, Jordan? Take over the ship with two handguns and no crew? We lost when we had fifty men. There's one of you, Jordan, on a ship full of crew, none of which are on your side this time. What's the plan?"

"I'm gonna kill Colonel Young when he comes for you and then I'm gonna get that device and use it on everyone I can find. You know how to use it. I'll kill Rush if you don't help me."

"That's a hell of a plan, Jordan," he says with a bitter smile. "Too bad it's a stupid one."

"Stop saying my name!" He slams a fist into Telford's abdomen, making him fall forward and catches him around the shoulders when he gasps for breath. "I'll show you, just like I showed Rush. I'm the one in charge here. From now on, you'll live to serve me too. You'll see."

"Spencer, what are you talking about?" He coughs out, spitting more blood as his teeth catch on his torn lip again. He wheezes in a breath and then freezes when Spencer reaches for his jacket, opening it with thick, but nimble fingers. "What are you doing?" He demands, as his black tee-shirt is revealed to the cooler air. He's always warm in his uniform but he feels cold without it, so used to the warmer air of his upbringing and space is so cold sometimes.

"Teaching you, the only way you know how to be taught," Spencer says simply, yanking his tee-shirt free of his pants. When the hands slide between the material and his skin, Telford freezes. The jacket has been pushed back around his bound arms, entangling him further, and he shivers when Spencer pushes him back on the bed, so his head is laying across Rush's prone form, making the other man whimper and draw away. "Don't you move, Rush," Spencer spits, palming his way across Telford's warm skin. "And don't you move either, Colonel."

The hands come for his pants next, unfastening the buttons and the zipper, opening him like a present on Christmas morning. Telford is completely caught off-guard. What can he do? He's literally pressed against Rush, who is no help at all, and even if he could fight back somehow, the man has two guns and where is Everett?

He flashes back to that watershed moment in the Gateroom when he'd stripped Everett of his pants and touched his naked body. He hadn't cared if the other man wanted him, had even felt a little thrilled by the idea that he didn't. The idea of that man makes him sick now, that he could be that kind of man, to sink to that kind of low. He'd wanted Everett for decades and saw him in that moment as a prize of war, something that had been won and rewarded to him in his moment of triumph.

Now, to be on the receiving end of those kinds of touches, he wants to vomit. Wonders hysterically if he will for a moment as the fear spikes in his stomach, making it lurch. Spencer has assaulted Rush. And now he is poised to do the same to him. The door, he thinks, realizing suddenly. Spencer had never closed the door! He has to keep him from noticing this fact. Has to distract him, has to endure this. Everett can't miss an open door. Maybe if he makes enough noise, the others will find them faster. He wonders abstractly if he will scream. Did Rush scream? He's so quiet now, so unlike him. He's barely moving - if Telford couldn't feel his labored, staggered breaths, he'd be worried he wasn't doing so at all. But Rush is alive and he has to protect him.

"Why are you doing this?" He asks, but it sounds slurred and higher-pitched than his normal speaking voice.

"Because you're hot. And you need to learn. I'll teach you. I can be the commander now, it's okay. You just have to do what I say."

"Okay," he agrees, surprising both of them with his acceptance. "Okay, I'll do what you say. But Rush goes free, okay?"

"If Rush leaves, you'll run the first chance you get. I'm not an idiot, Colonel Telford." He leans in and runs his teeth along the edge of Telford's throat, sharp canines dancing just above the scars on his collarbone. "Not like a man who lost his command, lost his lover, lost his gun." Spencer mocks him, biting him hard and wringing a sharp gasp from the trapped man beneath him.

Telford struggles then but he is caught in place and pinned, and he's so afraid for his scarred throat and for Rush as well that he just freezes there. A man of so much action over his lifetime, moved to stillness by fear and circumstances. It's brutal and it's too much and he feels tears prickling the corners of his tightly clenched eyes and gasps for breath as more blood sloughs from his mouth.

Spencer flips him onto his stomach then, and he is really folded over Rush's body at this point. He focuses on the man underneath him then, and leans his neck forward to bite at the zip tie binding Rush's wrists. They are ringed with a light, slippery coating of blood where he has clearly struggled to free himself. Tasting that blood, Telford begins to chew on the thick plastic, even as hands reach around his hips and pull his underwear down his thighs.

He keeps chewing as dry fingers prise at him, making him long for the tube of KY they keep stashed in the bedside table but Spencer either didn't plan on this or really doesn't care as he begins to pry and press at him. He just has to keep him distracted... And if he can free Rush's hands... He just has to endure. That's all. He can do this. He has to.

Chapter Text

David Telford is a dead man, Young decides darkly.

They have reached the nexus hallway with the smears of blood and the other Colonel is nowhere to be found, of course. Young didn't know what he expected, though, honestly. In David's position, he would have done the same thing. There is no indication which way the man went though, so Young splits his meager search party in two - he sends Greer down one hall and takes the other himself. Gun in his hands, he searches each room he comes across, finding nothing, no trace of Telford, Spencer, or Rush.

Until he hears the noises.

Raising his gun above his shoulder line, he hesitates, listening intently. A soft moaning, panted cries that catch on scattered breaths. It's not Rush, he realizes with a sinking heart. It's David.

Has he been shot? Apprehended? Is he bleeding? He should have brought TJ, he thinks regretfully. But she has been left in command of the crew, while Scott manages the rescue mission to free Chloe. He sends a silent communication to TJ's radio though, alerting her that he may have found the traitor and his hostage. Or is that hostages? David lets out another shaky moan, the pain evident in voice, and Young knows he cannot delay anymore.

He moves out, turning the corner to find an open door. It looks like a trap, so he hesitates again, gun still raised. But in the darkened room, he can see Spencer in the center, knees pressed into the bed while his body, his body... David is on his stomach, curled over a lump in the bedding, and his pants are down around both ankles, tangled in his boots. But that has not stopped Spencer from mounting him like an animal, and it is like an animal that he thrusts into the other man - David's hands are bound behind his back and bunched in his jacket and when he lets out another pained sound, it is only then that Young realizes the lump he is bent over is Rush, lying still and silent on the bed.

Squaring his shoulders and taking careful aim, Young does the first thing he can think of. Spencer is holding a gun in the hand that is cradling David's hip, pressing the heavy metal into his soft flesh. Young is done with hesitating. His lovers are on the line. He fires.

The bullet catches Spencer near the shoulder, making him let go of the gun instantly, falling forward onto the two men with the force of the bullet as it lodges in his shoulderblade. It is not a clean shot and the wound spurts blood almost instantly. With his free hand, Spencer clamps down on the spot as best as he can reach, but it's not enough. Young throws himself across the space and grabs the bleeding man by his good arm and jerks him back. David lets out a dull groan as the other man rips free of his body. The rapist's cock is soft now, smearing precome across his thighs as he stumbles and falls, tangled in his own pants and coming to splay on the floor. Young kicks the gun away from his body where it has fallen in the floor. There is a second gun, David's, probably, on the bed beside the two men lying across it. Young snarls at Spencer and kicks him for good measure as he passes, going instantly to the other men's sides.

"Everett?" David says shakily as he pops his knife and cuts the zip tie holding his wrists together. He takes the other man in his arms for a moment, gathering him close and just holding him for a second. David is shaking lightly, small tremors wracking his solid form. Young inhales the familiar scent of his hair and kisses his temple as he helps him pull his pants and jacket to rights. It is then that he realizes Rush hasn't moved. The other man is still lying on his side on the bed.

"Nicholas?" He asks softly, taking one hand away from David to touch Rush's naked hip gently. The other man recoils, sitting up with a hiss and drawing away from him. His eyes are wide and blown and Young wonders where his glasses have gone. He looks at them like he does not know them for a long moment and then his panic abates and he slumps forward, huddling in a pile on the bed. Young lets go of Telford fully, who is eyeing Spencer and placing one hand on his own backside experimentally, to reach again for Rush. "Nicholas," he says, voice as gentle as he can make it. David is probably traumatized and Rush is worse. He sees the cruel facsimile of a collar ringing his throat and pulls out his knife again.

"Wait!" Rush cries, pulling back. The knife is scaring him so Young puts it away. What did Spencer do to him, he wonders, besides the obvious?

And just as though the thought of the man has summoned him back into awareness, Spencer begins to spit and groan from his place on the floor. "Fuck you, fuck you all, I'll get you, you'll regret this..." He begins, snarling and thrashing in the floor. David goes for the gun Young has kicked away, his own lost in the tangle of the sheets once Rush had moved, and he kicks Spencer in the back as he moves past him.

"Shut up, Jordan, I told you how this would go," David spits, aiming the gun at him as he limps back to stand beside Young.

"Fuck you, you traitor!" He is literally frothing at the mouth and Young has to wonder how a man could go so mad so quickly and without any really obvious signs. Because he is clearly insane now. The floor is a pool of blood where it continues to flow from his shoulder.

There is a sudden rustling in the doorway and Greer rounds the corner, gun held high as he assesses the room. Young moves to stand in front of Rush, who grabs for the blanket at last, covering himself from the new man's view. Young mourns every bruise he can still see on Rush's neck and wrists.

"Colonel Young?" Greer asks warily, gun trained on the man in the floor. Spencer snarls more insults and Young ignores him, taking one of Rush's wrists in his hands.

"How did you get loose?" He asks quietly, fingers brushing the bloody rings there.

"Telford... chewed through the zip tie," Rush admits quietly. He sits up suddenly, more still but more alert.

"Rush?" Young asks, concerned with the change in the man's demeanor.

"Colonel Young, I think we should radio TJ before someone-" Greer begins and Young looks over his shoulder at the other man in response and perhaps that was a mistake because the next thing he knows, there is a gun going off right beside his head, making his ears ring again for the second time in the space of a few minutes.

When he turns back in shock, Rush is kneeling on the bed, holding David's gun in both trembling, bleeding hands. And in the floor, Spencer is gurgling on what must be his last breath.

They all four freeze in silence for a solid few minutes.

"Nicholas!" Young cries, taking the burning gun from his lax grip. "What... How..."

"Shame," Greer drawls suddenly, interrupting them. When he has the room's attention, he makes a show of holstering his own weapon. "Shame that Spencer reached for a gun like that..."

David and Everett exchange looks and Rush lets out a shaky exhalation of breath. Spencer is silent and still in the floor.

"Shame," David says finally, reaching to take Rush by one hand and stroking his thumb across the back of his palm.

To Young, Rush suddenly leans back, tilting his head back to expose his throat. "Colonel Young... Please get this fucking thing off of me."

"I can do that," he replies. This time, when he draws the knife, Rush does not flinch.

~*~

Rush is bad off. He's not bleeding internally, which TJ has deemed a small miracle, though there is bruising and discoloration inside and out, centering on his buttocks and hips. There are thin knife lines carved into the insides of his thighs and up his chest and down both arms, where his bruised wrists are ringed with blood and safely bandaged away now. The man is covered in bandages and wrappings, hiding the marks from view but Young knows they are there. They all know they are there.

When Rush stirs in the bed and sits up, Young is by his side in an instant. TJ melts out of the doorway to give them privacy. David is still asleep in the other infirmary bed, lying on one hip and curled under the blankets, less battered but who knows where his mental state is at.

Rape.

The one thing Young has always been loathed to consider in his little floating colony. He has always been so concerned with being a rapist when it comes to Rush that he never considered he might need to protect the man from it happening from an outside source.

Rush blinks at him owlishly, glasses still missing. His long hair is braided back and lying curled around the side of his gauze-wrapped throat. "Colonel Young," he whispers, voice hoarse, and then he coughs, a broken-glass sound, so Young hurries to pour him a glass of water from the thermos waiting on the side table. He drinks it greedily, spilling a little as his hands are shaking, but Young is not going to force him to submit to the humiliation of having his water held and poured down his throat if he doesn't want it.

Finally, Rush puts the water down with still-trembling hands. "I knew you'd come for me," he says softly.

"Did you?" Young asks, sounding disbelieving. Could Rush have trusted him that much?

"Just didn't know if I'd be alive by the time you did so," he admits cautiously, still staring at his hands.

"I'm sorry. For being late. For not stopping it. For it all, Nicholas," Young whispers, sitting down in the chair beside him so as not to loom over the shaking man.

"You didn't know. No one did. Chloe all right?" He asks, his voice leaping with tension then.

"She's fine. We had to cut her out of the room and she's moved in with Park for now while Brody works on fixing the door." It wouldn't surprise any of them if Chloe never went back to that room, the source of so much trauma and pain for both her and for Rush now.

"She's a good lass. I was worried about her."

Of course Rush was worried. When he should have been afraid for himself, he'd been thinking of someone else. For someone so self-serving, Rush has a large heart, Young knows.

"She's the reason we knew you were in trouble. She's the reason you're safe."

"Then I owe her a debt."

"I'm sure she'll think of something you can do for her," Young smiles faintly. Wonders what Rush thinks he owes him, if anything. He doesn't want Rush beholden to him. He wants Rush of his own volition, but he wonders if that chance is lost now that he's been attacked and brutalized and left in this state. Whatever state that is. "Do you... want to talk about it?"

"No. Yes. No." Rush says in rapid succession. With a hiss, he shifts, so he is curling his arms around his raised knees, hugging himself and letting his cheek rest against his blanket. Young knows he's only wearing a hospital gown under there so his legs are bare and his swallows. Finally, Rush sighs. "He hurt me," he says finally, voice small.

"I know it," Young replies solemnly, crossing his own arms to his chest in an effort to keep from wrapping them around the smaller man in an attempt to comfort that will surely be unwanted.

"No, you don't!" Rush snaps, nearly shouting. Then, he deflates, glancing over at David, who is still asleep. Digging a hand into his own hair, he sighs and closes his eyes, getting a hold of himself. "Do you know... what it's like... to feel like you're nothing?" Rush whispers, eyes still tightly closed.

Young thinks of the way his own father used to smack him around when he was a kid and the way his mother would just turn away, and his brothers would just pounce on the fresh wounds like the dogs they were. "Somewhat," he says cautiously. He doesn't want to spoil what seems like something Rush is building up to.

"He told me everything I've always been afraid of, tried to convince me it was real. That I was nothing, nothing but a bad slave, and that's all I'll ever be. Someone else's property, someone else's thing. And in those moments, with that collar back around my neck and his breath on my back, I... I believed him." Rush's voice is shaking like his body now and he sucks in a deep lungful of air as though he's being strangled by the very act of speaking.

"But you're not!" Young says hotly, arms unfolding to clench on the armrests of the chair. "You're not a slave, not anymore, and you're not anyone's ... thing. You're your own man, Nicholas. I'm just sorry it took so long for me to allow you that."

"Freeing slaves is something that's not done, Everett. You're born one and you die one." Rush whispers, looking away.

"You're not a slave Rush. There is no slavery on Destiny. You're free."

"Am I? As long as you say? That's not real freedom. That's just another set of orders."

"It's different!" Young insists and Rush lets out another sigh.

"I was afraid to love you when I first met you, you know." He replies almost abstractly. "I was afraid of what that meant, if I was just a slave who fell in love with his owners every chance I got. I loved Gloria and I know she loved me. But with you... I could never be sure how you really felt about me."

"I loved you. I love you still," Young answers, hands going numb from how hard he is gripping the chair.

"We fought so much," Rush murmurs, sounding distracted.

"But we had good times too. That's part of love, Rush, the rough and the smooth."

"We were really, really rough at times, though," he replies.

"But some of it was so good. We were so good," Young insists.

"...I tried to kill you with a paperweight once," Rush lets out a shaky sound that's almost a laugh.

"That was one time," Young dismisses instantly. This time the noise Rush makes is definitely laughter.

"I'm always so afraid with you. I can't trust my mind, can't trust my head. There's always been so much of me that isn't me, all tangled in the things that are and I don't know where I end and the rest of it begins. First it was just Stockholm, then the Lucian device. And after that..." Rush looks up at him, eyes wide and dark. One is bruised and Young knows he'll be sporting quite the shiner in the morning. But he's talking about something, something important, Young realizes. The botched deprogramming. Whatever they had done using David's brainwaves and a couple of computers. They'd saved Rush's mind, saved his life, but now it seems there might have been some hidden cost? "...I don't know how much of me is me still, or how much of it is him," Rush says finally, swallowing hard.

"You're not sure if you love me because you feel it yourself or because David does," Young says, understanding at last. Rush's hesitancy, Rush's independence, Rush's fears.

"How can I ever know for certain?" He asks mournfully.

"So don't worry about it," Young deflects again, hoping this roll of the dice is the right move to make. Rush gets insulted so easily and he's so delicate right now, still shaking like a leaf in the infirmary bed.

"How am I just supposed to not care?!" He demands, angry now.

"You can't change it. What we did to you after the Lucian device is over. You've got David in your head now, yes? So you two understand each other. But whatever you feel, you can't stop feeling it. It's part of you now." I'm part of you now, he doesn't say.

Rush deflates, pressing his cheek to his knees and breaking their eye contact at last. "It shouldn't be so simple."

"It doesn't always have to be hard," Young counters. Scooting the chair closer, he dares to lift one arm and gently rest it on the back of Rush's skull. His fingers sink into that dark and silvery hair and he just holds him tenderly, not petting, not stroking, just holding him.

"I love you," Rush whispers, still not looking at him.

"I love you, too."

When Rush turns his head, Young is leaning over the bed, meeting him in the middle. The kiss is tender and gentle and sweet. It feels innocent, feels new. Feels right.

After they break away, Rush leans back against the headboard with a sigh. Young touches his fingers to his lips, warm and wet and perfect with the ghost of Rush's breath.

"I know you're awake, David," Rush mutters quietly.

"You two made up yet?" Comes the sleepy response.

"Shut up," Rush replies with absolutely no venom, reaching over to thread their fingers, his and David's. Something is building in this room now, between the three of them, and Young is thrilled. This is everything he's wanted and his heart aches with it. He almost lost everything and now that's exactly what he has - everything. And he's going to make it last.

Chapter Text

He checks the marks in the shower and is pleased to see that they have mostly faded in the weeks he's been recuperating. Too much time spent in the infirmary and then in his quarters. Or David's quarters. The man works there during the day so Rush has been on the bed using his laptop while Telford writes reports and reads others on his own at the desk. He has a pair of reading glasses he wears when he works that Rush had known nothing about. He knows Young has a pair of thin, wire-framed gold glasses he uses when working at the desk but Telford's are a thick, brown plastic that still mange to look aesthetically pleasing on his strong features.

Rush does not know where his own glasses are these days, has not seen them since the attack, but the headaches are getting better and TJ has a tea that helps. He can see decently without them but the world is too soft and blurry around the edges again and he doesn't like it. It reminds him of a darker time in his life when he hadn't been sure what could or would become of him. He knows now he could never have predicted the path his life would take after Gloria's passing. If someone had told him he'd wind up working for the government on a spaceship millions of lightyears from Earth, he would have laughed. If they'd told him he'd be free, he would have punched them for the obvious cruelty.

But he is free.

Free to live, free to love, free to choose. And tonight is all about choices.

Finishing up his shower, he drags his hairbrush through his wet hair, so happy it is bone straight and never curls, not like Young, not like Telford. Young. Telford. He's nervous and his hands are shaking and that's not like him but what can he do? He feels like his heart is going to pound out of his chest. He's brought the blue sweater because old habits die hard and this is about gestures in the end. (He knows Telford prefers the brown but this isn't about him for once, he thinks almost bitterly before getting a hold of himself).

He doesn't really have animosity towards the tall colonel. It's just that things are more complicated between them and also simpler in some ways. He gets Telford. Knows what he wants and how to please him. He knows how to please Young too but he knows now that the thing that will please Young the most is him being genuine and he's not sure if he can deliver after all he's been through and done.

His hair is mostly dry now, still damp at the thick of it, but floating loose around his shoulders as he zips his sweatshirt up, leaving the collar open enough to give a glimpse of skin. His throat has healed with only Young's old scar to show for it and he's intensely grateful for that fact. To have been scarred by Spencer's cruel collar would have damaged him more and he's not sure how he would have handled that. As it is, his left wrist has a raised, white circle marring him and that is hard enough. The knife wounds to his limbs and torso had proven faint and healed without incident, just a few red marks here and there. There are still faint bruises on his hips and collar but he likes to pretend those are David's marks and no one else's even though he's smart enough to know the reality of the situation. Will they look at the bruises and let their eyes skate away? Will they be afraid to touch him?

He doesn't know.

He needs data but there is so little of it in this circumstance and he mourns the lack of it. Instead, he is flying blind and that is risky. But all of this is risky, really. But that also makes it kind of fun, he knows.

When he finds himself at the door, he realizes he has lost himself in thought and come too early. But he knocks just the same.

Young opens the door. Rush steps inside.

~*~

With a smile curving wide on his lips, Rush leans over with overly dramatic flourish and places his bishop. "Check."

Young pauses, looking the board over. He looks surprised, stunned even. "You-"

"You'll find it's 'mate' as well, I'm afraid," Rush says gleefully, much more pleasure evident in his experessions and tone than even when he'd beaten Telford earlier in the evening.

His opponent studies the board for a long moment and sighs. Tipping down his king, Young concedes defeat. "I was so sure I was gonna win that..." He murmurs, making something prickle in Rush's defenses.

"Were you now?"

"I mean... You... I thought... The way the whole brain thing worked with David..." Young flounders and Rush's displeasure grows by the minute.

"What do you mean, exactly?" He asks icily. Telford sucks in a breath from his spot beside Rush on the sofa and Young has the good grace to look ashamed.

"I thought... I know how to beat David, so I was so sure I knew how to beat you, too?" He makes it sound like a question.

"So because my brain patterns were altered using David's as a template, you thought you could beat me because we'd think the same way?" He replies in kind, feeling his chest clench with a brief moment of panic. He'd beaten Telford though. Was it because he knew how to think like him? But no. He'd also beaten Young. That had to count for something.

"Something like that? But I was clearly wrong. I never even stood a chance, did I?"

"..." Rush studies the board instead of the man sitting beside it on the table, knees nearly brushing his own. He's not angry, not exactly. It's closer to embarrassment but that doesn't feel like the right fit either. He is confused. He had been having fun. Now he's thinking if he's even capable of thinking his own thoughts anymore. But he had beaten Young. And that has to count for something.

"You don't think like David. Not really. The aggressive playstyle was a bit familiar but I think you would play that way on any account, not necessarily because of the... things done to you," Young says cautiously.

"I've always had an strong offensive style," Rush swallows hard and is surprised to find tears are prickling at the corners of his eyes. This is not how he wanted this evening to go.

"There you go, then," Young says with a sense of what sounds like relief. He reaches across the space and takes one of Rush's hands in both of his own. They're warm and familiar and Rush feels immediately soothed by the gesture in a way he can't explain. "You're still yourself, Nicholas. You just proved that."

Has he? Is he? It's so hard to decide. Once he had wondered how many more men he would have to be in his life after having been so many different ones before. Now he thinks he is coming to terms with the answer. This is the last iteration he has to morph into. The last man. Nicholas Rush. Free and clear. With a dash of David Telford that he can't ignore but he can accept. And he's here with the man, and with Young. Young at long last. He thinks of that first day when they'd met in the filthy paddocks of the slave auction block. Young had looked so severe and so nervous at the same time. He'd been frightened. He is not frightened anymore. Young loves him. He loves Young. Telford is something he's still working out but he is satisfied to try there. It is a good beginning.

Deciding not to be angry or sad anymore, Rush yanks abruptly on Young's hands with both of his. Young slides forward, his uniform pants slick on the smooth, metal table, and he overbalances, knees knocking Rush's and then he hunches forward until he is practically in the smaller man's lap. That's exactly where Rush wants him, and he presses a kiss to the startled colonel's lips. Young tilts his head to better slot their mouths together and the kiss soon has an edge of hunger to it that steals Rush's breath away.

When they part, Young slouches back, knocking over some of the chess pieces in the process where the board is sitting beside him on the table.

"So we're good?" Telford asks, sounding a little breathless himself, and Rush looks at the man sitting beside him on the sofa finally. David is shifting a little on the soft leather and his face is nearly as flushed as Young's. They've all been drinking a little but Telford is no slouch at Brody's liquor so it must have been the kiss that had left him all hot and bothered.

Impulsively, Rush finds himself leaning into the other man's space. "Shut up, David," he advises with no malice and seals their mouths together now as well. He can hear Young knocking more pieces of wood off the table and he smiles into the kiss, deepening it and playing with Telford's tongue. He tastes the same as Young, like dinner and the rotgut and the cool, sweet tea. Telford puts one hand on the side of his neck and he allows it, tilting his head and biting at his lower lip with a gentle nip. David responds with a sharper one to his own mouth and he gasps. When the hand on his throat is pulling him closer, he goes with it, and sighs as he is thoroughly plundered.

"David," Young grits out, sounding equal parts aroused and angry, and there are broad hands curving around Rush's arms, pulling him back and away from the other man.

Rush turns his head back, letting it rest against Young's chest where he has come to settle behind him on the crowded sofa. Young's chin bangs into his forehead and he wishes he still had his glasses so he could see every tiny line on the other man's face. "Colonel Young, are you jealous?" He asks playfully, lifting one hand and running it across the man's smooth cheek and up into his thick, curling hair.

"What's it going to take for you to start calling me 'Everett'?" Young growls in that same, deep husky tone. But there is real fondness there. It's clear to Rush that the other man still adores him. This knowledge makes him feel warm inside, feel satisfied. He's happy.

"You never asked me to," he replies, surprised at how light and soft his own voice has gone. Calling Young by his given name is a huge deal for him. He doesn't know how to explain this. Slaves don't call their masters by their first names, something that was literally beaten into him as a child. That he had come to call Gloria by hers was a testament to how she had treated him in their relationship and he would never have dared do it where someone else could hear.

"I would like it if you would," Young says quietly. His eyebrows quirk in a thoughtful gesture and he adds almost hastily, "If you want to, of course."

"Shall I tell you to shut up, too, Everett?" Rush asks, making eye contact with Telford who is watching them both with rapt interest. "I think I will - shut up and take me to bed, both of you."

~*~

When they come together, it is nothing short of spectacular. No one stares at his scratches and bruises. They are tender and gentle, leaving little marks and blossoms of their own on his fair, fair skin. Young and Telford have a moment where they embrace and whisper to one another and Rush lifts himself onto his elbows to watch them as they card their hands through one another's shaggy, curling hair (Young's far more curly than Telford's however). Young nods and Telford catches his eye and asks him softly if he's sure. When Young nods again, Telford kisses him with a tenderness that nearly makes Rush sob with how romantic and gentle it is. They love one another. They love him. He loves them. This is so simple even though the equation is not the usual method Rush has become familiar with. But he is always excited to learn new math.

They are all shirtless now and Young is reaching for Telford's pants. Rush doesn't wait for them and slips his own jeans and underwear down his thin legs. They both stop then to watch him strip and there is pure hunger in their expressions now.

"How are we going to do this?" He asks quietly, taking inventory. Being naked is terrifying but he feels safe in the bed with these two men. Spencer had never kissed him. Spencer had looked at him like he was garbage not like he is a treasure beyond compare. There had been no desire, only cruelty. The marks feel like brands but Young is taking him in his arms then, stroking his long, wild hair and making him relax under the familiarity of the gesture. This is something he can do. They will not hurt him. Jordan Spencer is dead. There is no space here for his ghost.

"If you'll have me, Doctor, I'd like to be inside you," Young whispers, lips dancing across Rush's ear and making him blush bright red at both the ancient endearment and the pure carnality of his words.

"I'll have you," He whispers back.

Telford wraps his hands around Young's hips, loosening his black pants, naked as Rush himself at this point. Young closes his eyes for a moment and then he sighs, burying his face in Rush's hair.

"Everett, are you sure?" Telford asks, pausing behind the other man.

"I'm sure, David. I'm ready."

"Good. Thank you. Thank you." He is nearly crying suddenly, and the expression seems so unusual on the normally teasing and playful man's face.

Young reaches into the dresser drawer and pulls out the tube of KY that they keep there. "It's... it's not vanilla," he says apologetically.

"There will be other chances," Rush says with a soft smile.

Young smiles back, bright and sunny, eyes crinkling at the edges. Leaning down, he licks a stripe up Rush's bony chest from his stomach to his throat. And then he reaches to part his legs. Rush lets him, blushing hot down the trail Young has just blazed with his mouth. "Let me know if I need to stop," he whispers, fingers probing gently at Rush's tender places. There is still some bruising there but TJ has cleared him for this with a knowing smile and he had blushed then as well. Mutely, Rush nods at Young and spreads his legs further of his own accord, settling back deeper into the pillows.

When Young's fingers are greasy with the lube, Telford is leaning down to pick up the tube next and Rush figures out finally what they've decided on when he begins stroking a hand across the backs of Young's thighs. He doesn't know much about their sex life but his impression has been that Young is usually the one who tops so this is a new experience for the other man. He wonders if he will ever want to top Young himself and if the man will let him. Looking up into warm brown eyes that are shining with moisture and love, he knows he would if he asked. Maybe someday. Right now, he wants to focus on every moment of this. They have only made love twice in their long relationship and they say the third time's the charm.

...Rush is delighted to learn that it is.

~*~

Chapter Text

The gentle but powerful sensation of being opened, being filled, and feeling wonderful about it is nothing new to him, but it is something that never seems to lose the magic that it has about it. Adam Brody has had several lovers over the years, but no one has left him feeling as treasured as Dale Volker manages to, each and every single time. It's so good, this feeling of being completed and made whole. Like missing pieces have been put into place and everything is solid at last. He's grasped for this his whole life and never found it, until now.

When he comes into Volker's tight fist with a long, drawn-out groan, he is not surprised to feel the other man chase his orgasm with his own as he tightens around him, making him spill as well.

Volker is kissing his cheek, his eyelashes, his nose. Their noses bump inelegantly and he laughs out loud at the sensation, and Volker's own echoing chuckle rattles through their chests where they are pressed to intimately together. It's so fucking good and he loves every single second of it.

"I love you," Volker whispers and then freezes. Brody freezes as well. This has not been a part of the script so far. These sorts of things have not been said.

He knows exactly what Volker is afraid of. He'd told Rush he'd loved him, that lifetime ago, and Rush had left the room. Finally, the tension shatters when Brody rolls his hips and tastes Volker's resulting groan with his lips. "Good thing I love you too, I guess," he replies lightly.

"Adam..."

"Dale, it's okay. It's really okay."

"...Okay,"

They do not part until the radio crackles with a message from Lisa informing them that they're going to be late.

~*~

When they arrive on the Observation Deck, they are not the last ones there at least. The guest of honor, for one, has yet to arrive. They take up a space at one of the tables, next to Chloe and Lisa, who are discussing the newest development in the hydroponics lab - the seeds they brought with them have fully transformed into finished fruit and Becker had even managed to whip together a little bit of something more like a scone than a cake from the flour Brody's milling machine has made.

Life on Destiny is hard, nothing like life on Earth. Chloe would not be free on Earth. The relationships certain members of the crew are pursuing would not be acceptable in most circles on Earth. They would all be unhappy on Earth and they know it now, that they are so far from what they really no longer consider to be 'home'.

Rush brought them here. With his brilliance and his tenacity and his determination.

When both colonels arrive with the man in question on the Deck, Rush looks surprised to see them all there. He is carrying a box under his arm that Brody knows contains his chess set he and Telford carved from wood harvested offworld. He hopes they get a chance to play today. He swears he almost had Rush last time and he will beat him at some point. But maybe not today.

The three of them are an item, everyone on the ship knows. Rush and Telford and Young. They walk with their arms brushing and sometimes Young reaches out to steady Rush with a hand on his hip or shoulder. Young and Telford rarely touch each other in public, some habits die hard. But they touch Rush. And Rush touches them. It's enough to make Brody's chest squeeze even though he can't say why. He's not jealous. He has Dale. So what is this feeling he gets when he sees the three of them? He decides to analyze that another day.

"Happy Birthday," Young tells Rush, kissing him hard on the mouth in front of God and everybody. Telford wraps his arms around his waist from behind and whispers something into his hair as Young kisses him senseless and pets his hip with one hand.

Chloe claps and they break apart, blushing. Telford keeps his octopus grip on Rush though.

~*~

When it's Brody's turn to give his gift, he's the most excited about it. It's a small wooden box about the size of hand.

Rush opens the wooden lid and gasps. "Where did you...?"

"I found them in the hallway after... after we got Chloe out. The frames were broken but I think I did a good job of soldering them back together. The lenses are intact as far as I can tell."

Rush unfolds the arms and places the Hugo Boss frames, once mangled and now mended, onto his face with a long, drawn out sigh as the world must come into full focus for the first time in weeks.

"Thank you," he says quietly, placing one cool hand over Brody's. Brody can feel his face heat up with a blush and he knows Dale is watching them with overly delicate interest.

"No problem," he replies breathlessly. "My pleasure."

"Looking good, Nick," Telford says from where he is sitting with Volker and Young.

"Shut up, David," he says in response, but there is absolutely no malice in it.

~*~