Archive of Our Own ^beta

   The first drink always burns going down, every sip lights your throat on fire. It’s been too long. You can’t remember the last time you got drunk. Initially, you hadn’t even meant to get drunk. But when an exasperated Bash had informed Calderon that a leak had sprung from the fuel engine, everyone had groaned and took it in stride.

“Remember, just because we’re taking a little detour doesn’t mean this pit stop is an excuse to find your long-lost lover and run off together. The rest goes without saying. Stay in one spot and look out for each other. Nobody leaves the bar". The commander's pointed look in your direction had you huffing a breath at the mild scolding. It’s not like you enjoyed making extra work for the crew. 

The ship wouldn’t be ready for a few hours, and it was already nearing dusk. The bar the crew had found wasn’t as nice as Oppo’s place–not by a long shot–but it wasn’t a total dump. Close enough to the repair shop and nice enough to do the job of entertaining the crew for a few hours. It could definitely be worse… But as wary eyes settle on the chipping floorboards underneath you, a bug as large as your fist scuttles into a large crack in the interior walls of the establishment…You suppress a shudder and yeah, it could still definitely be better. 

The stool wobbles under your uncoordinated shifting weight as you take another sip. The first drink always burns going down, but the last drink slides down as easily as water. 

A hand has found its way to your waist before you can even register the hot, musty breath on your face. You blink. Once. Twice. There's a woman crowding you against the bar with beautiful ebony hair, rivulets cascading over her shoulders. Common clothes on an extraordinary face. You can immediately tell she’s not someone who hears, “no'' often; if at all. Her wolfish grin casts your face in shadow. You couldn’t stop looking at her if you tried.

“Hey love, you look a little out of it. Need a hand?”  

There's a slight slur to your words as you try your best to politely decline her offer. She pushes on though, as if you never replied to begin with. She's saying something about fresh air and good company. It’s hard to breathe. Why won’t the floor stay still? A strong manicured hand is gripping your arm, pulling you along. Feet stumble through the motions. It’s like the ground keeps escaping you when you place your feet down. Your’e so focused on putting one foot in front of the other that you don’t even realize she’s tugging you past the doors of the bar. Her destination is a group of people, on the dredges of the alley. Their faces are blurry, one of them laughs. The woman’s comment rings in your ears now; fresh air and good company… 

Somewhere in your stomach, panic sparks and claws up your throat. At least, you think it's just panic until a mixture of bile and greasy bar food finds its new home on the pavement next to your shoes. The funny thing is, at first you're embarrassed, and then you remember you’re very suddenly being surrounded by at least three to four people. 

“Don’t worry sweetheart,” someone’s caressing your cheek, wiping your mouth with a rough, gloved hand, “We’d be more concerned if you didn’t throw up after we put that Rohypnol in your drink. It’s got a bit of a kick to it, doesn’t it?” They’re laughing at you softly like a predator who’s been waiting all night for this moment. Unreliable legs threaten to give out from under you when you feel hands run up and down your back. A shiver wracks your body as the hands settle on your waist. Absent-mindedly, you think about how pissed Calderon is going to be with you for getting into trouble again. Shame and the roofie make effective work at warming your body to an uncomfortable temperature. But the shame in your gut lights up a shaky resolve in you. When the same guy as before goes to wipe your mouth one last time you bite his thumb hard before you can rethink it. All anger and strength, a punch to your left cheek has the world reeling and your breath stuttering. Time slows. The gloved hand grabs your chin and you spit on him, feeling invigorated and slightly less out of it after the hit. Rage paints the main attackers face but before he can make another move one of his friends is crying out, blood dripping down their shoulder. The hands on your waist disappear with a cry and there's a sickening crunch. Gloves whips around when the woman slumps, hitting the ground and the person next to her follows right after. By the time he can fully turn there’s a gun pointed at his forehead. In disbelief, you can’t tell if it's the drugs and alcohol or if everything just happened as quickly as you think it just did. 

“Are you alright?” A voice is speaking to you. June. His hands are hovering over you in worry, as you sway in place. Mustering a response, it sits in your mouth until leaving in a heap of bile. 

“June, get them back to the ship. It should be ready by now. I’ll take care of these guys.” It comes out as more of a growl than a sentence. Lagging, you blink dumbly at Damon. He’s still looking at Gloves, a gun aimed at his skull. You can practically see his fingers itching to pull the trigger. 

“Come on, let’s get you somewhere safe, okay?” June’s pulling you lightly from the bicep, eyes stern but soft and one hundred percent concerned for you. You stumble forward, leaning your weight on June but not walking quite yet. You hear the assassin snap from behind you, impatient.

“Now .” 

The rest of the night is a blur after that. When you first got back on the ship with June, you couldn’t go longer than a few minutes without vomiting into the nearest trash can or toilet. When she arrives soon after, Ryona lends you some herbs to ease the nasty after effects of the drug. After you’re deemed fit to stand without fear of puking, she checks your vitals and hands you some meds for the morning. Sighing, the only thing left is to stew in your room all night. Mind still hazy, you stare at the ceiling of your room, a trashcan sat next to your bed. You can’t help but dread the arrival of tomorrow. 

It’s late afternoon when crusty eyes crack open, slowly and painfully. You have half a mind to beg for forgiveness from whatever god deemed you their favorite problem. It’s like someone stuck needles into every lobe of your brain and then took a bat to your jaw. At the end of the day though, curious, antagonistic gods you can take. Unforgiving commanders with an impatient streak, however? Not so much. Death is probably more merciful than whatever is waiting for you on the other side of the door. 

When you can’t put it off any longer, you slink out of your room. You’re praying that if you move quietly and slow enough that maybe– just maybe – everyone will suddenly forget the royal stowaway they've been harboring on their ship. 

That doesn’t happen, of course. Curious gods and impatient commanders have their way with you soon enough. You wouldn’t expect anything less at this point. Your entire life has slowly become a game of testing your luck. You’re lucky– you know that– but are you lucky enough is the question. (The answer changes every time, because nothing can ever be easy). 

In the end, the commander is pissed, rightfully so. He tears into you in front of the crew, before Aya takes pity and comes to your rescue, ending the lecture on seedy bar etiquette and poor survival instincts. (You’ll definitely have to find a way to repay her for that one later). To your surprise though, he doesn’t hold back on the rest of the crew either. He’s near yelling because, What did I say about having each other's backs?, and Why, pray tell, did no one decide who’s watching the stowaway before heading off? You know it’s aimed at the rest of the crew but it makes you feel every ounce of inexperienced that you are. You’re embarrassed you have to be babysat. You vow to yourself that you’re going to fix that before landing on Cursa. You owe the A6 crew that much. Calderon lets you all stew like toddlers getting scolded for a moment before sending everyone off. You almost bolt for the doors but before you can the commander is calling for you to stay. He looks just as stern and angry now as he did at the beginning of the lecture. It’s only when he pulls you aside though, do you realize that he’s more worried than anything else. You scared him. He nearly admits it too, before coming back to his senses. His careful mask slides back into place and the discussion is over. However, abruptly, you waste no time. You relieve yourself from the pilot room and head down to the kitchen. 

Apparently, getting roofied and then scolded works up quite the appetite. 

Huh . 

You can’t say that’s information you would've wanted to find out firsthand.

Facing the counter, you grab for the bread on autopilot and start on a simple sandwich. Surely, this is something even you can’t fuck up. At least, that's what you thought before nearly jumping a foot in the air at the sound of a voice behind you. One of the slices of bread goes careening towards the ground, making a soft plop noise as it sticks the landing face down. You only let it upset you a little before focusing in on the voice. You turn around. Of course, it belongs to the second in command. The other person you’ve been hoping to avoid has spawned behind you. The torment never stops, does it?  

Not so lucky . A voice in the back of your head rumbles. You couldn’t agree more. 

Not this time, no. 

“Does getting disciplined always make you this hungry?” 

The bastard thinks himself a comedian, does he? 

Scoffing, you turn your nose up at his stupidly wide grin. His canines are distractingly sharp. 

“Does ruining someone’s lunch always make you this pleased?” 

The comment washes over him easily. Damon raises his eyebrows at the fallen piece of bread. 

“I would hardly call that a lunch– no offense, your highness.” 

“Y’know, has anyone ever told you that if you have nothing nice to say then you shouldn't say it at all?” You’re grasping at straws here. But you’re hungry and tired and not in the mood to play this game with him. All the same, he doesn’t miss a beat. So, you refuse to miss one either. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you’ve got a knack for getting into trouble?” 

“Maybe. And what of it?” Your lips tug into a sluggish smirk. “You worried?”

“Me–worried? Sure, sure…I’m worried for the poor souls who get roped up in your shenanigans.” 

When all you do in reply is scoff in his general direction he slows his pace around the kitchen island. You throw him a look when he stops a few feet from you and your forgotten bread.  Damon is silent when he meets your eyes next and then–

“Of course I’m worried.” You blanch, mouth parted slightly. Four words you never thought you’d hear from his mouth, especially not directed at you of all people. 

You really don’t know what you were expecting, but… it wasn’t that. 

All too quickly though, the softness is gone and that signature cheshire grin is splitting his face, once more. The smile he’s throwing your way is more than a little sinful as he replies. 

“That is–worried that you’ll be too full from lunch to enjoy dessert.” 

What. 

Oh. 

Your mouth snaps shut audibly, cheeks fighting an oncoming flush at the words. 

 When you meet his eyes this time he’s suddenly much closer than before. Too close for you to think rationally but just far enough to remind you to keep your hands to yourself. 

“So, what do you say, your highness? Up for a little quality one-on-one time? I’ve got a good way to burn some calories.” 

 “Oh?”, you refuse to admit defeat, “And what is it that you have in mind?” Damon takes his time looking you over. He practically eye-fucks you for a minute before finally answering. 

“Self defense classes, but of course.” Ah. Whatever your face is doing right now must be awfully amusing to the assassin because his lips pull into the largest shit-eating grin you’ve seen yet. He continues, all snark and sex appeal. 

“What? Did you have something else in mind, your highness? ” 

You roll your eyes at him, ignoring the way the kitchen seems to shrink with him so near. 

Damon is danger and safety all wrapped together in the form of a six-foot killer. And still…Your insides twist and burn. The butterflies in your stomach are probably on fire at this point. 

His advance doesn’t stop, only slows as his minty breath makes contact with your clammy skin. He’s so close and your feet struggle to keep from swaying towards his general direction. A glint in bright cerulean eyes is all you need to see to know that he is damn well aware of the effect he has on you. He smiles like he’s won this round in the disorienting game you're both playing. His hand reaches towards you. You force yourself to not give him the reaction he wants and find him brushing your arm as his hand ventures past you to the bag of bread you left lying on the counter behind you. Asshole. 

“...Of course,” he continues,”Before we do that we better make sure you're full. We gotta keep you well fed and on your toes if we’re gonna teach you to defend yourself in time for Cursa.”

He moves away from you with a smile still splayed on his lips and you try your best to not miss the heat of his body. 

He makes you what is probably one of the better (see: best ) sandwiches of your life and then walks you down to the training room where Aya has already started stretching. Plopping down beside her on a mat, you notice Damon hasn’t joined the two of you. He catches you looking before smirking down at you. 

“What? You think you’re too good to stretch before?” 

Snorting at your words, he responds way too happily. “Nah. Only an idiot would do that. Aya’s got this one handled.” You don’t want to accept that so you attempt to bait him. 

“Sounds like an excuse. Are you saying Aya is better than you?” 

“At training others, yes. Besides, I don’t have patience for rookies so it would be counterproductive for me to train a newbie like you.” You don’t know what to say to that. You’re a little bummed but you’d prefer if Damon didn’t have that information to use against you. 

“Next time then?” You try not to sound too hopeful. He stares at you with an unreadable expression before a small smile appears. 

“That depends on how quickly you can learn, rookie.” 

It’s not like you didn’t already have more than enough motivation to learn self defense but you’d be lying if you said that hearing that didn’t make you want to try even harder. 

Flashing the man a grin you hope will convey the message, I’ll hold you to that, you stand to start your first lesson. This feels good. You feel good. 

“Luckily, for both of us, I am.”