Retreat

He wakes up curled on his side, arms uncomfortably wrenched and sore. He ignores it, focussing on the incredible thirst driving away other physical trivialities. Reluctant to open the eyes he instinctively knows are gummy, he lies still and listens for the familiar, almost-soothing sounds of those around him -- harsh breaths, quiet sighs, the scraping of thin bedding across rough ground. The sounds of others suffering are comforting, in a way he knows is twisted. He hears none of these noises, and begins to worry, on the edge of panic. Where the hell are the others?

And then he remembers. He's not on Earth anymore.

It's been years since he's felt this kind of thirst. Sometimes the water would get so contaminated, the choice had been a quick, painful death by drinking, or a slow, awful death from holding out for a clean source.

Previously clean water would go bad, unpredictably, and he wouldn't know until he'd sipped, swallowed reflexively, belatedly registering the taste. How many times had he dropped to his hands and knees, trying to force the liquid back out? Sometimes he wasn't fast enough, and would spend hours, days, bent double, guts on fire, mouth foul with the taste of poison. He'd never wanted to know what the source of the contamination was.

The thought of water still makes him feel sick sometimes. And Beka and Rommie wonder why he drinks so much Sparky Cola. It, at least, has never tasted like poison, or left him wishing he were dead.

He shouldn't feel this thirsty on the Andromeda. There's little chance of poison here, and he always has access to cool, clear water, the kind he dreamt of as a kid.

He starts to rise, his back protesting slightly, and then loudly as he realises his movements are very limited. The reason for the ache in his arms registers. They're tied on either side of him. He has some slack, enough to lie curled, but it isn't much really.

What the hell?

Total panic is averted because he knows he's on the Andromeda. He recognises her sounds, the low level hums of constantly running, well-designed and maintained machinery. They aren't the more volatile and erratic sounds of the Maru.

A few more moments, and the sleep haze clears completely. He remembers the Battle of Witchhead. He's an Angel of Death. Or at least, the instrument behind the angel.

He remembers Dylan telling him they had no real choice, and that in the end, they had saved Earth, after a fashion. The reassurances were more for Dylan's sake than his own. He hadn't been conflicted about the destruction of the Nietzschean forces. If he'd had the choice, it would have been all of them, not just two-thirds of the fleet.

All is forgiven, even his attempts at insubordination. Good, understanding, supportive Dylan, who can't forgive himself if he can't absolve Harper for coming up with the idea in the first place.

He's never been one to avoid hard decisions if it means survival, or some kind of revenge. Beka's watched him do it before, and sometimes helped. She doesn't question him in those kinds of situations. She'd been noticeably quiet when Trance and Dylan, and even Tyr, had raged incredulous at his plan. Beka was unsurprised, and it almost makes him smile to realise how well she knows him at times.

It's not like he's proud of what he's done. He appreciates the genius of the idea -- it really was genius -- and the results. 100 000 dead Nietzscheans is justified retribution, even if it's retribution before the fact. Watching the nebula become a firewall had felt good. They gave them a quick death, something their comrades wouldn't give to the humans on Earth and other soon-to-be-conquered worlds.

But he's not proud. It's not something he counts as good and selfless on his personal scorecard. He can count those things on one hand.

He'd meant it when he'd told Trance that the Nietzscheans were the worst of what happened to Earth. The Magog would come and gorge, implant and leave, their attentions spans limited. The chaos, the smell of death, blood and fear would hover for days, weeks, months and then fade, just another bad memory in a string of bad memories. He doesn't kid himself. If he had the chance to fuck with Magog raiding parties, he would do that too.

The Nietzscheans were much, much worse though. They brought their own twisted version of order. It was only sometimes matched by fellow Earthers.

Humans know how to inflict real cruelty on each other. He also knows the buttons to push. It isn't something he's proud of either.

* * * * * *

Walking from his bolt hole, he'd wondered at the coincidence of Trance finding the crucial part of his plan. Was it more of her luck, or had he left it somewhere it would catch her eye? Sometimes, he wondered how much he subconsciously sabotages himself.

Of course, in his meanderings, he ran into Tyr. He doubted it was a coincidence. The look on the Nietzschean's face was like the one Dylan had given him. 'We do what we have to do'. It wasn't a surprise, but he suspected there was more behind that survivor look on Tyr's face.

Without a word, he followed Tyr to his quarters.

He didn't feel the need to be punished, that's never what this thing between them has been about. Did he need to be calmed down? Not really. Nor did he need to test the acceptance and trust boundaries, because if they can use his plan, they can use him.

Maybe it's just habit. It wouldn't be the first time he's been hooked on something that skirts this kind of edge.

Tyr would say that habits are a sign of weakness. Harper's never pretended he's without weaknesses, but sometimes he wonders how much Tyr pretends. Not that he'd ever voice that.

* * * * * *

He wonders where Tyr is now.

Other than the stiffness in his arms and back, he's not in any kind of pain. He tries to ignore the thirst, and thinks back to how he got into this position.

They arrived at Tyr's room. He stripped down, out of habit, and stood, waiting to be directed. In the end, no words came, so he moved to the bed, lying down on his stomach. Routine. Habit.

He waited some more. Unusual for Tyr to be still for this long, but some unpredictability on his part wasn't new, at least in this situation.

Eventually, his arms were restrained, and he could feel Tyr standing above him, staring. Maybe the guy was fixated on his ass. More time passed, and he started to feel unnerved. Tyr's hand came down on his neck, and he tensed, involuntarily. The hand was pulled away, and soft footfalls were followed by the sound of an opening and closing door to the outside.

He was left alone, and it felt cold.

Now, he guesses that Tyr didn't come back. He remembers lying there, trying to get comfortable, trying to ignore the anxiety of the situation, which had deviated too far from the familiar. At some point, he must have fallen asleep.

Tyr probably isn't coming back. It's hard to tell how much time has passed, but he figures it's not too long, 8 hours at most. Any longer, and the rest of the crew would be wondering why he hasn't shown his face. It's hard to hide on the ship, despite its size.

Sighing, he tests the knots around his wrists. They're tight, but he's gotten out of worse bindings. He's never let Tyr know about this ability, afraid one day he'd find himself in a position he didn't quite have the skill to somehow wriggle out from. He tries to keep some of his survival skills a secret.

It takes a while. He has the luxury of time, unlike past situations. He twists and wriggles, relaxes muscles, and wills bones just slightly out of joint. It hurts a little, but he can deal. He's not going to rely on Tyr to untie him, and there's no way he wants Beka or Trance, or shit, Dylan to find him like this. Trussed up like this, he'd probably look like too much of a tempting meal to Rev, and he's not sure how much of the Magog's Wayist veneer might rub away. It's not that he doesn't trust Rev. He just doesn't -- trust him. Sometimes.

His left hand loose, he rests until the throb fades, then quickly unties his other hand. The room is dark, but he knows his way around and easily finds his clothes in a pile next to the bed. Tyr's folded them, which makes him feel strange.

Dressed, he pads to the bathroom sink, switches the water on, and sets it to cold. He sticks his head under the stream of water, an awkward position, and drinks. It tastes clean.

Heading back to the bedroom, he calls for low lighting. He could walk out of here in the dark, but the light is a luxury he's always enjoyed. His tool belt is still on the floor, waiting to be fastened around his waist. They've been through a lot together, he and the tool belt, long before the Maru and Andromeda. He picks it up carefully, and fastens with the ease of practice.

Turning towards the exit, he's surprised to find Tyr watching him from a chair. The sight startles him, and he's caught, frozen for a few moments. He wonders what his face is telling Tyr right now.

It annoys him to think of Tyr sitting there, watching him sleep, wake and then wriggle his way out of the restraints. He pulls the nanowelder out of the tool belt absently, and tosses it from hand to hand, then catches himself doing it. Damn.

Tyr continues to stare, wordless, and it's unnerving. As it's meant to be. Harper stares back, and realises that he doesn't want this thing between them any more. He eyes the space between them, and thinks about how easy it would be to close it, straddle Tyr's lap, pull playfully at his hair, and proposition him. It could be fun to try and poke holes in Tyr's humourless wall. The guy can laugh, genuinely laugh without cynicism, superiority or bitterness, he's seen it once or twice. It would be cool to see it again.

He could touch, instead of waiting for the touches. He could eagerly unlace boots, snarking about their awkwardness. He could help Tyr peel out of those pants, teasing about their unnecessary tightness while he did it. He could stroke smooth skin, feel it with his fingers, instead of the less precise feeling of it pressed against his back. He could kiss and lick, maybe even bite, not just wish for the licks and bites across his neck and shoulders.

It's not that he's looking for romance. Romance is a High Guard notion, a thing of the fallen Commonwealth. But, it would be fun, with Tyr, to share; a different kind of trust.

It would be so easy. And it's not going to happen. He's not going to take that kind of chance.

So he looks at Tyr and he knows his face says that this thing is over. Tyr can put away the leather, the restraints and blindfolds. He can save the skin salve for his own injuries. He can leave the weapons hanging from the hooks on the wall above his bed. Or, he can take the hooks out altogether. Harper doesn't care. He's not coming back here.

Tyr sees it. He nods slightly, almost smiles. The look is just as unnerving as the flat stare, but for other reasons. He speaks, quietly. "You freed yourself faster than I expected."

What the hell is that supposed to mean? Harper's eyes follow the Nietzschean's gaze to the empty restraints on the bed. Oh. He almost laughs. "Practice." He can't help the cocky grin that flits across his face. Compliments are a rare thing from Tyr.

The almost-smile moves closer to the realm of a full smile. Tyr nods again, and that's the cue he chooses to take. He pockets the nanowelder and crosses to the exit.

He wants a shower.

He wonders what he'll do if he ever comes off a shift to find Tyr sitting in his room; skin, muscles and bone among his scattered mess of metal parts and synthetic clothing.