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insomniamamma · 10 months ago

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Threefold: Ezra x F!reader w/Cee

A/N: I am still working on my kiss prompts for @yearofcreation2023. Yeah yeah. I know we are well into 2024. But I am determined to finish these prompts. The prompt for this fic is "Kiss as a lie." This does not connect to any of my other Prospect fics, even though some terms may overlap. Enemies to reluctant allies. Reader is disabled and relies on body mods to assist her breathing. This one really got away from me. like 6K away from me.

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of injuries and medical procedures. Alcohol and drug consumption. Vomiting. Smut but nothing super graphic. Mentions of bodily fluids. This is not my usual Ezra. He is a shit in this one.

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t splatter your brains all over this bar.” You jam your thrower into the curls at Ezra’s nape. You watch him in the bleared bar mirror, watch the color drain from his face even as he smiles, starts to turn his head and you dig the barrel of the thrower in deeper, feel your finger tightening involuntarily, your need for vengeance vying with your need for satisfaction, for some sort of answer for what he did, finger curls slightly and releases again, Kevva knows you never expected to see him again, Kevva knows—something cold jams beneath the angle of your jaw and you snap back into the present. The bar mirror shows a slight girl with a halo of pale hair and thundercloud eyes, a small, freckled wisp. “Put it down,” her voice is soft and steady, “I don’t want to hurt you but I will.” “Well if this isn’t quite the predicament,” says Ezra, “How but you ease up on the trigger and we talk this out like civilized folk.” “Your time for talk ended five stands ago,” Your eyes flick towards the bleary girl in the bar-back mirror, “I don’t know what he promised you, kid, but he’ll fuck you over the second it makes sense. You’re what, fifteen stands? When he ditches you on some no-name moon what’re you gonna do?” The barrel digs deeper into the flesh at your neck. Ezra says your name, not darlin or kitten or sweetheart or any of the slew of names he gave you down on The Green, but the one you told him, the one he murmured against the sweaty column of your throat while you arched beneath him, quivered around him, felt like a blessing from his lips as he spilled fever hot inside you. “I did you wrong,” says Ezra, “You weren’t the first and you certainly weren’t the last, and, if I’m being honest, I did not think on you overmuch—“ The little girl in the warped mirror shakes her head-- “Ez--“ You feel the gun held against your throat tremble. “But these past stands have not been kind,” says Ezra, “To either of us, I imagine.” His eyes flick up towards your reflection and you know exactly what he sees, and how could he not? Paired auto-breathers clipped to your collarbones, metal and plastic welded to meat in an a scarred seal, ports that can be used for a filter-hookup with the right adapters. “So what? That’s the Fringe, isn’t it? That’s what you told me then—“ “How, exactly, do you imagine this plays out?” says Ezra, “You kill me, she kills you. Both of us dead here on the deck-plating and what’s the point of it? Revenge? Satisfaction?” You dig the barrel of your thrower into the meat at the nape of his neck, even as his girl shoves her weapon tighter against the angle of your jaw. “Or let’s say I kill you,” Ezra purrs, and you become aware of a buzzing, like a neglected data pad with incoming message against your inner thigh, but that doesn’t make sense, data pad’s in your left breast pocket and he grins in the mirror, flick your eyes down and damned if he doesn’t have a laser scalpel pressed into the meat of your leg, blood corona already spreading, “Think you can make the shot before I clip your femoral artery? You didn’t crawl out of Bakhroma’s well to bleed out in this dive, did you?” “Damn you, Ezra. You owe me. You left me to die down there.” “I did indeed, and if you ease off the trigger for a tick, I can offer your recompense.You think it’s an accident? You and me nested into the same ring? Show her, Cee.” “Ez, I don’t think-“ “Show her. And I’ll get us some drinks. I think a toast may be in order.”

“You know what we need to do, when we meet up with the others, right?” You cling to him despite the sticky heat of the tent, air thick and heady with the smell of sex, his come smeared between your bellies as you lay half atop him, head on his chest, his arm curled around your shoulder. “I stay on one,” you say, yawning, drifting as he traces aimless patterns up and down your arm, “You switch to two. Give them the talk. You fake a comms error and go for your channel box. You take the big one and I pick off the leader. The one with the red. Then we get, we get out of here.” He squeezes you tight as sleep takes you, his heart slow and steady beneath your ear.

Cee sighs, rolls her eyes, pulls her thrower off your throat. “Fine,” she says, and reaches for a bag slung at her side.

Ezra hails his crew, and hiss of static on your ear when he switches to two, your thrower in hand, trained on the leader, brilliant red plast pauldron over his exosuit, waiting for the signal, for Ezra to go for his channel box, what is he waiting for? He looks animated, smiling through the fog of his helmet, this is wrong, you think, and he turns, thrower in hand and shoots and the world whites out for a tick, your leg collapses under you and when you lift your head there’s Ezra, tucking his thrower back into his holster, the press of his boot against your shoulder rolling you on your back from where you curled around yourself, broken nerves screeching around the path of cooked flesh just above your knee. You know what’s happened, but part of you can’t believe it— “Help me!” You say, met by the hiss of an open channel, he grabs your trophy case and tosses it to his friend, the big man with the railer he was supposed to kill, leans in and reaches for you and for a moment you think this is all some mistake, something that can be made right and he wrenches your filter out of it’s clip, cuts the hose so it’s you and the dust laden atmosphere. “Why?” You ask and know he won’t answer, makes a big pantomime of tapping his helmet and shaking his head. Your eyes scrim over with tears, the cooked nerves in your leg screaming a wordless anthem, “Please.” Ezra bows his head but still smiles, presses his gloved fingers to his helmet and blows you a kiss , that’s the fringe, girl, even with comms cut you can make out the words, and then he turns away, walking off into the brush with his crew.

“Carom-burned pearl,” you say, mouth taking over while your brain runs wild, this gem is trash, sure, but the size— “So what?” You drop your thrower back to your hip without even thinking on it. Impossible to tell the quality with the membrane half-burned into the surface, but still— “Don’t play stupid.” says Cee, “You were on The Green. You know what you’re lookin at.” “I know that I am looking at a botched pull,” you say, “I’m also looking at a little girl who thinks she’s found a friend way out here in the ass-end of the Great Arm. Did he give this to you, spring-sprite? Spin you a tale of buried treasure? He promise you an even split—“ “60/40. My way. 16th per point garnishment to clear his debt,” she says, “Ezra works for me.” You laugh, a real one deep from your belly and the intake fans, your intake fans whir faster to make up for the perceived oxygen debt, vibrations through your bones that you can’t seem to get used to even after all these stands, “Oh, honey, I was gonna kill him, but now I don’t think I will. Think I’ll let you reap the consequences here. Me and Ez? We’re done.” “It’s the Queen’s Lair,” says Ezra, and you stop cold, half-way up off of your stool, seep back down like your legs have forgotten themselves. “I know. I know you’ll never believe me, but we were there.” “You just happened on it right? Just happened to drop right down in the place that every fool and their brother went hunting for on that Kevva-forsaken rock.” “Not me,” says Ezra, “Cee’s father.” “So why isn’t it him making the pitch?” “He didn’t make it,” says Cee. And you nod. Spacer’s phrase for a constellation of mishaps. A blown hull. A dust infection. An altercation in some shit station bar over points or pussy or any number of things. An invitation to not ask. “It wasn’t even really him that found it—“ “Cee—“ “My father was contracted to harvest for Karoclan. Group of mercs found the Lair by accident. Probably digging a shit-pit. We landed bad. By the time we made it to the site it was just me and Ezra, and things got complicated.” “Complicated.” “We had to fight our way out. We barely made the sling.” “You couldn’t do the job,” you say, “And you know I can.” “That’s not-“ “She never learned the trick and I was trying to cut the blisters weak-handed,” says Ezra, “That’s why we need you.” “You went back there. Even after all you took from me. You could’ve gone somewhere better with your cut but you didn’t. You got addicted to the rush.” “I did,” says Ezra. “Me and Ezra and now you are the only people that know the Queen’s Lair is even real,” says Cee, “We go there, we get a good pull and we can live off it for years. Now that the line’s dead the value’s just gonna go up. We get the pearls and trickle them into the market—“ “How’re we gonna get there with the line dead? No one makes the BG sling anymore. They just route everything around Ikhar and—“ “Got a hot-jumper willing to take us for a cut.” Says Ezra, “We ride the line till just after the Ikhar sling and then unclip and burn. Gets us in orbit in 6 stand months.” “Risky,” you say, tapping you index and middle fingers against your right breather, vibration passing from metal into bone, a nervous habit born out of a rerouted urge to scratch at the healing skin. “Yeah. But if we do it right, if we play it smart, none of us will have to drop down some Kevva-shunned well for a hand of points ever again. We can have the lives that sharp-toothed bitch moon took from us.” “Like you didn’t have a part in it—“ Ezra reaches across the sticky bar and folds your hand in his—

He grabs you under the arms, woah there girlie, this is bad ground, yanks you back, so focused on the pull that you didn’t feel the ground shifting beneath you, grab your gear and hold it to your chest even as you’re pulled back from the rapidly forming sink-hole in the loamy dirt, draw your thrower and whirl on the stranger, your gear scattered all around your feet. Don’t fuckin touch me. Is that anyway to talk to someone who just saved your life? What’re you doing out here all alone anyway? who says I’m alone? You got crew? Raise ‘em on coms. Yeah that’s what I thought. Gonna get killed out here all alone.

“I had every part in it,” says Ezra. “The breath of your lungs, Cee’s only living kin, and the arm from my own body. All victim to my greed and stupidity and short-sightedness. I used you and I duped you and robbed you and left you to die and Kevva rightly and thoroughly kicked my ass for it. If not for Cee I would have breathed my last in that forsaken jungle-“ You yank your hand away as if burned. “You do not touch me,” you say, “We are not friends, we are not lovers. That part is over. Forever. We clear?” “Clear,” says Ezra, that infuriating little half-smile crawling up his cheek, “That mean you’re in?” “Maybe.”

Didn’t realize how loud those fans were gonna be. Maybe you’d like me to suffocate about it. Does she ever turn that player off? Do you ever turn your breathers off? Not the same. To her it is.

What’s with you and her? You aren’t kin. You said you cost her only kin. In that pretty speech you gave me so I wouldn’t shoot you. That is a complicated and lengthy tale. We’ve got time.

“Ezra? I don’t like this.” Cee eyes the blue gel pack in her hand. “Once the bolts release Jada’s gonna burn hard,” says Ezra, “She’s got mods to deal with the pain and sickness, but we don’t. If we don’t dope down, we’re gonna be in a world of hurt.” “People’ve died,” you say, and Ezra shoots you a dark look that you give right back, “They go into shock sometimes. Don’t wanna risk that right?” “It’s not addictive, if that’s what you’re worried about,” says Ezra, “We’ve got a sixteenth to take it and have it work. You go past that and it’s your choice, Little Bird.” Cee’s eyes flick from your face to his, and you wonder how you’ve slipped into caring for this girl, this orphan of Ezra’s making, how you became someone she’d look to in a place of indecision. “I’ve never hot-jumped myself, but I was crew with a man who was on a prison transport that did,” you say, hoping the grain of truth in the story will be enough to get Cee to chomp down on that gel pack when the time comes. You heard the story second hand on over drinks on Leylan bench, but Cee doesn’t need to know that. “They didn’t bother doping down the prisoners. Guess they didn’t want to spend the points. Aggie said him and most of the others exploded from both ends. It wasn’t nice. Hallucinated on top of that if I remember right. Hot jump fucks with people.” “Heard some of those tales myself,” says Ezra. “Jada’s a professional. She’s so modded up she can’t handle a drop down a well anymore. She wants her cut we’ve got to be her hands. It’s not in her interest to lead us wrong.” “We got a sixteenth?” “Yeah, but how bout we get ourselves secure and do it all together?” “Okay,” says Cee. The three of your wordlessly prep, following the instructions Jada gave you on boarding. Wear something soft. No jewelry, nothing rigid. These, Jada had flicked a finger against Cee’s music player, are a no-go. The crash beds have plenty of give but I’ve seen people come out the other side with holes in em from fancy buttons on their pants. These gonna be a problem? Jada eyed your breathers and poked at one with a questing finger. How long’ve you had em? Bout five stands. Should be fine then. Bone’s had time to remodel and deal with the extra mass. You’ll be sore though. You remove the ring your mother gave you before you left the well, remove the studs from your ears, don the softest clothes you have. Cee wears an over sized shirt with Puzo in his space suit, long, coltish legs and bare feet sticking out. Her toenails are painted an alarming sparkly green, and your heart squeezes a little. She may have shoved a thrower into your neck but she is still very much a little girl. “We ready?” “This is gonna taste bad isn’t it?” “Most likely,” says Ezra, “We bite down on a three count, yeah?” Cee scrunches her face, tucks the gel pack into her cheek and you and Ezra do the same. “Ready? One, two, three-“ “Oh that is nasty-“ says Cee. You crunch down and swallow the drug in a convulsive gulp, bitter medicinal taste beneath something that is supposed to taste like bananas. Not that you’ve ever seen or eaten one. “That is just—wrong.” You feel sleep sucking at your bones, and you can hear the sound of the hot-jumper’s engine’s spooling up, a bright spike of anxiety tries to lodge itself in your chest, familiar whir of your breathers kicking up as your heart rate rises and then the drugs take you down.

Come to with a raging headache, Ezra and Cee are already awake and at the controls. “Here,” says Cee and tosses you a pack of stim-chews, “Just do one. It’ll kill the headache.” You crunch one, sickly fruit and bitter and you feel a little more alert, but not in a pleasant way, like remembering the last bits of a long and unpleasant dream, not sure exactly what happened, but there was blood and horror and pressure. “Something happened—“ “That’s the drugs,” says Ezra, “Telemetry’s good. We’re right down the line. Five by. Took you a little longer to come out of it, that’s all.” You try to sit yourself up, and your pectoral muscles scream, your clavicles ache where the breathers are clipped to them. You must make some sound, because Ezra turns to look at you, those dark eyes locked on you and you want to slap that concerned face right off his skull— “You okay?” “Yeah. Gimme a minute. Jada said it would hurt.” “Should’ve said something, Kitten, I would’ve gotten you a patch—“ “I’m not your kitten, and it’s not your business.” “You’re right,” says Ezra, “it’s not my business. But we go hot in a sixteenth and I’ll need you sharp. You know what you need to do?” “Do you?” “How bout both of you shut up and focus on the drop,” says Cee, “You can fight it out once we’re clipped back in and bench-bound.” “Fair enough, Little Bird,” says Ezra, “You take the conn, Cee. Your controls.” “My controls,” echoes Cee. “Where’s the pain?” “Clavicles. Achy around the breathers. I don’t think anything’s fractured-“ “Here,” says Ezra. He hands you two pain patches. “Peel these and I’ll stick em.” “Fine.” You open one patch and then the other, stick them to your fingertips and hold up your hand for Ezra to take them. Scoop your hair out of the way and Ezra smooths the gel-patch on to the join of your neck and shoulder. “There you go. Let’s get the other side.” His hand lingers, brief and warm and before you can tell him not to touch you he withdraws. “That should keep you creamy until we’re dirt-side. Don’t be shy about takin what you need from the kit. Need you steady downworld, we clear?” “Clear.”

This feels nothing like a normal drop, not the warning alarm and dull thump of bolts retracting. Going hot means a hand of solid fuel boosters will push you screaming towards the Green Moon, igniting as soon as the clips let go, push you away from the hot-jumper without slowing, vibration shaking the dropper in a sick two part resonance that hurts your ears and churns your stomach— “Oi! chute status” Lock your eyes on the jittering screens. “Bolts are go. Drogues are go. We’re go.” You flip up the toggle guards and hold your fingers above the switches. The thrusters fire and the dropper rocks, flipping itself so the engines face down, watch the numbers on your screen go green and listen for the callouts— “Heat shield sep!—“ “Tracking?” “We’re clear! Go for drogue deploy on your mark—“ The switches vibrate beneath your fingers, you feel the vibrations in your skull, in your bones, strange resonance in your ears that churns your stomach, crush your eyes shut so you don’t have to see the way the screens jitter in and out of focus. “That’s atmo—“ says Cee. “Blow the drogues in 3..2…1…mark—“ You flip the toggles and lurch forward hard into your harness, and then back into your crash-couch as the landing burn starts. “Where we at—?” “Transonic,” you say, numbers blearing green on the scope, “we’re green.” Hook a bag from where its stickied to your seat and wretch into it, smell of fake chocolate half-digested Bitz-Bars and jump drugs. Grav and spin enough to fuck your inner ears, and the engines burn hard, “Landing gear deploy—“ calls Cee. There’s a hard thump and you’re down and stable but your roiled stomach and pounding skull and tight neck betray you and you dry heave while the others gear up. “Gimme a minute,” you say, pressing your eyes closed, trying to get some sort of control over yourself, “Haven’t done much well-work since— since—,” heave helplessly over the bag but nothing comes up, there’s nothing too come up. Ezra rests his hand your arm. “Hey. Look at me—“ You try to lift your head, and the world starts spinning again, too much time station-side, too much time in the gentle, predictable spin of bench-rings, your body’s forgotten the suck of the world on your bones, on your blood on your lungs “Can’t,” you crush your eyes shut, welcome dark nulling out some of your screaming nerves. “Okay,” says Ezra in the roiling dark, “Okay, Baby, I need you to breathe real deep through your nose for me.” “Not your baby—“ “I know,” he says, “Deep breath. Through your nose. One, two, three--“ You breathe in, left over bitz bar chunks making their presence known, irritation followed by something numbing and cool and slightly spicy, you stomach calms but sweat breaks out all over your body-- “Is this even gonna work?” Cee glares, hands on hips, mostly suited. “Finish kitting up and start scouting the perimeter,” says Ezra, “Stay on two unless I tell you different. We’ll be out shortly.” Cee narrows her eyes, but does what she’s told, seals her helmet and clips her filter and steps through the hatch, brief breeze of equalizing pressure, scrubbers kicking up to deal with the dust as do the fans clipped into you. When the seals cycle Ezra hands you a styrette. “This’ll kill the nausea. Also you won’t be able to shit for a half-hand or so. It’s intramuscular” “I’ve given myself hot-shots before,” you slide your pants down and jab the styrette into the meat of your thigh. Ezra’s eyes flick away. “Cee’s funny about chemical help,” says Ezra, “Her father was an addict you see. He’d dope down and then stim awake and it scares her so-“

“Let’s just suit up and do the job,” you say, baring your back to Ezra so you can don the compression garments that go under your suit. The suit’s a custom-job to accommodate your breathers, filter clipped into a hose split and spliced three ways, clean air for your breathers to pass on to your dust-scarred lungs, and another than clips in to your helmet. Settle your mic-rig over your ear. “Channel two how read?” “Channel two clear,” says Cee. “Two clear,” says Ezra, odd doubling of his voice through your rig and through your helmet. And then the channel goes dead. Hollow thump of Ezra’s fishbowl pressed against yours. “Can we do a suit check right quick?” His voice muffled by his helmet and yours, “I think i’ve got it, but I’d like—“ “Turn around.” “Cee usually—“ “I’ve got it.” He turns his back to you and you lift the loose fabric off the back seal, two twist catches with hook and loop for the outer seal. You tighten the right side catch and smooth everything else into place. “Thank you,” he says, “You need checks?” “No, I’m green.” “They’re still here—“ Cee’s voice loud and overdriven through your rig and Ezra bolts for the hatch. You shove yourself into the nacreous light, Bakhroma hanging above, it’s curve spanning the sky like a diseased rainbow, pulsing through thick clouds and the endless fall of dust. “They’re dead, Birdie! Look! They’re just bones in suits. They can’t hurt us, okay?” You turn your back on them. Cee’s breath loud and ragged on two. “Okay,” says Cee, “M’okay—I just” “What the Kevva be-cursed fuck?” A plast box rises out of the tall grass, curled around in flowering vines inside and out, a skeleton inside seated on a small bench, glints of gold and bones stained a livid, unnatural pink. “He got back in the box,” says Cee, “Why would he do that? He let us go and then he got back in the box.” “Karoclan,” says Ezra, “An oblation I suppose.” Your neck prickles. “Those folk are fuckin crazy,” You press the back of your hand to your helm and push away, palm out, a gesture to dispel bad luck, can’t rightly remember where you picked it up. “Look,” says Cee,” standing in a bare, cracked circle of dirt, “This is where we boosted from. Must’ve baked out the soil.” “Hey. Let’s get the pull. We can get all nostalgic once we boost.” Ezra gives you a dark look, but Cee, bounds past and into the trench. “Ezra,” she says, her voice flat, even over coms. You and Ezra catch up to where she’s frozen, stone still, “He’s still here. Why is he still here? Why are they still here? It’s been almost a stand.” You push past Ezra and examine the sprawled and sagging suit, nudge the boxy helm with you boot, rotted breather hoses crumbling, dust floating up. “Are you gonna get your shit together or not?” Cee flinches. Glares at you through her fishbowl. Ezra scowls. “I hardly think—“ “I’m here to harvest,” you say, “And I will harvest, but I am not doing it alone unless you alter the split.” “You’re out of line, Kitten,” says Ezra, “You seem to have forgotten who’s hired you on for this venture—“ “It’s okay,” says Cee, “I’m okay. Third time pays for all, right?” “Third time pays for all,” says Ezra, “Clear.” “So lets dig,” says Cee, “Fuck these guys, right?” “Fuck ‘em.” you say, “We’re gonna get rich while these fellas feed the bugs for the next stand and change.”

The kips that came before you exposed the leading edge of the deposit, oxidized crusts shimmering in Bakhroma’s murky light. “They didn’t prime any of this?” “They didn’t know to do so,” says Ezra. “That one over there—“ Ezra jerks his head towards a blood colored suit with faux gold adornments glimmering through a twisted clutch of creeper-vines, “Got himself acid burned for his troubles.” “Dry breach.” “Something like.”

This is no hurried dig, this is no quick pull and boost, Jada has her heart set on atmo-skimming around the outer moons before hooking back up. Trying to break some record. Ezra hovers at first, flitting around the perimeter you’ve established, light poles stabbed into the boggy ground, and then gets drawn in to the excitement of the pull, peering over your shoulders as you and Cee work. Cee is a quick study, follows your instructions to the letter, and between her hands and yours? The size and clarity is like nothing you’ve seen. “This makes what we got last time around look like pea gravel,” you say. “We’re going to have a weight issue,” says Ezra. “Do we stop?” asks Cee. “Absolutely not,” says Ezra, “We keep pulling and take the highest grade with us. And then we chem-burn what ever we leave behind.” “That’s crazy!” says Cee. “Think on it,” says Ezra, “We burn it behind us and no one else can get ahold of these gems ever again. Not at the size and quality we’re pulling.” You split the fibrous outer husk and Cee squeezes in the diffuser without being asked, and you feel yourself smile. “The scarcity sets the price,” you say, “We’re the only folk who know about this deposit. No one will ever know we scorched it.” “But all these pearls—“ “No one knows about them,” says Ezra, “Only us and Jada and she can’t ever drop down here herself. And some hot jumper hits a bench blatting about buried treasure on a world they can’t touch? Only ads to the mystique and rarity, and the points in our accounts.” “Enough to get me into the Academy? You’re laughing,” she frowns at you, “why’re you laughing?” “Because this is fuck you money,” you say, “We play this right you can probably buy yourself a station-ring or five somewhere in Central. This is do whatever we want forever kind of money if we keep our heads.” “She’s right,” says Ezra, “We play the long game and there’ll be precious little we can’t do.” “Still want to go to the Academy” says Cee, peeling the outer husk away just like you showed her and backing off so you can cut the carom blisters, but there is a tub full of the biggest pearls you’ve ever laid eyes on hardening in the fazer. “And so you shall,” says Ezra. “You do this one.” “You sure?” “You’ve been watching me excise blisters all cycle. Give it a go.” Cee turns the pinkish mass one way and then another, jaw clenched in fraught concentration, trying to grip without touching the blister, the trick is to slide the blade under and cut it free from beneath, go in at the wrong angle and the cillia react, defensive mechanism. “What’re you gonna study at the academy?” You ask, and her face loosens up some, her hands do the work they’ve been trained in, pulls the inner husk tight and slides the blade under the blister. “I’m thinking a botany/anthropology double major,” she says, flicks the blister into the weeds like she’s done it a million times before. “Huh,” you say. “Interesting combination, Birdie,” says Ezra. “What ties the two together?” Cee slices another blister and flicks it away, brief curl of steam where it sizzles in the grass. “What doesn’t?” says Cee, “Why do people bring certain plants from one world to the next? You remember the orchard we saw on Verres? Someone planted those trees there. Don’t you wanna know who and why?” “Guess so,” says Ezra, “It was a bit creepy seeing all those trees in lines. Verres being classed unihabited and all.” “I’ve seen stuff like that too. Folks’ve been screwing around in The Great Arm for a long time-“ “Hey! Fazer!” Cee barks and you squeeze the fluid into the cut, watch the husk curl and shrink away. “There she is,” says Ezra and the three of you look at Cee’s prize, held aloft in the murky daylight, Bakhroma’s ruddy arc taking up most of the sky. “Not the best one we’ve pulled—“ “This one’s mine,” says Cee, snatches the squeeze and coats the pearl before tucking it into her suit pocket, slow smile creeping up her face, “This is my fuck you pearl. We make it out of here and I’ll use it as a paperweight if I get into the Academy.”

“When you get into the Academy,” says Ezra, and Cee rolls her eyes, and you feel yourself smile a little. You like Cee. “You should do one, Ezra,” says Cee, “You peel it down and I’ll hold it for you.” “I don’t think—“ “Give it a go,” you say, “Get yourself a fuck you pearl.”

Ezra eyes the exposed deposit, an irregular honeycomb of aurelac pores, dirt darkened to mud, sprayed water from the onboard tanks to rinse away the caustic slime. “In for a penny in for a pound,” he says, just loud enough for the mic rig to pick up and shoves his arm inside. His breath comes ragged over two. “Ezra?” “I’ve got it, birdie. It’s a big one,” he says, and Cee slices through the dirt flecked umbilicus. Ezra cradles his prize like a kitten then sets it on the tray. Cee gives it a good rinse like she’s been trained to, pinches the outer husk and rolls it between her gloved fingers, loosening it up from the inner husk so Ezra can cut. “It’s thick,” says Cee, “You got wiggle room. We got time. It’s not like before.” Ezra’s breath steadies and he cuts, splitting the fibrous husk, slow, careful movements, beads of sweat popping out on his brow. Cee peels the husk away, like taking off a sock and you douse everything with the diffuser. Ezra primes the blade, waits for it hit the right setting and then freezes, sharp edge glinting in the ugly light as his hand shakes. Cee wraps her hand around his wrist. “You’ve got this.” “Okie. Yeah. Let’s give her a go. Third time pays for all, right?” “Third time pays for all.”

One half-stand later…

Pain is the first thing, deep, sprained ache in your chest, thirst is second, thirst and taste in your mouth and nose like burnt rubber, third is a warm hand holding yours. Squeeze your fingers around a warm palm, around a plastic handle with a button on top that you press and then there’s no more ache, no more thirst, no more light shining blood ugly through your closed lids.

Later. You come back to yourself. The pain is less and the thirst is more. Slit your eyes and cram them shut, dark blob leaning over you haloed in screaming light, the hand holding yours lets go. oh, shit, let me douse the lights. And the bloodshine through your eyelids stops. Blink the tears out, and Ezra’s face resolves out of the dark his face pinched with worry. “Oh Kevva, I’m dead.” His eyes go big and then he brays laughter. “Fraid not, Kitten. Might not feel like it right now but the head nurse assured me that you’re healing well.” You close your eyes, and press the button that will kill the pain. “Why’re you here?” “Cee was worried. She keeps tabs on both of us. She couldn’t make it herself, she’s up to her eyeballs in her new school, she tested in and—“ Sleep is calling, the ache in your chest dying to a low hum. Why’re you really here? not sure if you say it or think it, and the drugs call you down before you can figure it out.

thirsty. “Can you sit? I’ve got you.” His arm curls warm around your back and tilts you up, plastic straw pressed against your lip and you drink deep, frigid water against your raw throat. “Slow sips,” says Ezra, “Don’t want to shock your stomach.” One arm holds you up, a hand offers you a cool drink. You blink your eyes open, confusion and cool water against your dry tongue wake you some, close your lips around the straw and drink deep before Ezra snatches it back, plastic bottle gripped in an intricately articulated prosthetic hand, burnished metal plating like the scales on a snake's belly, telltales and indicators winking, etched over with decorative grooves, circles and curves. Looks a bit like a nav map. “Slow,” he says. You narrow your eyes at him and swish the water around your mouth, trying to wash the dryness, the foul taste away before swallowing. “You didn’t go for a regrow?” Your voice sounds lower than usual, ratchety. Ezra shakes his head. “Too much nerve damage for that,” he says, “Scarring and time passed.” You reach for the bottle and he puts it in your hand “Slow,” you say before he can, “I know. Ezra, why are you here? You got your new arm, I got my breathers out and Cee’s got her schooling. We got the agreement set. Third time pays for all, so why are you here?” “Cause I did you dirtier than that cache of pearls could ever pay for,” says Ezra, “And you shouldn’t be all on your own right now.” You want to say something back, but you’re so tired, even the act of speaking has made you tired right down to your bones, chest and throat screaming in protest, and your eyes scrim over with tears. One escapes and Ezra strokes it aside with the pad of his thumb. “I pushed the call button, Kitten, they’ll be here soon.” “Not your fuckin Kitten,” you say as Ezra folds your hand warm in his, “Not your friend.” “I know.” i know.

#year of kisses #year of themes 2023 #yeah yeah it's 2024 #what am i supposed to do time travel about it?#ezra x f!reader with cee #prospect 2018 #prospect fanfic

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