#it hasn't even been six months and i still fucking burn for him it eats me alive and it seems like he's just thriving

[lovelornlamb]

i would love to feel like i was important in any metric. i don't like feeling as if im just needling him for attention but if i don't push, then i get absolutely nothing. and if i give nothing, its deafening silence

[anotherhawk]

Play At War Ch. 4 - The Mechanisms fanfic

Warning - there is offscreen child soldiers dying in this chapter.

The tides of war had changed once again. Fort Canary Wharf had fallen, along with the Outposts of the Northern Line. Millions dead in a single week as the British infantry was pushed back, burned out of their tunnels and shot down like rats. 

Their little checkpoint still stood, but they were largely cut off from their own supply lines, a little peninsula of British control in a sea of Lunar blood - and the bodies were piling up around the walls.

Amir took a grenade to the face and died in an instant. Forbes and Luvian, sent to replace them, had barely unpacked their kit before they died screaming beneath the heat ray. Lamont went over the top one quiet night and never came home.

Jonny went over the top time and time again, no matter what Tim or Bertie said, regardless of orders or appeals to friendship. The lucky bastard always came back, exhausted, exhilarated, stinking of blood and death. Tim hated him sometimes, for always seeming like he was enjoying himself, for always landing on his feet, even as he knew that the only reason Checkpoint Bakerloo was still standing was that they had their very own maniac willing to go outside and rearm their minefield. Not that that came close to accounting for all his wandering.

"He's looking for the Toy Soldier," Bertie said quietly.

Tim kept his answer short, and his eye glued fast to his scope. "It's dead."

"Doesn't mean he's going to stop looking."

He squeezed down on the trigger, unerringly hitting a shadow moving against a pinprick of light. "S'ppose that's fair."

There were three of them living in this bunker that was meant to be filled with a dozen soldiers. They had plenty of space and plenty of ghosts and fuck all anything else; water, ammo, food, hope - all in short supply. They were making every bullet count, recycling every drop of water, but food wise they were down to expired MREs leftover from a previous war and corpsemeat. And not the microwaved stuff that had made mouths water even when they'd been on the shite that passed for full rations, no, this was raw, bloody and foul, cut from the bones of the poor fucks they'd killed and every bite made Tim sick to the bone,

Bertie had taken charge of supplies which was why Tim found himself flat on his back with his lover's knife pressed up against the side of his face. "Have you been eating?"

He didn't blink. "Usual safeword?"

Bertie let out an exasperated huff. "I'm serious, luv."

"Then I'm using my safeword."

In response Bertie started patting him down - or feeling him up? - squeezing at his ribs and arms and thighs before saying accusingly "You've lost weight."

Tiring of this, Tim pushed him back before struggling to sit up, balancing on his heels. "We've all lost weight, for fuck's sake. We're on starvation rations."

"Yeah, but we're not. Because there's more food in stores than there should be. So someone's not been eating."

And if it wasn't him and it wasn't Bertie… "Fuck. Has Jonny lost weight?"

"I don't know," Bertie admitted.

"Yeah. I don't exactly make a habit of hugging him either."

"Well,"  Bertie said, and Tim could picture the way his jaw was set even though he hadn't seen it in months, "That's about to change."

They ambushed Jonny as he came down the ladder from the parapet, waiting until they heard his boot crunch on moon rock before diving on him, one from each side.

"Ah! What the fuck?" Jonny yelled as he hit the dirt, Bertie pinning him down while Tim wrapped around him, koala style. "Gettoffme!" 

"Not until we find out the truth," Bertie said grimly. 

"He hasn't lost weight," Tim reported.

"What the...oh, fuck, I'm actually getting flashbacks to my childhood now. You sound just like my mother and I haven't thought of her in about six thousand years." Jonny stopped struggling. "What do you want?"

Tim gripped him a little tighter, never trusting any mention of parents. "Bertie says we aren't using as much food as we should be. Have you been eating?"

"No," he admitted, astonishingly easily. "In case you haven't noticed the food we've got is shit."

He heard Bertie shuffling around in the darkness and a second later his arm was covering both of them. "Jonny...you need to eat." He nodded, even knowing they couldn't see him. Even eating what they had, he was finding himself tired and sore all the time, and if he stood up too quickly, or even if he didn’t, the world would spin dizzying around him.

There was a thud as Jonny's head hit against the rock beneath them. "I promise I'll wind up with a bullet in my head long before I starve to death."

He dug his elbow into Jonny's side. "That isn't reassuring, you arse."

Jonny laughed shortly. "It would be if you weren't an idiot."

"Is it so strange to think we might want you to stay alive?" Bertie asked quietly.

Another dull thud. "No, I suppose not. I've heard that before at any rate. And I suppose you would be lost without me." He didn't sound smug, for once. He sounded exhausted, and sympathy welled up in Tim's chest. However Jonny regarded his relationship with the Toy Soldier - replacement, friend, enemy, comrade - the only times Tim had ever known Jonny to actually sleep had been when he was lying on top of it.

Bertie was obviously thinking along the same lines. "When was the last time you slept?"

"And now you sound like Drumbot," Jonny muttered, struggling ineffectually. "Fuck's sake."

Tim couldn't help asking. "What the fuck is a drumbot? 

Jonny's laugh was short, angry and exhausted, just like the rest of him. "An insubordinate piece of brass with the best smile."

There was silence for a while. Jonny lay still. Bertie squeezed his hand. "No self-sacrifice," Tim ordered softly. "We're a team. We live or die together." He knew which of those options was more likely. They weren't going to be able to hold the checkpoint forever. "So eat some food and get some sleep, you daft fucker."

Jonny gave an exaggerated, disparaging sigh. "Don't flatter yourself, Tim, it's not self-sacrifice. Neither you nor food matters that much to me."

Tim grabbed his hand and twisted meaningfully. "Eat some fucking food."

Another put-upon sigh. "If it means that much to you…but you keep the MREs for yourselves. I'll stick with eating human. I can digest it better than you can."

Tim wanted to continue arguing, because even expired MREs had more nutrition than a dead body, but Bertie squeezed his arm in warning and he subsided, willing to let it go.

"So. Was discussing my eating habits all this little cuddle party was about?"

"More or less," Bertie agreed easily. "Unless you're willing to talk about staying in the bunker? We can even play blackout poker."

Now that was one hell of an offer, one Tim sort of wished Bertie hadn't made on their behalf. Jonny was very good at blackout poker. Tim had already lost his belt, two pairs of socks and his third favourite sidearm to the bastard.

"Sounds like a really boring party," Jonny said cheerfully.

Tim took a breath. "Look. I know you're worried about the Toy Soldier -"

"-I'm not," Jonny lied sharply. There was a pause. "It has been gone a long time though. It doesn't normally take this long to get back even when I shove it out the airlock." For the sake of his own sanity Tim decided to assume that was some figure of speech he'd never encountered before. Jonny's voice was soft, steady but shattered. "It might be trapped somewhere - maybe buried under a ton of rubble, or lying at the bottom of some foxhole with its limbs all ripped off and out of reach." Both of those options sounded a lot like 'dead' to Tim. He could hear Jonny swallowing in the dark. Could hear his fingers drumming across his chest. "Fuck," he whispered, before clearing his throat and adding brightly.  "And if I let anything happen to it the others will kill me, slowly and painfully. Anyway. You wanted me to go eat someone, right? I think we're down to a choice between Otto and Frances. Anyone got a preference?"

They let him up and he hurried away into the dark, and later Tim wasn't particularly surprised when Bertie woke him for the change of watch to find that Jonny had left the bunker again.

Bastard.

*

Fresh troops arrived at Checkpoint Bakerloo, but they weren't reinforcements. Captain Mayweather, an oily posh boy who stood head and shoulders above his troops, led Chaffinch Brigade through the checkpoint and immediately recruited the three of them to lead them through no man's land towards the undertunnels. Apparently someone had decided that the easiest way to infiltrate the Terminal Depot was through the tunnels no grown man could hope to fit through, which was ridiculous and it was never, ever going to work. Those tunnels were the deepest, miles below the surface, protected by countless traps, with endless clouds of poison and the heat ray constantly seeking intruders, and they would not be conquered by a bunch of green tommys, newly shipped in from Earth. They would never even get close.

"They're not even old enough to be spotty," Tim whispered, voice cracked and agonised after they caught sight of the Chaffinchs in the burning light of the artillery passing overhead. "Are we recruiting cub scouts now?" 

"Anyone and everyone strong enough to hold a rifle," Bertie whispered back bitterly.

"Though I doubt these babies could pick up a rifle if we were at Earth gravity."

"Watch your words," Mayweather snapped from too close behind them. "I won't stand for any insubordination from the likes of you. These are soldiers. We can't all spend the war cowering in a little bunker with our mates, what?"

Tim gritted his teeth and kept a tight hold of Bertie's arm, not knowing which of them he was trying to hold back. "With all due respect, Captain, is command certain about this plan? I've been out here long enough to know that there's going to be casualties. A lot of casualties. And your troops are very young."

Mayweather sneered. "They may be young but they have fighting spirit, Corporal, which is more than I can say for you."

Tim longed to grab the bastard by the front of his stuffed shirt and scream in his face; They're children! They're children and you're leading them off to die.

"They're cannon fodder," he said to Bertie and Jonny later as they scouted out the way ahead. "We all know it. We've seen this before; there's a push on somewhere and these poor fuckers are the distraction."

"Yes," Jonny agreed. "We've seen this before. And we'll see it again. Hundreds are dying every day, Tim. And there's nothing you can do about it."

There was a bitter taste at the back of his throat. "They're kids. They don't deserve to be here." He caught a hint of movement in the dark and fired, his muzzle flash lighting up a small Lunar patrol pressed against the tunnel wall, young and panicking.

Bertie snorted, taking cover behind a pile of sandbags. "If the war was about who deserved to be here it would be a cage match between the Kaiser and the Queen."

"They're, what, maybe six or seven years younger than you two?" Jonny didn't even bother taking cover, firing and firing and firing. "What does it matter?"

"They're kids " Tim snapped  the rage burning through him like it never had before as he took careful aim.

"And I'm telling you, that makes no difference. Not to the war and not to the narrative. Their job is to die, alone and unremembered. At best they get to be a rallying call, another outrage to fuel the hero's fire."

The last of the lunarmen lay dead. Tim resisted the urge to fire one more bullet. "And I suppose you're the hero?" he sneered.

Jonny cackled unexpectedly, laughing until he ran out of breath. "I'm no hero. I'm not even a protagonist."

"Whatever." Tim was in no mood to discuss it further. "Let's head back."

There was time, over the next two days of marching, for them to get to know the child soldiers of Chaffinch Brigade.

Lieutenant Rebekah, desperately afraid of letting her troops down, drowning in her responsibilities and in the greatcoat her soldier brother had left behind. Corporal Brock, raised on tales of war and bravery, waiting for their time to be a hero. Private Singh, always ready with a joke, always trying to keep everyone's spirits up, especially his best friend Private Ari who was so terribly afraid of the dark. So many more, all young and bright and full of hope. All alive. And as they marched through tunnels and across no mans land, through sniper fire and gas attacks, as they lost people, one by one, all that youth and hope and brightness slowly drained away.

Tim couldn't stand it. At night, while Jonny told the children stories, he and Bertie plotted around the outskirts.

"We have to do something," he said, his fingernails digging deep into his palm. "There has to be a way to stop this."

Bertie leaned in against him, back to back in the darkness. "There isn't. You know there isn't. You can't stop the war, Tim."

"I'm not trying to stop the war, I'm just trying to get us through it in one piece," he hissed. Why couldn't Bertie see? "And maybe I don't know you as well as I thought I did, because the Bertie I thought I knew couldn't just turn a blind eye to that fucker dragging those kids to hell. Not without losing a piece of himself."

He felt Bertie tense up against him. "That's not fair. I'm not saying I wouldn't do something if I could. But there's nothing that we can do. You think I haven't been thinking about it? Sure, we can frag that bastard Mayweather, in fact I insist on it, but that won't save those kids. And you fucking know it, so don't start your self-righteous shit with me."

It wouldn't. Chaffinch Brigade had their orders, and even though those orders were a betrayal they would follow them. Because they were going, loyal British subjects. God save the fucking queen.

He slumped back, pressed so close to Bertie now that he could feel their hearts beating together. "There's got to be something. I can't...I can't just let them march off like lambs to the slaughter. I can't let them die alone and unremembered, or whatever that bullshit Jonny was spouting. I just can't." He took a deep breath. "If they can't complete their mission they'd have to turn back."

"Mmm." There was curiosity in Berties voice. And just a hint of hope. "What do you want to do? Kneecap the lot of them?"

"No," he shook his head dismissively. "They'd never make it back. But we're only escorting them as far as point charlie, and we'll reach that tomorrow. So how about if instead of booking it back to Bakerloo we take a little detour. We know there's a heavy cavalry unit around these parts somewhere."

Bertie twisted around, staring sightlessly at him. "You're not serious."

"Get a plasma tank, blow enough supporting structures, suddenly no one is going deeper. And provided Mayweather is good and dead, we ought to be able to talk the lieutenant into heading back to base for fresh orders."

"Get a plasma tank, he says. Like Lenny's just going to give us one if we ask nicely."

Tim felt his lips twist. "I wasn't planning on asking nicely."

Bertie sighed. "You know, this might be the worst plan you've ever come up with. Fuck, I'm in."

"And you know Jonny will love it."

"Yes. That's how I know it's a bad plan."

*

Bad plan or not, they sadly never got to try it. Point Charlie was the name given to the remains of an old colony, long ago buried by the ravages of war, its original name lost to time. It was a strategic spot, riddled with foxholes, dugouts and sniper roosts, and so it had changed hands a dozen times since this war's start, and would doubtless change hands again. And the moment they set foot in it the alarms started to sound, a low, constant note that rose and fell by turn.

Fuck. "Microwave attack!" Tim screamed. His hand found Bertie's in the dark and they exchanged a wealth of meaning in a single squeeze. Then they broke apart; Bertie to get the kids safely below lead sheets; Tim to do the dirty work.

It was easy to find Mayweather - he was the one shouting at them to press on, to die like men, not hide like rats, that he would shoot anyone who didn't march on through the microwaves. And it was easy enough to draw his gun and take aim, knowing that being cooked by microwaves would hide any evidence. But in the instant before he pulled the trigger he heard running footsteps and then the bullets were flying as a Lunar patrol came running round the corner, no doubt diving for the same foxholes.

Tim swore and dived for cover, firing at the lennies, letting Mayweather go for now. The siren continued to wail. Generally speaking they'd only get a few minutes of warning. He risked a glance over his shoulder as gunfire lit up the moon - Bertie was just visible, ushering terrified kids into whatever holes he could find and making sure their lead shields were properly unfolded and covering them. Good. One idiot close to safety. Now where was...it took him a dozen or so precious seconds to find Jonny, up ahead of him, a pistol in each hand, laughing as he held the corridor against the desperate lunarmen. "Get back here!" he yelled.

Jonny didn't look round, still laughing. "You go on. I'll catch up."

Stupid bastard. But Tim did start to turn, knowing that however crazy he might seem, Jonny's survival instincts were unmatched, and that was when he caught sight of the red laser sight from above, pointing further up the tunnel. Pointing at Jonny.

"No!" He didn't consciously remember moving but nonetheless he was on his feet, throwing his body down the corridor and -

Pain.

Indescribable, unthinkable pain. It rushed through him, setting nerve-endings alight, burning away his sanity, and he opened his mouth to scream, to cry for help, for Bertie and choked on blood and moon dust.

A few centuries passed and then there were hands on him, roughly grabbing at him, a voice shouting, while above and all around the alarm bled out its awful warning. No. He didn't want to move. He couldn't move, it hurt, it hurt - where was Bertie - and he wasn't being given a choice, picked up and dragged as hot, sharp blood trailed down his back and soaked into the moon.

The darkness grew darker.

More time passed.

Tim awoke to hands pushing down on his back and Jonny's voice calling his name insistently. "Tim. Tim. Gunpowder, you bastard. Come on, fucker, you're not allowed to die."

"Fuck off," he grunted. Then. "You're alive."

"Of course I'm alive, nothing can kill me. And you're alive too, and you're staying that way, you bastard, because I can't get properly pissed off at a dead man."

He let Jonny's frantic words wash over him, focusing on what mattered. "Bertie?"

"He's fine," Jonny said.

"Aye," a high pitched voice agreed. "I saw him getting into a dugout after Cooper and Dan."

That was good. A light suddenly flared - Jonnys lighter - and he closed his eyes and made a noise of protest.

"Won't no one see it behind the lead," Jonny promised. "Even if there was anyone left alive to see. But I need to get a look. Now...hmm. It's through and through, and it doesn't look like it's hit anything vital, but you're losing too much blood."

Tim tried to follow that. "You mean I'd be fine if I wasn't dying."

"I told you, you're not allowed to die. Not until I've had a chance to kill you myself. What the fuck were you even thinking?"

He shrugged and immediately regretted it as the pain lanced through him. "Didn't wan' you to die," he managed to gasp out.

"Well that's just fucking stupid," Jonny told him bluntly, while the high-pitched voice in the background tried to hush him. "You've got people to take care of here, Tim. Like Bertie and those doomed children you're trying to save."

"Excuse me, we're not children! Or, uh, doomed."

He ignored the high-pitched voice, reaching up and back instead, with his arm that didn't feel like it had been chewed up and spat out by a moonbeast, until he felt his hand press against Jonny's cheek. "Jonny," he said, as tenderly as he could. "Don't be a fucking idiot."

Silence.

He swallowed hard. Didn't move his hand. "Take care of Bertie for me, alright? He's going to be a handful."

Jonny reached up and closed his hand over Tim's. "I keep telling you," he said, fiddling with his lighter with his other hand. "You're not allowed to die. Ashes, you beautiful bastard, don't let me down now."

"What?" he started to ask, but then the lighter flickered and was suddenly burning with the heat and light of fifty suns. 

"Fuck yes!" Jonny leaned down and looked him straight on the eye. "Tim. This is going to hurt like fuck, but it will save your life if it doesn't kill you. Do I have your consent?"

All he could do was nod dumbly, and then Jonny set his back on fire and he was screaming, sobbing, and there was a  small hand stroking hesitantly through his hair and it meant nothing, and he couldn't get enough air in his lungs to let the pain free, but there was an arm around his neck, pressing up close to his face and he opened his mouth and bit down as hard as he could and tasted blood and leather, and it was enough, it was enough, it was enough.

Presently the pain died down to a mere unbearable agony and Jonny appeared in front of him again, bleeding arm holding up a flask up to his mouth and letting Tim gulp at the mix of foul water and cheap whisky.

"Alright. That's the worst of it. Still got to cauterize the front, but that's not bleeding near so bad so we can take a break, if you need."

Tim nodded, vigorously, liquid dripping out of his mouth."Yes. Fuck, yes," and then as Jonny started to move away he grabbed him. "Wait. Don't leave. Talk to me, please."

"Alright," Jonny said, surprisingly agreeable. "What do you want to hear?"

He let his eyes fall closed, his hand still wrapped round Jonny's wrist. "Tell me about your family?"

"Don't have a family. Got a crew."

"You mentioned a sister?" Tim prompted, before remembering the context of that conversation and tensing up, worrying that it was a touchy subject and Jonny would get mad and leave…

"Nastya. Yeah. Alright." There was a fondness in Jonny's voice. Tim thought he might have been smiling. "I think you'd like her. She's an asshole too. And an engineer. She likes explosions as much as you do. Well. Planned explosions anyway. Unplanned explosions make her mad at you, and you really don't want that. She can hold a grudge for centuries, maybe longer."

"She sounds fun," Tim said drowsily.

"She sounds terrifying," the kid squeaked.

"She is," Jonny agreed, apparently to both of them. "What else? She plays the violin, better than you've ever heard. Can't tell you the number of times that playing's lulled me to sleep. She's fierce and funny and awkward as fuck. One time when she was still trying to court Aurora she blackmailed me into writing love poems for her. Which is absolutely not my strong point, and the whole thing was a complete fucking disaster. You've never heard a more wooden poetry reading. And of course Aurora recognised my words, so she threw us both out and - "

At some point Tim fell into the blackness again.

He woke again to Bertie's frantic hands. "Hello, luv," he slurred. "'m alive."

"You're going to be fine," Bertie told him, just as firmly as Jonny had. "You hear me? This is nothing, just a scratch. Walk it off, soldier."

He grinned. "Love it when you take charge."

A meek cough caught his attention and he turned to see Lieutenant Rebekah standing there, and realised that her's had been the high-pitched voice he'd been hearing alongside Jonny's. "Corporal," she said, saluting. "Captain Mayweather sadly fell in the ambush." Bertie's hand squeezed his, promising that it wasn't sad and also wasn't an accident. "I and the rest of my Brigade are going to complete our mission, however I am sending four of our walking wounded back to Checkpoint Bakerloo with you three."

"No!" Tim blurted out. "No, you can't. You'll die."

She smiled slightly. "I am aware of how you see us. But we are loyal soldiers of the crown. And we will not fail in our duty."

"Fuck duty," he said at once.

The smile turned even more melancholy. "Ours is not to reason why, ours is just to do or die."

He'd never felt this helpless. This hopeless. Bertie pulled him away, and he couldn't even blame him, because if their positions were reversed, if Bertie was the one who was hurt, he knew he'd be doing the same thing.

They watched as the child soldiers of Chaffinch Brigade marched through point Charlie towards their inevitable end.

Tim's eyes were burning. Bertie was the only thing holding him up. Jonny shouldered his pack and took a step forwards.

"Where are you going?" Bertie asked sharply.

Jonny looked straight at Tim. "I can't save them. But they won't die alone and they will be remembered. That's all I have to offer."

"Wait!" Tim called, but Jonny vanished into the dark without looking back.

Slowly, aching, grieving they made their way back to Checkpoint Bakerloo.

*

It might have been six days after they were home when Jonny stumbled back in, laden down with boxes of rations and ammo, as though he'd cleared out an entire Lunar camp by himself. He was alone. Exhausted. Bleeding. Shaking. 

And they took him through to bed and lay down beside him.

"Tell me a story," he whispered. "Tell me something real."

And Tim talked about the village where he and Bertie grew up, about the tree house they'd built in the copse down near the river, about exploring abandoned buildings and sabotaging fox hunts, and Bertie talked about the flat the two of them were going to get in the city, after the war, and how they would have two cats and a herb garden on the window sill, and Bertie would be a chef and Tim would be a musician and most of all they would be happy.

[xxisxxisxxis]

Gateway Drug | Part Ninety-Three [PT.2]

Words: 4.2k

Warning(s): explicit language, violence, mentions of drug abuse

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It's incredibly quiet and filled with tension as Amber looks at Nikki and I, curiously. 

We haven't been to therapy in over a week. 

Nikki hasn't come back to fucking rehab until yesterday and it took me threatening divorce again. 

"Well," Amber starts, smiling at us. "How was your time together?" 

"Good." We both lie simultaneously and Amber raises her brows. 

"Really?" 

"Yep." Nikki says, flatly. 

"Like we're dating for the first time all over again." I add, unenthusiastically. "Exactly how it was when we first started dating. Just minus the sex." 

Nikki huffs out a breath. 

"Jesus fucking Christ, Vivian--"

"--Don't bring Jesus into this. Jesus isn't anywhere to be found in this situation."

"It was one night, Viv, cut me a goddamn break." 

"I've been cutting you a break for the last six years, Nikki, I'm done cutting people breaks. You need to cut me some respect--"

"--Some respect? After the shit you pulled, are you fucking me right now?" 

"No, I'm not fucking you right now, no more than you've fucked me the entire time you've been home." 

"Oh, my God."

I slowly start being pulled from my sleep when I feel a tickle up the side of my foot, my ankle, up the back of my calf then my thigh, my hip, up my spine...I feel my body jolt awake only to be trapped under someone for a moment. 

"Shh, shh, it's just me." Nikki assures me in a whisper, looming over me. 

"Oh," I mumble, sighing when he kisses my shoulder blade. 

I try to go back to sleep but my eyes force themselves open, and I look over my shoulder. 

"Why the hell aren't you in rehab, Nikki?!" I ask him, sharply, confused. "How the fuck did you even get in here?! How did you even know where I live?!" 

"I checked out for a few days so I could see you." He explains. "And Sharise let me borrow her key and gave me directions. I wanted to surprise you."

"You what?!" 

"Wanted to surprise you?" 

I sit up and he falls beside me, stretching out over the bed. 

"You checked out of rehab?!" 

"I missed you and Tommy and Vince missed their girls so we just decided to check out for a few days and visit and then we're going back Monday...like a four month long weekend." He explains. 

"You can't do that!" 

"It was highly advised against it by our counselors but let us leave." He shrugs. "And you know what? I've been back in L.A. for an hour and I don't feel the itch to go party like I used to. I think rehab's working." He tells me. 

"...You checked out of rehab…to come home...and you're going back?" 

"Yep."

"Just like that?" 

"Just like that." 

"Like you won't be tempted to do anything you're not supposed to do?" 

"I won't be because I'm gonna be with you the whole time." He shrugs. 

"You do realize how arrogant you sound right now, right?" 

"I'm not interested in drugs or anything anymore, Viv. I've gotten past that." He states. 

"Nikki," I start. 

"Don't say it like that." 

"How else am I suppose to say it?" I ask, raising my brows, looking at him, pointedly. 

He just rubs his lips together and smirks. 

"I know a few ways you can say it." He runs his hand up and down the side of my leg and I raise a brow. 

"You left rehab to get your dick wet." I tell him, knocking his hand off of me, laying back down. 

"No, I didn't." He denies. 

"Okay, then go sleep on the couch." I suggest. 

"No." He argues. "I wanna hold you." 

"Oh, please, Nikki, we both know what that turns into." 

"What does it turn into?" He asks, knowingly. 

"You know what it's gonna turn into." I state. 

"Vivian, baby," he slides his hand over my hip bone, squeezing it for a second, making my skin prickle and heat up. 

"Don't, 'baby,' me." I can't bring myself to push his hand away this time, I just turn my back to him. 

It's quiet for a moment and I feel him shift beside me, before his lips press to my bare shoulder, then my jaw, then my temple, and I'm rolling to my back, my lips brushing against his, my fingers going to his soft hair, a smile coming to my lips as I say, "couch," and push him away from me, turning back over to face away from him and snuggling into my covers. 

He mumbles under his breath and grabs the pillow from that side of the bed, leaving me alone. 

After a moment of trying to go to sleep, I can't bring myself to. 

I feel like a kid on Christmas morning. 

I pull my blankets off and drag a throw with me as I go to the living room. 

He's taking up the entire couch, and his eyes are closed but I know he's not asleep. 

I crawl on him and he groans, looking at me with furrowed brows.

"Your knee is in my thigh." He grumbles as I try to pull my blanket around myself. 

I just blink down at him. 

"Fine." He winces, sitting up as best as he can, helping me pull the blanket up around my shoulders before he's sliding his hands to my waist and we both lay down. 

I lay my head on his chest and he rubs at my scalp with his fingers. 

"I've missed you, too." I say to him quietly. 

"I know." He replies. "The Sixxter tends to have that effect on chick--ow!" He hisses, tensing up. 

"Oh, sorry, didn't realize your junk was there." I lie, playing off me digging my nails into his crotch was an accident. 

I knew him leaving rehab, even for a few days, posed a threat to his road to recovery. My biggest fear was his dealers hearing he was back. They'd sniff him out and lure him in and I'd lose him again. I couldn't let that happen, and it terrified me to think that it could. But it also made me feel better to see him in a setting that didn't involve stail coffee, therapists, and other recovery patients near by. There wasn't any privacy in rehab--not that we really needed any.

The next morning I'm waking up to the smell of food, good food. Being that I burn most anything I try to cook now (I blame my pregnancy brain), it's nice to be able to smell breakfast without the heavy blanket of charr attached to it. 

I stretch where I've been left on the couch under the fluffy blanket I brought in last night, sitting up and pulling it off of me before going to the bathroom and making myself look somewhat presentable with a toothbrush and a hair brush, hoping and praying that whatever he's cooking up doesn't make me sick. 

I get in the kitchen and see him in front of the stove, and I wrap my arms around him, pressing my cheek to his shoulder blade, and I feel him rub at my arms that are tightly around him, chuckling. 

"Good morning," he says, looking at me over his shoulder. 

I stand on my toes and kiss his cheek. 

"Good morning." I reply, pulling away, grabbing a glass and getting some water. 

I take advantage of him not paying attention to examine any changes. 

I noticed the other day he'd been working out. I see now exactly how much alcohol bloat he's lost, and how much muscle he's built back up. 

His hair and skin even looks healthier, he's gotten his "glow" back to his once pale, sallow looking appearance. 

I reign in my hormones, chugging my water and getting another glass full. 

When he turns around to get the sausage out of the pan and onto a plate, I eye his crotch area, seeing that he's obviously not wearing underwear under his shorts and I'd be lying if I said I don't stare.

"I hope you still like sausage." He comments, oblivious to my eyes on his goods, not even looking in my direction, too busy with trying to get breakfast done. 

"Oh, I do." I comment, taking another few gulps of water, letting my eyes trail down his thighs for a moment. 

Sweet Jesus. 

He is certainly fearfully and wonderfully made. 

"Ahem," he clears his throat and I flick my gaze to his face. 

I've been caught. 

"Whatcha looking at?" He asks me and I shake my head a little. 

"I like those shorts." I lie, shrugging it off. 

"Mmhmm." He doesn't buy it for a second. 

"I do!" I defend myself. 

"I'm sure it's the shorts you like." He comments. 

"Well...I like what's inside the shorts." I blatantly correct myself and he squeezes his eyes closed and laughs. 

"Welcome home, Nikki." He says to himself and I finish my water as he turns the stove off. "It's ready if you wanna make a plate." He offers. 

"Maybe we should give it a few minutes to cool off." I suggest, slowly getting closer to him. 

"Um, I think it's okay." He brushes it off, shrugging, not paying attention. 

"I think we should let it cool off." I state again, my fingers teasing at the top of his shorts, and he looks at me. 

"Get away from me, you freak." He laughs out, shooing my hands off of him.

"Oh, I'm the freak?" 

"You were trying to blow me before therapy the other day and now you're trying to get it in while I'm trying to eat." He points out, still laughing. "I know I'm a lot to handle but just chill out." He smiles, raising his brows. 

"I don't know if you're being serious right now or not." 

"I'm being serious." He points at me. "Now get a plate and let's eat." He adds. 

"You don't want to mess around?" 

"I didn't say that." He states.

"Okay, then food can wait, c'mon," I grab his hand and try to tug him out of the kitchen.  

"Viv," he says as I plant my feet on the floor and use both hands to try to tug at him, my socks sliding against the tile but I try my hardest to get him to move. 

He waits patiently before I'm falling on my ass after slipping, still holding his hand, letting out a breath. 

I let his hand go and lay on the floor, groaning. 

"Are you done?" He asks me, raising a brow. 

"I'm horny." I say it flatly, staring at the ceiling. 

"I can see that." He says, looking between my legs where I feel a wet spot in my panties. 

Great. 

"Nikki, you're being difficult." 

"How?" 

"I wanna fool around, you wanna fool around, we should just fool around. But you don't want to, even though you just said you do." 

"Viv--"

"I haven't gotten thrown around and fucked into a coma in over six months." I blurt, crossing my arms, looking up at him from my place on the floor. 

"...He couldn't scratch that itch after all, huh?" He asks, amused, smirking, and I cut my eyes at him. 

"Because he has morals." I reply. 

"Interesting." He replies. 

We sit in silence for a second, and he nudges me with his foot. 

"Are you gonna survive without jumping my bones?" He asks and I sigh, sitting up. 

"I guess." 

He helps me up and we get our food and sit on the couch while we watch cartoons and eat. 

I notice him staring at me every once in awhile, but I don't pay any attention to him. 

My feelings are hurt, as childish as that sounds. 

It usually doesn't take much to get Nikki into bed, and he's always been up for it whenever I hinted at anything...or blatantly told him I was horny. 

But now things are different. 

A part of me thinks its because he sat down and really thought about the fact I cheated on him.

Maybe that makes me disgusting in his eyes. 

Maybe it's because I'm pregnant--even though I'm only starting to show. 

Maybe it's because I'm pregnant with the dude's baby that I cheated on him with. 

I can see that ruining his libido. 

I just try not to pay much attention to it, but it's nagging me slowly. 

After I finish eating I'm taking my empty plate to the kitchen and heading to my bedroom. 

"Where you going?" He asks me as he puts his plate in the sink, too. 

"Back to bed." I tell him. "I'm really sleepy." 

"Oh," He replies, not looking all that convinced.

"See you when I wake up." I add.

"Yeah, I'll see you then." He says back. 

I shut the door and crawl into bed, wiping the growing tears from my eyes before they even hit my cheeks. 

I wake up a little later and stretch out, hearing the shower running in my bathroom. 

I just lay in bed for a few minutes until I hear it turn off and in a couple minutes, he's coming in the room with a towel wrapped around him, his hair wet.  

He notices I'm awake and grins, coming over to the bed. 

"Hey," he leans over me, pecking me on the lips. 

"Hey." I reply, my voice still tired, his hand running over my side. "What time is it?" 

"Like, one o'clock, maybe," he replies, about to move away from me. 

"Wait, c'mere," I grab his hand and he furrows his brows. 

"What is it?" He asks me.

I don't say anything, just looking at him, and he chuckles. 

He reads my mind and leans down, lips catching mine before his tongue slips into my mouth. 

I softly hum, my hand going to his hair, his hand fumbling through the covers to find my hip and dig his fingers into it. 

My hands soon go to his towel, about to tug it off but he pulls away and catches his breath. 

"I'm gonna go get some clothes on and head to the store to get some things for dinner tonight...you want anything?"  

Yeah. Sex with my husband. 

"No, thanks." I reply, calmly. 

"Alright, I'll see you later." He kisses me one last time and leaves the room and I rub my hands over my face.

"There's nothing to get so pissed off about, Vivian, it's not a big deal." 

"For once in his life Nikki Sixx doesn't want to hump something, even when his own wife tries to start something, so yeah, to me it is a big deal." I argue. 

"No, it's not, it's not that serious." 

"Do you not understand what it's like to be pregnant and hormonal and just wanting to have a good time with the person you love and they don't want anything to do with it?"

"Oh, c'mon, Vivian. Me not wanting to have sex with you doesn't have anything to do with you in particular." 

"Pretty sure it does since you've had no problem screwing other women behind my back when I couldn't do a good enough job." I throw at him. 

"Woah, woah, woah, that was fucking months ago, Vivian, and I was fucked up and sick." He snaps. "And it wasn't because you couldn't do a good enough job, it was because you wouldn't even try to do a job at all. You'd just lay there and be uninterested, like you were just waiting for me to get the fuck off of you. Matter of fact, I distinctly remember you actually saying, 'are you finished yet? I'm getting sleepy.' And I get that you were depressed and in a funk but shit like that happened multiple times, sometimes for weeks, over the course of our marriage. You know how that made me feel, thinking I couldn't even please my own wife?" 

"Oh, God, Nikki, I can't even imagine that pain. Thinking, 'why am I not good enough? Why am I not attractive to my spouse? Why am I not still desired'," I start, sarcastically. "Oh, shit, actually, yeah. Yeah, I fucking can imagine it because I tortured myself with the same questions anytime you chose going out with your buddies over a night in with me, anytime you chose hiding in your closet with drugs over coming to bed, and not to mention the time, gee, I don't know--I found out you had a mistress, who I was friends with, that you would fuck in our house!" 

"Think you got pretty even with me on that being that I found a couple used condoms  that didn't belong to me, under our bed!"

"That can't possibly be my fault being that me and him never used condoms!" 

"You don't fucking say!" He motions to my stomach.

"Fuck this." I state, harshly, standing up and grabbing my purse. 

"Vivian," Amber starts. 

"No. No. No. Fuck you, fuck him, fuck this. I'm fucking done. We tried rehab, we tried therapy, obviously it's not working or he wouldn't have come home and fallen off the wagon!" 

"Ever considered maybe I fell off the wagon so early on because you kept nagging me for days on end?!" He stands up. 

"You didn't want anything to do with me fucking sober, but as soon as you were under the influence of something, I'm suddenly so fucking beautiful and you're wanting to 'fuck the shit outta me'?! Do you not realize how fucked it is that you only want me when you're fucking on something?!"

The next few days consists of me being unable to keep my...urges...barely at bay, all while Nikki has no problem ignoring my hints--more so blunt statements at times--that I'm in the mood. 

He just laughs it off or teases me about it or pretends he doesn't know altogether. 

I just do what I've been doing: being my own lover. 

But there's just some things he can do to me that I can't and it's hard to accept that reality. 

I raise my brows when I peek my head into my bathroom, seeing Nikki fixing his hair, only wearing boxers. 

"Where you getting dolled up to go?" I ask, crossing my arms. 

"Me and Tommy are going out." He tells me and I raise my brows. 

"Oh." I reply, rubbing my lips together. 

I don't know how to tell him I'm having my surgery tomorrow to have my uterine abnormality taken care of...I've been meaning to tell him but just can't. 

I was hoping he'd still be in rehab and wouldn't even really have to know I got it done until later. 

I don't want him to worry. 

"You wanna come with us?" He asks next, grinning at me in the mirror. 

I don't know if that's a good idea." I mumble, that article written about that open letter from those anonymous roadies flashing through my mind. 

"C'mon, baby, it'll be fun."

"I don't feel good enough to go out on the town right now." I admit. "What are you guys gonna do while you're out?" 

"Probably go to the Tropicana or something." He shrugs and I raise my brows. 

"...Oh." 

"Like I said, Viv, you can come with us." He turns and looks down at me and I just smile as best as I can and shake my head. 

"No, I'm okay." I assure him. 

He looks a little disappointed but brushes it off, leaning down and kissing me, wrapping his arms around my waist, his hands smoothing over my ass, and I giggle as he pulls me up to snake my legs around him, kissing my cheek and my neck before hugging me to him, making me squeeze him to me tightly. 

"I love you, Nikki." I tell him, closing my eyes. "I really do."

"I know, Viv." He says back. "I love you more."

"And like always, it's Vivian's fault Nikki's a fucking addict! It's Vivian's fault Nikki's drinking so much! It's Vivian's fault Nikki's so unbearable to be around! It's all that slut's fault because she's a fucking crazy snake-cunt, she-satan that steals, kills, and destroys, and he's left with no choice but to try to numb himself to get outta her grasp!  It's all her fucking fault, even when she's pregnant!" 

I storm out and slam the door behind me, stomping down the hall. 

"Vivian Sixx, don't you fucking walk away from me!" He shouts after me, following me. 

"Vivian Kinston! I don't wanna be a fucking Sixx anymore--I don't wanna be associated with you, you fucked up prick!" I scream back. "Matter of fact, I'm glad I didn't have any of those goddamn kids of your's or else I'd be fucking answering to you the rest of my fucking life!" 

I wake up when I hear the front door open, my eyes shifting to my clock. 

2:00a.m. 

"Fuck," I hear him whisper to himself, dragging his feet to the kitchen…

The sink turns on, a cabinet slams open, a glass shatters on the floor. 

"Fuck." He repeats, cutting the sink off. 

I furrow my brows and sit up in the bed, slowly slipping off the mattress, tip-toeing out to see what he's up to.

"Nikki?" 

"Do you--do you have a broom?" He asks in a slur, motioning to the broken glass on the floor. 

"Yeah, I do." I tell him. 

"Okay, I um, I…" he trails off, eyes on me, drifting down my bare legs, holding his gaze on my lace panties. "...I need it." He finishes, hand reaching down to readjust himself. 

"Have you been drinking?" I ask him, leaning against the doorway.

"A couple shots, nothing I couldn't handle." He replies, walking closer to me. "Something else I can handle, too." He says more so to himself and I take in a breath when his hands grasp at my hips. 

"You smell like tequila." I tell him. 

"It was just a couple drinks." He insists, leaning down, pressing his lips to mine. 

"Just a couple?" I ask when I pull away, and he nods, pulling me back to him, kissing me again, our tongues meeting. 

His hands are tugging at my tank top, pulling it over my head. 

"You're so beautiful." He tells me, licking up my neck and I let out a soft sigh, running my hands down his back, tears in my eyes…

I close my eyes and my mind flashes back. All those times he'd come in drunk or high or both...either telling me how wonderful I am, or wanting to fight…

"Nikki, wait," I force myself to pull away from him as he trails kisses over my breast. 

"What is it?" He asks me, trying to get me close again. 

"You're drunk, Nikki, alright? I don't want to do anything while you're like this." I admit and he just stares at me. 

"Excuse me?" 

"You're drunk. I don't want you to--"

"--You bitch at me all fucking week about your fucking sexual frustration but as soon as I wanna piece of ass you're suddenly too good for me?" 

"Nikki, you're drunk." I state. "I'm not too good for you, but I'm not just gonna be the cumrag you get off on and pass out in a drunken stupor." 

"You never complained about it before." He states. "All the other times you were on your knees with your mouth wide open begging me for it like a cock-starved whore." He adds. 

"That was before. You aren't even supposed to be drunk, Nikki." I sneer. 

"Well, I am,Vivian, you wanna fucking crucify me over it? Huh?!" 

"All of your hard work the past weeks...gone." I remind him. 

"Fuck off." He shoves past me. "If you're not gonna give me any pussy--"

"--Maybe I would if you were sober, asshole, ever consider that?" I snap. 

"I wanna fuck the shit out of you, I've considered that." He states and I feel my face heat up. 

"You're being a pig, right now." I ignore him, turning to go back to bed, pissed and tired. 

"C'mon, baby," he complains from outside my locked door and I roll my eyes. "Baby, seriously, can't we talk about this?" He asks next. "Baby!" He calls. 

I open the door and bitterly mock his voice, "'oh, baby, I'm so sorry, oh, baby, you're so beautiful, oh, baby, just gimme a blow job and it'll completely wipe away the fact that I'm a fucking drunk, ridiculous, asshole, oh, baby, baby, baby, baby'!" I slam the door back in his face. 

"...Well, I never said I was fucking sorry!" He says next. 

"Fuck off, Nikki!"

He snatches me by my wrist, and I see him raise his fist from the corner of my eye as I turn to face him, and I tense up and expect him to hit me but his fist collides with the wall by my head, my hand coming up to my mouth to keep from being too loud in my hysteria, tears rolling down my cheeks as he gives three solid punches to the painted cement bricks. 

He's crying, too, and his hand loosening around my wrist, his face red, his body shaking as he lets out a pained noise and heaves out breaths, his eyes closed.