Gravity (all God needs to hold me)

- part one

Summary: Aaron Cross doesn't exist anywhere, except in his own head. Without chemicals he would perish from there as well, and nothing would be left of him. Not even a scratch on his skin.

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Every life should have a beginning, a point of origin which defines everything that follows, who you are, what your chances are. What is in your stars. It's hard to tell where he begins. It's impossible. Aaron Cross was created, not born. He is a number, a string of statistics, letters charting out his new genetics. He doesn't even own himself.

He wonders sometimes what it feels like to simply exist. No missions, no blood work, no checkups. No chems.

No other purpose than simply being alive.

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White coat, dark hair, deep eyes. This must be how angels look.

"Look this way please," she says and Aaron does what he's told. Before, obeying was a way not to get hurt. It wasn't a guarantee, but it was the best chance he could give himself.

Aaron looks into the penlight. Obedience comes naturally, even now. She is new on the long list of doctors he's seen lately. She introduces herself as Doctor Shearing when she walks in, the plastic card clipped to the front of her white lab coat tells him her name is Marta. He doesn't like doctors, but he's learning to make impressions on people, not the boxes they fit into, because generalization can be dangerous, because he can deal with ambiguous information and use it to compose elaborate constructs in his mind.

She says please. It's a nice thing to hear.

"Good. Thank you," she says when she removes the light. He blinks several times and rubs his eyes. She waits. "Look at my finger," she asks and he does. Not much has changed (other people tell him what to do, and he obeys them) except the fact that now he understands why they're asking.

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They pull a tight rope over a canyon and tell him to walk over.

He does.

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His usual experience with medical checkups can be described as quick and impersonal. In his experience, most military doctors are men, and not very gentle. They do their work like everything else in the military is done. Most of them don't pay attention to people they're treating. All of them, wounded soldiers, they're all just bodies to cut and patch up.

Doctor Shearing takes her time. Everything about her is purposeful and precise, but her manner is distanced and clinical. She asks questions and writes down his answers, catalogs his old scars – left upper arm, knife. Right shoulder blade, shrapnel. Right thigh, a bullet wound. Cuts on his chest, things he probably got in a fight, and she looks at each one. Can she tell his history from the marks he's bearing, see what his life was like? Does he come down to old scars, his identity preserved in them?

There's something about this kind of attention, though, about the details and the way she looks at his arms, skin, his mouth and eyes. It's impersonal, but it's still interest, touch and human contact. He doesn't want to think about what it says about his life. Conversing with angels requires solitary existence.

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There's an old memory, like a faded, yellow photograph. He is a small child and someone's holding him, and he is safe.

There are clearer memories: barren hallways and cold, empty rooms. Nobody coming to help when he called. Things he couldn't do at school, questions he couldn't understand.

The feeling of being alone, always and everywhere.

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He was picked for the program because every observation and psych evaluation marked him as a loner, who could work on his own. For people who planned everything so carefully and counted every hair on his head, they're either stupid or fucking desperate, seeking those nobody will miss, because they read only half of the book. He never chose to be alone. But he is here, and he is this different man now, strong and resourceful.

He can stand being alone. His whole life has seen to that.

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Doctor Shearing is pretty. She has the features of a Greek statue, the poise of an angel – an impersonal and detached being, powerful in her own right but still an instrument of an unknown, faraway god. All that knowledge, all the power that she has over him, just to do as she's been told. Those hands he likes aren't meant to bring mercy, they just do their work. Still, she's nice to look at, so he looks at her, each time and every time. That belongs to him.

"Are you trying to put me down, Doc?" he asks every time she sedates him, and her face remains a mask. He doesn't hate her. She is a professional, but she speaks softly and warms the stethoscope for him. It's those bits that his mind registers, those things which aren't necessary, because they're kindness.

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He is in the middle of a desert with a bullet lodged inside his leg. He's bleeding and he knows if he doesn't fix himself the wound will get infected. The chances he might die will increase.

The pain doesn't matter. The blood doesn't either, it's just another job to get done, and he wonders how white coats do it. Do they think of it as human flesh? Something that hurts and feels? Or is it like a mark to shoot, just a target that collapses when he pulls the trigger?

He fixes himself and his wound heals, and there isn't even a scar. It's almost like his own body doesn't want to acknowledge what he has become.

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The person with the white coat is always in position of greater power.

He hates this part of his check ups – the saline solution, the needle, the anesthetic.

Each time her explanation makes sense, but he knows it's false. He knows she has to do it, she has to put him to sleep, but he still resents it, being treated like a lab animal, with no say over what's done to him.

If he submits his body to everything they want to do with him, if he offers his arms and blood and remains the perpetual sacrificial lamb, then he gets the only mercy that matters: green pills, blue pills so he can continue. Aaron Cross doesn't exist anywhere, except in his own head; without chemicals he would perish from there as well. Nothing would be left of him – not even a scratch on his skin.

She asks for his arm, and he gives it to her. Angels do what they're ordered to do, he thinks. They don't grant mercy. Only gods can do that.

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It's not the first time he's been beaten up. He's been beaten in his life, had his bones broken and his pride shattered and usually failed to defend himself because he was the weaker one. But he could at least try. That choice was his.

The man he is now isn't weak or isn't helpless. He isn't even afraid. He understands the mission, he knows why the beating is necessary. He can stand the pain, he knows how to take the punches (and he takes them), but that's not the thing that truly hurts this time.

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She tells him to relax and lie down, but he can't. He can never relax around needles.

From the first time he remains seated during this part, even if it's futile – she will inject the anesthetic into the saline solution, it will flow into his vein, dissolve within his blood, and he will dissolve in her hands. But it's a choice to stay upright as long as he can and it's his. Nobody can take it. He tells her that she's beautiful, in Russian, because she doesn't understand it and she can't censor it.

Every time she tells him to count. There's something comforting about that, about numbers, and the different languages he knows, the fact that it's always her and not some other doctor, the way she cradles his face and helps him fall.

Her hands feel kind. They're warm, and he can feel that warmth through the thin latex gloves she always wears (another barrier, another method to keep things impersonal and far away). Moments before he the chemicals take away his consciousness, he wonders what her skin would feel like.

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Everything falls apart when he takes innocent lives.

The man - god who owns him tells him that it had to be done. Not that it was right, but that it was a necessary thing to do. He is betrayed by his creator, and like every heretic he starts to question things. It feels like a beginning, it feels like an ending.

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In the cold of the night his eyes stare out into the darkness. He can't see the wolves but he knows they're close. Their voices melt together as they howl, and he envies them.

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When Marta looks up at him, uncertain and almost scared, Aaron covers her hand resting on his forearm and smiles. This is a choice; personal, deliberate, and filled with meaning.

"Thank you," he says in the dimly lit room. Her eyes are big and heavy, but when she injects him with the virus, her hands are certain. It feels prickly cold and he shivers a little, and something between them shatters as she removes the syringe and presses a small ball of cotton against his arm. "It's okay," he assures her and she presses her lips in a thin, apologetic line.

She looks tired and drawn, her immaculate appearance shattered. Not an angel any more, he thinks; he ruined that. He shook her awake and forced her to accept her responsibility and her power.

He ruined her, to save them both.

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In last eight years he's been sick, beaten, cold and hungry; he's been overheated and dehydrated, but he's never been truly helpless.

Now he sweats and shakes and he can barely move. The street is crowded with noises and people. There's smoke and shouting and car sirens, there are words he doesn't understand, and he remembers well what it's like to not understand, what it's like to be uncertain of what you need and where you're headed. Where you just know that "stay here" is better than "go into the unknown" - staying is better than drifting and being lost.

And then there are hands, arms, Marta; soft, familiar and real. She takes him with her, and he trusts her to take him someplace safe.

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He is a helpless knot of tremors, shaking and sweating on the bed. She takes off his shoes, helps him out of his jacket and his shirt, and later out of his pants as well. She cradles his face in her hands like she always does, offers him her shoulder, keeps his forehead cool. It's new and different and he can't think about it much; he can only let himself feel all of it, everything Marta does for him, mixed with fever and weakness. In the golden light coming through the window she is everything that's powerful and kind. She feels like the beginning and the end, the person who designed him, perfected him, the one who put the final seal on what he is. He might have destroyed an angel, but she has become a goddess.

His debt can't be measured, so he offers her the only thing he can - a chance. He is too weak to defend them like this, and the tells her to go, but she holds him, cool hands on his sweaty back, on his temples, in his hair. He feels like he's falling into her, losing himself, and she catches him.

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He wonders if simple existence is anything like waking up to Marta's hands when she changes the bandages on his shoulder and his thigh. Is it like knowing that someone is taking care of him? Things like her bringing him a clean shirt and a bowl of soup, and sitting next to him while he eats. Small things, like Marta reaching out and wiping a piece of food from the corner of his mouth and smiling at him, for him.

He sits on the deck with Marta and Joseph, the captain's son. He pretends not to understand the card game they're playing, then he cheats and that makes them laugh. He spends the afternoon studying maps, until Marta comes. They talk for awhile and later they stare at the horizon.

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He has just one kind of nightmare. He dreams of wolves, huddled on the edge of his camp fire. They don't move and they don't howl; they just look at him - all of them, together - with pity in their yellow eyes.

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"I'm not going to hurt you," she says, standing in front of him. Just how extensively was he trained not to trust words like that? How thoroughly was he taught to disregard what his heart kept saying - that he wanted, and still wants, someone who won't hurt him. "Aaron," Marta smiles, then her eyebrows rise. "I can't believe we're discussing this."

"I'm fine, Doc," he says, but she shakes her head.

"You have an injured arm -"

"I can shave just fine," he insists. It's nothing he can't handle.

"You can't see what you're doing," she points out, and rightfully so. "The mirror is too small, if you can call that a mirror."

He doesn't say anything. She takes two steps closer.

"Come on. Let me help you."

He's come to know her a bit better. She's smart, interesting, stubborn as hell, and he isn't surprised. All that work that she's done: the science, the tests, the research composed of details, of gathering precise data over long periods of time, that takes stubbornness. It takes dedication and passion and integrity, and he isn't surprised to discover all of that in her.

"Okay," he agrees and watches as her smile widens.

"Sit over there," she says in what he thinks of as her doctor voice..

"Yes, Doc," he says, and it sounds tongue- in - cheek, almost playful. He takes a seat in the only chair they have, and she brings his shaving kit to the small table next to him. She stands close to him, soaps his face and starts working.

"You know I could -," he begins when she slowly tilts his head to the left side. It's might be the first time he willingly lets go, sitting in a submissive position and learning it feels okay.. She is gentle and close, and her hands are as warm as he imagined they would be. "Could have finished it myself just fine."

"Mhmmm. Sure," she nods as she works, finishes with his right cheek and lifts his chin to reach the under his jaw. "Of course you can handle it. But this way you won't have papers stuck to cuts. It's much more classy."

He looks up to meet her amused expression. It's nice seeing how it looks on her face, it feels good allowing himself to be affected and grinning in return.

"Are you saying so, Doc?"

"It would ruin your face," she smirks. Her thumb traces his jaw, and that, that's a completely new feeling. Or, maybe it's not. "And that would be a shame, seeing how it has potential," she adds looking content and focused. He doesn't have a ready answer, and he can't really speak, because she works the razor under his chin, and he's processing the feelings spreading through his chest.

She is gentle and careful, and he feels all her focus on him, just like in that examination room, only this isn't sterile and clean. She washes the razor in a small bowl of water, warm droplets fall to his skin when she returns her hand to his face. He's watched her watching him many times, but he hasn't seen her seeing him. It's different, it's new, he isn't sure what to do with it all. It's like relaxing around needles, because he trusts her now.

They shift and breathe and she comes to stand in between his legs, his inner thigh touching her knee. She has her hands on his face, pats it dry gently with a towel, and gives him an affectionate look when she's done. Her fingers linger on his cheek and he carefully takes her hand. He can't really read her face, and perhaps he's not meant to. He was given skills to empathize with people, to theorize and intellectualize, but he was never meant to use his tools to create a human experience. Instead, he was living an imitation of life, where he was using people, and they were using him.

"Thank you," he says and she smiles.

"It's okay - I'm glad I could help," she replies, and touches his face with the hand he isn't holding. She doesn't move away, and he realizes he doesn't want her to. It feels good just to be with her here.

"I'm glad too," he says.

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He's on the deck, planning to spend the afternoon fixing fishnets when he hears voices. He walks to the other side of the ship, leans over the rail and sees Marta and captain's son in the water, splashing and laughing. The sight is almost like a postcard: they are far away from everywhere, and he supposes it's beautiful here. The only problem is, they don't belong to a postcard. Well, at least he doesn't. He never did.

Marta sees him immediately from her spot in the water.

"Aaron!" she calls, wide smile on her face, and Joseph waves at him. "Come on in!"

He pauses, watching them swirl in the water. Joseph likes Marta – Aaron imagines it's hard not to like her, besides, he's a kid and he doesn't question kindness when someone offers it. Joseph likes him as well.

It's another of those situations for which Aaron doesn't have a prepared answer, so he just watches for a moment, smiling back. The water is clear blue, the sun is high in the sky and the little beach is fairly isolated. He can see a few people far away, minding their own business, children running along the sandy shore. He takes a breath, two, tells himself this is normal, okay and safe.

"Aaron!" Marta calls again, a little impatient and he can see excitement on her face. "Come on! It's perfect!"

He doesn't really know what perfect means in this context. The last water he swam in was icy cold and cut his breath in half. He doesn't remember the last time he went swimming for fun.

"Gotta fix these nets, Doc," he says smoothly, realizing that he doesn't want to decline her invitation. There's a sense of duty, he promised Francis he'd fix the nets, but it doesn't take lot of time. It's a hot day. He can do it later. His hands tighten on the rail, and maybe Marta senses all of this, because she keeps calling, smiling and splashing in his direction.

"Uh, Doc, no bathing suit," he tries, but he senses he is going to be defeated in this battle, and he doesn't mind.

"Just be creative," she shouts back and he notes how relaxed she looks.

He laughs a little and takes off his shirt. Joseph cheers and starts swimming towards the ship. Marta just waits there, her eyes on him and he's hyper aware of her look. Aaron waits, he wants to keep this moment in his memory, hold onto it. If there was a way to stop time, he would press the button right now.

"Are you coming?" she shouts, and somehow she seems younger. He realizes she is carefree, and perhaps that's something he shouldn't miss out on. It's something he should experience. "Or are you scared?" she taunts.

He takes a breath. He isn't scared of anything. Right?

"You asked for it, Doc," he says, kicks his cotton pants aside and remains in his grey boxers. He climbs the rail easily. The jump is smooth and the water hugs him as he strokes his way through the warm blue. He dives and resurfaces, suddenly feeling free, and somehow like a child. Joseph reaches him first, greeting him with splashes of water. Aaron chases him and the boy laughs when Aaron lifts him and throws him back into the sea. They repeat the game several times before Aaron turns to Marta and meets her playful smile.

He feels his face stretch in a similar way.

"Hey Doc," he says, and his voice sounds unexpectedly teasing.

She bites her lip, treading on the water's surface surface and looking at his chest. "Am I in trouble?" she asks.

"You betcha," he says and lunges after her. He grabs her and pulls her and she shrieks, legs kicking and arms flailing and soon they're both coughing out water. She laughs and he laughs with her.

"God, that – that was unfair," she's throwing water in his direction.

"You liked it," he says. It's so good seeing her smile like this, because he hasn't seen it before, and it's possibly his new favourite thing.

"Yeah, I did," she says and swims closer, tentatively, watching out for his hands. He feels good and relaxed, so he reaches for her again, grabs her by the wrists and pulls her towards him. She struggles, but just barely, and finally places her hands against his chest. They're physically close, skin and salt and droplets on their faces, and it doesn't feel uncomfortable at all.

"Why do you call me Doc all the time?" she asks, her eyes on her hands as they're resting against him. Her thumb strokes a small circle just above his heart.

"Force of habit, I guess," he answers. He does because it's familiar, because it's what he's always called her. Well, almost always.

"You can call me Marta if you like," she says. "You don't have to -" her smile falters, her thumb stilling against him and he suddenly understands. She's struggling to find her own space, the new definition of herself just like he is. They're both looking for things to tell them who they are now.

"Marta," he smiles softly, and she smiles in return, but it's not as happy as it was a moment ago. He splashes water at her, once, twice, three times, until she's distracted and she's laughing again. He looks at her, with wet hair and a sunburn on her shoulders, and she's never looked more real to him - all those boundaries, everything gone, everything but his new skin which doesn't scar, and her determination to smile and enjoy even the smallest bits of beauty that stumble their way. "Yeah," he says, "I like it."

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She told him two days after they escaped that she hoped they were lost.

For the first time it doesn't sound like something bad.

It's not the first nightmare she has. She usually mumbles in her sleep, turns around once or twice and quiets. He always wakes and stays in his bunk, straining his eyes against the darkness, listening to the rhythm of her breathing. When it evens out, becomes deep and calm, he relaxes.

Tonight is different. Tonight the words become clear, a string of no – no – no sounding scared and urgent and he's on his feet and next to her before he can think.

"Hey Doc," he says and then touches her shoulder.

"No! Please!" her arms flail and he knows the ship is small and she'll wake up Francis and Joseph. He guesses an audience is the last thing she wants so he starts to shake her, gently, and when she doesn't wake his hands close around her shoulders to pull her out of the dream.

"Doc – Marta! Marta, come on, wake up," she trashes against his hands and whimpers. "Marta. Marta, wake up for me -"

She gasps, like coming up for air after being under water for too long.

"Marta -" he's sitting next to her and she pushes herself up, still gasping. In the dim light he can see her expression, he can tell she's lost and scared and he knows. He knows exactly how that feels.

"God, he-," she looks at him, covers her mouth. "He was shooting and I was trying to get out and I couldn't – "

A sob breaks her voice and he doesn't think, he just pulls her close. Her hands wind around him and she holds tight shakes. He hugs her, gently, and strokes her hair because it feels like a right thing to do.

He knows how to comfort, in theory, but he's had so little practice with this. Yet when she moves against him, shifts closer, he goes by the feeling, pressing his face against her hair and just whispering things. Things like it's okay, you're safe, I'm here. He doesn't think about it, he just says them and they feel right. He can feel her hand pressed against his chest; the way she fists his shirt and presses her face against his neck. Aaron closes his eyes, cornered by the things he feels – tender, caring, fierce things as he cradles her against his chest.

"Just -" her breath shudders against the skin of his neck.

"Yeah?" he asks softly.

"Stay?" she asks. It's his turn to shiver, and he has to close his eyes and force his mind to stay quiet.

"Sure," he nods, and lowers them both onto the pillow. He stretches carefully; with her next to him their bodies are touching form their chests to their toes, and he needs a moment to absorb this and relax. He is tense in a strange way, as if his muscles are filled with his thoughts and plans and maps.

"Shhh," she says, hand moving across him to rest over his heart. There's familiarity in her touch, there's comfort when she holds him closer to her. Their palms kiss and their fingers intertwine and he breathes the air filled with her. He breathes, breathes, breathes, and closes his eyes.

Something within him unlocks, something he's desperately trying to keep contained ever since they yelled at each other in that car and she kept convincing him that she didn't know (and he knew she was telling the truth, he knew, but he was filled with all that frustration.) But now he is protecting and being protected, he is caring and being cared for in return, a true reciprocity he never had in his life. There's something heavy and hollow falling away from his chest, leaving him open and raw. He shifts to his side and pulls her closer, feeling her body fitting against his in the darkness, perfectly, like fingers of their hands joined together.

She kisses his chest and he kisses the top of her head, and doesn't dream of wolves any more.

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