Thanks for all the really excellent feedback from the last bit. I was concerned about the overall feel of the piece, as well as the content, but it seems to have worked the way I wanted it to.

Special thanks to CleanWhiteRoom for letting me prattle on and on and on about the thoughts and feelings I have regarding these characters and the way they so violently commit to one-another's orbit. And thanks to SacredClay for making me feel like less of a creep with her heart-felt message.

Not so sure about this chapter, but its here, so here it is.

It would be easier to wake on Destiny if there were ever anything like an actual morning. Instead, Young opens his eyes into the blackness of space, the darkness of a cold room, and the sluggish feeling of a night gone oh-so-well and horribly wrong. His body aches, which is absolutely nothing new, but the curious dryness of the skin on his crotch and thighs alert him to the buried information regarding the last evening. He closes his eyes against the sting of the abrasions and the ghost of another man's breath on his throat.

Finally, finally, he manages to pull himself to his feet. Putting on clothes is a rote effort. Fingers find zippers and buttons as his mind turns over the sound of a shuddered breath, the bite of a curve of fingernails, the pulse of flesh too hot and too dry. The cold stiffness of the cotton is universes away from the hot slick of Nicholas Rush's flesh.

Destiny's halls are empty. The time agreed upon as 'night' is still in effect, and the crew is as exhausted as the vessel in the wake of recent events. He finds Rush in the first place he considered, and the last place he looked, as though he could somehow delay the inevitability of the conclusion through sheer force of will.

The door to the Infirmary is cold under his fingers. The mechanism feels faintly damp, which alerts him to the prospect the room is occupied as the lock disengages. When the panels slide back, he still freezes, unable to move forward for a moment, paralyzed by those wide, dark eyes.

Rush stands to the side of TJ's station, one hand still raised to replace a bottle of antiseptic. He has wrapped the knuckles of that hand, and Young fights a flinch as he recalls the force of those bones being driven into his jaw. Rush is dressed, his dirty jeans blending into the shadows cast by the desk, but oddly wearing only his thinning t-shirt, with no sign of the undershirt and vest. He holds his broken glasses in the hand at his side, his fingers curled almost protectively around the lenses. The only light comes from the open laptop on the desk, making the stark lines of the scientist's face seem gaunt and hollow.

After a long, excruciating moment, Rush turns away. His fingers release the bottle and he lowers his arm, pausing to run his fingers through his hair as he exhales a long breath. His hair is stringy, clinging to his wrist in a tangle before breaking apart in little locks that don't quite lay flat in the back. He is dirty and bruised. He looks tired.

For an inexplicable moment, Young is reminded of the first time they met, back on Icarus, when both of them were more civilized and far more sane. Rush had looked at him, appraising in a way that was almost uncomfortable, nearly awkward, before turning away with a sigh. He'd asked if something had been the matter and Rush had shrugged elegantly before turning and stalking away.

There is nowhere to stalk now, not here, in the quiet, silvery silence of the Infirmary. Rush smears the palm of his right hand across his face, rubbing at his eye before turning his attention back to the desk and his glasses.

"...We need to talk," Young says finally, and before he has even finished speaking, Rush is making an agitated, clicking sound, shaking his glasses at him in a jerky, dismissive gesture. "Rush," he tries again, his voice taking on that gravel pitch that only seems to come with that name.

Shaking his head, Rush hunches over, arms bent at the elbow, palms against the desk on either side of the laptop. Eventually, he raises his glasses up on one side, holding them in place to balance against the missing arm.

Young wonders suddenly why no one on this ship has been able to come up with a better solution to repairing those frames than the bent wire of a paperclip long since lost. It seems a colossal waste, considering how many people were on board and the things they had managed to accomplish during their tenure here.

He watches Rush read, his almost distressingly-wide eyes tracking across the screen as he impatiently scrolls every now and then. Finally, he nods slightly before closing his eyes in what might have been a twinge of pain or even a stifled yawn.

"Are you hurt?" Young asks eventually, voice low and cautious.

Rush flinches almost imperceptivity and looks up then, his expression showing he had almost forgotten Young was even there. "...I'll live," he says finally.

It's the first thing Young has heard him say here, the first thing in hours, since he'd spit defiantly in Young's face only to be slammed back against the floor again. Something tightens in Young, splintering further until he clenches his fists to keep his fingers from trembling. He swallows hard, nodding several times as he struggles to get a lid on his sudden and violent spike of anger. "You'll live," He repeats tersely, biting the words out in a voice that is darker than he'd like.

"Yeah..." Rush murmurs, eyes darting between Young and the door. For the first time, the other man seems to realize he is essentially trapped behind the desk. To move for the door would mean to pass by Young, close enough to touch, and it is clear that neither of them want that just this moment.

Young knows he should move away. He should retreat to the far side of the room, behind the beds, or towards the side-rooms, away from Rush and the door and the tangle of emotions and pheromones and the scent of sex that still clings to them both. He should withdraw to let Rush escape, but he stays where he is, hands fisted at his sides, as he tries to come to terms with the turmoil in his head.

He is a rapist. He is Rush's rapist, and, while Rush looks concerned, wary, he does not look frightened. He does not see the fear in his face that had been present that night in Storage Bay 3, when he'd first pinned the man against the wall and kissed him violently. The absence of that kind of fear enrages him, though he cannot say why. Is it because he wants Rush to be able to express and work through the trauma he is surely feeling? Or because he is disappointed that Rush is somehow stronger than he anticipated?

Still unsure, he takes a step forward, then another. Rush holds his ground, only listing forward slightly to release his hold on the glasses. The sound of the frames hitting the metal surface seems like a gunshot in this tension.

Rush's hands are curled at his sides now, fingers in loose fists, wrists turned slightly outward. He can see the tension running through those limbs; see the vein running from just under his shirt sleeve all the way down to his wrist. He remembers suddenly that Rush always used to wear a watch, and he wonders what ever happened to the thing. Young's own watch is sitting on the small table beside his bed, discarded weeks ago and ignored. Time on Density is relative and the constriction only serves to remind him of the lack of circuit on his left hand. Rush used to wear a wedding ring, too.

When they are close enough to touch, Young reaches one hand out, experimentally, moving to touch Rush's shoulder. The other man explodes into motion, rolling his shoulder back out of Young's grasp before bringing up his right arm to smash against Young's face. He catches the limb before it can make contact, rattling Rush back against the cabinet, his hand slipping up to cup the other man's wrist.

"Rush! Rush!" He snarls, trying to get a hold of himself as his temper flares. "Calm down!"

"You calm down!" Rush snaps, clenching his jaw in a movement Young has come to recognize.

He ducks his head to the side and forward, catching Rush's shoulder with his own face before the man can connect the head butt he has braced for. "I'm not here to fight you, Rush," he growls against the other man's throat, his lips tracing the skin there despite himself. This is not going at all the way he has planned it, but then again, what ever did?

Rush's head cracks back against the cabinet of its own accord as the man lets out a shaky laugh that crests upwards as it continues, verging on hysterical. "No..." He murmurs faintly, making Young tense further where they are pressed together. "No," he continues breathlessly, "We wouldn't want any fighting, now would we? Might get messy, that. Might get... violent."

"Rush,"

"Shut up."

"I need to know that you're okay," He murmurs, drawing back to search the other man's face.

The expression he finds is a twist between derision and panic, which feels like a brick in his stomach even as it is a soaring relief. He tries to pretend the tell-tale wash of pleasure at the other man's discomfort isn't there.

"Let go of me," Rush says finally, tugging on his captive arm. Young follows the motion, the flex of muscle, up his arm and to where his hand is locked over Rush's wrist. He knows from experience he can hold both of the man's wrists in his own - Rush's hands might be large, but his wrists are surprisingly delicate, the pistiform extremely pronounced under the skin. Breaking his gaze away from their interlocked limbs, he turns his attention back to Rush's face.

Rush is watching him, lips furrowed slightly in concentration, eyes tracking over his face as they had the computer screen earlier. He wonders, not for the first time, not even close, what Rush thinks when he studies him. What he must be thinking now, in light of the evening's events.

"I came to see if you were all right..." He whispers, raising his free hand to cup Rush's face. The other man tenses, his throat lengthening as he raises his head slightly. "I wanted to... Shit, Rush, I'm sorry," He ducks his head, letting the weight of it settle on Rush's chest for a moment.

He can hear Rush's heart thudding in his chest and he knows he is being a monster. He held the man down and forced him into vicious, painful sex, and here he is, pinning him to the wall so he can apologize for his violence. He feels sick to his stomach and sore all over and yet there is a part of him that can smell the sex on their skin and the blood in Rush's hair and all he wants to do is give in to that voice and slam their mouths together for that heat and strength and tiny hint of mint.

Instead, he takes a shaky breath and steps back, releasing Rush's arm. Keeping his head bowed, eyes on the floor, Young indicates the open doorway with one arm. "Go..." He murmurs. When Rush doesn't move, his voice ratchets up to a snarl, "GO!"

Now, the other man moves, turning to snatch up his computer and glasses, sweeping past Young in a stride that would look more purposeful if he weren't limping slightly to one side. Without a glance back at him, Rush is gone.

Young buries his face in his hands and exhales. He smells of blood, sex, and Rush. After a long, painful moment where every muscle in his body tenses, jerking spasmodically as he struggles to sort out his raging desires and cresting self-loathing, Young sighs. Dropping his hands to his sides, he squares his shoulders.

Taking a deep breath, he starts off down the hallway, after Rush.