bakerstreet | ʙᴏᴛʜ ɪɴ ʜᴇʟʟ shipping meme.

ʙᴏᴛʜ ɪɴ ʜᴇʟʟ shipping meme.

ʙᴏᴛʜ ɪɴ ʜᴇʟʟ

Of all the places in this world, there's nowhere worse you could be than where you are now. You're in hell - metaphorically or literally - and laying down and just dying seems more and more like the valid action to take. But you can't go any lower and death could be a no escape. There's only one thing keeping you from being a jaded, broken husk: you've fallen in love with someone who shares this fate. It's a love so different than the norm, that only those who've known this desolation can fathom. Perhaps they give you hope, they're an innocent worth keeping safe, they showed you unexpected kindness, or they're simply something to cling to. No matter what, you'll protect them and you wouldn't dream of leaving this place without them. They will leave, though...

...even if you don't.

☣ ＣＯＭＭＥＮＴ．ＩＮＦＯ．ＰＲＥＦＥＲＥＮＣＥＳ．
☣ ＲＥＰＬＹＴＯＯＴＨＥＲＳ．
☣ ＴＨＲＥＡＤ.

ＣＡＰＴＵＲＥＤ → For a crime you committed or not, you're in a prison.
ＶＡＬＵＥ → Something about you is worth quite a deal to the wrong person.
ＳＣＩＥＮＴＩＦＩＣ → You're nothing but an experiment, a lab rat.
ＰＥＲＳＥＣＵＴＥＤ → Your mistreatment is not because of what you've done. It's for who you are.
ＦＲＥＡＫＳＨＯＷ → All of your oddities are on display for the amusement of others.
ＦＯＲＣＥ → You have to do horrible things, though not of your own will or design.
ＲＡＣＫ → There's not just isolation or imprisonment on your plate - there's physical torture as well.
ＢＲＩＭＳＴＯＮＥ → "Hell" is no hyperbole; you're in the fiery pit itself.
ＷＩＬＤＣＡＲＤ

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[ shipping preferences for anything going that route. open to all options but "brimstone". ]

[Would you be interested in a Peter Parker?]

[No brimstone, no persecuted. Medium-long backtag prose preferred. Assumed cr preferred to skip intros]

[ You up for a John? Prose/actionspam or prompt preferences? I'm flexible.]

[I'm absolutely up for a John! Though fair warning: I'm a bit rusty with Zhaan, though I'm sure it'll all come back to me.

Good old-fashioned, non-bracketed prose is always preferred. Do you want to start us off? I'm writing this on my way to work.]

[ Excellent! Don't worry about being rusty, this will be great. :D ]

"Eighty-one bottles of beer on the wall, eighty-one bottles of beer..."

Anyone in this galaxy who knows John probably also knows he's not all that great with long silences. On Moya it's not so bad, between the old girl herself and the DRDs and the myriad humming, living sounds that fill up the spaces not being occupied by Rygel's constant complaining or arguments over which one of them should be in charge.

But this isn't Moya.

Far from it.

And it sure as spit ain't Kansas.

"Take one down... pass it around. Eighty bottles of beer on the wall." His voice is subdued, and he'd be the first to agree it's a little broken. It's not the first time he's been captured since Scorpius decided digging around in his grey matter was a great way to spend a Sunday afternoon, but there are two big differences this time than any of the times before.

Number 1: He's not the only one they've got locked up. Meaning his chances of being rescued are pretty much zip.

And Number 2: He has no idea who in blue blazes has him this time, but their techniques may even be more inhumane than the Peacekeepers'.

John is in a pile in the far corner of a dank room, slumped against the wall, blood dried to his face and hands. His throat is raw, he can't remember the last time he had anything to eat or drink, and aside from the occasional shriek of pain from somewhere down the ominous catacombs of wherever-the-hell-he-is, everything is quiet.

It's enough to make a guy lose what's left of his mind. "Take one down. Pass it... hng. Seventy-nine bottles of..."

Old hinges creak and the locks make a deafening racket in the room before shuffling footsteps turn into a familiar blue blur and a less distinguishable alien captor shoving her into the room. John blinks to clear his vision and makes a break for the door — that's what his brain is telling him he's doing, anyhow. In reality he doesn't make it very far, tipping ass over tea kettle as he paws at the floor and scrabbles weakly in an effort to get to her.

"Hey Blue," he grunts, resting unsteadily on his elbows. "You okay? Did they hurt you?"

One stumbling step. Two. That's as much as Zhaan manages before her legs give out under her and she falls onto the cold, hard floor. Cold. Everything is cold. Low temperatures doesn't bother her as much as it would most others, but now she shivers. Even for her, such prolonged exposure to icy waters was not only greatly unpleasant but also potentially harming. They had thrown her in, held her in, and only much later hauled her back out. She doesn't even know why. What she does know is that she's chilled through, her robes still soaked and clinging to her, cold and heavy. She knows and feels it with every cell in her body.

"You know they did, John." Her voice isn't so cracked sounding as his is, but it is so tired, exhaustion in every note. She doesn't bear the same marks of torment as he does, no wounds or bruises, no blood. But they had hurt her; not only with cold. Her throat still burns from the unknown concoction they forced into her, her stomach twisting in cramps and her head swimming. The sour taste that lingers in her mouth really is the least of it all.

She can't stand. She can't even crawl. But she can, and does, drag herself towards him, until she's close enough to raise trembling fingers to his bruised face. "Oh, John..."

Yeah. He knows.

It still looks a hell of a lot like hope being snuffed from his blue eyes, though. For a while he just looks at her, his forehead knit and mouth pulled off-kilter in a grim mien, but holding his head up takes too much effort. His gaze drops first, then his head.

"Sum'bitches," he slurs, exhaustion making his Southern drawl that much more prominent. He stretches his arm out without looking, hoping to find her hand, but he tips over and rolls onto his back before he can reach her.

She looks like hell. Hell, he knows they both do. Whoever their captors are, it's almost like they know exactly what will get to them the most. Maybe they do, maybe it's targeted at their physiology or psychology, maybe the Peacekeepers are feeding them information, maybe maybe maybe. John's head has been filled with 'maybes' ever since they landed here, and he's still not any closer to finding a way out. To be honest, if it wasn't for Zhaan he might have given up by now.

He leans into her touch, reaching up to cradle the back of her hand. "Don't worry 'bout me." He digs his boots into the ground and scrapes together as much strength as he's got to push himself closer to her. "C'mere. We gotta get you warmed up."

She doesn't argue that. The wish to be warm again is nearly as strong as her concern for him. "When have I ever not been worried about you?" She counters in weak jest, laying down on her side as she lifts hands that has long since gone numb and that refuses to stop shaking, to undo the fastenings that holds her robes closed. To her it feels like the soaked garments would be able to steal all the warmth in this whole galaxy. She needs them off, and when the fastenings give way and she can push the fabric off she feels a sense of great relief.

Nudity is nothing to her. Though she's well aware that it is more of a taboo for many others, she's simply far beyond the point to care. Free of the wet clothes she moves to curl in as close to John as she can, seeking nothing more than the warmth and comfort he offers.

"I think I heard D'argo when they brought me back." Her voice is soft despite her shivering, barely more than a whisper. But it is strained, as if just at the point of cracking. The scream of agony she had heard while being dragged and shoved down the hallway had done more to break her than the torture had.

"I keep telling you guys I'm smarter than I look," he retorts, grinning tiredly. It's a weak attempt to defuse the situation. It doesn't matter what they did to him, all that matters is that they make it through this and find a way out.

He's already reaching for her when she peels her robes off, and not to disappoint he does startle and throw his chin up so his eyes are looking somewhere else. "Hey, whoa. Ha, don't forget to give a guy some warning next time." It's not like she doesn't make a pretty picture to look at. It's actually the opposite that's the problem.

Once she curls against him he tilts forward again and pulls her in close to his body. He knows this would work a lot better if he was naked too, but they'll just see how she does first before they take that step, huh? It's not like he's a prude, he's just trying to keep it together. He hushes her, rubbing his hands up and down her back to get some warmth going.

"Yeah," he answers dimly. "Last time I was in the rack I heard him, too." He clenches his jaw, but even that hurts. Not being able to help his friends comes down on him like a guillotine. If it wasn't for the nonsense in his brain they wouldn't even be here, right? "Still nothing from Aeryn, though I guess being a Peacekeeper badass and all it'll take them longer to crack her. It's been days since I last thought I heard Rygel. His Highness probably sold us out for a one-way ticket out of here."

It's almost meant as a joke, but ... hell, Rygel would probably do it.

It's instinctual to stay curled up tight in a vain attempt to keep what little body heat she still has, an instinct that is only reinforced by the cramps in her belly. It is counterproductive, however, and she knows it. The warm touch of his hands on her back help immensely as she makes herself unfurl to settle more closely against him, to let the warmth in.

"That would be like him," she comments as she finally settles with an arm around him, her bald head tucked in under his chin. Unwashed as he is, the smell of him isn't strictly speaking pleasant, but she still find it oddly comforting. It's unique - human, she supposes - and therefore it's him, and another of her senses that he fills.

Though the metallic tang of blood remains unsettling...

"I almost hope he has." Then at least one of them would be free and safe from the torments of this place. Then, perhaps, there could be some tiny shard of hope that help might eventually arrive to save them.

She draws a deeper breath, shaky with her shivering, and tries to will herself to relax.

He works to swallow the lump in his throat, tilting his face until he's resting against the crown of her head. Guess you could call it instinct that spurs him to plant a kiss there, too. It's nothing more than a peck, careful not to smear his blood on her or make the cuts in his lips flame up.

He shrugs one arm out of his jacket, grunting when the tendons and bones ache in protest, and struggles out of the other arm with a little more effort not to disturb Zhaan. Once done, he drapes it around her, covering up as much of them both as he can to trap the heat between them. He's pretty sure he has a few broken ribs that are setting the wrong way, and a buffet of other sprains and dislocations and nicks and bruises and lord almighty the list goes on, but right now the only thing that catches his focus is when she shows pain.

"I don't," he says, even though they both know he doesn't mean it. "I've begged these bastards a hundred ways from Sunday to let you go, to let any of you go, and no matter what I say they don't seem to care. If he's out, I guarantee it's gonna come back to bite us." He pauses, pulling back a little so he can see her face. "They make you drink that stuff again?"

He's warm, and though she wants to hug that warmth closer to herself she knows he hurts. She wills herself to just be still and let him do what he can rather than risk causing him further injury and pain. His words are almost enough to make her break out in a bitter laugh. Come back to bite them? What more could they do to them? But she doesn't laugh, as she knows it can always get worse.

"Yes," she answers. She doesn't know what drug or poison it is, but it keeps her weak, keeps her mind clouded. Perhaps it even makes her more susceptible to despair and hopelessness, though the situation is certainly bleak enough to warrant both.

She doesn't even know why this is happening. Are they after the wormhole technology stored in John's mind? Or is it something else they want? If so, then what? Not knowing only makes it all seem even more hopeless.

"I try to remember that there is a world outside of this place. That there are planets away from here, places where people live free and in peace, free of pain and fear. But it's getting so hard to remember." That's the point where her voice cracks. She pauses to draw a deep, shuddering breath, burying her face in against John's neck. "It feels like there is nothing good left in the world."

Confirmation is barely out of her mouth by the time his hand is cradling her cheek, thumb moving slow over her temple, and even just that betrays the deep tired in his bones. A brushstroke of dirt and blood leave rust on her beautiful blue, but he doesn't know any other way to share in her pain and offer his comfort. They all know he isn't great with words.

"That's good, Blue," he murmurs into her skin, voice gritty like rocks tumbling downhill but somehow still tender. "You just keep on remembering that. Delvia's still out there. We're gonna get you home yet." Or back somewhere she won't be confined like this ever again, anyway. Somewhere she'll be happy and warm. He squeezes her closer, just enough to feel it without making his breath hitch. "Don't you lose hope on me. I need you to remind me it's still there."

Maybe they're not so wrong when they make jokes and jabs about him being a weak human. Sometimes it's like he holds on out of pure stubbornness, when everything else feels a million miles away, just a husk waiting for it all to end. He wets his lips, hunkering against her when he feels her burrow closer. "Talk to me. Tell me what you saw, what they did. Anything we could use against them to get outta here."

And though he doesn't say it, he wants to keep her talking so she don't retreat on into herself. It's easy enough to do; he almost lost himself the first time Scorpius had him, the time he met Stark and he didn't know if anyone was ever gonna come for him (my side, your side!). John won't let that happen to her, no matter if she didn't learn anything new about their captors. He's still going to listen and love her just the same as he always has. That, at any rate, they can't take away from him.

She weeps, pitifully but quietly, the shaking of her sobs joining the trembling of cold that still wracks her body. Hope? How can she give him hope, how can she remind him when she has none left for herself? If not for him, if not for the strength he shares with her, she would have given up long ago.

"No." There's a pleading in her voice. Now she does tighten her hold on him, pressing closer than she should, still with her face buried in against his neck, as if to hide. "Please, John, don't make me relive it. I can't..." It is an effort of will, to ease her hold, but even then the thin fabric of his shirt remains trapped in her tightly clenched fists.

She sucks in a deep breath, gulping it down. Then another, and another, trying to focus on breathing to calm herself, but having to fight herself in doing so. "I'm still drowning, John! Don't make me stay there in the cold!" She draws back, just enough to tilt her head back and look up at him, eyes clouded by the drugs and by the torment they have both been forced to endure. "Help me remember that goodness still exists," she begs, grasping at straws, turning to the one thing left to her that isn't hard and cold. A shared memory, a tale of his home that she has never seen, anything to take her mind away from her suffering.

"Hey, hey, hey now," he hushes her, wrapping his hand around the back of her head, protectively pulling her in against him. "It's all right, shh. I'm sorry. You don't have to tell me what happened, I'm sorry. Shh."

Now it's his stomach that twists itself up in knots, a combination of shame and rage against their captors. He works his dry throat, Adam's apple bobbing uselessly, because he can't take it back now. He can't un-say it. She looks up at him with watery desperation, her usual keen eyes dulled by this place, and he doesn't know if there's anything he can do to remind her that there's a whole damn universe out there — some of which doesn't even want to kill them.

His brow is wrinkled with heartache, but he doesn't look away from those eyes. Eyes that have both cut him off at the knees and cured him before. Eyes that are looking to him now to provide healing. Is he man enough for that job? How could he ever be Zhaan's Zhaan?

Without really thinking about it, thumb still painting soft strokes against her temple, he softly presses chapped lips to hers. Something chaste, friendly even, but still tender and warm, open and inviting. He tilts his forehead against hers, nuzzling in carefully. "Shh, shh." He strokes her head from crown to nape, exhaustion making his fingers deftly shake.

"Have you ever seen a cornflower, Blue?" he asks, voice pitched low.

When John prompted her to talk about what had just been done to her, the fear had surged forward with surprising intensity. A small, detached piece of her mind could think it absurd, knowing that she is no longer being pulled under in icy waters. Yet still it's her terror that claims her, a base and primal reaction that won't be pushed away.

But then suddenly there are warm lips pressed against hers. They are dry and chapped - funny, how such little details can draw such focus - and unexpected and wonderful enough to claim her focus. For just a short, blessed moment there is stillness, long enough that she can center her dazed mind and pull away from the acute fear. Her fists unclench, hands letting go of his shirt and instead coming to lay flat against him. Though her breathing still comes in hard, it is no longer so ragged and panicked.

When his lips part from hers, she immediately misses them.

She accepts his comfort, drinking it in. Every caress, every hushed word. Focusing only on that as she stays leaning in against him, her forehead against his. "No. No, I have not." She still sounds tired and sad and scared, but now her voice is no longer so strained and broken.

Every bit of his concentration is centered on her right now. Despite appearances, John is nothing if not constantly multitasking -- running equations, odds, formulas in his head while taking in the big, weird universe around him, and at the same time wondering if he's ever going to have beer and chocolate again while reciting lines from Sixteen Candles. But not right now. Right now, Zhaan is the only thing there is, her body tensing and relaxing, her breathing, heart slowing, his fingers on her skin, hers tucked over his heart.

"It's a flower," he murmurs, accent thick again as he lets his lips twitch. It's not exactly a smile, but it's close. "A plant. Grows all over the South where I'm from; big, fluffy petals in the deepest blue you'll ever see. There's big fields of 'em, they come up on long stalks and when the wind blows it's like looking at the ocean, waves moving in and out. But when you're up close, each one is kinda different. The color changes, from light to dark; some are pale, some just ... shimmer."

He tilts his face down again until his lips are brushing the crown of her head, blinking to refocus, not realizing he'd drifted until he feels tears stinging his eyes. "Thing is, they'll grow just about everywhere. By the side of the road, through cracks in the cement. No matter what man does, they find this way of popping up wherever they want, standing tall like a big 'frell you' to the forces that work against them. Even in the least forgiving environments, they find a way to survive."

He doesn't say how often she makes him think of that. How sometimes he looks at her -- big, blue, and beautiful -- and thinks of home. Or how her standing tall and zen on a ship where, let's face it, even the Stooges would say 'No thanks, we're good,' reminds him of those proud stalks giving the middle finger to chaos.

But he reckons she'll figure it out on her own.

When John speaks, Zhaan closes her eyes and lets his voice paint a picture inside her mind, of blue fields with slow-moving ripples, like the waves of a sea. What she imagines is probably quite different from the actual scenery that he remembers, but that doesn't matter. The details that she can't know isn't the point. In her mind's eye she sees the beauty of it, pictures the tranquility, and listening to his voice she can let it wash over her.

She isn't blind to the parallels, to what he's saying between his spoken words. Though she isn't sure how deserving she is of it in this moment, she's nevertheless grateful. His belief in her can give her strength to continue to endure.

This time when she lifts her head to look up into his blue eyes she does so without moving away. The look in her gaze is still haunted by this place; she's still pained and shivering. But, she can give him a smile, small and tired it may be, but it is honest.

Slowly her hand comes up to cup his cheek. "Thank you." This time it is she that kisses him.

If she could have one wish in this moment, it is to return him to that place, where stubborn flowers create seas of blue. He is farther from home than any of them, but how she wishes for him to find his way back.

Hey, he'll take whatever victories he can get, no matter how small. And since they landed here, the victories get smaller and smaller and farther apart. When she smiles it doesn't matter that it's wan and pained, it's like seeing the sun breaking through the clouds after a month of hard rain.

He gives it back to her, maybe just as tired, his eyes bluer than normal because they're bloodshot and glassy and there's dirt all over his face; but it's a smile, and hell. That's something.

In another time, he would have resisted letting a kiss from her be anything more than a kiss. It feels a helluva lot more like a lifeline right now, something calm and warm and full of something else he's wondering more and more whether he'll ever feel again.

(Love.)

He grimaces softly when they break and the cut on the corner of his mouth protests. Pulling her back in, he goes back to trying to warm her with his hands and ignoring the inviting expanse of her nakedness. "Tell me something about Delvia," he grits, wishing the floor were a feather mattress as he struggles in vain to make them both comfortable. "Your favorite thing 'bout it."

They can't be comfortable. The floor is hard and cold and they are in too much pain to be comfortable. But, after everything, this is the best it has been in a long time. Too long. Far too long. Still she does move with him, keeping as close as possible, not only for the warmth but also for the contact. She's strangely aware of the different textures pressed against her, of the fabric of his clothes, and of his skin where he isn't covered. Another case of the details her somewhat clouded mind focuses on.

She settles back in against him again, tucked in under his chin against his chest, her hand returning to lay flat over his heart. At his request she frowns at first. The last she had seen of her home planet had not been very pleasant. But she thinks further, letting her mind wander further back to earlier years, back to when she was younger and not involved in all the politics and strife that came later. To more innocent times.

"The temple grounds at sunrise," she finally says, unsure of how long she had spent pondering, voice kept just above a whisper. "There would be the chime of bells, and a soft sound of the wind and of voices rising in chant to greet the sun. The air would taste of flowers and spices and incense, and of a touch of rain, perhaps. It was chilly at first, but as the sun rose warmth would come with the light. There was a simple but deep joy in those moments."

[ no to brimstone. ]

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Matt Murdock || Daredevil

Carolyn Fry | Pitch Black

Zhaan | Farscape

VALUE

:D

\o/

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Freyr Anderson | X-Men OC | OTA

aoba seragaki || dramatical murder || m/m