If it weren’t for the few other times she had been here, once with Minnie as a guide, she would have been lost amongst the brush. Quiet, purposeful foot steps found her down the cobbled path she knew by memory now, sticking to spots she knew were booby-trap free… mainly because they had already been set off. A frown worked it’s way on her features as she passed by a triggered crossbow trap still stuck in one of the many trees that surrounded the Erinos compound. Flyndt had gone somewhat off the deep end in his need to protect Foxen during his recovery, and even though she understood and perhaps would have even done the same were it her with Alex, the sight had made her heart hurt. Physically hurt.
She did whatever she could without intruding to help with Flyndt’s anxiety when she was allowed to come by to check on Foxen’s health.
The Chiss found her way onto the porch of Foxen’s home and knocked softly on the door, adjusting the bag in her arms. Inside held whatever she might need, from medications to surgical tools to wound dressings. She didn’t want to be caught off guard at all. For all she knew, Foxen could be septic or have new injuries.
His surgeries, plural, had been rough. The Nautolan hybrid in general had been in bad shape, worse than her, worse than Zuza. She had been amazed that Foxen had survived at all. The injuries the machine of a man had endured during his capture would have killed just about anyone else.
She couldn’t imagine how traumatic that had been for Flyndt or Minnie. To land outside the Collector’s base to find someone they cared for bleeding out on the sand.
Then again she couldn’t say much about that. Alex and Zuza hadn’t found her in any better of a state.
“Foxen it’s Sivall!” she announced through the door after her knock, knowing full well the man wouldn’t answer– but he was mute not deaf and she’d rather not spook him any more than she probably had.
For a long few moments, the Chiss was left standing on the doorstep. The surprisingly warm alpine glade rustled with the soft susurrus of nettles and leafy boughs waving in the cooler breeze from further up the slope, snow-capped in the not so far off at all distance.
Then, eventually, as she waited patient and unmoving there, the thk knock of a heavy tumbler and several other clacks of locking mechanisms reached her ears – she knew the exact count of all the locks installed in this door, physical and digital, from having seen them several times now – and she counted down until the last one. Then the door swung inward, bearing Foxen’s frame.
Red eyes looked him over critically. While his skin tones made it more difficult to discern, she could still tell he was a little pale at the moment. He leaned on the door, as if standing was burdensome, and favored the foot that had not been burned and shattered and impaled; only burned and impaled. His hand with the recent amputation shook slightly at his side.
Red eyes looked over her critically. Up and down, raking, like a specimen.
He met her gaze.
You look like shit, that stare said.
Sivall offered Foxen a kind of half smile in reaction to his stare, a self-conscious and unsure kind of smile. She felt like shit. Her brain ticked off a quick series of split second examinations, pure-sanguine eyes flicking over the injuries she knew laid under clothing. She then made a rough gesture with her hands, unpracticed– her scarred hand swooping under her unmarked one, hands flat and facing down, fingers together, with a question.
Enter?
The Chiss then lifted up the bag slung around her neck, the sound of clacking faintly sounding from the bag. Inside the bag was everything she could possibly need, and she knew that Foxen knew her enough by now to know that.
“I need to assess your injuries, make sure you don’t have any signs of infection, change dressings. Neuro exams. Please?”
The Nautolan hybrid nodded his assent, gesturing her inwards and stepping back enough to allow her passage without either of them touching anymore than necessary. The interior of the living room/kitchen area once through the very short entrance hallway, more like a landing, was a few degrees warmer than the outside and smelled rich, sweet, and buttery, as if something had been recently baking.
The door was closed behind her, multiple locks done back up, and Foxen followed her into the room. He pointed at the couch and setté, and then slowly and stiffly walked to the kitchen, from where he picked up a familiar datapad. Two glasses of water were also fetched, though he used both hands for that, tucking the pad under an arm.
He set the drinks down on the glass topped caf table with a clatter, which drew a stymied expression from the granite man. Foxen eased down onto the opposite side of the couch with a short groan of breath, then started typing. He used his left arm as a brace and typed slowly with his right; the left hand was still on a physical therapy regiment, despite being free of bandages now, unlike his torso.
You look like shit.
Red eyes met red and shrugged. His message went on.
I feel like shit. Overtaxed today. Status report: no signs of infection, vitals normal, no bleeding overnight. Range of motion nominal given current recovery speed/schedule. Sleep: poor quality, but copious. The mood wavers. Flyndt helps. Feeling very taken care of. It is nice. Inventory: frustration. Can’t even finish some fraking cheesecakes properly. They’re a disgrace. You can still have some though since you’ve already seen my worst.
The medic didn’t need to be told twice to sit. She happily made her way into the livingroom and sat gently on the couch that was pointed out and pulled the bag off of her. While Foxen busied himself with getting glasses of water and his datapad, she began pulling supplies out of the satchel. Syringes of bac, bandages, sterile scissors and other equipment in plastic pouches went onto the caf table as well.
She carefully watched every movement he made, from sitting down to supporting himself on his left arm, taking mental notes on how much he had recovered from the last time she had seen him while also paying attention to see if there were any changes in the coloration of his lips/nail beds that would alarm her to further lung issues.
The man had been through a blender metaphorically.
She read over his first message with a soft snort, then patiently waited for him to finish the rest of his assessment before answering.
“I feel like shit, too. You know, you’re the only one who’s told me I look like shit today even though everyone else has probably come to the same conclusion?” Siv let out a soft sight, relaxing against the arm of the couch and respecting Fox’s need for space between them, a need she understood and appreciated. Alex had told her that she looked wonderful, but had that tint of worry to his tone that gave him away. The Arconan she had passed at the spaceport had looked at her with worry but had only made a comment on how her hair looked.
Foxen might seem blunt to most people but she appreciated his honesty.
“You seem to be recovering well, all things considered. I know it must be frustrating to still not be at 100%, but you’re making good progress and that’s not just platitudes. Most– like 99% of people– would still be laying in a bed in the hospital.”
Foxen bared his teeth in what most would find a predatory prelude to running in the opposite direction but the Chiss knew from seeing him and Flyndt together was actually a smirk at her remark of shittiness.
He took the pad back and typed slowly again while he listened to her.
Sapients make platitudes. You make presentable shit. That sweater dress is both tolerable quality and suits you, and your appearance is neat. I notice more. Are you warm enough? Keep temperature elevated 6°C for Flyndt, but insufficient data yet to determine if your clothing choices are preference or temperature regulation.
‘Are you warm enough? Oh.
Well the question was bound to come up eventually, especially with someone has perceptive as Foxen. All the same, she wasn’t sure how to explain it in a way that didn’t make her seem… weak? Frivilous? Lesser? The Chiss sighed softly, straightening out wrinkles that definitely did not exist in the sweaterdress. She took a few seconds to mull how she was going to tell the Nautolan hybrid, chewing on the inside of her cheek.
“I just… don’t like the cold. It brings back memories. Bad memories.”
Not wanting to say much more, she lifted her scarred hand to tap a finger against her temple as if to gesture– mental. It took her a while of being in Arcona to realize the reason she wore heavy clothing and covered up the most was, definitely, because every time she found a part of herself frigid she was back in the ice baths. Back, standing cold and naked in a basement.
She couldn’t meet Foxen’s eyes, not wanting to face the pity or the disgust in them if there was any. Not Foxen. Of everyone else she knew, Foxen was quickly growing on her as someone she could trust to always tell her the truth, to never hide things from her for the sake of her feelings, to not treat her like she was glass. She didn’t want to be weak to him, or more weak than she might already seem.
“It’s a hard fashion decision some times, but I like comfort. No bare skin, warm and heavy fabrics.”
A grunt greeted her, a soft one, and then a snapping of fingers for attention. When red eyes dragged themselves to red again, the Nautolan hybrid made a gesture between himself and her, mimicking the point to the head, then between their eyes, the holding up a finger for pause.
He typed away laboriously, the lax exhaustion of his posture, the occasional twitch to his lidless eyes and the small grimaces the only telltale of pain or annoyance in the action; but still, those were visible to her. She had witnessed him be a stone block to the hospital staff in a worse state.
Eventually he offered the tablet back.
Is that it? Confirm. Trauma responses = fraking bitches. Welcome to the shit show where we look as shit and we feel and there’s cold sweating through the sheets and inability to feel safe in the body even alone in the room with all doors locked and maximum comfort. Yippie. However: ‘hard fashion decision,’ incorrect. Get better fashion. Or if you’re incapable of that like 87.6% of the galactic populace, I will do it for you. But don’t think you’re that incompetent. Just in need of education. If you like, we can go shopping. You – with your bone structure/figure/air – can wear so much more than sweater dresses in all possible shades of fraking beige and still bare 0 skin. Trust me. I have no skin days also and I look fraking amazing.
The speed in which Sivall perked up at reading “shopping” would surprise just about anyone, even those who knew her well. Go shopping? With Foxen? The man had impeccable taste, very similar to her own. She had found herself admiring the way he styled himself on several occasions in the past– the Nautolan knew his stuff.
“Really?” The word was a question but it carried heavy emotion with it. She had only a few other people she could really go shopping with– Sofila was a walking fashion train wreck, Asani was bite sized and took after her father, Alex was not a man of fashion, Minnie was pink and glitter and crop tops, and Bril was… well Bril. Needless to say, none of their aesthetics matched her own. But Foxen? No Foxen she could trust.
“I would love to! Once you’re better of course. I wouldn’t dare ask you to go out in the condition you’re in right now… plus I’m half scared your vi'vikust would actually kill me and-slash-or have a nervous breakdown, so…”
She was talking about Flyndt, of course. Though the bird-man looked innocent enough, she knew the truth. Flyndt was just as deadly as Foxen in his own ways.
The image of Jax with a crossbow bolt in his side was still fresh in her mind.
“My owners selected all of my clothes for me, so I only know so much. I’d be happy to learn literally anything you have to teach me about what I can and can’t wear. I want to grow, I want to become more.”
Though he did not know the word she used, speaking of his anything and violence implied Flyndt, and that made him irrevocably pleased. Sanguine eyes narrowed at the last, though.
Nonetheless, he nodded at her, and typed again.
Confirm, really. Pleased to hear your enthusiasm and willingness to be educated. However. One condition. Incorrect category: ‘[your] owners.’ Substitute with: “fraking pieces of shit that thought they could own me and were wrong. I own me.” Mouthful, but covers the bases. You can modify as you wish. Example, mine. Warlord who enslaved Flyndt and I, category: cancer in humanoid form I will torture to death slowly down to his component parts for ever making Flyndt feel afraid. Or, slave masters who beat my mother and the child self: category: pieces of shit whose throats I ripped out with my teeth whenever possible. See? If agree, then say it. Confirm. If not, okay.
A soft frown, that was her only reaction at first to Foxen’s condition. Had this been a conversation a month ago, she would have dismissed the concern easily, but now she had done some thinking and had some time to “recover” from her situation. “Owner” was a term she was used to, and while she knew a part of her detested and hated Connor for everything he had done, it was hard for her to put that in words let alone speak them outloud.
Sanguine eyes stared at the datapad for longer than she would have wanted, trying to get her mouth to form the words. Connor and Ju'Lia still haunted her every nightmare, still made her hands tremble when people showed her kindness, snickered away in the back of her mind at her insecurities and inadequacies. She knew the words she wanted to say, but couldn’t get them out of her throat.
So she opted for something easier, simpler, and hoped it was enough.
“Abusers,” she corrected softly, handing the datapad back to Foxen with the same gentleness that she used to handle surgical instruments. The gentleness was betrayed by the tenseness in her arms and shoulders, however, hinting at a hidden anger and sadness.
Siv a year ago wouldn’t have blinked at the mistreatment she had suffered under her previous owners. It was only thanks to the wonderful souls she had met in Arcona– Ruka and Cora, Zuji, Bril, Alex, Marick, Minnie, Sofila –that she was beginning to understand that everything she knew, everything she had gone through, was a tragedy she had yet to mourn. A tragedy she might never get to mourn because the toll it would take on her.
“My former abusers didn’t let me chose my own clothing. Everything was picked for me so it would be ‘perfect’,” the Chiss’s voice carried a tint of exhaustion to it now, a hint of sadness, “I’m still coming to terms with the fact that what they did to me was not okay. Thank you for helping to keep me from slipping back into complacency.”
A smile now, bright, showing all her perfectly white teeth. For someone who was so robotic at times, Foxen had his moments of being incredibly sweet and caring. It was like pieces of the old him– from what little Minnie had told her about the old Foxen –shining through the trauma. It gave her hope for herself, hope that she could grow past the things done to her as well.
“I can eat chilled foods. It’s not the same, thankfully. I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t eat ice cream. That’s a sad existence.”
With a soft chuckle, the Chiss medic stood and dusted off her sweaterdress before walking towards the designated kitchen island. While she walked she took a second to again marvel at the interior of the home and Foxen’s interior decorating skills.
Flyndt was a lucky bird man.
Foxen was slower to get up, an act that involved more bracing and him rolling himself off the couch edge and onto his feet than it did him either pulling himself up at the torso or bending his midsection overmuch. He favored his left leg, and exhaled slowly there for a moment as he stood before moving after the Chiss with a limping gait.
The blood black cherry wood underfoot was warm from the heating even as he stepped off the thick, scratchy textured white plush carpet and crossed over another before reaching the kitchen. His intact hand braced on the sparkling granite of the island as he rounded it, waving Sivall further in with his other rather than gesturing her to the table in the nook. He went to the fridge that was even wider than he was at the shoulders – a feat of engineering, that – and opened the door, reaching in and drawing out a covered glass tray. That was set on the counter before a covered glass bowl was taken out too.
He moved like that, collecting various items: a sheet of plastic from a drawer, two spatulas, a knife, two small plates, a carton of red berries, and four leaves off one of the thick array of neatly boxed plants that sat up on a shelf under the light of the glass interior wall. Everything was collected on the expansive island countertop, and then the Nautolan stopped to type.
Couldn’t finish these. Got too tired. Your hands are steady enough to allow assistance. Have you ever piped cream before?
The Chiss stared at Foxen, wide eyed, her lips slightly parted in surprise. She pointed a finger at herself in disbelief after a moment of silence, the universal gesture for ‘me?’. Foxen was asking her to help him bake? He was trusting her to not fuck it up? She had to force back the tears welling in her eyes, the moment not lost on her. This was the most Foxen had trusted her with– and Foxen took activities in the kitchen as seriously as everything else he did.
She nodded briefly, finally bringing herself out of her sappy stupor.
“Yeah, I’ve piped cream before. I started baking on my own soon after I got to Selen. Helps keep my hands sturdy for surgery. Keeps my fine movements fluid.”
A smile crossed the hybrid’s scarred lips. He nodded sharply in approval, as if to say, Confirm.
More typing followed.
Pipe one row down the middle of each in pearls or scallops, your choice. One mint leaf and two berries for each cake. Ensures balance of cream and provides organic, living presentation/garnish. You’ll do fine.
So said, he moved carefully over to a caf maker and set it, then over to the table and eased down, apparently content to just let her at it, assembly of tools and all, given her cited experience.
There were the tears again, threatening to break over. He was really going to let her do this on her own? Everyone else she knew would have coddled her, would have walked her through the steps just to make sure, would have stood behind her ready to come to her aid the second she ‘broke’. She doubted the Nautolan knew the gift he had just given her, the littliest sliver of self-sufficientness.
She would not cry, she would not ruin this.
The Chiss took a deep breath and nodded back once she had read Foxen’s instructions. Her hands were washed first, methodically as she always did. Fingernails, fingers, the webbing between each finger, palm, back of the hand, wrist. Once she was sure she scrubbed correctly and her hands were dry, she carefully gathered what she needed. In no time she had the piping bag prepared and the cream loaded into it. As for what she picked to pipe onto the cakes, she alternated, wanting to practice both. The look of focus on her face was very close to the expression she wore when working in surgery or medicine– calm, collected, quiet.
Her breathing and hands were steady as she carefully decorated the cakes to Foxen’s specifications. One mint leaf and two berries each, purposely placed with confidence and without hesitation. She had made desert like this once for Alex– the look on his face when he tried something new that he liked was always the ultimate prize for her.
Once finished she placed the bag aside and took a step back to admire her work.
Foxen had stayed back and left the Chiss to it, trusting in her competence. He used the salt and pepper shakers to prop up his datapad so he wouldn’t have to while he read something on it, and when the caf maker finished, he silently moved around Siva to make them both mugs with nutmeg to compliment and contrast the sweetness of the white chocolate cheesecakes. Then he moved back to sit down, just reading until he saw her step back and admire.
The Nautolan tilted his head up enough to see from his position, then gave a nod and a small smile. He snapped his fingers softly to call her attention, then gestured for the small plates he’d left out, a silent, come then.
Siv felt like a child– in a good way. Excited, accomplished, seen. She quickly but carefully snatched up the cakes and joined Foxen at the table.
“You know… not to get overly sappy, but I really admire you, Fox. You’re hard but the edges are soft in places for the people you care for. You take no kist and you’re absolutely authentically yourself no matter what anyone thinks. And.. you make it seem so easy.”
She frowned slightly as she sat.
“I can see why Flyndt and Minnie love you so much.”
Thank you, the Nautolan signed, and then, gesturing at the plates she brought over and had finished, thank you.
He very deliberately turned to the food then, admiring it from several angles visibly before taking up one of the two petite dessert spoons that looked even smaller in his grip. He took a scoop with surgical precision, sure to get a dollop of the piped cream and a berry, and savored the bite with a, “mmm.” This was followed by a sip of the caf, and another bite, clearly enjoying the sweetness cut by bitterness. Only then did he pick his datapad back up. It wasn’t a long message.
At least, not the first one.
Not easy. Worked hard to make this me.
- Once he’d shown her that, meeting her eyes with a firm nod, he turned it back around and kept typing. Though he was obviously swift, his injuries and particularly the recent loss of his finger obviously made it difficult for him, and it was over ten minutes before he finally offered the screen again, grimacing in pain and holding his bad hand close to his chest.
Work hard to maintain it. Still working. Every day. Pieces of shit that thought they could own me and were wrong because I own me took things from me. Fundamental pieces. Ground me down. Broke me. Killed me. Picked me back up. Installed new parts. Until I wasn’t me anymore. Just thing they wanted me to be. Stopped being Foxen. Just the body. And then I saw Flyndt up in those stands. And it woke something back up. And something chose to be me again. It’s a constant conscious choice, for me. Don’t think it’s like that for other objects: people. But I have to make the effort, or I revert. Always been this way. Before the Pit. Since bastards pulled my mother and I from the Ocean. I could be just a thing, but that isn’t any way to live life. Frak that. I wanted Minnow to grow up free. To have a brother. To have good things. I wanted good food and good clothes so I got them. I made this house fraking gorgeous, and now I’m making it better, because Flyndt is in it, and anything for him is improvement. To turn off the self is useful. To be only Mission. Efficient for survival. However: unsustsinable for living. You understand. It is an effort to reclaim and to maintain selfhood. There will be slips. Code errors. Flesh insufficient, weak. Mind messy. Not a straight line. But it is a worthy effort, and one you are more than capable of.
Siv read, and took to heart, every word that Foxen had typed on the screen. Every interaction she had with the Nautolan only furthered her admiration for him. Most saw Foxen and saw only a killing machine. They only saw what he could do, not who he was. But she knew, and she understood– people were always more than they appeared on the surface. The true self was hidden, buried, only uncovered when a person felt comfortable or worthy.
“Flyndt’s a lucky man,” she commented, then took her own bite of the cheesecake. A soft “mmm” also escaped from her– sweets were her weakness.
A pleased look, a flash of pride, crossed Foxen’s face, though at which compliment couldn’t be easily determined. At least the man saw fit to say more, if only after she got a chance to savor her dessert.
It was, after all, a sacred observance.
Several bites and tea later between them did Foxen proffer the pad back.
Disagree that Flyndt is lucky. Would prefer it– he deserves much more than the Galaxy is giving him. Something working out for once would be fraking nice. But what he has he has earned, as have you. I do not typically invest in sentiments of random chance. However: irrefutable evidence, useless to contest. Fact: I am fortunate. If there was anything in this blood-soaked unfeeling hell I would call holy, it would be having held his attention and care for the merest of moments. It would be knowing the sound of his snores and my name in his mouth. It would be his blade in my chest and his hand on my heart. That is a gift. One by which I would be proudly defined the entirety of my remaining existence. And you, Sivall Zoria, were there for him when I could not be. You helped him. In saving me, you spared him some of the pain that I could not prevent. I am lucky also that you were you, there and then. By your hands, I touch his cheek another day. I cannot forget anything. Ever. But I choose to remember you. You have my thanks.
.