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You've never understood addiction. Glitter and dorph, churning out junkies and dead bodies left and right. Boozehounds, puking in the same gutters day after day, yesterday's sick mixing with today's barf.
You and Jackie had gotten high once, like stupid kids do, and you'd both sworn up and down that you'd never do it again. The come down was absolute misery.
But every time you take Vik’s inhaler in hand, it's become hammered into your brain. Nailed into your coffin lid.
Coming to is the best part.
He hates it as much as he loves it, watching you wake from the induced coma.
Hates how vulnerable you are in that moment, that a single blow could snuff your light out just like that. Hates how you could be at any ripper’s mercy like this, and there's far more bad than good out there. Far more killing than saving of lives.
Loves how soft your voice is, how gentle your touch is. Words slip out that you otherwise would keep buried, hands lingering on his skin when he'd otherwise pull away.
He lets you touch his arms, tracing the outlines of his tattoos, the outlines of the injection sites.
“It hurts, doesn't it, Vik?” You whisper, your touches feather light.
“Nah, it doesn't.” He keeps his arm still, as you brush your fingers gently down his arm.
“Does too.” You counter, sitting up slowly and tugging his arm closer.
“You know better than me, then?” He muses, catching himself on the armrest when you keep pulling.
“Know you.” You weave your fingers through his, clasping them closed, and he can't bring himself to stop you. Can't extract himself, can't push you off.
He keeps his fingers open, hanging awkwardly in the gaps between yours.
The best he can give you is this: not pulling away.
You take it as you take him; unconditionally, unyieldingly, as much as you possibly can.
“You'd never admit it hurt.” You lick a stripe up his arm to his elbow.
He chuckles ruefully. “Then why’d you ask?”
“People change.” You suck on the soft skin in the crook of his elbow. “But I think, the important things, the things that make you, you. Those stay the same.”
He flexes his forearm, turned on by your wet mouth and soft tongue. But he doesn't break. “And that's one of mine?”
“Mhm.” You sit up, sliding carefully off the chair. You lose your balance slightly and he catches you against his chest, keeping his arms loose at his sides even as you hold him tight. “Can't show weakness. Can't express pain.”
“Hmm.”
“So?” You cock your head, pulling back slightly so you can stare at him through his lenses.
One wall between you, unbreachable like the thickest ICE.
“You think too much, kid.”
Kid. Another layer stacked between you, or is it against you? What are the odds of him letting you in?
“Me n Misty are getting dinner. You joining?” He never agrees when it's just you inviting him, but when you include her, you have half a chance.
“Go on without me.”
You step on your tippy toes and hover your mouth over his.
He doesn't look at you, doesn't push you away, just stands still, looking over your head.
You turn your face, brushing a kiss over his cheek as you leave.
He doesn't watch you go.
~~~
It was bound to happen. You knew this day was coming, every time you came to with him watching over you. Every time the anesthesia hadn't lifted quite yet so you could tell yourself it was the meds. Every time you got your lips on whatever of him was closest. Usually his arm, mouthing at his tattoos, nibbling along the grooves in his skin that he insisted didn't hurt.
You knew, eventually, it would be his cock in your mouth.
“Wait. You're still loopy, V.” He catches your chin as you grab his zipper between your teeth to drag it down.
“Wide awake, Vik.” You twist the flesh of his arm hard enough for him to let go of you with a groan.
“Some lines can't be crossed, V.” But he doesn't move away, just drops his arms to his side, useless as always.
~He’s right, V. Can't go from a blowjob back to boxing coach slash father figure. Unless you have daddy issues, which would explain a lot
~You judging me, Johnny?
~I’m telling you this ‘cause I care about you, you gonk. Take this step, and he’ll never be just your friendly neighborhood ripper, ever again
You think you can live with that.
“Want me to stop, Vik? I'll stop. Want me to go, I'll go.”
He laughs, dry as the Badlands, but at least it's not bitter. Unlike his smile. “Since when has anyone been able to stop V when she puts her mind to something?”
Talking about you in third person like you’re not you, like you've never even met yourself.
Is that his new way of keeping you at arm's length?
“Consent,” you respond flippantly, like you're not dying to shove his cock down your throat even if he protests. “Lack of no ain't an automatic yes.”
“Like you aren't kissing on me every time you wake up from under the knife.” It's not condemnation, it's not praise, just a fact.
“Like you said.” You stand up, knees wobbly, making a point. “Some lines can't be crossed. Without permission.”
He crosses his arms, familiar scowl written across his face, feet shoulder width apart like he's gearing up for an argument.
Your feet mirror his automatically, because conflict is in your blood, and you've never backed down from a challenge.
But you catch yourself. You won't fight him, especially not about this. You sway carefully towards the door instead, steadying yourself on the banister.
“Gonna watch TV.” He hunkers down in his chair, resting his arm on the table. Twitching his mechanical fingers because at the end of the day they're not part of him. They come off.
“You do what you gotta.”
~That’s the most passive yes I've ever heard.
~But it's a yes, so…
~So I'm going, V. Don't have too much fun, though I don't see how you will anyway
It shouldn't be enough, but it is. You kneel on the floor between his knees, and he never moves. Doesn't hold your hair back or push your head forward. Might as well not be there, except he can't keep his breathing level. It catches in his throat one moment, when you tease under his foreskin with your tongue. In another moment, it comes out in pants as you swallow around him, deep in your throat.
But his hands are on the table, fiddling with the screwdriver, like you're not even there.
Maybe because you're not, not in his head.
In his head are you someone else, you wonder. Someone other than a ticking time bomb, a familiar patient, someone he can be seen at a table in the Crystal Palace with.
Someone who sees the real color of his eyes.
Because you don't.
He mutters your name as he cums. And for now, you tell yourself as you choke down his spend that's as bitter as his smile was, that's enough.
~~~
He can't look.
Your mouth is wrapped around his dick, as it is more often that not these days, but he trains his eyes on the match that he always pretends he's watching.
He positions his screwdriver over his fingers like he's adjusting them, but he'd never trust himself to even touch them while you're going down on him.
Though if he twisted one too tight, or bent the shape too much, he could just get another pair.
He can't get another you.
So he can't fuck this up. Can't give you too much, because the only thing worse than you dying, is you leaving him behind.
He’s known, even before you admitted it to him under the influence one time, that you promised yourself you'd never love anyone like Jackie ever again. Losing Jackie broke you, and you damn sure weren't gonna pick up the pieces by yourself a second time.
Just as he's known, you'd break that rule as easily as you break a pervert’s nose.
He sees it, the elation you don't realize you should hide, when you wake up and he's the first thing you see. Some days he even tells himself he deserves it, for all the shit he put up with living in the city.
But your love isn't just dangerous.
It's lethal.
Not because people around you drop like flies; barely anyone reaches their thirtieth in Night City.
Because your number is almost up, and you're never going to find a lifeline if you're lost in his sheets. You'd convince yourself that spending your last days in his arms is some twisted happily ever after. Or the closest you'd get.
But nothing, nothing is more important than your survival.
He should push you off, lock you out, tell you not to find him until you've gotten Johnny out of your head safe and sound.
He's too weak.
So he pretends it's nothing, it's letting you destress, letting you get your kicks with someone safer than a Joytoy. Pretend it means nothing, to him or to you.
~~~
“Why do you wear these?”
He pauses his thrusts, hands at his sides instead of holding your hips as you ride him.
“Hmm?”
“Your sunglasses. We're in a basement, it's dark as hell, and you're a doctor. Shouldn't your eyesight be super important?”
“Never bothered you before.”
He doesn't answer your question, but it's just one of many that he sidesteps as easily as he breathes. As easily as he brings you to orgasm without ever putting his hands on you.
You tilt your head, reaching forward to swipe at them, but he dodges easily, still keeping his rhythm.
“Hands off,” he orders, so you brace them on his chest instead. He rewards you with an extra deep snap of his hips, making you see stars.
His movements get sloppy, and you squeeze as hard as you can, but he slows down instead of finishing inside you.
He never does.
“Up,” he instructs, so you climb off him with a whine and stand on your shaking legs.
He stands up, shielding his hand from your sight with his body as he jerks himself off; spilling into his fingers and immediately rinsing them off as soon as he's done.
Why does he hide? He's balls deep in you half the time you're here, but he won't so much as let you watch him cum.
“We should do this again,” you joke, and he shakes his head with a chuckle. Rueful, but no chill.
“We often do.”
“Should take this elsewhere, Vik.”
It's always in his clinic, the red glow by the door, the TV blaring behind you, and always in that damn chair.
“No.” The chill appears.
It's here, or nowhere at all. His way or the highway. He doesn't say it, but he doesn't need to. It might as well be.
And who can blame him?
Step by step you've pushed your desires on him, every move forward for you is more or less a concession for him.
You should stop.
If he wanted this, truly wanted you, he'd kiss you back, he'd touch you, he'd let you take him back to your place. Or at least have a proper meal with you.
He'd take his fucking lenses off.
But he doesn't.
And you don't stop.
You bring him carryout when he's open late, ice cold beers and when the AC is on the fritz because lord knows he'd rather boil alive in the basement than find a proper place to open up shop.
And then you leave.
He won't eat if you're watching, and you have gigs to do, people to rescue, thugs to kill.
Revenge to take.
Each time you go, as you kiss him goodbye, you wonder if this will be the last time. If the relic will claim you or if the streets will first.
If you need to tell him you love him before it's too late.
But every time he doesn't lean in, every time he holds perfectly still as your lips meet, you remember why you don't.
~~~
He almost says it. Again.
Your cunt is wrapped so perfectly around him, you came twice writhing in his lap, he has to bite his tongue practically off just to keep from blurting it out.
He yearns to fill you up, feel his cum leak out around his shaft as he slowly pulls you off of him.
See your lovely face light up in surprise, because only you, still haven't realized the truth staring at you as he takes you apart.
The shades save him.
They block out light, but only certain particles that can be distracting while he's fitting people with chrome.
But somehow, you can't see through them at all. Can't see through him.
Can't see how God damned much he cares about you.
Is it a blessing or a curse?
Seeing your face fall when he turns you down yet again, see you struggle when you say goodbye, he wonders if you'll outlive him.
Because he owes karma big time, knowing how easy it would be to give you what you wanted, knowing how much he hurts you over and over, but still doing nothing.
The best he can give you, really, is no longer ‘not pulling away.’
Maybe at the beginning it was, because all you needed was a little and it was safe for both of you.
But having watched that intimate moment when you're riding out the aftershocks and double check to make sure that yes, it is your dear doctor who brought you to climax. That giddy, silly grin that you couldn't mask if you tried.
He knows he's doing this for himself at least as much as he is for you.
He can't let you go any more than you can, him.
It’s always on the tip of his tongue, and he thinks he might not be able to hold out much longer, can't keep his hands at his sides forever if you keep walking into his life with that tiny, hopeful spark that even hitting the pavement face first hasn't taken from you.
He says nothing.
You still won't know.
His eyes are blue.