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After blistering and languishing under the yoke of the military leadership as it grew more and more oppressive, the civilians of Destiny’s crew had done the unthinkable and struggled their best to rebel. Unfortunately, it had all proved to no avail — Rush had sacrificed their total control over the ship’s computer systems in order to save Colonel Young and Lieutenant Scott’s lives, and that foothold had ultimately cost them everything. And, of course, men like Young were not the kind to note ‘Oh, they could have killed us and succeeded’, probably because that kind of consideration, that kind of mercy, was ultimately foreign to the military mindset.
He hears it before he turns the corner — most people are sleeping at this hour, but he’d forgotten a flash drive in the Apple Core and left his room to retrieve it. The sound of flesh hitting flesh is loud in the quiet of the space they’ve agreed upon as ‘night’. Adam Brody freezes and takes stock before continuing into the Core.
There is a low, keening groan, and he knows instantly that it’s Rush. Which, tragically, does not really narrow the window of who could be administering the beating, but he has a good solid guess and he’s proven correct when he hears Everett Young’s voice, colder and darker than he’s ever heard it, hissing at the other man, “Look at you, Rush. You’re pathetic like this.”
There is a sound of boots on metal, and a scuffling, and then Rush is yelping at the same time he obviously is thrown or slammed into the floor. Young follows him, sounding like he’s also in the floor himself, but his voice is still oh-so-calm, and oh-so-cold. “Got some fight left in you, huh? I’ll see to that, too,” he promises darkly.
The next sound is wet and confusing — Brody can’t place it at all, but Rush is whimpering now, a sound both tragic and, yes, pathetic, to Brody’s ears. He sounds like an abused animal and the engineer can’t take it anymore. Coughing lightly into his hand, he clears his throat and makes a show of stepping loudly on the hall floor, telegraphing his approach as loudly as possible. Immediately, the horrible noises from the Apple Core stop and Young is exiting the room. Moving at a fair clip, he nods silently at Brody and stalks away.
When Brody rounds the corner, Rush is standing, but only just. He’s leaning against his console at the Core systems, clutching it in both spidered hands as though someone is going to rip it away from him (or him away from it, Brody thinks darkly).
“Hey,” Brody calls quietly, but it might as well be a gunshot in the crowded space. Rush jumps and whirls to look at him, his hair flying scraggly and loose around his face. Some of the strands catch on his patchy, half-grown beard. Rush’s brown eyes are enormous in the dark, and his left eye socket is blackened and bruised. His lips are bleeding, the upper from what is obviously another punch and the bottom looks as though he’s bitten into it himself, probably in surprise or an effort to keep quiet. But, most alarmingly, there’s blood on the collar of Rush’s shirt, trickling down, sticky and slow, through his hair, coming from somewhere on his scalp. His skin is pale in the low light and he looks like he’s about to throw up, fall over, or both.
“He’s gone,” Brody promises him, and Rush nods absently, but a mighty sigh of relief leaves him deflated and exhausted-looking. “You’re bleeding…” Brody murmurs, coming to stand in front of him. Rush is a couple of inches shorter than he is, and he looks every inch the small, beaten thing that he is. Carefully, Brody reaches out and ghosts his hand over the blood-soaked wound on the upper left side of Rush’s scalp. “Come with me,” he says finally, and he’s actually surprised when the other man does as he’s told.
Rush follows him almost meekly down the hallway and Brody leads him to the first place he can think of. He knows he should take him to the Infirmary, but TJ might still be awake and in there, and that’s the last thing Rush is going to want is an official report, even if it means proper medical care. Instead, Brody leads the other man to one of the shower rooms nearby, the one people use mostly for laundry. There’s a stack of fresh BDUs and a load of towels folded on the shelves, and Brody goes through and finds the smallest sizes of clothing and grabs several towels and washcloths. The entire time, Rush hasn’t said a word.
There are a few bath chairs lined up against the wall, and Brody drags one into the farthest stall, a large one that’s clearly meant to accommodate multiple bodies or perhaps a disabled person’s equipment. He positions the chair with its back to the spray and then comes back out of the stall to find Rush leaning, dazed, against the wall.
Very slowly, Brody takes the hem of Rush’s olive-coloured shirt in both hands and makes to pull it over his head. Rush reacts then, flattening himself against the wall in a full-body flinch.
“Rush!” Brody says emphatically, trying not to snap at the other man, but the frustration bleeds into his voice. “You’re bleeding — there’s blood on your clothes. We need to clean you up or the stain is going to set. You don’t want to ruin your only real set of clothes, right?” He tries to appeal to the man’s sense of rationality.
After a long, long moment, Rush nods slowly, his expression still bewildered and frightened. But he nods and steps to the right, creating enough space between them that he can yank both his shirts over his wounded head.
Brody takes his clothes and carries them to the Ancient equivalent of a front-loaded washer, where he carefully treats them with the liquid soap they’ve mixed up from ancient, Ancient cleaning powders they had found in one of the storage bays. He looks over at Rush’s grubby jeans and clears his throat. Rush looks at him, puzzlement clear on his features. Brody tucks his thumbs into the belt of his own slacks and then points at Rush’s jeans. “They’re dirty, too, man,” he says, when Rush makes no move to move.
Finally, Rush reaches down to unfastened his brown leather belt. He drops it to the floor, flinching again at the loud sound it makes when the buckle hits the metal planking. Toeing off his shoes, he then strips out of the worn and stained jeans, but he makes no move to remove his striped blue boxer shorts. “Okay,” Brody nods, and takes the jeans from Rush’s lax hands. He watches the way Rush huddles against the wall, staring at the floor, where his shoes are discarded. He’s still wearing a pair of grey socks. and the overall picture is of a man that is both awkward and terrified. It should look silly, a man like Rush in a pair of boxers and dirty socks. But he just looks so dazed and afraid that it’s looping around to tragic again.
When he closes the washing machine, he sees Rush flinch again out of the corner of his eye. There is a large bruise forming on Rush’s left side, disappearing in to the waistband of his shorts. And on the right hip, there is another darkening mark that looks suspiciously like the shape of a human hand.
“How long has this been going on?” He asks him, suddenly desperate to hear the other man’s voice.
Rush opens his mouth as though he is going to answer, but, for a moment, no sound comes out. Finally, Rush wraps one hand around his bruising torso and stares at the floor. He is still bleeding and his hair is an alarming dark and wet mass of bloody strands. “Since… Chloe and I… came back,” he says quietly, his voice a ghost of even the softest of tones Brody has heard from him before.
“Christ,” Brody murmurs. He’d assumed it had been since the failed mutiny, but Young has been hurting Rush since the other man came back from the dead, practically three months ago now. “Are you… Does he…”
“I can’t talk about this,” Rush whispers, hugging himself tightly. He is shaking like a leaf and Brody is positive it is not all to do with being cold.
“Come here,” he says, opening the shower stall door. Rush looks up at him, alarmed, his brown eyes impossibly wide. He stares at Brody and the small door with the little chair sitting under the spray misters. Finally, he seems to decide on something, and he nods, going mute again as he does as he’s been told. Brody does not like how obedient and quiet Rush is being, but he can’t help but admit that it makes what he’s trying to do a lot easier.
After a moment, Brody begins to unbutton his own shirt and Rush sits heavily in the bath chair and peers up at him, looking so frightened and so confused again. Brody strips off his own shirt, shoes, and pants, taking a moment to remove his own socks. Rush is still wearing his and he taps his ankle with the side of his foot to indicate this. This earns another sharp inhalation and a full-body tremor that wracks through the other man’s skinny frame. Rush is entirely too thin — everyone on Destiny is getting thinner and fitter as the months wear on and they eat less and work out more, but Rush is losing weight and seemingly gaining no muscle mass in exchange. When he leans down to yank off his grey socks, Brody realizes he has another set of bruises, some purpled and red, some green and fading, across his back. He’s clearly been thrown around and there’s a few healing welts across his lower spine that might have been caused by being beaten with the buckle of a belt. “Christ,” he says again softly. Rush continues staring at the floor and doesn’t respond. He is positively vibrating now with the way he is trembling.
Brody takes a deep breath and turns on the wall sprayers, letting the small room fill with the thick, coating mists. He takes a washcloth from where it has been hung on the wall rack and begins to brush it across Rush’s bleeding scalp. He moves the man’s greasy, bloody hair and peers at the wound as best as he’s able. “It’s not deep,” he tells him quietly, trying to be as gentle and efficient as possible, hoping he isn’t hurting the other man too badly, “I don’t think it needs stitches. But head wounds bleed a lot, so … it’s bleeding a lot.”
‘Impressive observation, Mister Brody,’ he snaps at himself, but it sounds too much like Rush’s normal sarcastic voice that it leaves him feeling as hollow as Rush looks.
Rush says nothing, sitting still and taking quick, shallow breaths as Brody cleans the blood from his scalp and hair. “This has to stop,” he says finally, earning a faint hissing sound from low in the other man’s throat.
Then, Rush snickers faintly, but without any humor. “And how would you suggest we do that?” He asks quietly, and it’s the most he’s said all night, but he still sounds like a spectre of himself.
“We have to tell someone… TJ…”
And Rush is shaking his whole body like a wet dog, making a series of sharp scoffing noises. “They were together once, she knows exactly what he’s like and she doesn't seem to care,” and then he adds bleakly, “They were together once. He’s got to hit someone. Better me than her.”
“So that’s it, then?” Brody snaps, sinking one hand into his own wet curls and the other he curves to rest over Rush’s left shoulder blade, “You just… sit there and take one for the team…?” And whether it is his words or his hand on Rush’s bare skin, the other man is withdrawing into himself again and shaking once more with a visible sort of trembling.
“You think I like this?!” Rush cries then, brokenly. His accent is thick and he sounds so hopeless and so afraid. “You think I want him to…” Abruptly, he stops talking as quickly as he’d started, the outburst suddenly over.
And Brody is petting his shoulder gently, letting his other hand fall from his own hair to brush through Rush’s until he is standing behind the seated man, holding him carefully by the shoulders. He’s not stupid. Rush’s bruises and his terror and his hopelessness speak of more than a man just having the shit beat out of him on the regular. But if Rush can’t or won’t help put a stop to it, what is Brody even going to be able to do about it? The military — Colonel Young — has control again. Camile can’t stop him, and if TJ can’t or, worse, won’t…
As if sensing his train of thought, Rush reaches up to awkwardly pat at his left hand with his right. “It’s all right,” he says weakly. “I’ll be all right, Mister Brody,” he whispers, but he still sounds so hollow and so sad.
“…We could kill him,” Brody murmurs seriously.
But Rush is snickering that bitter laugh again, “On a ship where Greer and Scott have access to guns, we wouldn’t survive the day.”
“We use the stones. Tell General O’Neill. Get him removed from command again.”
“It’s my word against his.”
“I can see the the bruises, Rush.”
“As if there’s any person on this ship who wouldn’t do the same, given the opportunity.”
“I wouldn’t.”
Rush cranes his neck then and peers up at him, clearly surprised. “Well,” he murmurs softly.
“There has to be something…”
“I’ve run all the numbers,” Rush sounds so broken now. “Like I said, perhaps it’s best this way.”
“Rush…”
“Adam,” he says sternly and Brody falls silent. He hasn’t even realized Rush even knew his first name. So he tries to give him a taste of his own medicine.
“Nicholas, please.”
“It’s fine,” Rush says once more, running a hand through his soaked hair and flinching this time from the pain of the contact. “I’ll survive. I’m good at that.”
But Brody has already made up his mind.
He doesn’t even wait until morning. As soon as he’s deposited a clean-BDU-clad Rush in his quarters (and advised him to lock the door), he is moving through the silent, empty ship with purpose. He knocks on Young’s door once, and waits. Then raps on the metal door again, and waits. It takes about five minutes of knocking before the lock spins open and Brody is shoving past the man to stride into his room. Who even said Young got the biggest and best of the rooms, anyway? He thinks angrily, realizing this is the first time he’s ever actually been inside the space.
“Something I can do for you, Brody?” Young is rumbling sleepily from behind him. He doesn’t turn to face him right away, letting the fact that he can’t see the other man’s face make him brave.
“I know what you’ve been doing. To Rush. It stops here.”
“Look, Brody, whatever he told you…”
“I saw the fucking bruises, the fucking wounds. On his back, on his head, on his… hips. I know what you’ve been doing,” he repeats, clenching his hands into fists before he finally turns to face him. “I’m not a stupid man, Colonel. In fact, I’m a lot smarter than most of you give me credit for, even Rush. I’m an engineer. I know how to build things and I know how to take them apart. I know how to make it look like an accident and I’m not afraid of you and your goons.”
“Is that a threat, Adam?” He asks, arching an eyebrow, looking surprised, but also a bit flat around the edges of his features, which Brody knows means he is angry.
“No, it’s a promise. If you touch him again, I will kill you.”
Colonel Young studies his face. Brody knows his eyes are wide and angry, that his jaw is clenched too tight, and the muscles are standing out on his throat. Finally, Young just nods.
“All right,” he says simply.
“All right?”
“I won’t… Touch Rush… again. You have my word.”
“Thanks, that means so much,” he says sarcastically.
“You feel sorry for him, because you don’t know what he is. That man is a snake, and he’s the kind of bastard that needs a firm hand to keep him in line.”
“And throwing him into the floor and holding him by his hips hard enough to bruise is pretty fucking firm, yeah, I got that,” he snaps.
Again, Young looks surprised. “What Rush and I do…” he begins, raising one hand as though beseeching.
“Is this the part where you tell me how short his skirt was?” His own voice is still flat and angry, though his body is starting to shake lightly with rage. He remembers Rush’s full-body trembling and he swallows the lump in his throat, willing his bravery to stay.
Young shuts up then and then runs his hand across his face. He suddenly looks very worn-down and very old. “…I won’t touch him again,” he says finally.
Brody nods and shoulders past him again, this time heading out the door. “Then you just saved your own life. Let’s keep it that way.” He manages to sound glib, sound bored.
He leaves the other man in the open doorway and heads back to the laundry bathroom to collect Rush’s laundry and return it to the man along with his news. Could he do it, he wonders then, when the adrenaline is bleeding off and his whole body is shaking with a muted sort of panic. Could he kill Young if the man goes back on his word? He thinks he can, for someone else. For Rush.
He’s never considered the man as a romantic or sexual being before tonight, but he’d enjoyed the feel of his skin and his hair under his hands, even though the situation had been incredibly dark and grim. He knows he, himself, is not much of a catch, and that there’s no way Rush would be looking for something like that after all this, even if he’d even consider Brody as a potential partner. But just as he’s seen a new side of Rush tonight, a fragile beauty and tragic vulnerability, perhaps Rush might one day see something new about him.
‘It’s worth a shot, Mister Brody,’ he thinks in Rush’s voice. He knows why Young had laid his hands on the other man, what he’d been looking for, beyond all the violence. A human connection in this floating disaster they call a home now. “Christ,” he whispers once more, clutching the other man’s clean clothes to his chest. Inhaling, he smells only the faint chemicals of the soap and a light scent of mint and musk he realizes he associates with Rush. The blood is all gone.
“You’re an idiot, Mister Brody,” he adds aloud, for good measure. Nobody’s bargain, he knows well, a raspy-voiced song lyric floating up from the depths of his mind, “But, hell, a little touch-up and a little paint…”
...For a little of that human touch.
So you've been broken and you've been hurt
Show me somebody who ain't
Yeah, I know I ain't nobody's bargain
But hell, a little touch-up and a little paint
You might need somethin' to hold on to
When all the answers, they don't amount to much
Somebody that you can just talk to
And a little of that human touch
Baby, in a world without pity
Do you think what I'm asking's too much?
I just want to feel you in my arms
And share a little of that human touch