Scumbags

• Summary: A minor officer is the only survivor from a twenty year old spaceship accident. Or was it really an accident? He doesn't know, but there's someone after him, and he can't afford to rest and regain his health. Or mope about his confused feelings. Or get drunk. Like he does right fucking now. Right, Don, you idiot?
  
• Rating: As mentioned in the disclaimer above for this first chapter, but will be steadily gaining pluses in the next chapters though, so please look out for the warnings. Edit: Oh and, I think I forgot to add "racism" to the disclaimer. So here it is.
  
• Feedback: Yes please, of any kind.
  
• Author’s notes: Nothing warm and fuzzy in the near chapters I'm afraid. The reasons for this, as well as the larger picture of events, will be apparent later.
  

"We are the people our parents warned us about."

- Jimmy Buffett

I was lying face down and fully clothed on the undone bed, feeling queasy, and didn’t bother to move when the door creaked open, and there were approaching footsteps and the weight of a stare upon me.

I did not give a quarter of a fuck about anything at that point, only made an involuntary moan of protest when the scumbag turned me over. Shouldn’t have opened my mouth – I immediately felt a hot trail of saliva running down from the corner. And the scumbag was watching. I could see him clearly even through the fog, so close his face was. He had grey eyes, like his daddy’s, but was blond unlike him. Why the fuck was he blond? He wasn't on the photo way back then. How old was he there? Ten?

- Why the fuck are you blond? – I groaned.

- Huh? – He seemed amused.

- Ngh. – I gurgled.

He just grinned. What the fuck is so funny? Fucking fucked up sense of humour. And why is he blond while even I’m not?

I licked my lips, but the saliva was way further down. Couldn’t catch it. Hand too heavy to help.

The scumbag’s face dissolved into the mist, but just as I started relaxing again, I felt him tugging at my boot. What the hell does he want? Woah, fucking footwear fetishist fairy came to steal my army memorabilia! Well, nothing I could do, and it didn’t bother me enough to actually move. I doubt anything would’ve. So I stopped feeling one boot, and then another, and then he appeared above me again, so I could register him with my eyes too.

- Fuck off. – I told him.

- You’re not very polite. – He grinned again, showing pretty white teeth.

So straight and strong and probably sharp. I suddenly felt like breaking them, but I didn’t stand a chance against him in a fight, even if I wasn’t this drunk. I was still weak since I woke up after the blasted twenty years long cryo-thing, and the bastard looked more athletic than I’ve ever been.

- It’s all your fault. – I managed, and it wasn’t an answer to his remark.

He smiled again, but it was different this time. Through the fog, I thought that it was a soft, pitying kind of smile, and even though I wasn’t sure, I felt the rage again. I actually contemplated sitting up and hitting him, but as I twitched bitter bile rose up my throat and I started choking and coughing and rolled to my side, hands protecting my guts which were spasming in that throwing-up way, but nothing came out. My cheeks burned. Why does he have to see me like this?

- Fuck off. – I coughed, and the world spasmed again.

He held me instead, the scumbag, and helped me up despite the protests, and half-carried me through the spinning house to the spinning bathroom, where he let me drop to my weak knees by the toilet. And then he finally left me to my shame, and I hauled myself up to the faucet, drank some disgusting tap water, and then threw up. Magical effect, that. Always works.

He came over again when I was finishing the lame excuse for brushing teeth that I insisted on carrying through. I could see him clearer then, as he was leaning on the doorframe, in that I’m-such-a-jock way that should be illegal. He was wearing a white muscle-shirt that complimented his tan. Why the fuck is he tanned?

- Fuck off. – I said, spitting out gross bitter menthol toothpaste. I’d never buy something like this myself. Stupid strong tastes liking macho.

- How very imaginative of you. The same phrase twelve times in a row.

- And you’ve got a gay French accent that one should be ashamed to go out the streets with. What part of “fuck off” don’t you understand? – I plunked the toothbrush onto the counter and staggered bedwards, pushing past him.

He didn’t answer that, just followed me down the corridor, keeping a three-step distance. I started feeling guilty about my behaviour again. Drat. The drinking didn’t help after all.

I laid on the bed again, carefully this time, in order not to provoke my guts into anything else silly. He sat down beside me, and started undoing my belt. Accessory-fairy, damnit.

- I don’t need your help. – I snapped, icily.

- I know. – The scumbag said, unperturbed, and went on undressing me, and I was too weak to slap him or otherwise actively resist, so I let him, shivering a little. Then he covered me with a blanket, and got up. I heard the rustling of folding clothes, and footsteps, and the click of the light switch, and then the creak of the door.

Then it was dark and quiet, and I was free to assume embryo-shape under the blankets, and cry, and wonder why didn’t he say anything about that hard-on I got when he took my trousers off, cause he could hardly not notice, and worse yet, why didn’t he do anything about it.

Scumbag.