21. Riddick: Envy and Truth

She had a beautiful laugh. It cascaded out of nowhere as he approached the bedroom with Imam. She was speaking as he came to the doorway, life and humor back in her voice.

"I think that's just because he's English, though."

She was sitting up in bed, leaning conspiratorially forward toward Jack. Riddick was completely unprepared for the surge of hot jealousy that flowed through him.

Down, boy! he scolded himself. Jack's just a kid, not a rival. He felt Imam's hand on his shoulder and forced himself to relax before they saw him. The last thing he wanted was for Fee to think she had anything to fear from him. He knocked on the edge of the door.

He was stunned by the way Fiona's face brightened when she saw him. Any thoughts of Jack as a rival evaporated. Almost as surprising was the friendly grin that Jack gave him. He felt an answering grin spread across his face as he entered the room. Imam followed him in, the container of broth in his hands.

"Got something I think you'll be able to take, Fee," he told her as he joined her on the bed. He sat down behind her and wrapped his arms around her abdomen.

She leaned back against him, sighing contentedly. "All right. I'll try again. What did you bring me?"

"Broth. And don't worry, Imam made it, not me." He glanced at the cleric and smiled. "Unfortunately, I can't stay, myself. I've been summoned to donkey duty."

He was gratified to hear her laugh ripple out of her again. "To what?"

"I get to go play Beast of Burden for a while, getting more stuff from the crash ship. Anything you two want from your lockers?" He deliberately included Jack.

"Maybe a change of clothes," Fiona admitted.

"Done. Jack, can I talk to you for a second?" He took the boy aside, leaned close with his hand on his shoulder. "Do me a favor and stay with her. Make sure she drinks all the broth, but she needs to do it slowly. Can you do that?"

"Hey, sure, no problem," Jack said brightly.

That was when he caught the scent. It was faint, the barest trace, but he knew it for what it was almost immediately.

So that's your secret, Jack, he thought, and left the room with a smile. There was no jealousy left anywhere within him.

22. Riddick: Learning About Fiona

Riddick, Fry, Shazza and Johns had trundled back to the crash ship in about a tenth of the time their last trip had taken, thanks to the refurbished SandCat. The two women watched Riddick with undisguised distrust the entire time, so he kept himself distant from them.

Johns is getting good mileage off of his lies, Riddick mused. For now.

They worked through the remainder of the blue sun day and well into the orange before Johns called a rest break. Shazza and Fry headed off to the pilot's cabin together, presumably for safety in numbers. Riddick didn't care. He had another destination in mind.

The cargo container had landed upside down when it had crashed. They'd been lucky it had landed near the ship at all, but it had remained mostly intact, to boot. He walked the hallway, looking for the names he wanted. There. Cavanaugh, S.; Cavanaugh, I.; Cavanaugh, L.; Cavanaugh, M.; Cavanaugh, F. He'd save hers for very last.

He pried open the door to "Cavanaugh, S." first and slid inside.

These must be her mother's things, he thought. Perfect. As he'd anticipated, among them was a large photo album. He took it out into the light and began to leaf through it.

The life of Ian and Siobhan Cavanaugh began to unfold for him, as pictures and mementos led him through their courtship and marriage, to the birth of their twin daughters Margaret Mary and Fiona Llewellyn. Ian, he noticed, had been a huge, burly man, probably about the same size as him. No wonder she's not intimidated by me, he realized. The girls were baptized twice, once in the Celtic Christian church and once in the Catholic church, to satisfy both sides of the family. Their names, too, had been chosen to honor one church, then the other.

He watched them grow up and was startled when he realized that they were identical twins. It didn't take long to figure out which one was his, though. Fiona was the quiet one, Maggie the more boisterous. One picture in particular arrested him. Fiona was sitting in a garden, utterly still but radiating joy, while five wild birds fed from her outstretched hands. She was seven, according to the caption, and had spent more than a year getting the birds to do this.

He carefully removed the picture and the caption and tucked them into a flat pocket, then kept looking.

Liam was born when Fiona was eight, and the two sisters made the new baby their pet. They doted on him, included him in almost everything, but even then they were beginning to excel at their respective callings. Fiona was pictured at piano recitals; Maggie onstage, singing and dancing. He leafed his way through their teenage years, as Maggie began to take lead roles in professional stage productions and Fiona began composing music and acting as an occasional guest-conductor for the New Belfast Symphony Orchestra. He'd heard recordings of theirs, once or twice, and had been impressed by the rustic vigor of their renditions; that was one hell of an honor for a sixteen-year-old girl. Prodigies, both of them, with a younger brother whose paintings at the age of seven had already hinted at future genius.

What a damned tragic loss, he mused, glancing out at the wasteland of wrecked cryo-tubes. Genuine artists of the highest order and they bought it on this rock, while scum like Johns and sycophants like Paris get to keep trucking along. God is a sick fucker.

He helped himself to several more shots of Fiona, but then relented and took the whole album over to the Cat.

He decided to skip Maggie and Liam's lockers, for now, and hesitated long in front of Ian's locker before he decided to pass it up, too. There were probably clothes inside that would fit him, but it might be hard on Fiona to see him in them. He'd ask her permission first.

Going soft in the head, he thought ruefully. Then he went inside Fiona's locker.

Unlike her mother's compartment, which had been packed with a lifetime's worth of relics, Fiona's was almost pristine. Two large steamer trunks and several carefully-stored musical instruments. One suitcase, which probably held the things she'd anticipated needing immediately after debarkation. He hefted the trunks and decided they wouldn't weigh enough to pose difficulties for the Cat, so he loaded them both, along with the suitcase.

Then he turned to regard the instruments.

There was nothing he could do about the piano. Even if it might have been feasible to bring it -- which is just plain wasn't -- it was upside-down in its shock-webbing, hanging down from what was supposed to be the floor. He doubted he could release it without smashing it to pieces.

And why the hell am I even thinking about it? But there was another, much smaller bundle, lovingly wrapped and padded. He carefully retrieved it, then unwrapped it to see what it was.

A harp. A small one, only about three feet high. He'd seen pictures of Fee playing it. Several of them had been favorites of his, because the look on her face as she played hinted at some kind of vast peace, much like the peace he kept finding whenever he was with her. Suddenly, more than anything, he had to hear her play it.

He rewrapped it and carried it to the Cat, then fetched Jack's meager belongings from where the girl had stashed them. Everything was loaded and ready when Johns, Shazza and Fry emerged blinking and yawning from the crash ship.

"What's all this shit?" Johns demanded.

"These are Fiona's and Jack's things," Riddick replied levelly. "There was room for them, so I'm bringing them."

"Like hell."

"Cat's not going to run out of gas, Johns, it's solar," he pointed out mildly. It was fun to get a rise out of the merc, he realized. Especially if he could do it without seeming to be the "bad guy" in the picture. Johns made it all so easy, too.

I still owe you an old debt, Lawrence, he thought to himself. I'll content myself with fucking with your head for now, but you're going down. Shazza and Fry had climbed into the Cat's front and were watching both men with impatient expressions. Riddick casually took a seat next to Fee's trunks and lifted the wrapped harp onto his lap, cradling it protectively. After a long, tense moment, Johns spat and climbed aboard, shooting Riddick a look that promised a later reckoning.

Looking forward to it, hype, Riddick answered silently.

The drive back to the settlement was even less companionable than the drive out.

Fee was asleep when they arrived, and Riddick had fun sneaking her belongings into the bedroom without waking her. After he helped muscle the rest of the supplies off of the Cat, he returned there.

He decided to let her sleep, and climbed in beside her. He woke to the sound of harp-strings being tuned.

Fee was sitting on one of her trunks, plucking carefully at each string and then winding the pegs until the sound pleased her. Riddick stayed still, not wanting to alert her to the fact that he was awake. He'd never needed much sleep, anyway, and this was just too good to miss.

She was being as quiet as possible, he noted, trying to keep from disturbing his rest. But clearly she'd been unable to resist the lure of her harp, so he'd been right about how important it really was to her. He listened as she hummed softly, in perfect pitch, then plucked a string to see if it was in tune with her. Finally she was satisfied. She strummed the harp once, gently, then set it aside.

"I hope you're not holding back on my account," he purred.

She did that amazing thing again, smiling at him as if he were somehow the most wonderful person in the galaxy. It rocked him every time she did it. Who the hell is she seeing when she looks at me? he wondered. Can't be me. Nobody could be that happy to see a psycho killer. She startled him even more when she flung herself across the room and pounced on him.

23. Fiona: Learning About Riddick

Waking up in his arms for the second time had been beautiful, but even more beautiful had been realizing what he'd brought her. She'd asked for a change of clothes only; it had never even occurred to her to ask for her harp. How had he known to bring it to her? Could he read her mind?

She'd been unable to resist the harp's call, too, and had tuned it as quietly as possible, so glad to have something familiar back in her hands, a piece of her soul that she'd thought she'd lost. She realized that she'd been grieving for the harp along with her family, assuming that it too had been destroyed in the crash. By the time Riddick spoke to her, she was so energized that she was unable to contain herself.

She landed on top of him and pressed her lips to his, smothering him with quick kisses. She heard him gasp and felt his hands on her waist. Suddenly he'd flipped her onto her back, pinning her beneath him. He had both of her wrists imprisoned under one hand. The oddest look crossed his face and he sat back abruptly.

"Don't do that, Fee! I almost hurt you."

That made absolutely no sense. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Fiona, I have exactly one response to someone jumping me, and a long history of using it. Nobody I've liked has ever done it before. I came this close to knocking you senseless just now."

"Oh." She felt herself blushing with embarrassment. "Oh god, Richard, I'm so sorry--" "What did you just call me?"

"Richard. That's your name." He stared at her for a long moment. "I am not going to call the man who deflowered me by his last name. Is there something else you'd prefer me to call you?"

He abruptly threw back his head and laughed, shaking his head. "Richard it is. Gotta say, I kind of like the way it sounds when you say it."

He still had her pinned beneath him, and she was surprised to realize it was making her excited. "So what happens now, Richard?"

He leaned close to her. "Hmm. I'll have to think about this... how much do you feel ready for?"

She felt a sudden warm rush between her legs. "Whatever you'd like."

He moved cat-quick again, and now he was the one on his back, with her once more on top of him, straddling him. "I think I'd like you to do a little exploring."

"Alright," she said after a moment, and was surprised by how dry her mouth had abruptly gotten. She swallowed hard. He smiled beneath her as if pleased by the effects he was having on her.

Of course he is, she realized. So what do I do now? She reached out, hesitantly, and touched his lips with her fingertips, tracing them slowly. They parted slightly and without thinking she leaned down and kissed them, then rubbed her cheek against his stubbly one. With her hand she stroked the top of his head, feeling the velvety growth there as well beneath her fingers. She traced his jawline with her lips, leaving small kisses in her wake, until she reached his chin. Now she began moving down along the line of his throat, tasting his skin.

She felt his throat constrict under her lips as he swallowed, and looked up at him for a moment. His eyes were closed and a small smile played on his lips. She dropped her head back down to his throat and traced his collarbone with her tongue. His hands on her hips flexed slightly in response.

She sat back, looking at him for a moment. Then she drew his shirt out of the waistband of his pants, pulling it upward. He let go of her hips and raised his arms slightly so she could lift the shirt over his head, then pulled it off the rest of the way. He dropped it to the floor by the bed without opening his eyes.

He had no tattoos on his chest. It took her by surprise, because she'd been expecting some to be there. She'd been around ex-cons before; many were paroled to the mines in New Ireland. Her father, in his capacity as engineer and foreman of the New Belfast mines, had often befriended the less dangerous ones, sometimes even bringing them home for dinner. Every one of them had sported prison artwork. But Riddick's skin was clear and smooth.

A few scars criss-crossed his brown skin, pale against it. She began tracing them with her fingers. One appeared to be an old stab wound that might have been deep. She scooted down onto his thighs so she could lean in, and kissed the scar, then touched her tongue to it. She could feel the muscles beneath tremble against her lips a little.

She ran one finger upward, touching one of his nipples, wondering if they were as sensitive as hers. Her question was answered almost immediately as it hardened under her touch. She traced a circle around it with her fingertip, then flicked it with her tongue before drawing it between her lips. His back arched and he sighed -- almost moaned -- as his arms came around her shoulders.

After a few minutes, she shifted slightly and began to repeat the process with his other nipple. She liked the taste of his skin, the texture of it. She began planting slow, languorous kisses on his chest, on his ribs. As she kissed his abdomen she felt the muscles beneath his skin twitch in response. His back arched again when she darted her tongue into his navel.

She drew her tongue downward to the waistline of his pants, then slowly moved across it, tasting the skin just beneath the trousers. She could feel his erection, brushing against her throat. After a moment's consideration, she decided to free it from its restraints.

She sat up and began unbuttoning his trousers. He had nothing on underneath them and his erection sprang free almost instantly, but she drew the pants down anyway, pulling them down to his knees. Suddenly he was more exotic than ever to her; he was circumcised.

She was not a completely ignorant girl, even if she lacked the practical experience her sister had acquired; she had seen pictures of penises in her health class textbooks and there had been the occasional embarrassing moment when she'd walked in on her father or brother in a state of undress. But circumcision was not a common practice in New Ireland, and it was completely new to her.

She didn't even think before she reached up and touched the head, feeling its contours, tracing the edge of it where it overlapped and joined to the shaft. This time he really did moan and, most startling of all, the organ actually seemed to bend toward her, as if trying to nuzzle her hand. A bead of pearlescent moisture appeared at the tip. She touched it in curiosity and heard him moan again, then lifted the drop to her mouth, to taste. It was salty, and tasted oddly like his scent.

Fascinated, she stroked one finger along the shaft of his penis, feeling the veins beneath the skin and the incredible smoothness of the skin itself. Beneath that smooth warmth it felt like iron in her hand, as she discovered when she wrapped her fingers around it and squeezed gently. A low growl escaped Riddick's throat, electrifying her. Another bead of liquid appeared at the tip of his penis, and she licked it off. Somehow it tasted even more like him than the first drop had.

Riddick's hands, she saw, were gripping the sheets tightly, so tightly that his knuckles were whitened. She knew he was keeping himself absolutely still, trying not to influence her choice of actions as she explored him. But she knew what he wanted. She slowly drew the head of his penis into her mouth, and carefully slid her tongue around it in a circle, along the edge of the head where it joined the shaft. He growled again, and she could feel the muscles of his stomach and thighs trembling as he restrained his impulse to thrust upward to meet her.

She drew him further into her mouth and sucked gently, watching his face while she did. He almost looked like he was in agony, and the rise and fall of his chest had grown more rapid. Playfully she let her upper teeth graze his skin and was rewarded when he was unable to restrain a long, low groan. Despite his attempts at control, his hips thrust upward slightly, moving him deeper into her mouth. She caught at his hips and pushed them back down onto the mattress and heard him groan again. She stroked his silky pubic hair with her fingers, then trailed them down and cupped his testicles with one hand. His breathing was more rapid than ever.

"Fiona..." he began, sounding strangled. "You'd better stop. I'm gonna come in a moment..."

His hands unclenched from the sheets and moved to her face, to pull her back. She surprised herself when she grabbed his wrists and forced them back down to the bed, sucking harder. Abruptly he began to thrash and her mouth was filled with warm, salty liquid. The taste and scent of him seemed to fill her every pore suddenly, forever altering her internal chemistry, the nature of herself. Finally he went still, and let go of a long, ragged sigh.

She released him slowly, careful not to spill a drop of the fluid still in her mouth, and sat up. She made sure he was watching her before she deliberately swallowed.

His eyes went wide. "Fuck," he gasped. "I can't believe you just did that."

Wiping carefully at the corners of her mouth, she smiled at him. "You're the one who said I needed lots of fluids, don't you remem--" She didn't bother finishing because he had already burst into laughter.