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Pyke wakes with a choking gasp. Hacking and coughing as he stumbles from his bed and towards the bathroom along a familliar path. There's just something about coming back from the brink of death that his body just doesn't agree with. Go figure.
The last thing he remembers is parking the Sparrow in the hangar of the Rhapsody. By then, the adrenaline of combat had faded enough for everything else to catch up to him. The pounding of his heart in his chest had turned to a threadier pulse that ebbed in the injuries he'd sustained.
A few broken ribs, some bruises, a couple laser bolts grazing his flesh. Oh, and the stab wound in his side. The stimpak from Rett was enough to stop the bleeding, internal and otherwise, but it still hurt like a motherfucker. Not to mention he was tired. Absolutely saturated with a bone-deep exhaustion. His vision had blacked out as he killed the engine and slumped against the wheel.
His knees slam hard into the tile of the bathroom floor as he collapses. Pyke's hands barely catch the rim of the toilet bowl before he leans over it. The stench of brimstone and gun oil from a fever dream permeate his senses. He's blind to his surroundings. He can taste the mechanized burn of death in his mouth and feel it ringing in his skull.
The coughing turns into dry heaves. Then into retching. The world is spinning. In the end, a trickle of bile and spit is all that falls from his lips with a quiet groan. His heart hammers in his chest, reminding him that he's alive.
Pyke falls back against the fluffy towel hanging on the wall behind him. He pulls it down and wipes his mouth with it. He scrubs a hand down his face in an attempt to snap out of it. His lashes are damp. From retching or from the nightmare, he can't be sure; because his head is filled with a fog of drifting smoke.
The bile is bitter on his tongue as he gulps down air hungrily. It's with the sudden intake of breath that he realizes the splitting headache behind his eyes. He needed a smoke. But he wasn't even sure if he could light a cigarette.
Looking down at his shaking hands through the haze in his mind, Pyke notices how dim his light is. A mere fraction of his usual radiant pink glow. Despite the darkness of the room, it hardly reflects off the tiles he's sitting on. He needed sunlight. Needed to "recharge" so to speak. Whether it came from a star or a bulb wouldn't matter anyway, because even his own scant illumination was enough to intensify the pain pulsing in his skull. What kind of bullshit is this?? Making a light emitting being light sensitive??
He closes his eyes as he presses his lips to the pink gem in the gauntlet encasing his right hand and wrist. The comforting thrum of power that runs through it is as thready as the rest of him; and the golden metal is hot, too hot. A Solari's core temp is usually considered a fever for most species.
But despite the heat he radiates, and the sheen of sweat on his skin, Pyke's frame is wracked with chills. I'm burning, I should take off my jacket… but it's so cold… is there a blanket around? he wonders in his state of confusion. He soon discovers his jacket wasn't on to begin with; nor does he have a shirt, and he finds his gloves are missing too.
Pyke wraps the towel around his shoulders for warmth. It's a little threadbare, but generally still soft and fluffy for being over 20 years old. It smells like their body wash and his aftershave. Our body wash... Where's Rett?
Clenching his jaw, he gathers the strength to stand. He sucks in a breath as his hand finds purchase on the countertop to pull himself into an approximation of standing. His other hand cradles his broken ribs as he white-knuckles the cold ceramic edge of the sink. It's not that bad he thinks to himself, I've handled worse.
Taking another steadying breath, he starts moving his legs again. It feels like his feet are made of lead. Wait, when did his boots ever come off? Pyke shuffles through an open door he didn't enter from. Normally he would know it connects to the adjoining master bedroom, but that's made clear anyway by the smell of machine grease and sweat doused in cheap cologne. It was Rett's room, even if he couldn't see it. Pyke shambles forward until his shins meet the edge of the low mattress and he promptly topples into it.
The feverish heap feels around the wide bed for its owner and doesn't find him. If his mind were any clearer, Pyke would've gone back to his room to suffer in silence. But the bed he's in is cold and empty, tears prickle along his lash line. It got him too— It took Rett from him- It got all of them. He smears the hot tears with the towel as they truly begin to cascade down his cheeks in fat drops.
The world is nothing but a freezing void now, his misery only amplifying his sorry state. He settles into his usual shallow dip in the rather firm mattress and pulls the heavy blanket over himself as he curls up. He had told Rett he wouldn't be able to handle losing another crew. Pyke drifts off in that way, shivering under the blanket as silent tears fall onto the pillow until he fades further from consciousness.
Setting his wrench to the side, and wiping the grease off his hands with a rag, Rett gets up from the stool at the desk in his workshop. As he stretches, the joints in his cybernetic arm creak not unlike his real ones. His matching mechanical eye recalibrates from its zoomed focus on the delicate mechanism in front of him.
The fight had left him a little worse for wear, but his body wasn't in terrible condition. Well, no worse than usual. His bones had their ever-present ache, and a few darker purple bruises dotted his lilac skin. That didn't really matter though, he had a crew to take care of.
Upon their return to the Rhapsody, everyone had gotten a once-over so Rett could assess their condition. Thankfully one had needed anything more than stitches and an ice pack.
Except for Pyke of course. The bounty target had focused all their willpower into wearing down the Solari in particular. Laying into him round after round until the disciple collapsed. It scares Rett every time, the off chance that Pyke can't— won't— get up afterward. He was lucky this time, finally unclenching his jaw when the phoenix rose from Pyke, the Solari's body lifted and engulfed by a giant blast of radiant light, thank The Architect, or maybe even Alara. He watched as Pyke sputtered and coughed as he regained consciousness.
With a stimpak in hand,Rett raced over to Pyke. Sure his partner was alive now, but he had to make sure he stayed that way. Supporting the lithe man's body, he jabbed the stimpak into Pyke's thigh to inject it properly. He watched as the pink flesh wove itself back together to close the stab wound and stop the bleeding before they were thrown back into combat once more.
When it was over, the crew took off in their personal ships back towards the Rhapsody where it was stationed off world. Rett knew there was a fairly small window to get back before the adrenaline wore off, and no one except Pyke would be flying the Sparrow, not even Rett. So he had to get the timing right down to the second.
As if perfectly timed, he saw Pyke slump against the wheel as he descended from his own ship. They were the last ones to leave the hangar like always, except this time, Pyke laid limply in Rett's arms.
Thankfully, the Solari was still breathing, but his color fluctuated between a blinding pink glow and a faint grey cast with his stuttering heart beat. While a completely natural process, Pyke's resurrection was hard on his body. It burned so many calories he didn't have in his already overtaxed vessel.
There wasn't much Rett could do for him, the stimpak had healed any wounds that were immediately life-threatening. Stubborn injuries like the broken ribs and deep gashes still needed treating despite it. So that's what he did.
Laying Pyke down on a cot in the med bay, he removed Pyke's jacket and folded it, setting it aside. Rett peeled off the black compression shirt too, before he taped off the nasty bruise blooming across Pyke's ribs and applied some salve to ease the pain a little and speed up healing as well as the grazes from the laser bolts. He removed the gloves that covered Pyke's bloodied knuckles and washed them, but kept the gauntlet on. He knew better than to take it off. It would leave Pyke without his main source of comfort when he inevitably woke up disoriented.
He then turned his attention to the rest of his crew, patching them up and all the while, still monitoring Pyke on the cot. When all was said and done, Rett carried his sleeping beauty to his room despite the creak in his spine and the fatigue in his bones.
They have separate bedrooms, connected by an adjoining bathroom they share. Crossing the threshold into Pyke's sparsely decorated room, he laid the taller man in his bed and removed his boots before tucking him under a light blanket. Admiring the flickering beauty in front of him, the Aetheron leaned down and pressed a kiss to the Solari's hair and forehead. "You'll be alright Starshine," he murmured, "I'll be back in a couple hours to check up on ya."
As promised, Rett makes the trek from his workshop to the crew's quarters. Only an hour or so has passed, it was around the equivalent of 11 PM and he hadn't had too much faith in Pyke's condition. Rounding the corner and pushing Pyke's bedroom door open, Rett steps into Pyke's room. The lights were off, but enough light trickled in from the hall that he could see the bed was empty.
The blankets were very clearly askew and falling off the bed as Rett reaches the scene. Pyke's boots were knocked over near the foot of the bed. He must've tripped over them on his way to wherever he went. Following the path of destruction, Rett is led to the bathroom.
There isn't much evidence of anything really, if his sense of smell were any better he could pick up the faint scent of bile in the un-flushed toilet. And maybe if his eyes were better adjusted to the darkness, he'd notice the towel was pulled off its hook on the wall and the bathmat was out of place. He does notice one thing however.
The door leading to his bedroom was open. With the help of the red light cast from his alarm clock, he can see a familiar mop of glowing hair and a lump buried under the covers of his bed. "What are you doin' in here, starshine?" he murmured mostly to himself.
The lump shifts a little and its ear twitches but it doesn't wake. Rett kneels on the mattress as he gets to the edge of the bed, pulling the covers back just a hair to get a read on Pyke's condition. The Solari's glow was dim, it was consistent now, not waxing and waning erratically like before. He sets his fingertips against Pyke's forehead to check his temperature, he was still hot enough to melt candle wax and clammy as an Oozoid, but he wasn't scalding anymore which was good. Pyke's pulse seemed stronger too, it wasn't weak by any means, if a little fast for someone sleeping.
Pyke wakes to the familiar scent of sweat, grease, cheap cologne, and antiseptic. A warm weight is curled up on his hip as he realizes he's balled himself into the fetal position. As he unfurls, Hank moves his rather rotund robo-pug body off of his hip and over to Rett, notifying the Aetheron that Pyke was awake.
Rett sets down his book of crossword puzzles and takes off his readers to catch Pyke, who lunges at him unexpectedly. "Calm down, starshine. What's the matter?" he says with a chuckle, accepting the solari's need to be closer.
"Ohh thank fuck.. thank fuck you're alive. Thank fuckin' everything. you're here." Pyke says under his breath as he burrows into the crook of Rett's neck as if trying to merge with him.
"Why wouldn't I be? Did somethin' happen? Is that how you made it t' my bed?" Rett asks, gently prying Pyke's slender fingers from their deathgrip on him.
"It-it must've been the fever or something, because I'd been completely convinced he took you from me. Took all of you. are the others alright?"
"They're fine, I patched everyone up good as new. What made you think we got killed? Did ya have that dream again? About him?"
"I can still taste the smoke from the gun in my mouth."
After a beat of silence, Pyke peels away from Rett and stretches out. the Aetheron watches as the thinner man's pink skin pulls taut over lean muscle in the low light of the room, before curling back over and pushing himself up to a sitting position against the pillow.
Rett carefully hands him some kind of beige shake from off the nightstand. "It's already got your vitamin D supplements n' whatnot mixed in, ya just have to drink it." he tells him, "Small sips, don't chug it. We don't need t' be changin the sheets cause it came back up." he chides warmly.
Pyke begrudgingly complies, taking short pulls of the slurry through a straw. It was vaguely coffee scented and overly sweet. It tasted like chalk and chemicals. Unfortunately, this was the best solution they'd come up with thus far.
When he finishes the drink with a grimace, he tries to run a hand through his hair only to find it's been tied up. He raises an eyebrow at Rett. "What's this for?" he asks, gesturing to his braided hair.
"I had Pixel braid it while you were out. I didn't want it gettin' tangled up with all yer tossing and turning. I woulda done it myself but uh.." Rett wiggles the fingers of his prosthetic as an explanation.
"Huh. Didn't realize my hair was getting that long." Pyke responds, rolling the end of the braid between his fingers, he was itching for a cigarette. With his head a little clearer and the pain having died down a bit, he climbs over Rett to dig around in the bedside drawer for a familiar lighter and pack of Flamingo Slims.
A cool metal hand at his hip gives him pause. "I know I can't stop ya, but could ya at least wait until the medication kicks in? or maybe put a shirt on first?" Rett asks.
"You know I can't stand the shakes, Big Guy," Pyke replies with a smirk as he lifts the lighter to the cigarette perched between his lips.
"Then sit on the side with the ashtray, I don't want that stuff in my sheets"
Pyke obliges him once more with a quiet scoff. He lounges across Rett's lap and leans on him to have easy access to the ashtray, and to his partner; exhaling a plume of smoke just beside his face in an act of good natured malicious compliance.
In a small attempt to return the favor, Pyke reaches up to disengage Rett's cybernetic at the shoulder. He probably hasn't taken it off since before he put it on this morning. The heavy metal arm falls onto the mattress with a quiet thunk and Rett lets out a heavy sigh of relief. Hank cuddles up with the now disembodied arm, turning a few circles before settling against it. The scene is sweet but it still pulls a chuckle out of both of them which inevitably aggravates their injuries.
The next morning is certainly better than the night before. Pyke's fever had dropped considerably, and he wasn't half as delirious. He even had enough energy to face the "public". (leaving his and Rett's rooms) However disheveled.
He was still missing his characteristic halo; a faint sundog that encircled the crown of his head as a sign of good health. The delicate plait Pixel had woven his hair into was slowly but surely coming undone. His hair had become far longer than its standard shoulder length in the last 12 hours.
One neutral side effect of the regenerative effects of his phoenix rising was unusually fast hair growth. In the days following his resurrection, the hair on his head would grow a few inches longer while his body mended broken bone and knit his flesh back together. Such rapid healing made him sick out of his mind as a result.
Beauty bestowed upon him by his goddess Alara, he supposes. At least the process wasn't itchy or anything, that was a plus. Pyke finds himself wrapped in a blanket on the couch watching re-runs of Dash Grayson between spells of absence and unconsciousness. Ziggy had turned it on for him earlier. Pixel stands on the cushion behind him re-braiding his radiant hair. It was surprisingly soft and healthy between her fingers despite the fact that he solely uses 2-in-1 shampoo.
The plait wasn't anything elaborate, just something to keep it out of his face and minimize the grease until he could manage to wash and cut it. Much to Pyke's dismay, Pixel had decided to put her own personal touch on it, she tied it off with a large, holographic bow. He gives her a quiet "Thanks" as she hops down from the couch and wanders off talking about who knows what to anyone who would listen.
The half-drunk mug of coffee that Rett had gotten him grows cold on the side table while the smoke from the most recent addition to the ashtray drifts upward. He still had a headache, but it wasn't bad enough to warrant pain meds. It was too much of a hassle anyway; especially since they're kept under lock and key on their ship.
His appetite has yet to come back as well. He was still nauseous from nearly passing out every time he stood. Gods his blood pressure must be in the gutter. He'd managed to choke down another one of those terrible beige shakes at breakfast time despite his stomach's revolts.
Pyke shudders and adjusts the warm blanket around his shoulders. His shirt was still missing, but he needed his skin to be exposed since the blanket had light therapy elements on its underside. His pants were ratty things, 10 years old and almost more patch than pants at this point. They were for sleeping and meditating, so they didn't need to be terribly durable, just comfortable. His gauntlet hummed more steadily now, it still had traces of blood crusted into the engraving. He sighs when he notices this. He'd have to wait until his hands stopped shaking so much before he cleaned it.
Rett was a few yards away filling out Guild paperwork for the bounty they'd captured. It was supposed to be a quick cash grab to tide them over. And it was, this bounty just happened to be particularly stubborn. You don't normally expect to be stabbed with a poisoned shank in a gun fight is the thing. Rett pulls Pyke's jacket from where it's draped on the back of his seat and rifles through its pockets. He produces Pyke's GBG ID and adjusts his reading glasses so he can double check the number on the little plastic card.
Rett didn't really need to check, he'd memorized it the better part of a decade ago. He was pretending because he liked looking at the photo on it. It was a tiny, grainy headshot of Pyke. The Solari was ten years younger in the picture, his hair fell to his mid back, his face wasn't as sharp, and he hadn't yet formed that furrow between his brows. He'd had a certain gleam in his eye then too.
He swipes his thumb over the picture affectionately before putting the ID back into the pocket. He signs for himself and Pyke to be the primary bounty hunters and fills out the forms for the rest of their crew to be the secondary recipients of the spoils. Ziggy, Ko, and Pix don't know he funnels a decent chunk of their cut into savings accounts every bounty. They don't even know those accounts exist, or that those funds go towards paying off their personal ships.
Rett finishes up the paperwork and sends it off to the outpost they're on a course towards. He's learned it speeds up the payout process a fair amount. As he shuts off the computer, Hank, the ever the helpful robo- pug, butts up against his ankles and prompts him to go check on Pyke.
He pushes himself out of his seat with a grunt and pads over to his partner. Pyke doesn't react to the sound of any of those things despite his keen Solari ears. He's been fading in and out all day. It's one of the newer symptoms Pyke's picked up, only in the last five years or so, and thankfully, only during the recovery period.
Rett scans the living space for the others and makes sure the coast is clear before asking softly, "How you feelin', Starshine?" he waits for Pyke to come back to himself.
"Hm?"
"You doin alright? Doin' better?" he asks again in the same tone.
"Better than last night, that's for sure" Pyke replies, leaning his shoulder against Rett's stomach.
Freshly bathed and dried, Pyke sits cross legged on a small mat on the floor of his bedroom. After three days, he'd finally managed to wash off the grime of the battle. The shower was far hotter than Rett would ever agree to but it wasn't his shower.
Pyke had only almost passed out from a mystery flank pain once as he showered by himself; isn't that neat. He wasn't about to tell the Aetheron about it, he had just convinced Rett he didn't need supervision. Besides, the mystery pain's already completely disappeared.
His complexion was brighter and fresher, his hair was soft and smelled faintly floral. It had dried while he brushed it and meditated, he even combed a small amount of oil into the ends of it. He had also cleaned his gauntlet separately. The gold metal and gem now gleam on his wrist as they've been freed from grit and blood.
From the box he stores the mat in, he pulls out a smaller, thicker mat to protect the floor, and a golden dish emblazoned with the visage of a phoenix. He sets the secondary mat down in front of himself and places the dish on top of it. The phoenix looks back at him with it's single bejeweled eye as he begins sectioning off his hair. It's grown so much recently that it now falls well past his collarbones.
He also takes a pair of sharp scissors from the box. They're plain scissors, made simply for cutting hair. Pyke slowly and methodically cuts off a section at shoulder height and drops it gently onto the golden dish. He repeats this action until all of his hair is the length it was before and there is a pile of his radiant multi-colored locks in the dish.
He then takes a deep breath and lights the hair with a special spark from his gauntlet. The gem on the back of his hand warms and glows as he begins to pray.
"Alara, lightbringer, queen of love and beauty, phoenix rising. I know it's been a long time since I've done this but uh-" his words stumble, shaking off the rust "Please accept this offering of my beauty as thanks. Thank you for letting me live another day so that I may continue to walk the path of truth, love, freedom, beauty as your godhand. Fill me with the light of your sun."
The flame burns bright with all the colors of a radiant aurora. Magenta, blue, purple, and yellow flames flicker as they dance across the hair. No scent is borne of the flame or the smoke. Neither do the flames leave any ash in their wake. When the offering is accepted, the plate is just as pristine as when it had begun.
Pyke continues praying as he pulls several nearly identical bundles of hair from the box and sets them on the dish, lighting them like before. The faintest glimmer of his natural halo begins to reform. It truly has been a long time since he's spoken to his goddess.