Trigun Fan Fiction ❯ Direct Disobedience ❯ One-Shot

a/n: Direct disobedience is written off the idea I covered in one of my other fics. It covers the fact that Midvalley was never supposed to even touch Chapel again. Guess what? This is the part where he does it anyway....

[insert warnings and disclaimers here]

Trigun isn't mine. There is violence in this one, typical of any fic with Legato in it. There is sex, but no graphic detail.

Comments and Critiques are, as always, welcome.

Direct Disobedience

"Midvalley."

I heard the voice and knew exactly who it was. I'd seen him in the bar tonight, hiding in a dark corner, nursing his beer. I'd ignored him, because I didn't want to see him. And because I didn't want anything to distract me while I was playing.

Sylvia and I had an exceptionally good night tonight, and I'd made a few extra dollars that I had planned to waste on liquor I could take home with me, as opposed to bar drinks that cost more and that I had to go out to get. The mansion could always use more liquor, as far as I was concerned, and it being my top priority right now, I intended fully to ignore that voice behind me.

"I know you hear me, you son of a bitch."

I turned on my heel, and stared him down.

"Watch what you say to me, Chapel. You seem to forget who you're talking to."

"I didn't forget anything."

Those intense storm-blue eyes watched me. They observed everything around him, but he never seemed to break the stare we held. Those eyes challenged me, and try as I might, I can't ever seem to back down from a challenge.

"I think you did."

I walked toward him, slowly, fighting the mocking smile that tried to force it's way up.

Been around Legato too long, smiling like that, Midvalley...

Chapel stood his ground. He didn't flinch, didn't look away. He reached up, and took the cigarette from his mouth, and tossed it down, grinding it into the dirt with a booted heel.

I had intended to back him into a wall someplace, but he wasn't cooperating. When I got close enough to touch him, I wrapped my fingers around his throat.

"Son of a bitch, am I?"

Chapel glared. I moved closer to him. Close enough to smell him. Close enough to feel the heat coming off his body. I shouldn't have done that. I don't know what I was planning before that, but I lost a lot of control in that moment. His scent and his energy washed over me, and all I could think about was how much I had missed fucking him.

I could see in his face that he felt the change in my attitude. A knowing smirk crossed his face, and he reached a hand down, and brushed my groin. My eyes closed and my body tensed. Reflex. I opened my eyes again, and narrowed them at him.

"Son of a bitch, am I?"

"That's what I said." He laughed, and produced another cigarette from inside his coat.

I took it from him, lighting it, and taking a few drags off of it before giving it back. "Since you're here, how about a status report?"

"You sure you want that out here in the open?" His eyes seemed to laugh at me, as though there were some joke that he wasn't letting me in on.

"Did I say I wanted it now?"

"Hey, you're the impatient one. You're the one that gets bitchy if things don't happen right away. Just figured I'd clear that one up before declining to answer you."

"Fuck you, Chapel."

"There's something you haven't done in a while, ne?" He laughed again, turning on his heel and walking away from me. I knew he expected me to follow him, wherever he was going. I, however, had a different plan.

I raised Sylvia to my lips, and played a few notes. Dust flew, and a wall of sorts came up in front of him.

"What in the FUCK?" He slammed his fist into that veritable wall, and cursed. "What the fuck is that?!"

"Sound waves." My response was both flippant and matter-of-fact.

"So she's a weapon now?"

I smiled and stepped forward.

"Where were you going, anyway?"

"Back to my hotel room."

"You've got a room at the mansion, don't you?" I motioned in the direction I'd been heading before.

"You know I hate it there."

I used the hand that wasn't holding Sylvia to intercept the cigarette he was raising to his lips.

"Fuck what you like. I'm going, and you're coming with me."

I took a long drag off of it, and offered it back. He shook his head, and produced another from his seemingly endless supply.

We returned to the mansion in silence. The foyer was nearly empty, as we crossed through it to the stairs. Only the usual surveillance-like puppet sitting just inside the entryway, and a pair of shadows in the back corner, that looked like a chess game in progress. No one greeted us, or stopped us, as we went up the stairs. I knew I'd fucked up the minute I'd gotten close enough to smell him; knew I'd fucked up the minute I'd taken that first cigarette. The challenge in his eyes, and the pressure of the energy between us had made me stupid. I knew better than to outright defy Legato, and yet, here I was, doing it anyway. I'd never been so stupid in all my life.

I knew better than to stop him from leaving. I knew better than to walk with him back to that mansion and up those stairs. I knew we were going to fuck, and I knew this was an act of direct defiance, and that I was going to taste Legato's wrath for it.

And I did it anyway.

Was it the empty staring eyes of the surveillance puppet, or the fact that I could feel Legato watching me as I walked up those stairs that made me back him into his own room instead of mine? I'm still not sure. I'm not sure why I decided to go back to my original plan of backing him against a wall. Not sure why I suddenly felt like I needed him so much, when I'd gone so long without him; when I had something so much better.

The complete sequence of events is blurred to me now. Gone and lost in a haze of smoke and blood. But the blood came after. And the blood I remember better than any of it.

I vaguely remember fucking Chapel. I know it happened. I remember telling him to go away. Telling him that I never wanted to see him again. Were they even my words? Everything was so automatic. I can remember very clearly why; remember very clearly the walls of my mind being sliced and ripped asunder. The myriad of blades slicing it apart. I remember the intense waves of pain crashing over me, and then the nothing as its blackness eased into my consciousness, slinking like a cat through the gashes. I remember trying to fight it, trying to find words, trying to tell him to stop. Finding words was like holding water in my hands: there for an instant, then gone. I remember Legato's rage. Screaming, berating, endless rage. And then he laughed. The walls of my mind bleeding, dripping blood past my vision, and his laughter infiltrating everything around me. I was surrounded in what must surely have been pure madness. I thought it would never stop. And when it did, it was only because I blacked out.

Several days later, I regained consciousness. I don't know how I knew it had been several days, but I did. Maybe it was the fact that someone had moved me back into my own room. Sylvia was resting in the chair near the wall, not carelessly thrown, but placed gently. I knew it wasn't Legato that had moved me; he hated Sylvia, and probably would have left her in Chapel's room. Or tossed her haphazardly in a corner. I had no idea who it was, or why. I still don't. I don't remember much else from that night, and I don't think I want to. All I knew was that I had the worst headache of my life, and that movement was pretty much impossible. I closed my eyes and sleep took me again.

This is how it went for at least a week, probably longer. When I could move again, the first thing I did was find the largest bottle of liquor in the entire mansion. I didn't care what it was. I didn't care what it tasted like. And only after I drank the entire thing did I mount those stairs again, climbing all the way to the top.

I stood outside Legato's door for what seemed like an eternity. I stared at it, noting every flaw in the wood, every mar, and the placement of every grain of wood. And when I felt I had the entire thing memorized well enough to pass a three-hundred point inspection quiz on it, I raised my hand to knock. As soon as my fist neared that wood, my arm flew back behind my head. An instant later, my body was flung into the wall about twenty feet behind me, and my head hit hard. Black crept into my vision as I tried to stand, but my body wouldn't have it. I'd just recovered from the last attack, and neither my body nor my mind were ready for anything like this. I fought to stay conscious, seeking out the source of the attack. Not because I didn't know who'd done it, but because I didn't know exactly where he was.

It was as though my mind itself had a separate identity, the way it practically fought me to look for him. As though my mind were experiencing the terror the rest of me refused to admit to. Basically, I had part of me, my subconscious of sorts (perhaps the wiser part of me), saying "Look, you're a stupid fucker. I'm not going in there, I'm not looking for his wrath," while the active part of me was saying: "You deserve this. Seek him out. Apologize if you think you even deserve the right to do that. You don't deserve to hide, even if you could." To this day, I agree with the more dominant half of my thought process.

I sought him out, found him, and was thrown back into my own mind screaming. He knew what I'd done, he knew I intended what an apology could never cover. He knew I'd done it with full knowledge of exactly what I was doing, and that I knew an apology would never even begin to excuse what I'd done. Then I heard his voice, that menacing whisper that was so much worse than anyone yelling could ever be.

I told you never to touch him again, Midvalley.

My name was tacked on the end, not so much as an afterthought, but as a sound of disgust. As though he wanted to make it clear to me just how sick I made him by the way he added my name to the end of my reprimand. The word never was emphasized dramatically. An addend to just how badly I'd fucked up. I couldn't even begin to tell anyone all the things hidden in that simple statement. A statement from Legato is never a simple one, and this was no exception.

I didn't bother asking him where he was, not that he would have told me anyway. I knew he wasn't in the mansion; knew he wasn't in that room he'd just thrown me from. He had felt me regain consciousness, and had watched me climb those stairs. Had he actually been in that room, I probably would not have still been conscious. I knew where he was, anyway. It didn't matter that he didn't tell me. And I didn't have the energy to speculate going out there. I didn't even have the energy to make it back to my room. I passed out again.

Again, I awoke in my room, in my bed. This time, I didn't even bother with the alcohol. I didn't even bother looking for him with my mind. I took my jacket off the chair with one hand, and Sylvia in the other, and went downstairs. I was regarded with both awe and fear by the few in the foyer, and I walked past them without a second glance. I figured it didn't matter. I was certain everyone knew what I'd done, and just how much trouble I was in for it. Legato wasn't quiet about things like that; he didn't care who knew how much trouble I was in. Besides, if everyone knew, it was like a form of public humiliation, right? Not that it mattered. Not that anything mattered.

I don't' think I thought about anything concrete until I reached the edge of Demetery. Knives' sanctuary loomed up in front of me, and I felt fear wrap itself around my heart and tighten her coils. Don't even bother, Midvalley, the rational part of my brain chided me. Do you want to end up passing out out here? Left to the elements of this unforgiving planet? Is this what you want? Do you want to die?

The other half of my mind laughed in its face, simply telling that half of me that if Legato chose to kill me, I probably deserved it. The more dominant part of my brain, again. The part I still agree with. Of course, had he chose to kill me, I wouldn't be relaying this story right now...

There are still days when I think he should have.

It wasn't as though I felt I deserved to be in this place; this beautiful, amazing place. Knives had made it beautiful. There were trees and grass, and the large metal building rising up off the side of it. This was Knives' place, and people who fucked traitors certainly were the last ones that belonged here. Not that people really belonged here, anyway.

Except maybe Legato. But he'd likely maim me on the spot for that thought, so I kept it to myself as I walked up to the entrance of the dome.

Kept it to myself, indeed. Who was I kidding? You couldn't keep a thought to yourself in that place if you tried, and I felt both of them pressing in on my mind, as I walked into the front part of the building. Something between a lobby and a foyer, as though guests would ever stay there. I still had no idea why that room was there.

I didn't make it past that front area before I felt Legato pressing in on my mind, demanding to know why I'd come out there, demanding to know where I thought I'd earned the right to step foot in here, after what I'd done. I didn't bother answering him. There was no answer, and he knew it.

I made it to his door, before the room began to melt. The metal literally seemed to melt, the walls falling down on me, burying me in white-hot molten pain. I heard screaming that I didn't recognize as my own, and I heard Legato laughing. Then everything went black again.

When I woke up, I was on one of the couches. Sylvia was laying on the floor beside me. I sat up, the room spun, and I lay back down again. I heard the door open, and his footsteps echoing. Then I saw his face. He leaned over me, staring down at me. He looked at me for a long time, disgust evident on his face for most of the seeming eternity he stood above me. Then he reached down with one gloved hand and touched my face. It burned more than anything I'd ever felt in my life. I pulled back, and he smacked me. Hard. He'd never hit my face before, in all the time I'd known him. When he reached down again, I had to fight not to pull away. He held my chin in that searing grip, and stared into my face for several moments. Then he pushed my face away, and turned his back to me.

"Get out of here," was all he said, and then he walked away.

I didn't see him again for at least a month. He didn't let me touch him again for almost half a year.

I still say I deserved worse.

In his own way, Legato is benevolent and forgiving. And any of you who disagree with me won't live long enough to protest it anyway.