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He wakes up restrained in a dark room, on a bed. Most Empire starships have plenty of prison cells available for occupants but Captain Dunham prefers to make use of guest quarters for anyone she's not intent on acquainting with the airlock eventually. Reprimanded officers are kept away from prying eyes even though she surely wants the ship to gossip about her punishment. On occasion she activates the comm link to a room, startling the crew with a few seconds of spluttered noises to infer what they want from the revealed outburst.
Lincoln sees a movement from the edge of his vision as the doors hiss and slide open.
"It's about time you woke up," Liv says, voicing the level of impatience he'd expect. He's not certain why she didn't hypospray him with a stimulant to make him alert on her schedule, but it's probably because she wants him in full health for what she has planned. Damaged toys don't last as long.
"That Dunham did a number on you," Liv says, walking over to inspect his neck. Lincoln isn't even sure what her alternate did to him exactly but he's grateful she hadn't completely screwed him or the ship over. Liv would be flying off the handle if Dunham had caused any really serious damage. The other Olivia had betrayed him but it wasn't unexpected considering that she'd probably regarded him as an enemy and he knew he'd have done the same if necessary.
"Stanton was concerned, " Liv adds, clearly amused. "He didn't show the same concern for Doctor Fayette and Brandon's still out for the count. You're lucky you've got someone on this ship looking out for you."
Lincoln wants to say he's the only one he trusts, because no one else can be considered reliable in this twisted up system that she's exploited past its boundaries. Frank comes close, even if the relationship is a tense stretch because Lincoln doesn't intend to go where the guy wants to take it.
It's also true that he trusts Liv to be who she is, pretty much predictable. She knows what she expects from him, but it works the other way too. It's virtually impossible to keep secrets from her considering the incident on the Class H planet years ago, her downed shuttle in a sandstorm and his ill-advised attempt at an unauthorized rescue mission. Orders were no one was to follow her down there, an order he decided shouldn't apply to him as acting captain. He'd never found out what her original mission was, something so secret she'd divulged no details other than the course to Phillips, but an unexpected Vulcan survivor with both needs and a strength greater than their own had derailed whatever it was. Lincoln turned up in time to distract the female Vulcan with an off-center phaser blast, allowing Liv to spring up and leg it to the shuttle's safety. Not the wisest choice, since without one body in front of her Lincoln's became the Vulcan's next target as she zoned in on him with record speed and a hard grip on his hand that made him drop his weapon. Neither of them had been successful when facing the Vulcan alone, so a straight swap of his life for Liv's was an acceptable risk in Lincoln's mind and he didn't bother fighting after he felt the pressure of fingers gripping his temples with the mental promise of pain. Fortunately for him, Liv doubled back after regaining her weapon from the sand and shot the alien in the head. But she took long enough that a mental connection had been initiated, and severed, and the closest thing to the body slumped over him dead-eyed had been the woman with her finger on the trigger on his horizon.
Ever since then Francis has been insinuating Lincoln as a weak link because of the bond forged by that, as if it gives him insight into her he shouldn't be allowed in the head of security's estimation. If the remnants of their pseudo Vulcan mind meld are indeed there Liv considers it an asset for what it tells her about him. Lincoln's not sure it tells him anything he couldn't already surmise from his careful and vigilant observations of his captain, but he's glad she sees it that way and not with Francis' wary "better-safe-than-sorry" attitude or he'd be spaced long ago.
"Do you know what you cost us?"
He doesn't try to guess, he already knows. Any words on the subject could betray his knowledge, however well considered. He swallows when his foggy brain processes the "us," an unusual slip up for her since Liv is very much a "me and I" person. Her crew are tools to bend the universe to her will, to earn her accolades, and she's just as happy to bend them to her will for fun as much as in pursuit of a goal.
"An advantage over Newton, that's what. Fayette thought there was a compound in her blood that could be responsible for her quick regeneration post-crossing over. But we'll never know thanks to you."
"I accept whatever punishment you deem necessary, Captain."
She laughs at his statement.
"Like you have a choice."
"But you do, Liv. What's it going to be this time? Aren't you running out of ideas? Does it really satisfy you to whisper in his ear and watch him do the dirty work?"
He hopes his taunts might result in her taking a hand in it for once, but she won't give him the satisfaction.
"Hasn't got old yet and Nick never complains, so hold your tongue."
"Make me," he spits back dangerously, not entirely sure how she'll respond. Her hand is around his throat in seconds, a bruising vice on the skin as though she means to mark him where Olivia hadn't, reminding him whose man he is. She leans in without hesitation, her lips almost meeting his but diverting at an angle as she moves her head to the side of his. Her breath kisses the skin of his ear as she leans in, the fall of her hair hiding her face from him.
"You wish," she whispers softly, and Lincoln wonders if he isn't the only one it applies to.
And then she spins from the bed, stalking out of the room, not letting him see her reaction. He doesn't have her love, nor her hate. She reserves that for everyone here but him, the cruelty that he gives her everything of him and she gives him nothing in return. Unless it can be deemed necessary and excusable, those calculated moments of near affection she launches at him, to tease him back into submission; feeding his hope that maybe she feels something too, guarded as it has to be.
The room is silent as he gasps his breaths, trying to recover from the restriction and the temptation of her touch. He catches movement in the shadows, a crackle and blue spark lighting up the corner for a split-second and he realizes Lane has been here all the time, ready for the task ahead, the order she'd already given.
This was the plan all along, a setup before she'd stepped into the quarters. Liv could never take it back if she wanted to stay strong in Nick Lane's eyes. Nick would do anything she wanted, even if she had been swayed by Lincoln's goading to reprimand him herself and told Nick to standby. But any weakness would infect her relationship with Nick, a crack he could exploit if he knew of it. He only knew how to submit to her, for now, but that wasn't all of what Nick could be, wasn't what he was with almost everyone else on the ship. Nick took whatever space he was afforded, filled whichever part you let him play. Liv couldn't afford to let Nick loose, her control of him tighter than anyone because he was the biggest threat to her.
Nick switched between roles willingly, at her request. Pliant for her but unforgiving for anyone else. His brand of morale enforcing was unique, equal measures pleasure and pain, more of one than the other depending on his mood and Liv's desires. The shock-rod he held at his side as he stood up today was his favorite tool. Lincoln didn't know it as intimately as some of the crew--he'd once seen tighter-than-tight Farnsworth whimper at the sight of it--but he'd had an encounter with the instrument before, right after he and Liv got back from the mystery planet. In another universe she'd have taken it easy on him following what had happened, Vulcans could be pretty rough. But no, she'd been quietly furious that he'd interrupted her mission and her rage was let loose via Nick, with the echoes of her orders over the private comm to Nick just out of range for Lincoln to decipher. Every blow had been a shock in more way than one.
This time Nick does not raise the rod. He grins devilishly, looking truly pleased, as Lincoln's eyes the deft twirling of it in his fingers because it may have been years ago, but the half-nervous half-anticipatory reaction resting in his gut is imprinted on him exactly like he reckons Nick hoped for. He brings it closer and closer until it lightly touches the bottom of Lincoln's jacket, lifting the fabric up from the skin. There is a jolt as he clicks the button, the tease of electricity low enough to mix anguish with the thrill of it.
Nick trails the rod up and down the air surrounding Lincoln, always leaving a little room so as to avoid real contact, enough that the sparks arc to the nearest point leaving a new burn upon him. He does it for hours until Lincoln is driven by a pure want for more, anything more, for the strike even, something solid rather than the heavy static in the atmosphere that never meets him for more than a moment. When he begs for more he doesn't know what he is saying. Nick doesn't give a damn about the specifics, stripping Lincoln of his clothes with a dagger cutting recklessly at the fabric.
Nick wants that control, he wants to be wanted in a way that Liv will never give him. Lincoln can relate too closely to that, but he still hates Nick for getting something at least, as much as he hates Liv too for not choosing him to toy with properly. Nick hates Liv for almost the same reason, her attention never enough. The hate he can share with Nick though, Nick who forces himself inside him and wishes Lincoln were her just as much as Lincoln wishes she was doing this instead. This is Liv's personal touch by proxy, as good as Lincoln can get.
He spreads his legs wider and Nick blocks the motion, pressing Lincoln's legs together further and limiting the depth he can push in.
"No," comes the raspy reply, the action a denial to his enjoyment too. "This has to last."
Lincoln isn't sure if he's talking about them together, a heady fusion of hate and lust, or about Liv's instructions and the implication she intends to string them out without her, because she knows they'll do anything to stay in her good books. "Good" being relative, of course, and like most of the crew end up on this ship, extremely flexible where she is concerned. Nick is no exception. He presses into Lincoln slow and sweet. It's not care, though, it's another show of power--the pressure taken away any time it seems like Lincoln is near to coming, causing a strangled whine in between his harsh breathing.
Every time Nick looks a little closer to the edge, eyes shining bright with the small amount of reflected light from the blue glow of the restraints, a slight curve of the lips hinting at his triumph and the joy it brings when he starts anew with another slow stoke. It takes quite some time before Lincoln feels the hot spill of semen in his ass, timed so abruptly he's left hanging on the edge, panting for a touch more as Nick quickly disconnects.
Nick zips into his leathers without a glance to Lincoln, eyes tracking on the magnetic cuffs when he does look his way. The key is retrieved from his pocket, pressed against the small release plate for several moments before they retract, one and then the other.
The tech remains attached to the wall, a permanent fixture. Nick stands straight and looks blankly at Lincoln, like he's nothing now. No one holds Nick's interest unless they're his assignment, his unwilling conquests made at least marginally more willing by the end of it. "Olive" is different because he can't have her like this and he knows it. Lincoln resists the flare of anger welling up in him, the desire to catch his nearest wrist and wrestle Nick's mouth to his, biting back the hate with the taste of Nick's blood on his tongue. He wants to slingshot at least a small portion of the torture onto Nick in return, claw back a slither of authority over him because Lincoln is the First Officer.
Suddenly he realizes why it doesn't matter: Liv might give Nick a place in her bed on occasion, below her, but Lincoln was the one by her side through everything that mattered, the one she owed her life to the same as her owed her his. He and Liv were a matched pair, deny it all she would. Nick was never getting anywhere close to that. He was too good at being what she wanted and rarely what she needed. Nick could always push for more from Liv like he clearly wanted, though the decision not to was sensible for the time being. Had Nick tried Lincoln thought the two would probably destroy each other, like matter and antimatter meeting.
Lincoln smiles at the idea and Nick retreats hastily, leaving him achingly hard and alone. He lays there, with numb arms trying to stroke himself to completion. He makes it slow, not only because the feeling in his limbs has barely returned, muscles protesting, but so he can appreciate it, the long burn that he's controlling now. He stares at the tiny camera mount greedily, imagining Liv on the other side watching his performance, and commands the illumination brighter, not wanting her to miss a single detail. As he approaches orgasm he resists closing his eyes and the easy out of the fantasy that she is touching him. Instead, he looks resolutely ahead as he continues, grunting resentfully as he pumps out the last of his spunk onto his chest. He stares at her through the distance of the network like a dare and licks his sticky fingers lazily. He shouldn't kid himself, it's the one unspoken dare she never takes as a challenge. In that after-haze he doesn't think it pointless, though, because he's daring himself too. He may be a fool and putting his life at risk for her yet again, but he prides himself on rising to a challenge and it's never too late to prove himself.