Pride by Sue Castle. Rated NC17. No copyright infringement intended. Spoilers for the two-part pilot episode and 'Double Helix.'

Why does man not see things? He is himself standing in the way. (Nietzsche, Human, all too Human, Hollingdale transl.)

The day started out with hope and ended in despair. Three hundred years passed in the interim.

Dylan Hunt stared down at the peaceful smile on the face of his dead first officer and wondered how on God's green Earth the bastard's last words could be of pride. Pride in Hunt. Pride for killing ... his best friend.

After so many years, the closest thing he had to a brother. Mentor. Right hand. Heart.

All hell broke loose shortly thereafter, and philosophy gave way to survival.

The next day began with a sea-change and ended with hope.

His crew was dead. His Commonwealth was no more. His future was in his principles and his happiness was in the past. Several generations in the past, in fact. The only anchors Captain Hunt had were a ship who still remembered him and a corpse lying in stasis in cargo bay eleven.

The first day in his new life, the Andromeda Ascendant was invaded by mercenaries and boarded by scavengers. Thanks to some fancy talking and fancier fighting, the lead mercenary and the majority of the scavenge crew became the new crew of the Andromeda. Some crew.

Once he'd had four thousand crewmembers and a contingent of Lancers. Now he had a Nietzschean outcast, a Magog religious nut, a blonde with an attitude, an Irish mechanic, and a lass who was a cross between a plant and a mouse. Complete with tail.

And he still had a body to lay to rest, and memories to go along with it, on its journey into the blackness of space. He had a sneaking suspicion it would be easier to purge the body than the memory.

Then they got hailed by a bunch of bugs and nearly lost their ship to the Nietzschean pirates in the cause of their own pet Nietzschean mercenary becoming a daddy.

Not that he should take it lightly. It was just that, after the way Rhade had let him down, Tyr Anasazi's betrayal was chicken feed.

After all, he'd only known Tyr two weeks. He'd known Rhade for fifteen years. Served beside him. Commanded him. Lost games of Go to him. Slept with him. Gone fishing with him. Trained with him.

Killed him.

Which led him right back to where he stood at the moment. Staring down at the sleek black capsule with the symbol of the Commonwealth emblazoned on it, waiting for him to speak, waiting for him to push the small gray button that would eject the last remains of his best friend into the vast silence of space.

He didn't know quite what to say.

So he sat. Stared at the light reflecting off the surface of Rhade's coffin. Wondered what he was supposed to feel. How he was supposed to feel it.

Words ran through his mind, but few of them made sense. Telling Tyr that he knew the Nietzschean had a back-up plan, because Nietzscheans always did. Waiting the last thirty seconds before countermanding the self-destruct order. Screaming no even as he was flying through the air on the bridge, avoiding getting shot, shooting Rhade in the chest. Telling Sarah that he loved her. Trying to tell Rhade that marrying Sarah didn't mean he didn't love Rhade. Explaining the difference between science and magic, between love and genetics, to a disbeliever. Explaining to Trance that Tyr was right; it was a losing battle, but one he'd never stop fighting.

There were times when his pomposity even bored himself. Which left him, alone, staring at a coffin, trying to remember what it felt like to be alive.

Trying to remember why the hell it was all so important, anyway.

Trying to ignore the tears that were falling down his cheeks.

Trying to breathe through the weight on his chest.

Wondering when he'd ended up on his knees, and how his head had gotten too heavy to hold up any more. Trying to ignore the ghosts of the past who were over-running the present and strangling the future still-born.

"Why?"

The word echoed, a whisper in the close confines of the cargo hold. The casket didn't answer. Neither did the ghosts.

Tyr Anasazi stared down at the armlet he'd taken from his biceps, the one Freya had placed there the previous afternoon. All the ships that could escape the destruction of the pirates' asteroid hideout had done so. He wondered, not for the first time, if she was aboard one. If she was carrying his child. If she would carry it to fruition, to live in shame for its father's deeds, or abort it for the good of her Pride. He knew which choice the Matriarch of the Pride would prefer. He didn't know Freya well enough to be able to predict her reaction to having chosen a traitor as a mate.

Not that he considered himself a traitor. His Pride had been betrayed by hers when he was still little more than a boy. That betrayal carried penalties; the loss of his place in his adopted Pride, the loss of his title as husband, the loss of his place as father. Penalties he would accept, because he had no choice, and because he was strong enough to bear them. He had no place in her Pride.

He had no Pride of his own.

He would never have one.

But he need not always be alone. There were no females on this ship strong enough or worthy of becoming his mate. But the Alpha of this ragged band, this Pride of Honor, if not of Blood, was worthy of touch, of respect, of pleasure. There would be no get from the liaison, as there should not be. His genes would live on in shame through Freya or die with honor with him. As his Pride had died, in honor even as they were surrounded by betrayal.

Of the two choices for his line, he preferred the latter. Honor over shame. Cessation of his bloodline over lives as outcasts.

Finally, while Hunt was a Human, and therefor genetically inferior, he had proven himself against their common enemy and had out-maneuvered a Nietzschean Alpha. He had also manipulated Tyr himself into going with his least palatable plan, as well as proving himself capable of thinking like a Nietzschean in his analysis of Tyr's own strategy. Tyr had been sincere in telling Hunt that he was proud of him.

There were options, and not all of them demanded he remain alone.

Decision made, he went in search of his Captain.

Needing to see the face of the one man he'd trusted, who had wrecked his future, cracked the defenses of the Andromeda Ascendant, allowed the enemies of the Commonwealth to destroy it, and broken his heart in the process, Hunt slid back the face plate on the casket capsule and stared down into the peaceful features. Repose sat well on Rhade. He'd never allowed his emotions to be known to the world. Only occasionally, in fiercely-guarded private moments, had Hunt been privy to the Nietzschean's feelings. He had treasured those moments.

Now he hated them almost as much as he missed them.

Three hundred years had passed for the rest of the universe, but for him, it had been a little over two weeks. Less than a month since the last time this man's warm flesh had pressed against him, strong hands had held him, the steady triple beat of his genetically-perfected heart had lulled him into sleep. Hunt lifted one hand and rested his palm gently against Rhade's still cheek.

Still, and cold. Nothing left there of the strategist, the warrior, the friend. The spirit that had challenged and rewarded him. And eventually betrayed him, only to find pride in the very efficiency with which Hunt had killed him. It made his head swim.

It made his heart ache. He was speaking through a throat tight with tears, the words coming from a place deep within him, without his will or volition.

"Go once and for the final time into that still vastness at the heart of the universe. Know that in your time with me you taught me grace and strength, survival and loss, happiness and sacrifice. I learned well the lessons you taught, too well, or it would be me in your place. I will accept your pride in me if you will accept my love for you, and know, wherever your soul may be, that I will miss you for the rest of my life."

His voice was barely a whisper, but there was no one else to hear, and he had the feeling Rhade would know what he'd said. Hunt pressed the button to shut the plate, eyes lingering on his final glimpse of his first officer as he broke the last link he had with his own time. Clearing his throat, he forced himself back to his feet and stood at attention beside the casket.

"I pass the remains of my first officer and finest friend to the embrace of the deep. May his soul find its rest in the silence of space, and his memory live ..." His voice broke, and he took a deep breath, finishing the ritual words as strongly as he could. "And may his memory live in honor for as long as there is man to honor memory."

Touching the casket one last time, he stepped back and pressed the lever to send the capsule into the airlock beyond the wall of the hold, then from there into space. The doors closed behind it and he whispered, to himself as much as to the body, "Goodbye, my friend."

In the stillness following the discharge of the casket capsule, he eventually became aware that he wasn't alone. Closing his eyes, he swiped at the last of the tears on his face, drying it off and hoping the intruder wouldn't look too closely. If it was Valentine, he was good to go. She seldom saw anything beyond the end of her own nose. If it was Trance, she'd be sensitive enough to wait for him to say something first. If it was the Magog, he'd have to listen to Way preaching, but he was used to tuning that out. If it was Harper, the engineer wouldn't even notice. If it was Tyr ...

He turned, shoulders and spine straight, command-face on solid. Internally, he let loose with a single 'son of a bitch!' but didn't allow it to show. It had to be Tyr. Of course.

The Nietzschean walked forward, his massive arms relaxed at his side, his large brown eyes raking over him in a way that made Hunt feel like prey. The chain metal of his armored shirt clinked with each step, the silver links highlighting the rich brown skin beneath it. Hunt wasn't happy with himself in that instant.

He didn't bury one Nietzschean just in time to get the hots for another one. Especially when this one had already proved to be as far out for number one as the first one had been. Deciding a good offense was his best defense, he let fly the first salvo.

"What are you doing down here, Tyr? If it was a ship emergency, Romi would let me know. So it must be personal. What's your plan? Toss me out the airlock, take over the Andromeda, chase after your people and turn it over to them in exchange for your woman? I have to warn you, I'm hard to kill."

Tyr had been closing in on him throughout his admittedly overly-emotional, melodramatic little tirade. But his brain was disconnected from his mouth, too busy wallowing in his final farewell to Rhade, and his body was too distracted admiring the fluid grace of the mercenary to care about how his mouth was running on, and the tears were back, so he couldn't see very well. In a way, it was nice that Tyr was so close. At least he'd be able to see in hand to hand combat. Besides, Rhade had taught him well. He knew a few things to do with those Nietzschean forearm spikes that would make a strong man weep.

Rhade had been a strong man.

Then long fingers were cupping his face, and incredibly soft lips were touching his skin, and the tip of a tongue was flicking out to lick the salty tears from his cheeks. His eyes closed, a stupid thing to do when in the hands of a Nietzschean warrior he'd just insulted, but he was unable to stop himself. His hands rose and caught in the long braided hair swinging free around Tyr's shoulders, and his mouth opened to meet the lips as they traveled from his cheekbone to his jaw and upward to cover his own.

Unbelievable. He tasted unbelievably good.

Hunt's hands moved from their stranglehold on Tyr's hair, smoothing along the back of his neck, clutching at his shoulders. Tyr took that as encouragement, if their kiss was any indication, because his movements became more insistent. Hunt found his uniform stripped off him with an efficiency he'd only found once before -- also from a Nietzschean -- and his own hands shook slightly as he worked at the buckles and snaps holding the tight leather trousers to the warm skin underneath.

Tyr was built like a brick house, if brick houses consisted of bunched muscle and long bone and warm dark skin and soft seeking lips. Deep brown eyes telegraphing want and determination, and long-fingered, broad-palmed hands that were more than a match for his own trembling body. Dylan Hunt was a strong man, a man of conviction, fortitude and courage. He was also a man who'd just said good-bye to the friend who'd been both the anchor of his life and the destruction of his reality.

It wasn't much of a surprise that he was in no shape to fight off an amorous mercenary. Especially an amorous mercenary who looked like Tyr Anasazi.

The walls slid sideways, and Hunt realized he was lying down, and wondered how he'd gotten there. The floor of the cargo hold wasn't as cold as he'd expected it would be, and when linked chain mail pinched him below the left shoulder blade he realized he was lying on his clothes. Their clothes. Tyr was as naked as Hunt was, and it was a shock to discover that sometime when he'd been busy kissing Tyr, Tyr had been busy stripping them both, making them a bed, and tumbling them down on top of it.

There was something to be said for genetic improvement. Coordination, strength, single-mindedness -- excellent in combat. Even better in bed. No matter how makeshift that bed might be.

Hunt's long arms looped around the broad back and he held on for dear life as Tyr descended his body, learning every curve and scar, every knob and bend, with hands and tongue and teeth. It was an excruciatingly thorough and mind-bendingly expert exploration. Hunt found himself on the verge of climax before Tyr was halfway through the journey, and flailed mentally for a distraction to keep the exquisite torture from being over before he was ready for it to end.

Rhade's face in his memory was a two-edged sword.

The pain of his loss and betrayal dampened his ardor, but the tactile sensations of Tyr's hands on his body melded with the memory of Rhade's equally thorough lovemaking, and past met with present in a combustible combination. His mind dipped and swayed, body giving itself up to Tyr even as his heart broke again for everything, and everyone, he'd lost. By the time Tyr moved back over him to lay against him, the warm weight of his body holding Hunt down was all that remained of reality. His mind, at his heart's insistence, simply shut down.

He went with his instincts. His instincts listened to his hormones. His hormones yelped with relief and parted his thighs. Tyr let out a mangled question that sounded like "Really?" and he answered with an equally mangled "Fuck yes." Which could be taken as a response or a command, and would get him what he wanted either way.

The first movement of muscular legs between his caused Hunt's neck to arch instinctively, his spine rippling as his knees spread and his hands scrabbled at the cloth beneath them. Tyr must have taken this as encouragement -- he wasn't stupid, and Hunt was practically screaming at him to do it, spread out like an invitation underneath him -- for the next movement brought enough mingled pain and pleasure to wake his mind back up, tear it completely out of the past and focus it solely on the present moment.

All of Tyr was big.

Which was okay with Hunt. He was a big boy himself. He could take it. He liked taking it. So he did.

Sometime during the course of the events that followed, Hunt managed to buck Tyr over on his side, then roll them both over until he was straddling Tyr, riding him, holding him down, owning him as much as he was being owned. He had no idea he was crying until the end, when he had finally come, and Tyr had rocked up against him, spikes flaring, neck flushing, and he had collapsed against that broad, sweating chest. Then Tyr lifted a hand, careful not to spear him with the still-erect spikes, and brushed the moisture from his skin.

"Who is Rhade?" Tyr asked against the top of his head, breath ruffling Hunt's hair.

"Who?" He pressed the word into the hollow of Tyr's throat. He wondered how much Tyr had seen and heard before jumping him.

"Rhade," Tyr repeated calmly. "The name you cried out as you climaxed."

Hunt could feel himself blushing from his hairline to his toes. "A friend."

"A close one," Tyr prompted him. Hunt heaved a sigh.

"The closest. My first officer." His hand rose and stroked gently along the edge of Tyr's ribs, over his chest, losing himself in the satin softness of the skin and springy coarse hair. "My best friend. He was Nietzschean. He also said he was proud of me."

"For thinking like a Nietzschean?" There was genuine curiosity in Tyr's question. Hunt's eyes closed in pain, the endorphins from the sex bleeding away in the aftermath as the past rushed up to slap him in the face. Again.

"For killing him."

Tyr went completely still beneath him. Hunt raised up just enough to look him in the eye.

"He was trying to kill me. I killed him first. When I asked him why, he simply said he was proud of me. Perhaps you could explain that? Fifteen years of knowing him, I never did figure out how he thought." Hunt ran a finger along the side of Tyr's face, tracing the beard that outlined his mouth. "You and he ... are a lot alike."

"You survived," Tyr answered him slowly.

"At what cost?" Hunt stared down at Tyr, seeking answers in the dark eyes, seeking understanding. Seeking redemption.

"You lost the past, but you kept your life, and the opportunity to fight for your future. You retain your ideals. You have the Andromeda Ascendant. And us."

"Us?" Hunt didn't understand. Burying his best friend, admitting for the first time that life as he knew it was gone, followed immediately by seduction of the highest order from an unexpected source, had left his brain feeling like mush.

"Myself. The Maru's crew. Your Pride."

"Pride goeth before a fall," Hunt responded by rote. Tyr growled at him.

"Not your pride. Your Pride." He grabbed Hunt by the thick hair at the nape of his neck and drew him down into a deep kiss. By the time Hunt could breathe again, he'd figured out what Tyr was saying.

"Rhade told me once that it was all about winning."

Tyr growled at him again, a low, sexy sound that made his toes curl. "You have."

Another hard, deep kiss, and Hunt's vision swam. When he could focus, he found something more than redemption staring back up at him from those bright brown eyes. He found acceptance.

"Welcome home, Dylan."

One day, eventually, it would be. Lowering his head to bury his face in the side of Tyr's neck, relaxing for the first time in days into that warm embrace, Dylan Hunt had a feeling that day would come much sooner than he'd expected.

There are no facts, only interpretations. (Nietzsche, Nachlass, Danto transl.)