Gabe backstory

Title: How Gabe Learned to Lock Her Bunk Door
Author(s): Gabe Yazimoto
Character(s): Gabe
Timeline: Appr. 11 years ago
Canon: Yes
Warnings: Angsty, non-con




The blanket is gone.

----

She has been on her own for almost six months: half a year since she left her mother and her father, and Mike and Sam and Pete, and John who already is six feet under by then. They come to see her off, even though she has asked them not to; not because she knows she'll cry -- and she is crying, silent tears streaming down her face -- but because she is afraid that she'll buckle under their disappointed stares and change her mind.

Gabrielle stands in the shadow of the grey, looming freighter, clutching at the shoulder strap of her duffle bag tightly with both hands. Her mother's sobs are louder than her own, the old woman's face hidden in her hands. Her father stands beside her mother, his back board-stiff, his arms crossed, his features stony.

Her brothers are surrounding her, giving her advice. Gabrielle knows this because their lips are moving, and there is a faint buzzing in her ears, but she can't make out any words at all. It doesn't matter; she's heard them all before. "Be careful. Be safe. Don't believe pretty words. Don't trust no-one, not with your life, no-one 'cept yourself. And run. If you gotta, li'l sister, run. There ain't nothin' wrong wit' runnin'."

They all hug her, each in turn, and she hugs them back, the bag slipping off her shoulder and onto the ground. Her father's arms are stiff, impersonal. Her mother almost breaks Gabrielle's back and wets the side of her neck with tears. Her brothers' embraces are warm and tight and protective, the way they've always been.

She walks up the ramp, clutching the duffle again, and turns once she reaches the cargo hold. They're still there, looking. She forces a smile, fresh tears welling up in her eyes. The gun Sam gave her is hard and cold against her stomach, tucked inside the waistband of her pants. She wants to wave jauntily, but her hand seems to have turned into lead and she can't lift it.

The ramp buzzes into life, lifting with a metallic creak, slowly hiding their faces from her view. Gabrielle closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, then opens them again and turns away.

----

That was six months ago. This is now, and it seems like she didn't listen to her brothers' words, after all. She must have done something wrong, because something is wrong, but her sleep-addled mind can't put its metaphorical finger on it.

The blanket is gone. That's how far she's willing to go. The blanket is gone, and she should be cold, the tiny nook in the belly of the ship where she sleeps is chilly and dank, and she needs the blanket. She's not cold, though. Her skin feels an odd sort of clammy, and she stirs.

There is someone on the bunk with her. The realisation hits her like a bucket of cold water and she's suddenly wide awake in the darkness. She pulls in air to scream but a hand covers her mouth, and she feels hot breath against her ear, the smell of *him* hitting her nostrils and making her queasy.

She goes stiff as a hand tugs at her belt. This is not really happening, her mind assures her comfortingly. It's not real, honey, don't worry. You're safe. It's not real. It can't be. This can't happen to you.

"... jus' lay still, m'sweet," he whispers in her ear, his voice as rough as the stubble of his chin is against the side of her face, and the whiskey on his breath stings her eyes. "Jus' be a good wee lass an' be still'n quiet for me, and it'll be over 'fore y'know it."

His words work like a trigger, and suddenly she's fighting back. Her legs, always long and awkward, obey her for once, kicking wildly. Detachedly, she is relived she always sleeps with her boots on. She thrashes, screaming behind his hand, her hands blindly finding his face, his shoulders, trying to push him away, fingers searching for soft places to gouge.

He curses at her and hits her in the face, twice; two swift, hard strikes with a closed fist. The darkness of the small room is replaced by stars behind her eyes, her head swimming. Her limbs are awkward again, disobedient, and she sags beneath his body as he shifts on top of her and wrestles her legs apart with his knees. Her mind wants to sink down into oblivion, that comforting darkness, and she fights it, struggling desperately to stay afloat.

There is something warm running down her face, and she realises dully that her nose is bleeding. No, not bleeding. 'Bleeding' suggests a steady flow, or a trickle, perhaps. Her nose is gushing. She is still screaming inside her head, but nothing gets past her lips that's louder than a whisper. Blood is leaking down the back of her throat, thick and nauseating. The man has gotten her belt unbuckled and has moved on to her pants now, grunting impatiently. Something hard is pushed up against her thigh.

Her hands are resting by the sides of her head and as the man struggles with buttons and zippers, her fingers nudge cold, hard steel. They brush it, then grip it firmly, so tight it makes her fingers tingle. Oh, Sam. Oh, sweet, sweet Sam.

She pulls the gun out from under the pillow and presses the barrel against the man's stomach. There is a moment's hesitation, but it feels like a lifetime. Her teeth are bared, her face a mask of enraged and terrified madness. She pulls the trigger.

The man's expansive stomach muffles the blast somewhat, and he twitches, going stiff. Then something snaps inside her head and she pulls the trigger again, and again, and a fourth time, and again until the steel goes click instead of bang and her finger is bent and cramped and her hand is warm and wet.

Almost ten minutes pass before her breathing has calmed down and she can bring herself to move. The man is heavy but the blood is slick, and it lets her slip out from under him. He is still twitching slightly as he slumps down on the bunk. She is still gripping the gun tightly in her hand, her arms and legs trembling.

The room is still dark, but she knows where her things are, and she gathers them as quickly as she can, stuffing clothes and equipment into her duffle, not neat and orderly as she usually packs, but haphazardly and 'Gabrielle, it will *wrinkle*,' her mother's voice nonsensically pipes up in her head. Well, let it.

The ship is docked on ground for refuelling, and she doesn't dare to think about what might have happened if it wasn't. Or she wouldn't dare, if she was thinking much at all. She hurries through the ship, each step as loud as a thunder-strike to her ears. Her nose is pounding dully, her face seems tight and awkward from dried blood. Her hands are sticky. She reaches the cargo bay unseen, and she opens the ramp unseen, and cool night air hits her face.

There is one advice she remembers very vividly.

Gabe runs.