Title: Helpless
Author: Savage Midnight
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Pitch Black and all related elements belong to David Twohy and USA Films. No copyright infringement is intended. Any original characters or concepts that belong to the author are stated accordingly.
Summary: When Jack falls sick, Riddick is rendered helpless.
Authors notes: Okay, I know it's been a long while since I've updated this fic, but like I promised I have not abandoned it. Part three is finally here. I want to thank everyone who has reviewed and read this fic so far (I'm immensely surprised how many of you out there actually like it) and I want to thank you for being patient with me. Hectic life and all that, ehe.

Huge thanks again to Artemis for the medical knowledge. I'm learning all sorts of wacky new things.

Again, another warning to new readers when I first started writing Helpless, the sequel to Pitch Black had not yet been realised. So therefore this fic is in no way related to The Chronicles of Riddick or the character Kyra.

Part Three

I take it back.

That was the first thought that fluttered into her head when Jack regained consciousness only seconds later.

Her wish didn't mean anything. She hadn't meant it. She didn't want to die, not really. Not like this. Not at sixteen.

She blinked her green eyes rapidly and wondered why, at a time like this, her tears had seized to fall when all she wanted to do was a cry a river and drown in it. Anything was better than the alternative.

Cancer. God. How ironic.

She looked up at Riddick, who still looked mildly distraught, though she could tell he was trying to feign indifference for her sake. Like maybe if he made it sound trivial, like something not even worth crying over, then maybe it would be so. Nothing to worry about. Nothing life-threatening. Nope.

He wasn't convincing her, though. For once Jack wished he would look at her the same way he looked at everyone else, with cold, hard eyes that bellied nothing. Now she could see everything in his mercury eyes, and she hated it because it made her scared. Afraid.

"You're lying," she whispered hoarsely, the accusation sliding from her lips without her consent. She wanted to tear her gaze from his, but she couldn't.

"Jack," he said her name, tone edged with anxious concern. "What did you hear?"

The question was urgent, drilled out with a quiet panic that Jack finally understood. He hadn't known what part of the conversation she'd heard and now he'd finally realised he'd told her something she hadn't known. Riddick thought she'd run because she was scared, upset. She had, but it hadn't been the news of her impending death that had made her flee. It had been Riddick's words, his confession that he was going to leave her here, alone.

I'm going to die alone.

The thought struck her like a ton of bricks and suddenly the night fell silent. The world around her faded; she couldn't even see the silver of Riddick's eyes anymore. It was just her. Jack. Tiny and insignificant in a world that didn't care, didn't even know she existed. Even Riddick didn't matter anymore, because she didn't matter to him.

"You're lying," she said again, and her words broke through the peace that had wrapped itself around her. Riddick's shining eyes came back into focus and her words made a perfect kind of sense.

You're lying. You lied. You never cared. Why should you care? You're going to leave me alone to die. You won't even care. Not at all. You lied. You lied. You're lying. You

"I'm taking you home."

"I don't have a home," she said, before she even realised she was thinking it. It didn't seem to faze him, though. He swung her up into his arms and Jack had neither the strength nor the will to stop him. She didn't care anymore. Let him take her where he pleased, let him leave her alone on her bed to die without him. There wasn't a lot she could do to change his mind, anyway. Not that she wanted to.

He carried her back to Imam's house it was never theirs. Never Jack and Riddick's in silence. There were no words of reassurance from him, no apologies or promises or vows that he would look after her. Jack was waiting for him to say that he hadn't meant what he'd said earlier, that he wasn't going to leave her, after all, because he cared too much to just walk away.

She waited for over an hour while he walked for him to say the words, but they never came. And neither did the tears she wanted to cry. The pain in her stomach was quiet, too. Silently killing her, she supposed.

The sun was just peeking over the horizon when they reached the house. Riddick didn't leave her in her room, but instead carried her into the living area and settled her down on the couch. He probably wanted to keep an eye on her, make sure she didn't run again. Why he cared was beyond her, though.

"Hungry?" he asked, a trivial, careless question. That was okay. Let him spin his indifference. Let him undermine this, her, everything, the way he usually did. It didn't matter.

"No," she said, which wasn't a lie. She wasn't hungry at all. Her appetite seemed to have been silenced along with her cramps.

"I'll make you some soup," he said, probably trying to rile her up, get a response out of her. How he loved to piss her off, to tease her until she was forced to lash out like a bad tempered teenager, proving to him over and over that she was still a child at heart. Well, no more. She was done. She wasn't a child anymore, hadn't been for a long time, and Riddick could play his games all he wanted. She was tired of them.

He disappeared into the kitchen when it was clear she wasn't going to honour him with an answer.

Jack wanted to cry again when Riddick brought two hot bread rolls with her soup. He'd lathered them in butter, just the way she liked, and as unappealing as they looked right now, the sight of them brought tears to her eyes.

He's the only one who knows me, she thought. The only one left.

But soon there wouldn't be anyone who understood her anymore, and Jack wondered if Riddick had ever really understood her in the first place. It really didn't seem like it.

She filled her mouth with bread in an attempt to swallow back the sobs clogging her throat but she could do nothing to hold back the tears that spilled over her cheeks as she ate. She chewed at her food with disinterest, lips trembling, and every bite tasted of butter and salt and it was all so fitting. Just. Perfect.

Riddick watched her from the armchair, drowned out by the dim, dirty shadows of dawn, his eyes two pinpricks of light in the glum. She tried not to pay attention to his heavy gaze and concentrated on trying not to puke her guts up because her stomach refused to accept food of any kind. One bread roll later and she could take no more.

"I'm off to bed," she declared, ignoring the steaming bowl of chicken soup as she rose from the couch with less energy than she'd planned on. She shuffled slowly towards the doorway.

"It's gonna be okay, kid," Riddick's low voice sounded from behind her, and Jack froze, swallowing against the wretched sobs that wanted to escape at his words.

"Whatever, Riddick," she said bitterly and carried on walking, adding softly, "I really don't care."

"She's scared."

"That's understandable," Emma said, watching Riddick curiously from across the room. He hadn't moved since she'd arrived ten minutes ago, and this was the first time he'd spoken.

"Jack has lost several significant figures in her life, all to diseases that couldn't be cured. It's hard for her to comprehend the concept of survival in a case like this. Her own body is betraying her. That's enough to scare anyone."

He shifted, scrubbing a hand down his face. He looked more world-weary than Emma had ever seen him, and it worried her more than she liked.

"She thinks I've let her down," he said gruffly. He was silent for a long moment before he continued. "Three years watching her back, and I never saw this comin'."

Emma shook her head. "I don't think she thinks that, Riddick," she said.

She rose from the sofa and turned to face the wall behind her. It was decorated with several framed pictures, some of which reflected back the smiling faces of Jack and the man she assumed was Imam. There were very few of Riddick; the glimpses of him that someone had managed to catch on camera were fleeting. There were none of the three of them together, as a family, and none of he and Jack alone. There was only one, in the corner, of a younger Jack following Riddick's retreating form down the hall. Imam must have caught her by surprise, called her name so she instinctively turned towards the camera. Even suspended in time the expression on her face was undeniable; adoration, devotion, and a faint shadow of fear in her eyes. A fear that one day Riddick would walk away and never come back.

Emma knew where Jack's real fear lie, and it was not on her death bed.

The Doctor turned towards the slouched form of the convict she had come to trust over the years. Here was a man who demanded a certain amount of loyalty in exchange for his friendship, yet faltered in the face of such selfless devotion, offered to him without hesitation by a slip of girl whose trust in him was unwavering and indestructible. In all the time she had known him, Emma had never known Riddick to make bad decisions. The choices he had made had been his to make and there were reasons for them all, reasons she accepted without question. Things were never as black and white as people made them out to be Emma knew this better than anyone and decisions made were not always for the greater good, but for the greater happiness of those that truly mattered.

She just wasn't sure whether the decision Riddick had been contemplating in the early hours of this morning was for the greater good, or for the greater happiness.

But this was not for her to decide. The only thing Emma could offer was the slightest of comforts and the barest whispers of advice. She couldn't claim to know what Riddick was going through; she had never seen him this afraid, for himself or for anyone else. She couldn't claim to understand his feelings for the girl, either. Theirs was not a normal friendship. They were not a normal family. He wasn't the ideal father figure, and too much had been lost for Jack to truly feel like a daughter again.

She could only offer what she knew.

"Jack's scared, Riddick, but I don't think she's scared of dying," she told him, sharp green eyes watching him. "I think she's scared of dying alone. And it doesn't matter if everything turns out to be okay. It doesn't matter if you spend hours trying to convince her that things aren't as bad they seem, that'll always be with her."

Emma knelt down beside his chair, never tearing her gaze away from his shadowed face. She grasped his hand in hers and squeezed. "Whether she dies tomorrow or fifty years from now, her biggest fear will be whether you're with her or not. She loves you, more than I thought a girl her age was capable of. And now she thinks you're going to abandon her. She thinks she's failed you."

He turned his head sharply to look down at her, and Emma caught the first stirrings of anger in his eyes. "How can she"

Something must have shown on her face because the anger dissipated from his eyes suddenly, and his shoulders sagged. The shadows of his face darkened.

"I don't think that," he said in a low whisper. "I don't"

"She does," she cut in, and rose to her feet, grabbing her bag from beside the sofa before she headed for the door. She halted in the doorway and turned back towards him. In an hour things would be different, for all of them. Whether the test results proved dire or otherwise, changes would have to be made. The least Emma could do was make sure Riddick understand that.

"Two father figures gone. Three years spent trying to make her last one proud, and now this. For all your lessons, Riddick, none of you were prepared for this. If you think running is going to help her any, then you really don't know Jack at all."

She turned then, away from the soft glow of his eyes, and left him to consider her words in the mid-morning gloom.

Jack was silent on the drive over to Dr. Roberts' surgery. Riddick had never been one for small talk and today was no different. He didn't so much as look at her as he drove, eyes fixed on the road, hidden behind his trademark goggles. He was mindless to the fact that Jack was trembling like a leaf, having finally realised that maybe things wouldn't work out.

She'd spent too long worrying about what she would do without Riddick, that she hadn't taken the time to consider the thought that maybe she wouldn't live long enough to find out. Bad things were happening, and whether Riddick stayed or left, there was a chance a big chance that those things would not get better. She would not get better.

Jack felt sick. Betrayed, by her own body, again. Three years of self-defence lessons could not change the fact that she had no defence against herself, and for all she'd learnt she was powerless. The traitor lived in her own skin.

By the time they reached the surgery her terror had reached its pinnacle and snapped. She was silent now, inside and out, and feeling slightly dazed. Everything felt subdued as she followed Riddick into Dr. Roberts' office, eyes not registering the clean white walls and deep black carpeting. Emma was a traditionalist on an aesthetic level; Jack remembered thinking that the first time she'd been here when the Doctor had first taken the tests.

There had been so many. Blood tests and X-rays and MRI and CT scans. She didn't even know what half of them were for. She remembered Emma trying to explain them at some point, but it was all lost on her. She'd paid no mind. All she'd been worried about was what Riddick would think, what he would do.

Will he leave me? she'd thought. Never: What's wrong with me? Or: Am I going to die?

She'd always thought that if Riddick was there, nothing could be as bad as it seemed. Except things were. Things were definitely as bad as they seemed. Riddick had mentioned cancer. People died of cancer. Was she going to die?

I don't want to die, she thought to herself. I don't want to die, and I don't want Riddick to leave, but nobody cares what I want.

Dr. Roberts was talking to her, she realised. Her head was moving up and down, green eyes flickering to the file in her hand, then to her face, and back again. Jack watched the light slanting across her strong features and playing in her jet-black hair, and then something clicked in her head and sound poured into the room.

"gone against all my original diagnostics. Imaging shows that you have a lump just here" Emma pointed out the area on an X-ray sheet she was holding up, pen resting against a spot near her lower abdomen. Jack's eyes barely registered what she was seeing; she didn't know where the lump was supposed to be and she didn't care. "which doesn't appear to be cancerous. Far from it." She looked up from the X-ray and smiled a wide smile that Jack assumed was meant to be reassuring. It did nothing to calm her nerves.

"You have, however," Emma said, picking up another sheet and scanning it, "got a dermoid cyst resting near your ovaries. That would explain why you're suffering from abdominal pains, and why the hospital tests you had didn't pick up on it. Basic blood work and X-rays wouldn't have worked, and it's doubtful that the doctors would have thought to run an MRI or CT scan. For all we know this cyst could have gone unidentified for years."

"Is it serious?"

Riddick's voice, low and indifferent. Jack glanced over to find he looked as interested as he sounded. Emma was looking at him as if she read something in his face that Jack couldn't see. She felt as if she was intruding on something.

Finally, Emma spoke. "If it's left untreated, yes. Fortunately the cyst hasn't ruptured so it'll be a lot easier to operate on."

Jack blinked tiredly and rubbed at her eyes. She suddenly felt worn and fatigued. "Operate?" she echoed absently, voice a low husk. She didn't even look up at Emma's face. She wasn't ready to acknowledge the bright optimism she knew she would find there.

You're not going to die, she reminded herself. Why can't you be happy with that?

Because I'm still broken.

She listened half-heartedly as Doctor Roberts laid out the facts, ever practical despite her compassionate nature. Jack barely heard anything but the soft timbre of her voice humming in her ears, and only caught the occasional strand of conversation.

"open surgerypossibly laparoscopicallyrecovery period shouldn't be any longer than"

Can you fix me?

It was a hopeful thought, if a little naive, but it was the thought of a frightened sixteen-year-old girl who still held some slim belief that maybe things would turn out okay.

But the part of Jack that had been forced to grow up years before her time knew it wouldn't. There was no quick fix for this. Emma Roberts may be able to remove a malignant cyst from her body, but as skilled a Doctor as she might be, not even she could cut out the part of Jack that ached so bad. Partly because, no matter how physical and tangible her heartbreak felt, it was neither.

It was an unavoidable pain, one which Jack had once thought she would die with. But it was now that she was beginning to realise, to her despair, that it was one she was going to have to live with instead.

There was a time when Doctor Emma Roberts used to do everything by the book. She practiced medicine the way she had been taught and never ventured into immoral ground no matter the times her conscience demanded otherwise.

But Emma's life had not remained so clear cut. Personal problems had led to a slow but inevitable deterioration of her former morals and values, which had thus been replaced by those of a less ideal nature and more of a practical one. It was no drastic change, but Emma, daughter to Sir Christophe Worthington, an Old England aristocrat, soon found herself becoming slowly immersed in a world where death was not always a curse but a blessing, and two wrongs more often than not made a right.

Eventually her ventures to the "darker" side of medicine ended in her sudden removal from the medical register, if only on Earth. From there things had only grown worse. Disowned by her father, for heaven knew it was not the done thing for a daughter of a well-respected aristocrat to actually be caught dirtying her hands, she was forced to leave her home and family. Money left to her by her long deceased Grandfather, locked away in a bank account to grow in interest for years until she was old enough to claim it for herself, had more than covered the costs needed to finance her trip off-world. She considered herself lucky, that being a part of Old Money would near enough leave her financially sound for the rest of her life.

But even though she was born into a life of glamour and prestige, she no longer lived such a life. Not six months after she'd left home, Emma Roberts aka, Eleanor Worthington was recruited at a maximum security prison, better known as Slam City.

It was there that she made several friends of a somewhat unsavoury nature, and it was there that she met Richard B. Riddick.

She remained at Slam City for a little over two years, and left only a few months after Riddick's escape. Emma had known of his plans to break out months before he'd actually succeeded, and they'd kept in contact ever since. They were friends in the only way that two people like themselves could be.

Now Emma ran several private clinics across a number of planets, though she couldn't be there to personally overlook all of them for obvious reasons, and moved freely to where she was most needed. In this day and age star-hopping between her clinics was as simple and as easy as driving to work.

It was in clinics like these that she helped those who were unable to seek conventional medical assistance. She catered to the ex-cons (and in some cases, the not-so-ex-cons) of her past, people who were refused medical attention because they didn't have insurance, and even some of the upper-class crust who, like her, had followed a darker path and had been wounded because and despite of it.

When someone needed help, Emma was there, and right now there was an unconscious, sixteen-year-old girl on her operating table waiting for her to make things right again.

Except this time it was not in her power to make things better. It was up to a certain convict from her past to heal that particular hurt.

But whether Riddick would heed her advice or flee in spite of it, only he would know. Emma was just as helpless as Jack was at this particular moment in time.

Snapping on a pair of latex gloves and sighing heavily, Emma set down to work.

Riddick was by her bedside when Jack woke hours later.

She wondered fleetingly what it would have felt like to wake up without him there, petrified and alone in the dim gloom of the private clinic, and it was no surprise to her to realise that she would probably feel terrified, certain that he had abandoned her.

Nothing had changed. Three years later and she was still waking up to a fear that always made her blood run cold; a fear that Riddick would one day leave her.

She had lived with that hanging over her head for too long now. There was no wonder she felt so tired all the time, spending her days trying to live up to the expectations that Riddick subconsciously set her, never truly realising that fear of failure and a desperate need to make him proud were the only motives keeping her going.

Somewhere along the line she had begun to resent Riddick, and she hated herself for it. She hadn't just been angry at him because of his decision to leave her. She had been angry because for the last three years she had lived for no one but him. Everyone thought her so cute and naive, doting over Riddick like he was her knight in shining armour, but they never seemed to realise that, to Jack, he was. She had no family left, bar her mother who she did not consider family, and the only friend she had was a man twice her age who had saved her life.

But Jack knew that Riddick resented her a little, too. She was the only person tying him to one place and she knew Riddick never liked to settle. She was also the only surviving reminder of a time when he had made a decision to let the killer in him die.

He was struggling with that decision. He fought it only because she expected it of him.

Too many expectations, she thought, and too many fears.

They were both afraid of failing each other.

And so it was in that moment that Jack made a life-changing decision. It was made with a cold detachment and when it had been made she considered herself somewhat blessed that she still felt numb from surgery; emotion was slow-coming but clarity was not. She couldn't afford to think about how she would feel once the time came.

Once she made Riddick leave.

She tilted her head to glance at him and found him looking at her, eyes glowing in the dim light. Even in the gloom she could still see the small smile gracing his usually stoic features.

Something in her chest tightened and she felt the prick of tears in her eyes.

Not yet, she thought, a whisper of hysteria leaving her momentarily breathless. I don't want it to hurt. Not yet. Not yet. Not

"Painkillers," she gasped, and her tears slid free.