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Elapsed transit time: 139 days

8 Days Before Salvation

Anya

Polle Says "Rise and Shine!"

Anya's dark eyes drift from the text on the poster to the outstretched arms of a cartoon horse yawning out of bed. It's like a ritual, at this point - staring at Polle every morning with coffee mug in hand. If she squints hard enough maybe Polle's energy will transfer over to her instead. Sure seems he has more than enough for both of them.

It's part of the ritual too when Anya's gaze falls to the red text below, written in the tiniest font size still legible to the human eye. Do not indulge in over 5 hours of rest, including leisure time. Well, not like she's getting that sleep anyway. Polle can stuff it.

Coffee pools dark and bitter on her tongue as Anya tilts the mug back. The Pony Express coffee might honestly be the worst part of the company, even worse than the twelve-and-a-half long months of the mission itself. Only a truly soulless corporation could come up with sludge like this. The last dregs crawl down her throat like fat brown slugs. Anya clamps her tongue to stop them coming back up.

"Another Pony Expresso?"

Her knuckles clench around the white handle until they turn the same colour. The same joke. The same low, easy tone. The same delivery as if it gets funnier each time he says it. Every. Single. Morning.

It's part of the ritual too.

"Hi, Curly."

A crop of golden curls enters Anya's line of vision, coming to a stop beside her. They look at the poster side-by-side like visitors at an art gallery - like it's the Last Supper and not a cute-ified company protocol. Anya hears him shift  away, but she needs a moment longer - just her and Polle. He's one of the few tethers left to civilisation when you're out in deep space. A creepy, anthropomorphic tether.

"Not even gonna correct me this time?"

Part of the ritual.

She drags her eyes away at last. Curly's arms are crossed, his shoulder propped against the wall as he watches her. The V-strip opening in his boiler jacket frames the company tee stretched taut across his broad chest. She glances back up and Curly's eyebrows raise expectantly.

"Es-press-o." Her slight tooth-gap whistles on the missing 'Es' in his joke.

A smile softens across Curly's face. Anya doesn't understand how he does it. Smiling. Like that, like it's nothing. Smiling for Anya is cranking a rusty lever 'til all her teeth scrape into the right places.

"You're exhausted, Anya." Curly's voice is dangerously gentle.

It's not a question, just an observation. Anya nods.

"I know what it says on the poster," he insists, "But I won't tell if you don't - y'know, if you need some extra sleep. Think I'd be a pretty crap captain otherwise."

"Don't worry about me." She does her best imitation of Curly's own smile, but it comes out all wrong. "I'm something of an expert when it comes to health."

A beat drops.

"Well ... I do worry about you," he says quietly.

His downturned eyes sting at Anya's heart. She hates this - hates that she has to feel guilt for his pain, the pain he feels at her pain. On top of that same pain to begin with. Every time they talk he so earnestly, good-heartedly rips open old wounds. Innocent to the harm he thinks he's undoing. It festers just beneath her skin. But she wouldn't go without it - at least it makes her feel normal again. And she does like talking with Curly. It's nice.

"Tell me what to do, Doc."

Maybe what hurts the most is that it almost works. Every time. (Part of the ritual). Her tongue - always glued to the roof of her mouth, trapping all wayward words within - un-clicks. Sentences string in her throat: something happened, you didn't protect me, nothing will change if i tell you -

-it might even be your fault-

Then, like clockwork, they roll back from the end of her tongue. Swallowed into obscurity. Just another part of the ritual.

"Well .... you're the Captain," is all she says, in the end.

His smile grows weary, but there's still kindness there.

"That's a big responsibility."

He takes a step forward. Anya barely even realises he's reached towards her before the empty mug is lifted from her trembling hands.

"It's a big responsibility," he repeats, cradling the mug in his own hands now - warm, rugged hands that look like they could keep you safe, but they can't - "And it's worth it every time."

She can count the different shades of blue in his eyes, how close they are now - shades of teal, flecks of grey, all periwinkle and sea-foam and endless, useless kindness.

"I want to help, Anya." Part of the ritual. "If there's something - if ..."

And there it is.

The pause.

Right before it gets real. Like if he doesn't let himself think about what could actually be wrong, what might have actually happened, then nothing could have happened at all. It's all just one big ritual - that gentle warmth that lets her believe, for a moment, that she could actually tell him what his best mate did. Then he hesitates, and that's how she knows. He won't choose Anya. He'll want to fix them both.

"... I just care about you all so much," he says softly.

And he does. He really does. Anya knows it, everyone knows it. It's greatest strength.

"All of you."

It's his fatal flaw.

Curly turns away, and Anya watches him disappear into the kitchen. Probably to wash up her mug. He might run into Swansea, stewing over his own cup of coffee. He might see Daisuke in there too, and clap him brotherly on the back. He might even see Jimmy.

Anya gives the poster one last glance before the ritual is complete. Clockwork.

She pulls a switch and just like that, everything is put out of her mind. There's no grudges, no fear, just another day at work. As she slips into Medbay, her fingers brush the keyhole on the door.

The thing about rituals is that they'll get you through deep space and out the other end. Mostly in one piece, too. The daily structure, the different checkboxes, the way your brain rewires to gush happy juice when those boxes are ticked - they have it all.

The other thing about rituals is that they break. And when they break, it's all you can do but watch as your whole life slowly falls apart around you.

Daisuke

When you're a kid, nothing sounds cooler than flying into outer space.

Well, some kids like trains of course. If you'd asked Daisuke what he thought was cool as a kid, he'd have probably said Digimon. Not that he ever grew out of that - the Gameboy he smuggled into his sleeping quarters (Does that count as contraband? He hopes not) should attest for that. But not a single kid would think Space? Pshh, laame! And, y'know, even some twenty-year-olds might agree with that - would you blame them? If you didn't know any better, flying through space would seem like a pretty sweet deal.

It's not.

Daisuke hums the 1999 Digimon Adventure theme song to himself, his eyes glazing over as he stares at the fake blue sky on the living room wall. Yup, lame would be the right word round about now. Maybe he woke up on the wrong side of bed, but this is the first time he's truly felt the weight of boredom and boy is it crushing. He smacks his lips together mindlessly, eyes wandering to the top corner of the screen. Anya pointed out a dead pixel there to him once, and now he can't unsee it.

The door to the kitchen whirrs open and Daisuke snaps his neck up.

"Curly!" he grins, feeling slightly relieved for some reason. "My man!"

The captain shakes his head in amusement as he crosses over to the sink, his signature curls bouncing in tandem. He begins rinsing a coffee mug under the tap, though Daisuke doesn't think he's actually ever seen him drink the stuff before. He's pretty good at noticing things like that.

"Good morning to you too." A broad smile crinkles across Curly's face. "Man."

He draws out a fake American accent for the last part and Daisuke wrinkles his nose.

"Yeah, yeah," he can't help but mock, "Sorry we didn't have any tea and crumpets to go with your coffee."

Curly snorts. "Touché."

"That's Brit for 'I miss my shitty breakfast foods', right?"

"... Think it might be French."

Daisuke starts humming again, quietly. Swansea's still in the restroom, which is why he's even daring to hum right now. Fastest way to piss that man off is to make even a remotely melodic noise in his presence.

"Uh ... Captain?"

Suddenly, Daisuke feels himself go shy. He fidgets with one of the hibiscus flowers on his shirt, keeping his eyes on the dead pixel and away from the other man.

"Hmm?" says Curly, curiously amused.

"So ... This internship," Daisuke tries thinking about how he should word this, but he's already launched into the next sentence. "It's cool and all - no like, really, it's rad, and obviously I'm super grateful and all and - you know that, right? But -"

"Daisuke." Curly's voice is calm.

"Right, sorry - it's just that there's only so cool that one job can be, right? And like, that cut-off point is super high, but it's been four months so I think I kinda ... hit it? Today?"

Curly nods, a reassuring 'go on.'

"I'm just ... ugh, Boss - I'm crazy bored right now." Daisuke groans in anguish, flopping halfway off the couch. "Swansea's been on the can for like half-an-hour and I really -"

"He has?" Curly cuts in, his brow furrowed.

Daisuke swallows.

"Oh - shit, did I just get him in trouble?" He clambers back up the sofa to better plead his case. "Wait, have we had allotted toilet time the past four months? 'Cus I'm just as guilty as Swans - I mean, I've had some insane bowel moveme -"

"N-No, there's-" Curly's mouth twitching as he tries to keep a straight face. "Daisuke, there's no 'toilet time', he's probably just fallen asleep. I'll go check on him for you."

"Oh." Daisuke sags back down. "Good thing for that."

The sound of running water trickles under Daisuke's thoughts. He looks back to see the tap still on, Curly standing deep in thought with the same mug in his hands.

"As for the boredom ..." Curly hums. "It's good that it only took until now for it to hit. That's some mental fortitude you got going there."

A bright flush settles over Daisuke's cheeks. Oh. He fluffs up the back of his hair, not sure what to do with his hands. That's a compliment, right? And coming from the captain too. He peeks over at him - broad-shouldered, blond-haired, managing to look something like an action hero despite the Pony Express jumpsuit. But more than that - a leader. What he wouldn't give to be more like that ... Daisuke lets himself picture the countless women swooning into his arms before coming back to reality.

"If you say so," he makes himself reply, cheeks still pink.

"I tend to try memorising things throughout the day," Curly continues, either not noticing Daisuke's embarrassment or choosing to ignore it. "Like all the countries in Africa, or all the numbers in Pi. Just to keep my brain ticking over when there's not much work to do."

Aaand the illusion is gone.

"Dude, that's more boring than just being bored."

Curly laughs - a proper laugh this time, with his full chest. Daisuke feels himself laugh along with him. It feels good, making a guy like that crack up. That a guy like Curly thinks he's got 'mental fortitude', which ... yeah, that's something good. It's a nice change from all the other stuff he gets called instead.

"Is, uh ..." Daisuke clears his throat, coming back to himself. "Is that the same mug you've been washing for five minutes?"

Curly blinks in surprise, as if he only just noticed it now. He tilts it to check if it's even clean, and Daisuke catches the design on the side.

"Oh - it's Anya's mug?"

There's a stethoscope drawn on the side, framed with the words 'Prescription: Coffee'. Curly runs a thumb over the drawing, spacing out once again.

"Never noticed that," he says to Daisuke.

"You've been washing it for a whole five minutes and you didn't notice?" Daisuke squints when he turns the mug over again. "Cap, it's still dirty. There's lipstick right on the rim."

Curly's hands freeze where he's turned over the mug, eyes fixed on a rosy smudge he somehow missed.

"She wears lipstick?" He pauses, still staring down.

Daisuke rolls his eyes.

"Uh, yeah? I mean, it's a lip stain if that makes any difference."

Curly looks at him blankly and he frowns.

"She leant me her makeup bag last week. Y'know, to do some eyeliner." If possible, Curly's gaze goes even blanker.

"What - It's punk!" he squawks indignantly.

With a sigh, Curly sets down the mug to rub the lines in his forehead.

"Sorry, Daisuke," he says with a tired smile. "I'm not all that fashion-conscious."

Daisuke huffs.

"I'll forgive you - but only 'cus you're a decrepit old man."

"I deserve that," Curly chuckles.

He finishes wiping the mug clean, his smile fading away as Daisuke watches.

"I never noticed it," he murmurs - so soft that Daisuke barely catches it - "The lipstick."

Daisuke looks at him oddly.

"There's a lot you don't notice, huh?"

For a second it looks like Curly flinches - but before either of them can say anything, the kitchen door opens once again and cuts them off.

"Captain." Swansea's gruff voice rumbles over them. "Kid."

With a bone-cracking stretch, Daisuke rolls off the sofa. He springs back up at Swansea's side, where the older man scowls at him, already unimpressed.

"Glad you made it back in one piece, Boss." He grins brightly. "Thought you might've fallen in the toilet bowl."

"Hah - does no-one teach you kids any manners these days?" Swansea growls back. "Brat."

The clattering of tableware being put away distracts Swansea from probably wringing his neck. Curly holds up his hands in a pacifying motion, though his legs betray him as he heads subtly for the exit.

"I'll take that as my cue," he says in good humour. "Go easy on your apprentice when I'm gone, Swans."

Swansea just grumbles unintelligibly, and with that Curly is gone. Daisuke glances at the space he had occupied, thoughts gathering in the back of his mind before he has the chance to work out what exactly they are.

The captain might not notice certain things onboard the Tulpar, but Daisuke does. And he doesn't always like what he sees.

Jimmy

He's thought about it for some time now. To himself, of course. No need to alarm the others - he's seen them jump to conclusions before. Besides, he's not one for rash decisions. But now he's given the thought all the time it needed to grow. What began as a niggling, squirming inkling of doubt, had roots beneath the surface - truth. That there's only one meaningful difference between co-pilot, and captain.

Power.

And money, of course. The difference in pay is practically humiliating - and all for what? So some jumped-up blond gets to showboat about how great he is in a long-haul freighter in the middle of fucking nowhere? These people wouldn't know greatness if it hit them in the face: a rich-kid slacker, a failed nurse and some overweight pensioner. Some arbitrators of success they must be.

What is truly great is to come from nothing, and still rise up. That's Jimmy's story. No great fortune, no pretty-boy looks, just the goddamn backbone to get a job done well. And for a while, it seemed like the universe had finally seen him for what he was. A good man that would finally get the chance to be great.

Now he's in fucking limbo while a false prophet parades around the ship he works harder for than anyone else. Co-pilot? Where's the goddamn 'co' in that? Half the work, double the pay, and all the respect from your braindead lackeys. That is what it means to be a captain.

Jimmy can feel it, rippling under his flesh as he stalks down the corridor from the cockpit - he could be so much more. So much better. Curly might even thank him for it, the man's so spineless these days. A good guy, sure. But not a great one. The idea of Curly is far greater than the man himself: meek, ambitionless, and always so eager to please.

A familiar flash of pink floral T-shirt catches Jimmy's eye, and before he registers what he's doing he ducks into the alcove of the door to the Medbay.

" - So yeah, I was just asking for advice in general 'cus - well, I'm an intern and all - but you won't believe what he said to me next! -"

Jimmy can feel a headache coming on just listening to the kid for half a second. For what it's worth, Swansea looks similarly disinterested in the conversation: that, Jimmy has to admit, earns a degree of his respect.

" - 'Mental fortitude'," Daisuke prattles on, "Me! The captain said that to me!"

"Yeah, well," Jimmy hears Swansea's curt reply. "Curly's nice like that. Maybe too nice."

A smirk twists at the corner of Jimmy's mouth. Right on the money, Swansea.

"Amazing is more like it!" Daisuke's voice grates on Jimmy's ears. "That dude's like my hero - y'know, I've been feeling kinda aimless lately, but he's given me some serious mojo. He's what I always figured a captain should be."

Jimmy shakes his head to himself, even though neither of them can see it. He's not even angry - just disappointed that this poor kid's been so disillusioned. If things were how they should be, Jimmy could have showed him what a captain really looks like. Daisuke could have had the hero he really needs.

"I mean he's funny, smart - he was talking all about Pi earlier, like I didn't even know people still thought about that kinda stuff after they left school - and he's just, y'know, nice? Imagine being that cool and having zero ego like, at all."

Jimmy can feel his goodwill slowly draining.

"Oh, plus?" Daisuke whistles and it echoes all the way down the corridor. "Talk about hot. Have you seen his arms? They're nearly the size of my head! D'you know if he has a workout plan I can borrow?"

For the first time in weeks, he hears hearty laughter rumble from Swansea's belly. He glimpses movement in the corridor, and sees Swansea slap Daisuke on the arm - affection clear as day. Daisuke looks just as surprised as Jimmy feels.

"Sounds like ya got a bit of a crush there, boy."

He's never heard Swansea's voice sound warm before. It's all.. wrong. Jimmy shivers, pressing his ear further toward their conversation.

"Ugh, it's not a crush," Daisuke groans, and for a moment they practically sound like father and son. "I need the workout plan for all the ladies back home - they're missing me, Swans!"

"If you say so."

There's a pause. Jimmy thinks for a second they've finally left the corridor, and starts to move out - before Swansea clears his throat.

"Curly is ..." He tries to clear his throat again. His voice grows thick when he does. "If it'd been anyone else - as captain, I mean - I don't think I would've stayed. You're still young, so you probably think it's just a chip on my shoulder, but higher-ups don't tend to treat us so well half the time. Us blue-collars. Tend to think they're better, smarter - not Curly, though. Been with him for a few hauls now and he ain't changed neither. A good leader and a good friend. That's special."

"What I'm tryna say is ... I'm glad you look up to him, kid. It's a shit job for a shit company, and the rest of the world back home is even shitter. It'd do us good to have a few more Curlys in the world."

Isn't that nice.

"... You're a good friend too, Swansea," Daisuke says quietly.

There's an awkward pause before Swansea coughs.

"Uh - nah. You're still a right little toe-rag in my books squirt."

"I-I meant you're a good friend to Curly - jeez!"

They're back to bickering but Jimmy is already gone.

Curly this, Curly that, fucking Curly Curly Curly Curly Curly Curly Curly Curly EVERYWHERE he FUCKING GOES

White noise storms in his ears, the metallic echo of his footsteps fading into nothingness. Jimmy thunders through the hallway, his mind empty and on fire all at once.

Polle Says "Rise and Shine!"

He grinds to a stop in front of the poster on the wall. The cheerful sleepy grin of Polle the cartoon horse swims before Jimmy's eyes. That stupid little pony. It haunts him everywhere he goes - just like Curly.

Fuck you. Fuck. You.

I'll teach you not to fuck with me.

He rips the poster from the wall. Paper shreds in his hand. Already, he's storming down the path to the sleeping quarters, and the door handle comes up to meet him.

I'll teach you.

Liquid fury pumps through his veins. He trashes the poster across his sleeping cot, towering above the innocent expression on Polle's face. He's smaller, now, smaller than Jimmy. Dethroned from that wall where he's always looked down on them from. Now Jimmy's in charge. Now, he has all that he needs.

Power.

He unbuckles his belt.

Chapter Text

Elapsed transit time: 140 days

7 Days Before Salvation

Curly

It's the morning of the psych evals, and Curly wakes up hard as a rock.

"Shiiit ..."

He sinks back into his pillow - as far as you can sink into only an inch or two of foam. This is ... unexpected. He can't remember the last time he'd even had a hard-on, but it was surely months ago. Before the air got stale, the nights grew short and the memories of the outside world started fading at the edges. He looks down in bed, a whole cocktail of ideas brewing and none of them very captain-like. At least he knows his blood still flows down there. He really hadn't been sure as of late.

Curly rubs the heavy creases of his eyes, trying to remember what he even dreamt about. It's all just shapes and fuzzy colours now. He rocks himself upright in bed, shoulders popping as he leans forward. God, he's sore. He glances down at the culprit in the corner of the room - a pair of metal weights Jimmy got for him four hauls ago. Probably the only present he ever bought him, but damn if it wasn't a good one. Even if Curly is slowly grinding away all the ligaments in his shoulder, it's worth it for the shape he's finally in.

He blinks away the last dregs cobwebs of sleep, and a thought solidifies in his mind. Or, a memory? Curly concentrates, and it sharpens: the last thing on his mind before he drifted to sleep.

Lipstick.

"Oh God," he blurts out loud.

He slaps a hand over his mouth, though the sound doesn't travel far. Shit, shit, shit. Panic quickly sets in as his cheeks begin to flush, hand still in an iron grip over his face. This is not happening.

He glares down at his erection, but it's clear it's not going anywhere soon.

"This is your fault," he mutters accusingly.

When he gives himself a moment to go through all the stages - anger, denial, some grief - it makes a bit more sense. They're on a freighter, in the middle of nowhere, for an entire year. The air stinks of musty carpet and they haven't seen the sun in months: there's nothing even remotely erotic about that. So ... well ... maybe it is understandable, that the sight of a little pink lipstick kiss is enough to turn him back into a schoolboy.

He lets out a groan. Nope. It's really not.

As much as he'd like to hide from the rest of the crew - from one of them in particular - duty calls. Curly sighs, combing a hand through his thick blond hair before making a beeline for the shower.

One of the perks of making captain? En-suite bathroom.

He slumps against the tiled wall, cold water hitting his back before - after thumping the shower-head a couple times - it relents into a lukewarm stream. With every ounce of willpower he can hold onto after three hours of sleep, he stands. Not moving. Especially not his hands. Those stay very, very, still. In fact, it's the most PG-rated shower he's taken in his entire life.

It takes him six seconds to snap.

Muddled pleasure burns through his body, his hand a desperate blur as the world melts away around him. It's been long - too long -  and it's all he can do to last long enough to feel it. He fights to keep that damn lipstick stain out of his head, but it teases at the corner of his mind. Panting, while wet hands scrabble at the tiles, he pushes in memories of past girlfriends instead. Fuzzy curves and blurry planes of skin. 

He strokes faster, punishingly. Heat pools in his gut. A low whine starts to keen in his throat - it really has been too long - when pink lipstick kisses suddenly flash across the old memories. He jerks his head away like he can physically escape, but they're everywhere, on everything - and now they're all over him, covering his skin, kissing him, and - and -

He actually moans. Like he's a bloody pornstar. Like it's the best wank of his entire life, which ... oh, please, tell me it's not.

World spinning, he slides hazily down the wall of the shower and melts into the floor. The water washes the deed away, but there's no pretending this didn't happen. Once the steam has cleared and fleeting bliss has long since evaporated, only one thing remains on his mind.

How the hell am I gonna face her now.

Anya

It's gone. There's a torn-up, square-shaped hole where her ritual used to be.

"You do that?"

It's Swansea. He passes her the same cup of coffee, like he does every morning on his way out the kitchen, except it's not the same. It can't ever be the same again. Words don't come so she shakes her head instead.

"Shame," he whistles, "Whoever finally did it, I'm shaking their hand."

Anya just stares at the empty wall. There's a line of bolts stapling some of the panels together that she were knew was there. They're less oxidised than the other ones along the wall. That poster was their last line of defense. Now, there's nothing left to protect them. 

The poster's not the only thing that's missing. With Swansea's clunking footsteps echoing away, the corridor is empty save for Anya. A familiar head of hair would be commenting on her coffee right about now, if the poster were still here. It was all part of the - well. All part of nothing, now.

And once again, the cold claws of despair hook beneath her skin.

Her feet are moving before she even realises where she's going. Coffee laps at the sides of the cup, scalding hot water tricking over her fingers while she barely notices. She's already pacing across the sleeping quarters. Polle was her tether, all those mornings, but he wasn't the only one. She just ... She just needs that half-a-minute of mindless chatter. That familiar routine, that sense of normalcy. That brief moment of protection before she's left to oxidise once again.

If Curly can't do anything else for her, can't he just give her that?

Not even thinking to knock, her hand pulls open the door to the Captain's Quarters - right as the captain himself reaches for the handle on the other side.

A split second drops where Anya's eyes track up before her body can react. She gets a glimpse of Curly's stunned expression, something she doesn't know she needed to see. Face flushed, lips parted in a stunned 'o' - before she stumbles back and dumps a tidal wave of hot coffee all down Curly's chest.

"A-Augh!!"

Oh - Oh no, no - Anya's whole body freezes up, panic stapling her to the floor. Her eyes boggle, horrified, as she watches Curly stagger back like he's been shot. He yelps in pain and starts desperately trying to rip out of the boiler jacket. Do something! her brain supplies, even while her muscles seize up all the tighter - You always just let it happen

That sends her into action mode.

"Q-Quick - cold water!" she garbles, brain rifling through hours of nurse training courses at Pony Express, "Straight away!"

Curly makes one last fruitless attempt to escape the boiler suit before he sprints to the nearest door, yanking it open to a shower in the corner of the room. Anya doesn't even have time to process that he's had an en-suite this whole time. She rushes in after him, instantly getting a face full of spray as the shower blasts on.

The relief is instantaneous. A groan shudders from Curly lips and he tips his head back, chest rising and falling jerkily where the fading patch of brown is. They stand there for a moment - Curly recovering, Anya feeling her blood freeze up again. She tries to form words, to say literally anything. Instead, her mouth gapes helplessly like a fish out of water.

A deep exhale shakes her out of her stupor.

"Anya." His voice drips ice, colder than the water from the shower. "What the hell was that."

She shakes - tries not to, but that only makes it worse. He's mad at you, her thoughts race, Curly never gets mad, but you made him mad. The pit in her stomach twists and tangles, consuming her from the inside. Snatches of blurry memories - thinly veiled anger, her body frozen in place - grip her in place.

"I - I -"

"You almost gave me third-degree burns!"

Her turtleneck is suddenly too tight. She clamps her fingers round the soft cotton edges, grounding herself, keeping it from cutting off her air supply.

"I-I'm so sorry, Curly - I -" Her throat seizes painfully.

"And what were you doing, coming into my room without knocking? I could've been naked!"

Flustered, Curly clamps a hand over his brow, looking pointedly away. The shower's still running, his blond curls dampening to a dull brown. When he glances back it's to Anya still opening and closing her mouth as words fail to spill forth.

Blue eyes dart down to her lips, then away again. He swallows. Say something she cringes He's waiting for you to explain

"T-This morning, there ..." Everything comes out wrong the second she starts to speak. "The poster was gone ... The one w-where we usually talk ..."

"Gone?" Curly's eyebrows raise.

"You're always there by then," Anya keeps going, "So I - thrown off, I was thrown off ... And I forgot to knock, I'm so sorry Cur-"

A hand held up between them cuts her off.

"It's okay, you don't have to keep apologising." Curly lowers his hand and turns the tap off at last. "Something was off - it's good you came straight to me."

He steps onto the metal floor, wet shoes forming rivers between the rivets. Soaked through to the bone, Curly's boiler suits clings to him a little too comfortably. Anya looks away, and Curly's cheeks tinge the slightest bit pink.

"... Sorry for raising my voice at you." He ruffles his wet hair, looking rather sheepish now. "I know it was an accident. You just, uh ... Well, you scared the crap outta me, frankly."

Anya shakes her head insistently.

"No, I - I could have seriously hurt you. I'll have to give you a check-up."

"Reckon you'll have to stitch me back together?" Curly grins. 

"Oh, absolutely." Anya's eyes light up at last. "Sadly, company protocol dictates we can only spare a cold compress."

"Sounds about right."

Daisuke

Why Swansea hates these psych evals so much, Daisuke will never understand. They make him feel like he's in a movie, like a top secret agent working for the FBI. Maybe the next James Bond, or - even cooler - Jack Nicholson in The Shining, losing his grip on ever-dwindling sanity. There's even an axe outside the utility room, in case he ever gets that far.

Shit's radical.

He trots happily down the corridor, looking forward to his session. Even the name sounds cool. Psych - eval. So slick. He pictures himself in the arcade back home, humble-bragging to his friends: 'What's a psych eval, you say? What - you guys don't do these back on Earth?'

Just as he's about to skip straight into the Medbay, the sound of muffled voices stops him early. He presses his nose up against the porthole, scanning for the source of the noise.

"At least I got mine out the way early this time."

Narrowing his eyes, he can make out the willowy frame of nurse Anya, stooped in front of one of the Medbay cots. Her blue-clad back faces the door, and she's leaning over ... Curly?

"I do wish you'd open up a little more, Captain."

"I'm pretty open right now, don't you think?"

The captain shifts his weight on the cot and ... Daisuke's eyes widen - is he naked? Hands cupped like binoculars, he pushes up against the doorframe, not even bothering to hide his blatant spying anymore.

"Oh, stop it."

A sigh of relief parts Daisuke's lips when he shifts again to reveal that, no, it's just his shirt that's off. Anya's pale hands flatten against the plane of his sturdy chest, pressing down on an icepack.

"How many left?"

"Well - you were meant to go right before Jimmy, but there's still Daisuke and Swansea to go now."

"Hmm. You gonna mention the thing with the poster?"

Poster? Is that like, code for something?

"Maybe. I know it wasn't Swansea, at least. Or either of us."

"... Daisuke or Jimmy, then."

Daisuke perks up - ha! He really is a secret agent right now. At least he doesn't have to feel bad on listening in. Would be nice if he actually knew what they were on about, though. He watches as Anya hesitates, drawing her arm back from the captain.

"I ..." She pauses again. "I really don't think it was Daisuke."

Another pause. Whatever they were talking about - maybe someone graffitied a poster? - it sounds like he's off the hook. He makes a note to be a bit more generous the next time him and Anya play Monopoly together.

Curly sighs, looking down at his feet.

"No," he admits. "You're probably right."

"Still want me to ask about it? Last time I had to make his report with things like, 'I have found myself sexually excited at the sight of cartoon horses'"

Daisuke almost turns green - gross, man. Curly laughs, but it sounds forced.

"Hah - That sounds like Jim. Still, this stuff with the poster ..."

He hears another sigh.

"Might be best if you leave that conversation to me. We'll see if I can't fix it."

"And the psych eval?"

"I'd take it off your hands, but ... I think I need a few hours for my clothes to dry first. Unless he's alright doing it while I'm in my boxers."

"C-Captain!"

The laughter is real this time. There's a blur of motion as Anya swats at his arm, and the laughter loudens.

"This is what I get for washing all the suits in one load, huh?"

"Gosh ... I really am sorry, Curly."

"Oh, don't be - this is the closest thing I've had to a vacation day in months. If it didn't swell up so much after, I'd ask you to give me another one."

Just as Daisuke is more curious than ever to hear what they're saying - swell up? another one? - a gravelly 'A-hem' sends him jumping out of his skin.

"W-Woah - Swansea!"

The engineer does not look in the least bit happy to see him.

"Fancy yerself a peepin' Tom now, do ya?"

Daisuke's jaw drops in horror - "That is so not what's going on here!"

"Think it's fun bein' the only Jane around here?" Swansea scoffs. "Try keepin' a straight head before you go leaving slobber marks all over the nurse's window."

Shame flushes to the tips of Daisuke's ears. He tries to deny it until Swansea jabs a finger at the porthole, where a fog of condensation frames two nostril-shaped circles in the window.

"It's not - I didn't -" Daisuke huffs, embarrassed and frustrated in equal measure. "I'm not eyeing up Anya, jeez!"

The older man cocks a disbelieving eyebrow.

"... I just heard them talking about me, 'kay? Cap is in there too."

"Hm." If Swansea is buying his emphatic denial, he doesn't show it. "So? What'd they say?"

"Uhh ..." Daisuke scratches his chin. "Something 'bout a poster? Or like, that I didn't do something about it?"

Swansea sniffs. It's taken a few months to get used to, but Daisuke knows that sniff. He's catalogued every Swansea-certified grunt, snort and huff that there is, and now he's a human translator for all the man's wordless mannerisms. This sniff? Reluctant approval.

"Alright - fine." Boo-yah! "But don't let me catch you doing anythin' like that again, ya hear me boy?"

"You got it, Boss!" He perks up in a cartoonish salute, and Swansea scowls like the sight physically pains him.

A mechanical hiss draws the pair's attention as the door to the Medbay de-pressurises. One damp blue pant-leg steps out into the corridor, followed by the other. Out walks the Captain, a distinctive brown splotch on his shirt, and a sagging ice-pack in his hand. He startles when he spots the both of them standing there already.

"Daisuke, Swansea," He eases past the awkwardness with a breezy smile. "Ready for psych evals?"

"Sure am!" Daisuke glances Curly up and down. "Uh - it isn't raining in there, is it?"

Curly's brows knit together .

"Raining ...?" The penny drops, and he smothers his embarrassment in a cough: "O-Oh right - yep, yep. The forecast's very drizzly."

"Good thing I brought my 'brella," says Swansea blandly.

He guesses they're just going to pretend the Captain isn't forming a puddle on the floor right now, then.

"I spilled my coffee on him," Anya's meek tone drifts out from somewhere behind Curly. "He's off-duty for the rest of the morning."

"Or at least until I dry out," he says with a wink.

The puddle grows into a lake, and then they really can't ignore it any more. With a sigh, the captain wades on through the group.

"Alright, Daisuke!" Curly claps him on the back before he sets off for his quarters. "She's all yours."

Something briefly flashes in Anya's face, but it's gone before Daisuke can work out what it is. She gestures inside, clipboard in hand. He spies his grainy ID photo at the top of the report.

"Let's get started, shall we?"

Anya

Anya raps her biro on the last sentence she set in ink - Awesome, super cool, and like, totally awesome. Like really awesome. From now on, she thinks she'll just write in shorthand.

"- So like, you gonna ask me if I ever killed a man?" Daisuke makes a batting motion with both hands. "'Cus I nearly corked a kid once in our regional junior baseball team."

She smiles kindly. It's easier to make those kind of faces when it's only Daisuke: he's bright, upbeat, and sticks out like a sore thumb in the rest of the motley crew. Or rather, the rest of them are the sore ones. The darkness in her wonders how long it'll take for him to join that.

"It's just the same questions as last time, I'm sorry to say." She glances at him from under her dark lashes. "For the record, I do like your ones better."

Before Daisuke can gloat too much, she clears her throat and scans down to the final question.

"Have you ever harboured ill intent toward Pony Express or any of the Pony Express properties?" Anya scrolls down the list. "This may include, but is not limited to - representations of Polle, water-coolers -"

"Is this about the poster?"

Daisuke slaps a hand over his mouth like that wasn't supposed to come out, then instantly cringes. He peels his hand away slowly when Anya doesn't reply.

"... I overheard you and Curly talking about it earlier" He hangs his head like a guilty dog. "I was, um. I was spying on you guys."

Almond puppy-eyes pore into Anya's own, and she has to fight not to snort at it. Admittedly, it's rather cute.

"Well, at least you were honest with me," she says, struggling to suppress a smile. "Sort of."

"Aw man ... am I in trouble?"

"Hm." A lightbulb flicks on in her head. "That depends. Swansea have you on assignment for the rest of the day?"

Daisuke huffs.

"I think he wants me to check out this jacked-up vent. Not that I even get to do anything, though. He said he'd be dead in his grave before I touch his wire cutters."

"I see." She almost asks - 'And how does that make you feel?'- "Then, maybe you'd like to do something for me instead?"

Daisuke gasps: "No way - can I stick my head in the X-ray machine? I've always wanted to do that!"

Well. Good thing Pony Express was too cheap to kit them out with any of that stuff after all.

"Not quite. It's actually something you're good at already."

Daisuke glows under the praise.

"I'd like you to listen in on one of the psych evals."

She'd half-hoped Curly could've taken it instead, but with him predisposed ... This will have to do. Daisuke's glowing face sinks into one of offended betrayal.

"Espionage ..." he whispers dramatically. "Swansea's gonna murder me, man."

Slowly, Anya shakes her head.

"It's not for Swansea."

Daisuke meets her eyes. There's a glint in there that hardens. Recognition. She sucks in a breath.

"It's Jimmy."

Chapter Text

Elapsed transit time: 140 ½ days

6 ½ Days Before Salvation

Anya

Old Spice. He smelled like Old Spice.

She holds onto that thought as her heart races a hundred miles an hour - wraps it up, buries it, keeps it close to the her chest. All while her eyes flit back and forth between the empty report and the emptier doorframe. Dyed-brown hair bobs into frame every so often, letting her know Daisuke still stands guard outside, but it's not enough to steel her nerves. Remembering the scent that lingered here not too long ago helps. Cinnamon and musk. Something with a ship on the bottle.

It suits him, she can't help but think.

A shadow darkens the porthole, too tall to be Daisuke. Anya bolts up like a gunshot. Her features re-arrange in an instant, the perfect smile painting itself on her face. Non-aggressive, but non-pandering either. She picked up on that part only recently. Muffled mutters rumble from behind the door, the higher pitch sounding defensive. She pushes one of the pens to the other side of the desk. Maybe it will help.

Jimmy slides into the room.

It's a practiced kind of carelessness, the way that he walks. Too measured to be real. Anya doesn't have to be doing his psych evals every quarter to know that yes, Jim does care about how they all view him. How the others do, at least.

"Anya." He makes his disinterest known.

"Hey, Jim," she smiles carefully. "I'll get this over with as quick as I can, okay?"

"Sure."

They rattle through the questions as fast as Anya can go without sounding, as Jim once put it, 'like a Xanaxed chipmunk'. He gives mostly one-word answers. Even 'Please reflect on your contributions to Pony Express' only gets half a sentence, which strikes her as odd. He usually waxes poetical at that part. 

At first, things go okay. Jim sneaks a few wry jokes, none of them in too poor taste. Just poking fun at the corporation for the most part. Technically, she's supposed to note that down under 'Company Disloyalty', but she's just glad they aren't being directed at her. She's even able to look at him for once. Not that he looks back. Every other facet of the Medbay is of far more interest than the woman sat across from him. 

She knows what Jimmy's trying to do, even if he's not aware of it himself. It doesn't work. The longer her eyes are allowed to rake over him - brown hair lank, rings of sleepless nights etched round his eyes - the more she feels a grim sense of satisfaction creep in. That he looks as bad as she feels. 

Strange as it is, she can still remember how she looked at him before. It's been a few years and she can't remember their first meeting all that well - it had been brief, she recalls that much. Crammed to the last possible moment before they were all shuttled aboard a tin-can for a year, in true Pony Express fashion. There was a quick hand-shake, probably a 'nice to meet you', all with Curly's arm hanging off his shoulder. He'd seemed ... decent. Charming, even - no Curly of course, but his jokes were never sharpened at the edges the way they are now. She think she might have even found him good-looking, once. There was an unavoidable air about him that screamed he needed saving. Fixing. Maybe that's what first drew Curly to him, knowing the captain. Anya used to do a lot of that too, in relationships long since past. Not her greatest moments in life.

They don't define her.

"Alright! Doing good, Jim. We're almost done." She's in her element now, leveraging her own professionalism to feel bloody good about how well she's doing. "Ah, now I know this one's your favourite - 'Have you found yourself sexually attracted to cartoon horses?'"

She waits for the glib remark that's sure to follow. When it doesn't come straight away, a familiar feeling crawls into her gut. A feeling she ignores. Digging her nails into her thighs under the desk - grounding, putting the pain somewhere else - she forces a smile. An out, for Jimmy - a take your time, it's okay. Instead, her stomach only drops as  darkness swallows his features. She knows, in an instant, that she's said something horribly wrong.

Out from the black, two livid eyes burn in Jimmy's skull. Wherever his attention had been before, it's back. All of it. On Anya.

"My favourite?"

The air heaves like an oil slick. She tries to ease through with a nervous laugh, but her movements are clumsy, slow; a bird stuck in tar.

"Just a joke, Jimmy."

Wrong, wrong, wrong. His stare swirls, locking Anya in place. Like an animal with too many bones, the man rolls his shoulders and hunkers down on her desk, forcing her to shrink back in her seat. She can see the lean muscles shift beneath his skin; taut, itching to break free.

"Just a joke," he repeats slowly. He draws out each word like loose string: pulling until things start to unravel. "Gee, that's funny."

Her cheeks ache from smiling but she doesn't dare let it drop. Before she can stop herself, her eyes dart to the door - please, please, don't be empty. Let Daisuke be there. Let her not be alone again.

For one horrible second her worst fear is realised, and there's no-one behind the porthole window. Her heart tumbles - for one horrible second she's not in Medbay, there's no desk to seperate her and Jimmy, and there's no lock on the fucking door.

Then, pink hibiscus flowers glimmer at the edges of her vision, and suddenly she's not alone anymore. Warmth floods through her chest at the realisation.

"A-Alright." She holds onto that warmth, pushes off it like a springboard. "We'll just move on, shall we?"

"What did you put."

Anya clutches her pen until it threatens to explode. She barely even remembers what she's just written; probably incoherent scrawl. Cinnamon, she thinks to herself desperately, Hibiscus flowers and cinnamon.

"I-I'm afraid it's confidential." She folds her shaky hands over the lower half of the report. "I can promise that I'm writing down your answers as you've given them."

"So show me." Gunmetal eyes hold her down. "Show me you wrote down exactly what I said."
 
He reaches for the paper, and Anya reels back. Before he can even touch it, however, his arm falls short. Sickeningly casual - like the two of them are really just two mates bickering - he prods his finger on her folded hands. Taps once. Twice.

Nausea surges, the acid stinging her nose. To anyone else; pushy, overfamiliar. To Anya; a warning.

"Jimmy, I ... I ..."

But then Daisuke's there, perked up against the porthole. His rounded face steeps in concern, moles risen almost an inch with how wide his eyes have blown. Every pore of him is curiosity and alarm, and for once she is seen.

 "... I'm just doing my job." Mustering up the willpower, she meets him where he's at - right in his glowering eye. "I think you can appreciate that, out of everyone on board."

That catches him off-guard. Brows furrowed, he withdraws. Jimmy huffs, cautious not to show his hand early.

"What's that s'posed to mean?"

"It means you're a hard worker, Jim."

She's not sure if it's actually true, but she knows how badly he wants it to be. Maybe there's a world where that on its own would count for something. The statement works, though, because one second Jimmy is brimstone and fury and the next it just ... dissipates.

"I-I know you don't like these psych evals," she ploughs on, trying to inject as much truth as possible (he can tell when you're full of it), "But they do tell me a lot about you all. And I can tell ... You work as hard as everyone else. Maybe harder than anyone. So I know you appreciate it when I say, I have a j-job to do."

His gaze slakes over her, flashing with newfound interest, and - shit - this might be worse than when he was looking at her like a bug.

"Nice to know somebody notices," he says gruffly, doing a poor job hiding the rush to his ego.

He frowns again, circling back to look for the lie.

"You really mean that?"

I believe you believe it.

"I do."

Jimmy rocks back in his chair, finger-bitten hands scratching out stuffing from the armrest of his chair. His tongue darts out nervously to wet his lower lip, and he seems like he's weighing something up in his head.

"These reports make it back to the company, yeah?" He clears his throat, forcing on an airiness that doesn't suit hum. "Maybe you should write a recommendation."

"For what?" Anya struggles to follow.

He glances back at her. Testing waters.

"For me."

The punch to the gut is so fast she almost chokes. A hysterical laugh fights to escape her throat but she tamps down - is he serious? She scans his face; of course he is. A recommendation, for what, Captain? From her?

"What a wonderful idea, Jim."

There's no sarcasm, though she's tempted. She smiles politely and, tentatively, he actually smiles back. This side to him - the ridiculous, oh-so-human pomp and frill, slathered atop festering insecurities he ends up only drawing more attention to. This is a side that brings her joy to see. The kind of high you get from knowing you're better than a gutter rat. 

"Thank-you."

The words are rotten, falling from his mouth. Anya shudders. Was that a first? Did he really just ... thank her? She feels like a rat in a lab, being poked at with sticks and surgical knives and not knowing why.

Jimmy's chair scrapes as he apparently decides the psych eval is over, and Anya is too exhausted to say otherwise. Before he can reach the handle, there's a blur of pink as Daisuke ducks out of frame. The sound of Jimmy's footsteps stills, and he stops in his tracks. Anya's heart sticks in her throat. Did he notice that?

"There'll come a day - sooner than you think - when you see that Captain is a title you have to earn." Jimmy turns around and, to Anya's surprise, the smile is still painted on his face. "When that day comes ... well. Let's just say I'll be needing a new co-pilot by my side, nurse Anya."

Dead silence hangs between them. The cryptic messaging, the mind games, the constant prodding and poking ... It's all she can do to keep her own smile up as well. He scans her face one last time, and appears satiated by whatever he finds. The door handle groans as Jimmy pulls it open.

"Oh, and next time?"

The smile drops.

"Keep your boyfriend better hidden."

Swansea

Say what you will about the kid - and he definitely does - but the last thing Swansea wants to hear that morning is the blood-curdling scream of his new apprentice.

It's like a switch is flicked and Swansea is up on his feet, running. Goddamnit, he left for less than a minute! First he hasn't seen the kid since he'd gone for his psych eval, and now he's screaming bloody murder from the one single room he's not supposed to be alone in.

"Dais'ke!" he bellows, rounding the corner to the utility room, "What in the hells is happenin' in there!"

A low, whimpering groan sounds out and relief washes Swansea over like a bucket - at least the intern's still breathing yet. He clatters down the door, and his eyes boggle out of his skull at the sight before him.

"H-Hey, Boss ..."

Like a cherry in a bowl of whipped cream, only Daisuke's upper body can still be seen over an explosion of safety foam. As Swansea sputters and gawks, growing red as a cherry himself in the process, the foam does slowly begin to settle until it only comes up to his knees. Daisuke doubles over, trying to pry his legs free, but the safety foam holds fast.

"And Pony Express said they don't provide on-board entertainment."

Swansea glowers as the co-pilot arrives on the scene, his shoulder already leant against the doorframe and a lazy smirk on his face.

"Do us all a favour and fetch yer better half already," Swansea growls at him.

The other man sours, lip curling at the corners.

"Yeah, yeah." He throws a dark look over as his shoulder as he turns to leave. "Y'know, kid - some might call this karma."

Jimmy's gone from sight before Swansea can even start to think about what could've gone on there.

"Yer makin' sure to piss in everyone's good graces, aren'tcha?" he grunts.

Daisuke pales, eyes still locked on the spot where Jimmy just was. Swansea lets out a humph. Little snot.

"Jim's all bark," he snaps at the kid, grabbing his attention. "It's me ya should worry 'bout grovellin' to!"

Daisuke nods his head weakly, throat bobbing with a dry swallow.

"I was just trying to fix the vent!" he complains, "How did that trigger the emergency foam?!"

Right as Swansea puffs up his chest for another tirade, Jimmy returns with a stunned-looking captain.

"Man, why are you so damp?" Swansea hears Jim mutter under his breath.

Curly mumbles something about clothes in the laundry, before staring back at the situation at hand.

"Well," he manages finally. "I can see the issue."

It doesn't take too long before the emergency axe is out, chopping through foam worryingly close to Daisuke's leg. Swansea can't help but wince. Out of worry for the axe, of course. Might dull that beautiful blade.

Once Daisuke is set free, Swansea hounds on him with a face full of fire. That vent is a certified death-trap. Live severed wires and a million shards of jagged metal - it's a miracle the boy fell flat on his ass before he could get a leg up.

"Off-limits!" he roars for the umpteenth time, "They teach you that word in school?"

Daisuke defends himself back, but his attention seems split. He keeps flitting his gaze between himself and what he thinks is the captain, but when Swansea turns around only his co-pilot still remains. He turns back. The kid's fists are crumpled into balls, and it admittedly throws Swansea off-course. Didn't think the boy had a bone in his body that wasn't always on vacation. He's including his brain as a bone in that equation.

"Quit gawkin' already."

Swansea shoos Jimmy away with his hands, partly thinking the kid's just shy to get scolded in front of someone else. Which wouldn't usually matter to him, of course, but ... Well. Maybe they've had some kind of altercation already. He decides he's right about that when Daisuke visibly slumps in relief, seeing Jimmy disappear from the room. 

Now, 'Mind your own business' is a tenet that Swansea usually stands firmly behind. It's one that he's certainly fast to remind others of. But from the way that Daisuke's so shaken up, he half-wonders if he shouldn't ask what -

"Can I go to Medbay?" Daisuke's quiet voice interrupts that train of thoughts. "I ... think I landed on my tailbone funny."

"Hmph." Swansea gives him a once-over. "Seems yer walkin' fine to me."

The kid sticks out a tentative foot. When it doesn't prove his point he takes one step, then the damn moron trips on thin air and - Swansea swoops in before he even clocks that he's falling. He dives, catching him round the midriff. The engineer almost gets the chance to feel proud of the athletic feat, until he looks down to see Daisuke's feet both; still firmly planted on the ground. 

"Wowzers, Boss," he grins up at him, showing no shame for the stunt he just pulled. "I think my heart just skipped a beat."

"Damnit, boy -"

He swipes for a chunk of the little shitstain's hair, but Daisuke's already wriggled out of his grip, hopping from toe to toe.

"Trippin' on thin air is just what I've come to expect from ya, alright?" Swansea huffs, beet-red and feeling all the fool. "Don't mean nothin'."

Daisuke clutches a dithering hand to his head in a swoon. The knuckles pop in Swansea's fist.

"Forget Curly, I've found my real hero now ..." he sighs, then screeches as an oil-stained flannel narrowly misses his head.

With that, he takes off running into the Medbay - tailbone in perfect condition. Swansea grits his teeth, considers marching in there after him ... but he lets it go with a rusty sigh. Fucking exhausting, all of it. He can't imagine what was running through his mind, thinking something might be up with Daisuke. That kids never gone a day in his life with something to worry about.

Wiping the sweat from brow, he sweeps his gaze across the mountain range of foam, set hard and fast over the utility room. The axe weighs heavy in his hand.

For the first time in four years, he thinks he might actually miss his kids.

Daisuke

"I mean, jeez Louise, Anya!"

"Daisuke -"

"And it's like that every time? How does -"

"Daisuke."

"- like, I got the heebie-jeebies from the other side of the door!"

They're sat on opposite cots in the corner of the Medbay, bed curtains drawn and tucked away from the unblinking eye of the porthole. Anya fidgets with the sleeve of her jumpsuit. It's an odd feeling - for someone you'd always seen put-together, to be so ... not that. Steady shoulders instead hunched in on themselves like tortoise-shell, simple evaluation questions cut up by a sea of constant platitudes. Some parts of the session were muttered, hushed, and Daisuke couldn't hear everything through the heavy door. But what he saw was enough. Too much, even.

"I've seen the guy grumpy before, but man." He shivers. "Is that why you wanted me to watch? To try figure out what his deal was?"

Anya knots her fingers together.

"Not quite," she says hesitantly.

"I mean, I don't think I gathered any extra intel than you." Daisuke dips his head in apology. "P-plus, I ... I think he saw me, Anya."

He looks back up with round eyes.

"Am I gonna get in trouble again?"

Anya shakes her head kindly, reaching across the space between them to set a soft hand on his leg.

"Of course not, Daisuke," she smiles gently. "You were following my instructions. Besides, I don't think Jim's going to kick up a fuss about it."

Daisuke furrows his brow, wanting to ask how she can be sure, except ... she's doing that thing again. Retreating back into herself. Her smile grows tight at the corners.

"Y'know, you were acting kinda weird too." He isn't sure if saying this is the right move, but he can't just not bring it up. "You kept jumping out of your skin like, whenever he looked at you. And ... you kept giving him all these crazy compliments. I ..."

The young man looks over the nurse sat opposite him. For all the bravado he puts on for Swansea and the guys, he's never had much luck with girls. It's like his tongue grows too big for his mouth and all his limbs too long for his body. He becomes microscopically aware of every facial expression; what it could mean, where it could lead, what he should say. And then he just says nothing after all, like an idiot. Grisly stuff man.

It's not like that with Anya. Maybe part of it's that she's older than him; not by a lot, but she feels older. Mature. She knows who she is, what she wants to be, and Daisuke's feels like he's still taking baby steps out of his teen years.  And by the way, her having a few years on him doesn't make her not pretty or anything - she's like, super pretty, don't get him wrong. He definitely had a school-crush the first couple weeks he came on-board. A smart, pretty lady from eastern Europe with a gig in outer-space? That shot straight to his heart.

But the more he grew into life on the Tulpar, the more they settled into comfortable friendship. Board-game nights carried well beyond mandated leisure hours, and without the moments of kindness he found in Anya's company, he probably wouldn't have been able to stay chipper for so long. The idea of them being anything else faded fast, and now Daisuke was just embarrassed that it'd been his first thought to begin with.

"Nurse Anya ..."

Dark eyes, usually in a perpetual state of heavy-lidded downturn, blow white as they stare at Daisuke. She grips the corners of the bedsheets but leans forwards, as if she wants desperately to hear but is terrified of what he might say. Well ... He has to ask the question now, doesn't he?

"You aren't in love with Jim, are you?"

The bedsprings groan as Anya sinks back on them, jaw hardening. A tempest of emotion whirls across her face. Most of all, she looks burned. She settles on just shaking her head.

"I'm not." Her voice is small, and painfully tired.

Daisuke's chest squeezes around something awful. It lumps in his stomach and hardens there like coal. This isn't what he wanted to hear. It leaves an alternative he doesn't want to let cross his mind. The gnawing pit in his stomach tells him he already knew the answer.

"Didn't think so."

He curls his toes. Ready to take the plunge.

"Look, Anya ... I don't know if you've really thought of it this way, and I don't wanna make you uncomfortable ..."

Daisuke sucks in a breath. That risky inhale - it's what gets her to really look up. He knows she knows what it means. Anya's eyes pool until he can see the whole Andromeda galaxy inside of them.

"You're the only girl on this ship. And Jim is ... He's a lot bigger than you."

She holds her breath, not knowing if what she's hearing is real.

"I ... I know I haven't been with you guys for that long, and you've probably known each other for ages, but I just get this awful feeling -"

Daisuke trails off. Soaked up by her suit, darkening the emblazoned Pony Express horseshoe, teardrops trickle from Anya's heavy lashes.

"Crud - A-Anya, I totally messed it up," he panics, fretting his hands over Anya's shaking shoulders, having no idea what to do. "I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortab-"

"Oh, Daisuke."

It's like ice through Daisuke's heart. Peering up through a gauze of unshed tears, Anya's lips curve in a heart-wrenching smile. She sobs, the cries dampened as she bites down on the inside of her cheek. Daisuke swallows.

"... Can I hug you?"

It takes a moment, but eventually she nods.

 "I think I'd like that," she murmurs.

They stay there for some time. Daisuke rubs slow circles into Anya's trembling back. He doesn't know what happened, but he knows that it was bad. That Jimmy is at the centre of it. And that it seems like Anya never meant for anyone to find out.

He keeps his hands steady, but they feel like they're on fire. Tangles of electrical wires crackling through them, tingling with the raw desire to punch a wall, or some metal shit like that. He's never punched a wall before but he thinks he might sorta get it now, because he's never felt someone break before. Never had to hold that someone in his arms as they cry, and feel so impossibly useless. It feels like failure.

"That stuff he said at the end of the psych eval," Daisuke says quietly. "That day will come sooner than you think ... what do you think he meant?"

"I think it means he's p-planning something." Anya's face darkens even as she struggles to keep her voice even.

A sudden flash of horror rips her from bee anguish. Stripe-sleeved arms are a blur, and then they're scrabbling at Daisuke's shirt. Desperately trying to find purchase. Choked for air, Daisuke breathes in. 

Lavender. 

She smells like lavender.

"On-board the ship ..." A wall of tears sheds away, and beneath them, Anya's eyes are hard as flint.

"There's a gun."