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They settle on Jànis 7, in a Jùtóu Combine colony that was considered nonessential even before its terraforming contract was abandoned at the end of the last century, trading a pulse rifle for enough credits to lease a unit close to the docks.
"We could still go back," says Ripley on their first night there, a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other, a flash of indecision on her face. "We don't have to stay."
He snorts and checks the vents again, tightening the grate bolts. "Ain't going nowhere."
She gets a job flying local between the original colony and the one on the far side of the continent that's still trying to get itself self-sufficient. She doesn't get to break atmo, but she likes it better than the docks work she was doing back on Gateway, he knows.
"One of the other pilots mentioned a quarantine today," she tells him. "On Fiorina 161."
He tries to remember his planetary systems. Fiorina... Fior--... "Fury 161? The penal colony?"
Ripley shrugs. "I guess? Said he'd picked up part of a transmission when he was flying over the pole. Thought it was a distress signal at first but then realised it was a keep clear warning."
Rolling onto his side, he studies her profile until she shifts as well, facing him. Beneath the covers, one of her legs slides between his. "You worried?"
"I don't know." But her expression says that she is.
"I'll ask around the docks tomorrow, see if anyone else has heard anything." He pushes up so that he can lean over her, kissing her lightly. "Might be nothing."
She doesn't smile exactly, but her frown does ease, her thighs parting so he can settle closer, her hand curling around his nape. "Yeah."
He would have preferred a job in security or defence but his options were limited with the reduced visibility in his left eye, and running a loader in the docks is better than nothing.
"Nothing about Fury," he says that night at dinner, watching Newt pick at her bowl. "Or about any quarantines."
Ripley looks relieved. "Good. That's good."
"Yeah."
Newt won't leave the unit unless one of them are with her, not even for lessons in the building two doors down, so they download an education package for Bishop and let her home school. She needs therapy or something -- hell, so does he and Ripley for that matter -- but auto-doc's are shit at that sort of stuff and there's no other medical options here.
He buys her another doll instead.
He dreams of his unit, of him and Ferro and Crowe and Drake playing cards one night off mission, the barracks alive with the sounds of shit-talk and laughter. Dreams the cards turning to ash in his hands as a fireball blooms up from the floor and incinerates them all as they laugh and laugh and laugh.
Wakes to Ripley's hand on his cheek, her thumb brushing over the scars the acid left. "Just a nightmare," she whispers, "you're okay."
"Ellen." He drags her closer, pulling her over him, her weight grounding. Slides his fingers into her hair and tugs her mouth down to his, kissing her hard.
She hums and parts her legs, straddling him, a slow grind of her hips against where he's starting to harden. Slicks her tongue against his, her hands trailing down his chest and under his waistband. Palms his dick and strokes him.
"Okay?" she whispers against his lips.
His hands press on her shoulder blades, fingers spread. He nods.
She smiles.
They take Newt on a walk outside, the system's too bright sun warm on their faces, heading towards the transport station to watch the ships take off.
"Are we gonna leave here when the monsters come?" Newt asks.
Ripley sucks in a sharp breath. Hicks can't swallow right.
Newt looks at the ground and scuffs her foot. "I heard them talking about it on the news this morning. About an accident at Gateway Station." She scowls. "That's what Mr Lydecker said happened to Daddy. An accident."
"I --" says Ripley.
"We --" starts Hicks.
They both break off.
In the distance, a freighter takes to the sky, a dark shadow against the bright, bright blue.
"Yeah," says Hicks. "Yes."
They paid a slicer to alter the tags on the Sulaco's EEV when they arrived here, trading it for the smaller Cherokee class transport Ripley's been using for her job.
He heads back to their unit to start gathering their stuff while Ripley and Newt go to book an atmo departure slot, and it's not until he's reaching for the door release that he realises his hand is clenched, fingers curled under and nails digging into his palm -- fuck, he thinks, get a fucking grip -- but he can't, not when he'd thought they'd be okay here, be safe, be able to live...
The terminal across the room buzzes with a text message from Ripley -- tomorrow, oh-eight-hundred -- and he breathes out unsteadily.
He has a pulse rifle hidden in one of the vents; grabbing a chair to stand on, he reaches for the grate bolts.
In their bed that night, with a half empty bottle of whiskey, the terminal looping news reports -- contact has been lost with Earth ... a quarantine has been established on ... no news yet on whether the outbreak on Pan Pan 4 has been ... authorities are confident that the accident on Gateway Station was ... reports that the infection has spread to Jànis 7 ... -- as they drink for the people they've lost, for the home they tried to build here.
"Do you believe in third chances?"
Her words are tired, her head resting on his shoulder, forehead turned into the crook of his neck. His arm is behind her, fingertips drawing absent patterns on her shoulder.
"Mmm," he wants to turn to face her properly but doesn't want them to move when they're both so comfortable, "yeah." His breath stirs the fine hairs on her temple. "You?"
She sighs, and he feels it. "Hope to."
When they leave in the morning, there's acid scoring on the side of an info terminal at the docks.
He looks away.
The End
