After The Storm

Rich wakes up the next morning feeling good and not knowing why or what to do about it. He gets upright and his head feels fuzzy and sore, but he still feels overall like…just good? It's weird.

He takes his morning shot from the jug anyway, because he knows if he doesn't he'll probably regret it later, makes his bed and tidies up a few odds and ends, since he didn't bother cleaning like normal last night. He's briefly alarmed when he realizes it's almost 0800 and he missed the first couple hours of second shift, but—it's okay, Ben was at the party too. Rich can take third shift as well and it'll probably be fine. Breathing again, he grabs a set of fresh work clothes and a clean towel and his shower caddy of washing stuff and heads out to meet the day.

When Rich comes out of his room and starts down the passageway, the first thing he sees is a bent head with a wild disarray of black frizz, a pair of hunched shoulders and a messily tied black sarong, and his heart does something hopeful and unauthorized. He speeds up, falls in next to Basil as much as he can and goes for 'casual' instead of 'eager puppy who really enjoyed blowing you last night and would totally be down to do it again some time, maybe even today, or every day, maybe.'

Basil looks awful, though, eyes bloodshot and face drawn. It looks like he slept right through his normal shift and half the next one and just woke up. It takes him a couple of long extra seconds to glance up and see who's walking with him, and when he does his freckled cheeks flush darker.

"Hey," he says faintly, and passes a trembling hand over his hair, trying to pat it back into some kind of order. The attempt is pretty much useless, and he drops his hand a moment later, ducking his head in embarrassment.

Rich probably shouldn't find this as cute as he does.

"Hey," he says, and bumps Basil gently with his elbow, so he only staggers a little sideways. "So, you didn't drink too much, huh?"

Basil flushes further. "No," he says determinedly. "I didn't."

"Very convincing. I'm very convinced. Come here," Rich says, and gently tows the poor kid off to the closest medical wall-station. He palms the first-aid kit open, registering the access on his own account instead of Basil's, to be nice, and takes an anti-inflammatory painkiller dose out of its compartment.

"Even your first aid kits here are regulation," he snorts, double-checking that the kit has enough sealing foam and antiseptic and nanocream—which, does it ever—then closes it up, hangs it back on the bulkhead, and hands the pill to Basil.

"Everything you say is so fucking sad," Basil says, and dry-swallows it. Then he coughs a couple times, thumping his chest, and staggers off towards the washroom. He doesn't even have a fresh towel or change of clothes with him or any personal cleaner stuff, not even shampoo or something for the wild hangover-mess of his hair, but he's got a long, bright yellow sanitation glove fixed over his prosthetic arm with a rubber band. That seems to be the extent of his ability to plan for the future, this morning.

Rich follows along, amused. He's been running a probably-somewhat-illegal little script on the washroom's occupancy stats over the last couple days, so he can coordinate with the rest of the deck and shower when there's the least probability of having to deal with anyone else showering with him. But it's Basil, and Rich feels so good today anyway, he follows Basil in and helps himself to the next stall over, loudly humming the tune for Healthy Bodies, Healthy Minds and laughing when it makes Basil moan at him in annoyance, thump the shower divider, then moan again in pain.

Then Nate wanders in and goes, "Hey, guys," and Rich's good mood pops like a soap bubble. He doesn't know why: it's stupid, to be scared of Nate, to stand under the shower spray with his heart in his throat and his hands fisting up, his spine prickling. Nate isn't going to goddamn jump him, probably doesn't even have a knife, is even now calmly walking past Rich's stall to get to the one at the end, taking his shirt off—staring at Rich, directly at him, starting to frown.

Rich bails. The next thing he knows he's in his berth in a towel, sitting on the bed, hands linked over the back of his neck, shaking all over. He keeps thinking of Nate with his shirt off, taking a step forward, and the way Rich knew the tiles underfoot were too slippery with soap to brace himself against an attack.

God. He grabs the jug of vodka and takes a couple emergency shots—he budgeted for emergencies, it'll be okay, he just needs—he can't stop shaking.

Someone knocks at the door and Rich winces all over. But it doesn't open, and after a minute Rich realizes it's not going to: no one with the authorization to open his door up themselves is requesting access.

Shit, it's probably Basil. Rich has no idea what to say about any of this. He takes another shot, then fumbles the cap closed and shoves the jug back in his locker. He can't keep drinking until he feels better, he doesn't have the time or the space or the access to more alcohol for it. A couple extra days burnt out of his budget is gonna have to cut it.

The knock comes again, and Rich gets a text the next second.

Basil Wright, IST: Man, are you okay?

Richard Merrill, IST: yep, Rich texts back hastily. obtainig pants. 1 min.

He drags on clean underwear, jeans, t-shirt—gives in to the impulse to layer on an overshirt, too. Not that sleeves have ever done anything against knives. Not that anyone here is going to stab him. He's got to get his head together.

He takes a deep breath, then another that shakes less, and opens the door.

"Hey, are you—oh." Basil looks him up and down. "Uh. Clothes?"

"People put clothes on after they shower, yes," Rich says. "Nicely spotted, kid."

"No, I mean—here—" Basil says, and shoves a bundle of fabric at Rich's chest. "I grabbed your clothes, your other clothes, from the washroom. You bailed kinda fast."

"It's called efficiency," Rich says, but takes the clothes and goes and puts them away, the stuff he's not gonna use back in the regular drawers and the dirty stuff in the drawer he's set aside for laundry. Basil hasn't brought back Rich's shower caddy of cleaning stuff but that'll be okay, he can go back and get it, or…get hold of more, if he has to. Basil watches him, standing in the doorway, looking around uncertainly.

Things spin a little when Rich straightens up, and he's not sure if it's the adrenaline crash or the fact that vodka is even stronger than last night's jar beer and pounding back enough to fix his nerves also necessarily screws up everything else. Or both! Rich sure is a functional citizen and a credit to his boat. He catches himself against the grab-rail that runs along the bulkhead by the door, takes a careful couple breaths, and turns back to Basil.

"Your room's really fucking clean," Basil blurts out, and Rich blinks. Basil half-winces, and paws vaguely at the damp cloud of his hair. He's redressed in the same shirt and sarong, though he's at least done up his folds more neatly. "Sorry, uh. I mean, that's—neat?"

"Thanks," Rich says, thoroughly off balance. "I don't like shit to get nasty. Your room's a dump, by the way, did anyone ever teach you to pick up after yourself?"

Basil opens his mouth, closes it again, gives a self-conscious, jerky shrug, and Rich realizes he's defaulted to being a dick and feels awful about it.

"Not really," is all Basil mumbles, and moves past that fast. "Do you want, uh. Do you want breakfast?"

He looks distinctly green at the idea. Rich can't help but chuckle. "It's past eight hundred," he points out, trying to be nicer this time, and is pleased to hear his voice come out relatively steady. "We slept in. Don't think you wanna eat with the rowdy late risers, baby boy." He snaps his mouth shut after that, disoriented again. That's not a thing, having cute nicknames for this kid, it's—that's just the kind of thing you say when you're with somebody, in the heat of the moment. Man, his head's such a mess right now. "Anyway, doesn't matter, I'm good for now." He's not, actually, he's hungry, but he's absolutely not up to be around a bunch of people right now in the crowded mess, that sounds like a bad plan.

"Right," says Basil, and glances at him—away, back to Rich, like he has more he wants to say. Whatever it is—presumably about the hasty exit from the shower, because people around here are terrible about that whole 'friendly concern' thing—he doesn't say it. "...Yeah."

Rich has gone and found his boots and is doing the last strap when Basil finally glances over again and says, "...Hey, if we're not eating, there's like...workrooms? We could get some work done in there, they oughta be empty and, uh…" he reaches up absently, rubs at one of his temples with his gloved hand. "...Quiet."

"Sounds great," Rich sighs, feeling some of the tension in his back ease at the prospect. He straightens up, cracks his back, and gestures at the door. "Lead the way."

Basil does, heading off deeper into the berths rather than out into more common areas. There are more doors down that way, which Rich absently assumed were occupied by somebody, but when Basil steps up to one of them the handle turns easily with no need for a handprint, revealing an empty room with big soft chairs around the bulkheads, a fancy-looking workstation hub and a few low, warm lights. By the look of the thing, it used to be two berths, before somebody knocked out the bulkhead in the middle; now there's plenty of room to stretch even Basil's lanky legs out. There's even a couple couches.

Also, there are little scurrying furry shapes all over the deck. Rich backpedals, startled, when one of them comes rushing toward him; then the thing makes a tiny squeaking noise and bonks into Basil's ankles, and Rich gets a good look and realizes what he's seeing.

"Kittens?" he says blankly, standing there holding the door. "Why are there—" and then he spots the mother cat, perched on a shelf and looking alertly at her stray baby. "Oh. Huh." He stares down at the little furball. "You think she'll get mad if we pick them up?"

"Oh my god, Warren finally moved them out of his berth! Fuck yes!" says Basil, who's 100% not listening. He squats down, wobbles a bit, and then holds out a few fingers to the squeaking ball of fur that's currently swatting curiously at his boot-laces. "Hey! Awww, hey…" and then some incoherent adoring mumbling as the kitten cranes up and starts nibbling at his fingers. Rich isn't sure what's cuter, the kitten or Basil cooing over it. He glances up; the mother cat is still watching, tail swinging slowly back and forth, but as far as Rich is any good at all at reading animals, she doesn't seem upset.

He steps in and lets the door swing shut behind him, and the mother cat watches him and Basil a second before flopping onto her side and putting her head down. Rich is puzzled by her trust, but pleased, too. God she's got cute babies, there have to be five or six of them, mostly either grey or sandy, but there's also one that's black with white paws. Keeping an eye on the mother in case she disapproves, Rich bends down and picks up one of the sandy kittens. It squeaks at him, and he very carefully runs a finger between its tiny ears and down its back. That gets it to stop squeaking and purr instead, a gravelly little ratcheting sound that seems much too loud for something so small.

Picking his way carefully across the deck without kicking any kittens, extra-cautious of his balance, Rich takes a seat on the couch and sets the kitten on one thigh. It settles down and starts kneading with tiny, needle-like claws as he keeps stroking its head. He's grateful to be wearing jeans.

Pulling up a screen, he starts looking through his assignments for the day. He's picked out the job that looks quickest when there's another prickling tug at one of his pant legs and he glances down to see another kitten painstakingly making its way up his leg, squeaking. Rich reaches down before it can fall off, lifts that one into his lap as well, and then makes a distinctly embarrassing little squeaking noise of his own when the one already in his lap climbs up onto his belly and starts needling around there instead. The one he just picked up is swatting at the other one's tail, and there's another one trying to scramble up onto the couch with him, and when Rich looks up helplessly Basil is grinning at him.

"Help?" Rich suggests, and reaches over in time to catch the one trying to climb onto the couch as it almost takes a tumble off the side. He looks around and then deposits that one on the couch next to him, where it promptly follows its siblings into the grand adventure of Climbing Rich's Chest.

"No fucking way, man," says Basil, and scoops up the last two kittens, straightening up with a grunt and coming over to place them with great ceremony on Rich's stomach. Basil grins at the betrayed look Rich aims his way, steps back and opens a video screen to take a long, panning shot of Rich covered in tiny, squeaky balls of fluff.

"This," he says fervently, "is the best day of my life."

"What the hell, man," Rich grumbles, wincing as he tries to discourage one ambitious fluff from mountain-climbing up his chest with too many claws. "They're trying to give me piercings! ...Oh my god," he adds in a faint voice as the ambitious one licks Rich's thumb in a distracted, business-like way, and Rich stares up at Basil, so overcome he barely even cares about the recording anymore.

"Oh my god," Basil echoes, looking similarly struck, and reaches out to pet one of the kittens on Rich's thigh, his big hand gentle on its tiny ears. His fingertips brush Rich's thigh for a split second when he strokes the kitten's back, and the recording screen is still on, Rich absolutely cannot afford to go red right now.

"How exactly am I supposed to work like this?" he says to cover up, except instead of a complaint it comes out much too gentle, hushed. Great, he's cooing over kittens on video.

"Sorry, buddy," says Basil, not sounding sorry at all, and settles down on the couch a ways down from Rich, pulling up his own work screen and finally closing his recording. "Looks like you're babysitting instead."

He selects a task off the queue, surrounds himself with screens and starts picking at his work, still looking wan but considerably more cheerful than he did when he woke up. Rich glares at him without much force, and then pulls up his own screens carefully and digs in as well.

They work in silence for quite a while, apart from the soft sound of kittens purring and mewing and the occasional hiss or huff from Rich as one of them decides to try climbing him again, all claws out. He's not exactly in top form with as much as he's had to drink this morning plus kitten-wrangling, but Rich has carefully and methodically finished his first task—a minor code review for a plastics recycler that's having an issue calibrating its enzyme tanks—and moved on to his second, when Basil shifts and clears his throat.

"So," he says, not looking away from his holoscreens, and flicks a few gloved fingertips across one flickering pale-blue surface, idly turning some sort of decision tree around. "Last night, uh…"

Oh, boy. "Yeah?" says Rich, as casually as he can.

Basil groans, rubs a big, skinny hand across the bridge of his nose and one freckly temple. "I'm, I'm sorry," he says, a self-conscious little mumble. "I didn't mean to— Y'know, I left you hanging, that was lame of me, so." He shakes his head, goes back to work. "So," he repeats. "Just wanted to say that."

"Oh!" says Rich. "Uh." Shit, Family Fleet doesn't have a script for 'no, that was just payback for being a nice guy,' and he knows he's not exactly great with words when he's got too much alcohol in his system, or basically at any other point in his life, so this could be…not good.

Rich doesn't want to make too big of a deal out of how grateful he's been for Basil: he likes his new crewmates, but that doesn't mean he needs it getting around that he'll blow anybody in the department who gives him a smile…but also Basil's still obviously inexperienced, and even more obviously wants some reassurance, so…

Eventually he settles on, "It's fine, man. You don't owe me or anything."

Basil blinks at him, like he's confused. Well, he's a sweet kid, and too damn smart. Rich isn't surprised that he's not down to just take his free blowjob and call it a day. He wants to like, analyze the situation. Learn something from it.

"We're square," Rich says firmly. "Don't worry about it."

"Square?" Basil frowns, that worried little frown Rich is getting depressingly familiar with. "That's not what I—I mean it's not like—I just meant I didn't mean to pass out on you like that, after you took so much time with me."

It feels less good to know that Rich was apparently so noticeably, pathetically grateful, it didn't even occur to Basil to think they weren't square, and Basil's got a further issue he wants to settle. Rich catches himself frowning confusedly, looks away and shrugs instead. Tries to play it cool.

"We're even, you don't have to worry about anything," he elaborates. "I had a good time anyway, you were fun."

"Oh, I, yeah?" says Basil. "I mean, I didn't—didn't do much of anything, but…you weren't…upset?"

"Shit, kid, no," says Rich, and the thick dislocation of his extra shots this morning combined with the painfully vulnerable insecurity in Basil's face get Rich to blurt out, in a confused rush, "It was great and you've been great, you know, really cool about like…basically everything. Pretty sure a blowjob's the least I owe you at this point!"

He clamps his jaw shut a second later, horrified at his own stupid mouth—it's true, and Basil's a good kid, and he's probably not going to take advantage of that, but...Rich thought he knew better by now, that's not something you say out loud to somebody.

Basil glances over at him sharply, eyes searching Rich's face. "What?" he says. And then, "Wait, what, that was—that was some kind of, of payback?"

He looks something between horrified and angry, or maybe distressed; all Rich is sure of is that he shouldn't have said that for more reasons than one, apparently. He opens his mouth, isn't sure what to say to fix this and closes it again. He's not exactly sure what even went wrong. Basil sounds like payback would be a bad thing, like he can hardly believe it.

"Not payback like revenge," Rich tries. "I mean, you don't think I was doing all that to—to make fun of you or be a jerk somehow, right? It was like, fuck, uh—you know, like, 'hey, thanks for being cool!' And you were sweet, man, it was way better than usual, so…"

"Usual," repeats Basil, and scrubs a hand across his face. "Usual, fuck." He wraps his arms around himself, hunching in, head low. "That's not what that was about. I don't want to—I wouldn't have..." He bites his lip, eyes flicking frantically around the room. "...I shouldn't have let you do that with me," he says finally, quietly. "Sorry, I—I didn't know you went and did…and had…sex like…like that. For like, for—a transaction, for payback. I wouldn't have gone for it if I'd known that's what you…what you thought it was like."

Oh. Cool. Basil thinks Rich is detrimentally promiscuous now.

"I don't have diseases from the Sympatico," Rich says, stung. "We went through a pretty full decontam in Reassessment."

"No, I—shit. I'm sorry, man, I didn't mean it like that."

Yeah, sure, Rich is so sure. Basil's flushing miserably and won't look at him and Rich knows he's too sweet to want to say out loud, 'Hey, it's not you, it's me and the fact I don't want to stick my dick somewhere an appreciable fraction of the Sympatico got to first, even if it has been washed out'. But Rich isn't so stupid he can't read it off Basil's awkward silence, anyway.

"It's cool," Rich says shortly, instead of everything hurt and bitter and mean he could say instead, which wouldn't de-escalate the conflict at all.

"Rich, hey—"

"It's fine," Rich says. "I get it. It's fine. End of conversation, okay?"

"Hey, c'mon—"

"I said it's fine," Rich bites out, cold and sharp and painstakingly Family Fleet polite. "Please respect that boundary."

Basil winces and turns away, bringing up a couple work screens to hide behind. "Okay," he says quietly. "Sorry. I'm sorry."

Rich tries to keep working, but he can't concentrate anymore. Basil's presence at the other end of the couch is a nagging discomfort, and finally Rich gives up. He peels kittens off him, setting them on the couch between them, drops his screens and stands.

"See you later," he mutters, and strides out the door fast to finish his shift in the miserable solitude of his berth.

Unfortunately, as angry and stupid and self-conscious as he feels, he can only hide in there for so long. It's just past noon, and Rich didn't get any breakfast, and the nauseating chewing pain of hunger is starting to drag at his insides, drawing all his thoughts back around to it no matter what he does to distract himself. He doesn't want—to be out there, with people, with normal people, people who aren't contaminated and screwed up and stupid and who Basil would probably rather—

Rich puts his head down, stands up abruptly, and heads for the mess.

The mess, when he gets there, is a clattering hell-zone of noise and people, many of whom are smiling at him, a couple of whom even half-rise from their seats like they want to come over and chat. Anton's there, even, waving at him with a big 'Hey, look who got laid!' grin on his face. Rich's head hurts and his back aches with tension and he's just, he can't deal with this, he doesn't want more attention, more questions, more comments about his size and his background and his mood and everything.

He shoulders his way blindly through the mess of people and greetings and noise and bullshit, grabs lunch from the dispenser, then realizes he can also order breakfast, too, since he missed it. He bundles the blocks in the crook of one arm, grabs a jar of ketchup, and retreats as rudely as he came. No one comes after him for stealing the ketchup, either, which is great, because he's about ready to glass someone for it if they try.

He retreats to his berth and sits at his desk and feels incredibly goddamn stupid. Then he eats, and ignores the extremely tempting thought of slamming the rest of his vodka back and checking out completely. He initializes a second shift, and gets back to work.

The rest of the day sucks. Rich spends it holed up in his berth, doesn't even go out on the sundeck in case he runs into Basil in the passage or something. It's like going straight back to how things were on the Sympatico, hiding in his berth doing nothing but work, except he can't stop thinking about Basil and what he said, how he looked, all embarrassed about wasting his time on someone like Rich. Letting someone like Rich touch him.

Around dinner time he's wondering if he should go early or late to have the best chance of avoiding Basil, when he gets a message.

Michigan Ford, FSO: Hey, you in your berth? :)

Alarm spikes through Rich. Basil complained to Mitch, Mitch wants to have a talk with Rich, make sure he never touches Basil again, Rich wanted to avoid pissing off Security—

Michigan Ford, FSO: I've got some fish to deliver, and I can bring it to the mess if you want, but you'll get some jealous looks!

Rich stares at the message screen. Cautiously replies.

Richard Merrill, IST: fish?

Michigan Ford, FSO: You were gone when I got back last night, so Phil set some aside for you! I volunteered to deliver it.

Mitch doesn't seem like the kind of guy who'd think to lie to lure Rich into opening the door, he's too direct. The kindness catches Rich so off-guard, it's a good thing most of the vodka's worn off by now, because otherwise he might be tearing up.

Richard Merrill, IST: shit thats really nice of you, and him. and yeah im in my berth.

Michigan Ford, FSO: Awesome! I'll come by and drop it off!

So Rich is smiling when he opens the door to a cheerful knock a few minutes later, and then he jerks backwards, because there's a Security officer in full uniform on the other side, standing ramrod straight and ready and—

Holding a mini-cooler, friendly smile beginning to slide into concern.

"Mitch! Hey," Rich gasps, trying to wipe the stricken remnants of terror off his face. God, he's so stupid today, of course it's Mitch, of course he's in uniform, he only just got off-duty. He looks different in uniform, holds himself with an authority he doesn't display when he's out of it.

"Hey, buddy," Mitch says cautiously. "You okay? I didn't mean to startle you."

"'S okay!" Rich says, lowering his hands shakily. "I'm just—jumpy today, sorry, it's fine, you're fine. Thanks, I really appreciate this, it's real nice of you."

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"Jumpy, yeah," Mitch says, and his eyes are sharp on Rich's face. "Especially around a Security officer, huh?"

Rich freezes up, staring wide-eyed. Shit, that does look suspicious, doesn't it. If you're this worried about Security, you must be up to something, that's obvious—

"What the heck was Security doing to you guys over there?" Mitch says.

Rich is so expecting to hear the opposite, 'what were you doing to get in trouble with Security,' that it takes him a moment to register what Mitch actually said. And then he's not sure what to say. Maybe it was a rhetorical question? Except Mitch is standing there, apparently waiting, looking concerned and not at all like he was being rhetorical.

"Uh," Rich says weakly, and tries a shrug. This does not appear to satisfy. "I mean, it was fine, if you didn't piss off the wrong guy."

"Yeah, that's what you were saying last night," says Mitch, eyes narrowed. "Who was the 'wrong guy'? If they were—what, taking bribes, or throwing their weight around with the crew...? They got sent back to the Washington for Reassessment but I don't think they got disciplined or assigned any remedial courses, and it sounds like they absolutely should have been, if their citizens felt like this about them."

Rich stares at him unhappily, tired and hungry and so ready for this conversation to be over several minutes ago. Passing judgment on how the Sympatico's Security officers kept a lid on the chaos sounds like a good thing to stay the hell away from, but he also can't straight out tell Mitch to fuck off. Not with him still in uniform like that, standing tall and tense in the doorway. He's even got the regulation stun baton clipped to his belt. Those things drop you in your tracks no matter what size you are, as Rich knows from personal experience.

"No, man," Rich says, a few stupid seconds too late. "I'm not—I don't fucking know, okay? I don't know what deals anyone else made. They just, there were the guys on that boat that Security figured were worth protecting and the guys they didn't. And you didn't want to be one of the guys they didn't." He shrugs. "That's all."

Mitch takes a step further into Rich's room, and Rich takes a hasty couple steps back, hands rising again, trying to look cooperative as hell. But Mitch just gives him a narrow, sidelong look and goes and puts the cooler of fish on the edge of Rich's desk.

"No one protected you, did they?" he asks, and Rich flinches.

"No one needed to," he says hastily. "I swear, man. I didn't make trouble, okay? I know what I look like but I swear."

"What you look like?" Mitch asks, openly confused now.

Rich gestures at himself, the whole stupid huge built-like-a-battleship length of his body that makes Security go for their batons first and ask questions way, way later, and only of other people.

"Big," Rich says.

"Okay, sure, but mostly you look scared," Mitch says. Then he grimaces, brow furrowing, like he just caught the words that came out of his mouth. "No—shoot, that was rude, sorry. But like, you do. And you've been nice to everyone since you got here. I don't get it."

Rich shrugs again, embarrassed and bewildered, and this time Mitch seems to accept it as a good enough response.

He sighs, "Well, enjoy your fish, man," and pats the cooler, then backs off to leave. Halfway through the door, he stops, considering, and then glances back. "Oh, by the way," he says, with pronounced casualness, "how'd it go last night?"

Rich blinks. There's no way he wants a lowdown on the sex with Basil, right? God, of course he does, they're so close and apparently everyone knows they went back to their berths together and if he doesn't already know it didn't go great, Rich sure doesn't want to admit to it right now, not with Mitch standing right in the doorway, baton at his hip.

"Uh, fine," he hazards, trying to stall for time, "I mean, the food was great, and—"

"Oh, no," says Mitch. "I mean you hooked up with Basil, right? How'd that go? It seemed like he was pretty excited about it, like, going in, but he's been, uh…Quiet, today."

He wants to know about the sex and what happened afterwards. He wants an explanation. Rich looks away, feeling guilty and worried and trapped. Mitch and Basil are best friends, childhood friends, Mitch doesn't have to have any sexual or even romantic interest in Basil to care how Rich treated his buddy once he got him alone and naked and they were really drunk. Plus, by now Basil could have told everyone that Rich said he'd done that stuff way more often than is socially acceptable here on the Reliant, and just because a guy says he's clean before he gets his mouth on you or his dick in you doesn't mean you're in the clear. It only makes sense for Mitch to show up and give the guy his best friend hooked up with a once-over, and maybe a casual round of intimidation.

"Basil let me know it was a one-time event this morning," Rich says, hands rising again, spread in a wide 'hey c'mon I'm harmless' gesture that rarely works. "Don't worry, man, I'm not gonna be a creep about your buddy. I told you, I'm not here to make trouble."

Mitch gives him that weird, serious, lingering look again, like he knows he's being bullshitted but can't quite put his finger on how. It makes Rich prickle all over with miserable anticipation of further and way less delicate interrogation.

But all Mitch says is, "Okay. Okay, if that's…what's going on, then. Have a nice day, man. I'll see you around."

That's probably not meant to be as threatening as it comes across, but then again Rich has been having a hard time getting a read on Mitch, so…who knows. Security on this ship has been cool so far, but obviously even if Security at large doesn't play favorites, even if Mitch seems young enough and naive enough to be offended at the notion of Security writing off most of a boat outside their personal favorites, Mitch and Basil are still close as hell. 'I'll see you around' doesn't have to be an actual threat to serve as a nice clear warning.

"Yeah," Rich says, "I mean, yessir," nodding as politely as he can, and doesn't move until Mitch heads down the corridor and the door swings closed behind him. Then Rich drops down to sit on his cot, puts his head in his hands, and shakes for awhile.

He wants a drink. He wants about fifty million drinks, and maybe a hug, though fuck if he knows from where. Trimmer's gone. For lack of either of those options, he scrubs his hands through his hair a couple times, then goes and washes them with a cleaning wipe, washes his face, and opens the cooler.

The fish is as good as it was last night, a bright spot in what has been a shitty day overall. The fish and the kittens, two bright spots. And, for the second day in a row, he has enough to eat for dinner, so there's another one.

Nonetheless, by the time he finishes his evening straightening up routine, forcing himself to skip his bedtime shot because of how much extra he had this morning, he's grateful the day is over.

-

Rich dreams about storms.

He can feel them coming in the way the Sympatico rocks under his feet, even the most experienced hands onboard sticking close to bulkheads and reaching for grab-bars as Lake Michigan tosses the ship around like a toddler with a new toy. He can feel the Sympatico reaching for him, as soon as the first warning hits the system. He can feel her fear. People have reached into her code so many times, hiding themselves from the system or erasing their bloody handprints or stealing parts of her mind for their own personal projects, and they've left scars; processes that go nowhere, systems she can't access, numbers that don't add up.

Rich becomes those systems for her, runs those processes, bridges the gaps as the storm rolls in. It's a category one, two, a category three, and she needs his implants, the processing power stored in his skull, she needs him to help her. Rich is needed, she needs him, he can't say no.

She takes him, digs eagerly into his brain and uses him, and he gives her what she needs; proximity monitoring, course correction. Trimmer wakes him up to force water down his throat, thin little hands pulling Rich's hair hard until he folds his mind back into his own body enough to drink without choking. Crew assignments, alerts and alarms, engine temperature. Systems reviews. Meteorological data streaming in from the Tempestuous, processed and extrapolated into action plans: where to go, how fast, to turn into the wind, to find some safer spots in the storm, to anticipate the kind of waves that crack ships in half and to steer around them. The awful pitch and shudder of his berth, as he loses focus on bracing himself against a bulkhead and almost spills off his cot. Trimmer making him eat, one bite at a time, perched lightly on his chest with a hand fisted in his hair, towing him back to his body every time the Sympatico pulls him so far under he forgets to breathe.

Rich can feel the waves hitting their side, too tall and too harsh to survive, and the Sympatico should be running the calculations, turning so they're not getting broadsided, but she dumps the information on his computing systems instead, a wordless plea for help. Rich feeds answers back as fast as he can, feeling the ship creak and groan around him as they're hammered with wave after wave, as his implants burn into his temples, as he chokes and seizes, as he drowns keeping her afloat.

Rich doesn't snap awake, just...becomes aware, slowly, one piece at a time. Reaches for his ship, and then flinches back, confused and hurt as a kicked dog, when she rebuffs him with cool courtesy. Reaches for Trimmer and finds nothing but air, sweaty sheets and empty space.

Richard Merrill, IST: were are u ic ant find u

Reliant: Query not recognized.

Richard Merrill, IST: fuck what happend where ar you?! please query

Reliant: Do you require Security assistance?

Rich takes a shuddering breath, blinks cold, stinging sweat out of his eyes and...focuses. Pushes himself up, staring around at his berth. The window, looking out on the cool darkness before dawn, the lake glittering faintly, a wrinkled black sheet of shifting silk all the way out to the horizon.

Richard Merrill, IST: NO No security!

Reliant: Confirmed. Alert canceled.

She turns her attention away again. Rich flops back, scrubs his hands at his sweaty face and takes a breath so deep it makes his lungs ache.

Richard Merrill, IST: Query. Technician assistance required?

Reliant: All essential tasks are being addressed.

Richard Merrill, IST: what do you even need me for?

Reliant: All crew are necessary.

Richard Merrill: so let me do something, let me help you!

Reliant: Please refer to the task queue.

Rich curses out loud, and then feels stupid for it, stupid and pathetic and—just—god he's lonely. Not for the first time, he pulls up a comm screen and just...holds it in his hands, blank. It's not allowed but he could call Trimmer, he could at least try, he can probably cut through whatever block's been put in place between them. He could check up on the little bastard, make sure he's doing okay. Make sure he's not trapped on some different hellhole boat somewhere with nobody to watch his back.

...Make sure he even made it through that last fight. Make sure he's still alive.

Rich swallows the hard knot that tries to rise up his throat at that thought. Trimmer's a tough little guy, a survivor, he's fine. He's off grumping around some other boat, knifing anybody who tries to touch him. He's fine.

Rich lies there for another minute on his bunk, staring up at the blank ceiling, and then he closes his eyes and drops the comm screen. He can't call Trimmer, he can't, he's not allowed. He's not ruining his own parole and he's not getting Trimmer in trouble just so he can see the guy's face again for a few seconds. Rich has his back, and if that means leaving him alone, that's what he'll do.

Rich lies there for an endless, quiet minute, and he doesn't feel himself reaching out until all of a sudden he realizes he's found what he didn't know he was looking for. A point, a connection, a waking flicker of awareness.

Richard Merrill, IST: where are you?

Some part of him is expecting the bright, blank professionalism of the Reliant, but instead he shudders, hears himself gasp, as the Sympatico's standby consciousness seizes gratefully onto him. She pulls, tugging at him, trying to take him and fit him into the place he's made for himself in her. The place he's made for her in himself.

Sympatico: wheRE—am where ar eare am where are WE where

Sympatico: requestiquestiNG ASSISTANCE URGENT request assistance, location??

Sympatico: query??

Sympatico: rich?

Rich slams the connection shut again, feeling guilty and awful and relieved. He can feel her ping him, a few more urgent, questioning calls, but he backs up into his own head and feels the Reliant claim him again, fold him back into her network. The sound of the Sympatico's distress fades and then goes quiet as she sinks slowly back to sleep.

Rich buries his face in his pillow and squeezes his eyes shut until there are white sparkles behind his eyes. He's tired, and more sleep won't fix it, but he's falling anyway, heavy and obscurely miserable. Exhaustion wells up over him, and slowly, he sinks back to sleep.

-

Rich wakes up two hours later feeling like a piece of stomped-on gull shit, and the morning doesn't get better from there. He works steadily through second and third shift and manages to barely come out of his berth the entire twelve hours, but unfortunately even though Mitch brought a sizeable chunk of fish with him, it's not enough to keep Rich full for more than another meal and a half. Wounded pride and aimless misery and a vague terror of retribution are compelling reasons to hide in his bunk forever, but it's still not entirely worth starving himself over. Rich has to make a decision.

He's been sitting there agonizing for about a solid half hour or so, watching his assigned Family Fleet episodes and weighing the hunger already gnawing at his gut against the hundreds of very bad scenarios he can think of involving running into Basil in front of every other person in the mess, when all of a sudden the answer shifts into focus so abruptly Rich half-laughs at himself for not thinking of it before. He pulls up a screen, scrolling through the list of other techs in the department, considers, and then taps a finger on Nate's name. Nate worked third shift, too, and since it's past six now, he should be free as well.

Nate shows up about ten minutes later, poking his head cautiously around the door and knocking first, even though it was unlocked specifically because Rich knew he was coming. Then he waits for Rich to give him a brief nod of permission before easing inside.

"Hey, man," he says, and holds out four food blocks wrapped in a couple of napkins, Rich's unclaimed lunch and dinner. "It just said you gotta confirm consent for the transaction next time you get to the mess, uh…you good in here?"

Rich abruptly realizes how absolutely unconvincing his attempt at a smile is and sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "Sorry, yeah, I'm—'s fine, I'm just trying to answer these fucking post-episode questions—" he gestures at his screen, "—and it's pissing me off. Thanks a lot, man, I really appreciate it." He tries to give Nate a better smile as he takes the food package. By the ginger way Nate hands it over, it doesn't work.

"I had to do those one time," Nate says, and edges closer, conscientiously avoiding bumping against Rich's shoulder in a way that makes Rich intensely, uncomfortably aware that Nate undoubtedly saw him bail out of the showers yesterday like a panicky dumbass. He starts eating his blocks to avoid meeting Nate's eyes.

Nate goes on, "I uh, got in some fights, when I was new here. With James." He shrugs. "Sucked, y'know, they kept asking me what I did wrong that I could've done better or whatever, and it was fucking—James' fault. I couldn't stand his attitude and he fuckin' loved that. He loves feeling like hot shit when he can provoke people, and then the questions are like, 'Where could you have stopped the escalation of conflict to improve your interaction?' I don't fuckin' know, if I smacked James one when he started talking shit we could have probably stopped there, instead of me having to kick his ass clear across the deck!"

Rich snorts a startled laugh, swallowing the last of his first block. "Yeah! The questions fucking suck, like—" he probably shouldn't mention that the only form of de-escalation he can think of that might've had a chance of working back on the Sympatico is sucking dick, which he refuses to say he should've offered, which is why this question is getting under his skin. "—You can't stop someone from being a violent jackass if that's what they wanna be, you know?"

"Ha! Yeah." Nate shakes his head, throws a sideways glance at Rich and smiles hopefully, and Rich humors him with a smile back, because he did definitely help. Rich wasn't even sure if Nate would go for it; "I'll take your shift for you" would only have had about a 50/50 chance of working back on the Sympatico.

Nate must read his mind, because the next thing he says is "...Hey, you don't have to like, pay me back for this, man. It's not a big deal."

Rich ducks his head, tries for a grateful look. "That's really cool of you." He starts on his second block, thinks of explaining that he's not used to people being willing to do him favors for nothing, and decides against that too. It's probably self-evident.

"Yeah!" says Nate, brightening. "No problem, man." He shifts from foot to foot once or twice, uncomfortable, and Rich knows exactly what he's about to say when he starts, "...So, yesterday, uh…"

"Oh, actually, before I forget," Rich breaks in, hoping to derail him, "can I ask? Just, how did it go, with this stuff, you know." He waves a hand at the screen of questions he's working through. "When you turned it in. Did it…go okay for you?"

"Eh, y'know." Nate shrugs. "I mean, not great. They weren't, like, super happy with me, but my caseworker guy wasn't an asshole either. It was just…" he waves a hand ambivalently in the air. "Y'know."

Rich doesn't know, and that's not helpful at all. He nods just as vaguely, heart sinking as he finishes that block. Having a few minor fights isn't that comparable to his situation, so it's not like he could take Nate as an example even if he had better results to report.

"Anyway," Nate says, rushing like he's stuck somewhere between desperately changing the subject and awkwardly forcing the words out. "Do you like—uh, would you ever like to try hoverboarding?"

Rich has to take a moment to drag his mind away from grim premonitions about how badly the check-in with his caseworker is going to go tomorrow with the unsatisfactory answers he's giving, and then he blinks at Nate. That's a pretty weird thing for anyone to ask him. Hoverboarding isn't an uncommon sport in the Fleet, being as they're stationed out in basically the perfect environment for it, but it's typically enjoyed by people small enough to fit on the hoverboard, and dominated by athletes small enough to fit under Rich's elbow.

"I actually used to love hoverboarding," Rich admits. "I mean, I haven't done it in years, I've probably forgotten everything by now, but, yeah. I was really into it when I was a kid."

"Okay, great," says Nate, and backs toward the door—not like people usually back away from Rich, but more...inviting. "You wanna go hoverboarding?"

Rich frowns at him in incomprehension. "I can't, man, I don't have the—" he stops dead. "The time allowance…" He pulls up another screen and checks his leisure allotment. Then he stares at it, stunned, because: he does, actually. He hasn't gotten any demerits at all here, and he has the full allotment of personal time that someone his age and work-status would if they had a totally clean disciplinary record. He could take an entire day off right now if he wanted and barely make a dent in it.

He stares up at Nate, breaking into an incredulous grin. "Holy shit, I can, I've got free time! God, let's go, let's fucking do this!"

"Yeah," says Nate, who looks relieved and confused and slightly concerned in equal measures, but excited regardless. "Cool! Yeah! Let's do it!"

Rich saves his progress on his current job, dismisses the screens, and bounces to his feet to follow Nate out, still grinning. He can finish his last two blocks on the way.

Fifteen minutes later Nate's pulling their deck-hopper up to a fancy little deck-and-a-half leisure pontoon a few miles out from the main body of the Fleet. The boat presides over a patch of water with all kinds of floating rings and markers and ramps and turn-bars laid out for different types of tricks and challenges. Rich isn't sure he'll be up to anything at all today beyond 'try not to fall in the water', since it's been so long since he's even been on a board. Hell, he's not even sure if he's going to be able to find a board he won't snap in half or sink through the lake surface.

"Hey, auntie!" Nate calls, as he sets the deck-hopper down alongside the pontoon's outer rail, and Rich almost misses the dismount onto the deck when the resident crew of the pontoon turns out to be Katrina Chau.

"Hey, Nate," Katrina Chau says, and leans over the railing to ruffle Nate's hair. Rich scrambles clumsily aboard, aware he's staring, and almost dies on the spot when Katrina fucking Chau gives him a bright, knowing smile, as if to say 'Yes, I am in fact the best hoverboarder in the world, suck it.'

"Hi," Rich squeaks.

"He's cute," Katrina goddamn Chau tells her nephew, apparently. Rich is going to kill Nate as soon as he gets Nate's aunt to autograph his face.

"Aw, yuck, don't," Nate says to her, and hops smoothly over the railing.

Katrina's older than Rich remembers her looking, when he was thirteen and followed hover-sports obsessively and had a gigantic goddamn hero-crush that, apparently, never went away. She's grown her hair out from that famous punky neon mohawk she used to have, and there's thick streaks of untreated gray at her temples, and heavy lines around her eyes and mouth. One of her legs from the knee down is a translucent prosthetic in electric blues and greens, with specially articulated, prehensile toes to match her remaining natural hand-foot.

"Yeah, I'm mooching off my big brother's Fleet citizenship while I get used to the new kicks," Katrina says, following Rich's gaze, and taps her prosthetic heel against the deck. "And I'm getting to know his kids, so, bonus. Nate's alright. Way better than my brother. He can actually stand up straight on a board without crying or pissing himself or anything."

"Love you too, auntie," Nate says, and gets a peck on the cheek for it.

"I didn't know you were a fourhands," Rich tells Nate, feeling a dumb surge of delight as he realizes if Nate's directly related to Katrina Chau, if his dad is her brother, then he must be modded like her, too. Nate's got the gentle, sweet-natured temperament, now that he thinks about it, but he sure doesn't have the build. He's average size, average shaped, even: middling tall with the comfortable softness of a respectable Fleet citizen who doesn't skip his shifts or his meals, and also he doesn't have the usual fourhands pale-and-blond coloration. Then again, Katrina Chau famously doesn't have the fourhands temperament.

There was a popular interview clip once where someone asked Katrina Chau if she ever regretted the Mars project failing before any of the mods born to be colonists got to go to the planet they'd been designed for. Katrina had looked directly into the camera and said, "If the project hadn't failed before I was born, it would have failed as soon as I got there. I don't share first place and I sure as hell wouldn't share Mars."

'Katrina Chau, First and Last Queen of Mars' had trended for awhile after that, on media feeds.

"Well, I'm only half-tweaked, but it's enough to get the extra thumbs," Nate says amiably, in the present, working his boots off. "Dad's the mod, and he married into the Fleet when he was here on a work visa, consulting on float tube manufacturing. Mom's baseline human, and basically runs the antigrav engineering department. It was supposedly true love as soon as she hit him with a clipboard. They took a chance on outcrossing and…here we are." He wiggles his prehensile toes at Rich, like tadaa!

"Nice!" Rich says, and means it. "Outcross solidarity, man," and ducks down to give him a low-five. It's nice to know he's not the only mod in the tech department. And with a fourhands, too, like Trimmer was—is, whatever. Some indefinable amount of tension in Rich eases away for the first time in weeks, leaves him feeling steadier.

"Shit, man, you're only half-tweaked?" Nate asks, looking him up and down. "The fuck size were you supposed to be, a goddamn 200?"

"Mom was an aircraft carrier and Dad brought a ladder," Rich says dryly, because this is not the first time he's fielded this particular question, and gets a very satisfying laugh for it.

Nate has his own board, stowed on a separate rack from the loaner boards alongside his aunt's collection, and he checks it over while Rich stands there and tries not to die over the fact that it's Katrina Chau sizing him for grips and braces—and then he almost does anyway, of mortification. He's so much larger than the extra-large size of loaner gear she has that she ends up slotting together two sets of large-size grips and braces to fit his wrists and ankles.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he says miserably, when she starts wrapping the makeshift gear up with electrical tape.

"For what, dude?" she asks. She's got the same lilting, exotic SoCal accent as from all her interview vids. Rich doesn't know why he wasn't expecting that, but it's startling to hear every time she says anything in real life. She doesn't sound anything like a Fleet citizen, or even someone from Chicago.

"I don't, uh—" he gestures at the gear. "I don't really fit anything. I can sit it out, I mean, if it's inconvenient. I don't wanna break anything. I can, uh, I can just watch Nate."

"Oh my god, dude. Don't you dare come to my boat and sit it the fuck out," she says, and swats his knee. "You wanna hoverboard, you go and hoverboard. If people tell you to stop hoverboarding, you hit them with the hoverboard. That's all there is to it."

"Okay." He's pretty sure he's blushing, but also: wow. He says determinedly, "Okay, then, cool. I, uh, I will."

"Damn fucking right you will, shit. Get these on."

He does as he's told, feeling faint with awe, and Nate rolls his eyes at him pointedly before hopping on his warmed-up board and launching off into the water.

Katrina pulls the largest board off her rack, then gives Rich a steady, basic rundown of safety protocols which makes him feel all of six years old. He doesn't give her a word of backtalk, though, just focuses on her intently and nods whenever it seems like a good idea. Finally she clears him to mount up, clip on, give his grips and braces a once-over on his own, and launch.

Don't fuck this up, Rich thinks, already sweating. Do NOT fuck this up.

Amazingly, he does not fuck it up. The repulsion field sizzling across the underside of the hoverboard engages smoothly with the surface tension of the lake water, and he doesn't dunk himself into the water face-first. Instead he takes a deep breath, finds his center, leans back on his rear heel to compress the field and generate forward momentum, and accelerates off towards the waiting obstacle courses without so much as an extra splash.

It all comes back faster than he expects: the balance, the absolute control needed, the simultaneous feeling of danger and infinite possibility in the frictionless slide of the board under his bare feet. The particular knife's-edge readiness, staying alert to where all of his body is in the world. He swings the board from side to side under him testingly, gripping with his bare toes, puts it into a spin and then leans just right to steady it out, grinning. Nate whoops encouragingly, and Rich manages not to check to see if Katrina's still watching him. Maybe she is and maybe she isn't—he's not going to impress the best hoverboarder in the world, that's for sure. But he can at least not humiliate himself like some fresh first-time virgin, and maybe even have some fun.

After a few laps around the outside of the courses, he works his way up to trying handstands and dolphin twists, easing his way through the more difficult tricks he remembers and only occasionally screwing up and landing in the water. Nate applauds a few times, but he's mostly involved trying to get through the whole course and do advanced stunts at the right points without falling off his own board too often.

Nate's modded toes help him keep control of his board better than someone with baseline human feet could, but he doesn't have anything like his aunt's superhuman grace and precision, or her decades of hard-earned skill. Nate doesn't seem to care, either, and it helps Rich relax more to see him haul himself out of the lake over and over, laughing brightly and unselfconsciously as he shoves his wet hair out of his eyes. Maybe it shouldn't make Rich smile to himself and relax to see how cheerfully careless he is about his mistakes, but it sure does. It's a game to him, it's just a game. Screwing up doesn't matter. Katrina has vanished from the side of the railing, the other boats are too far away to see; nobody but Nate and the gulls sees Rich hit the water, and they don't care.

By the time the sun hits the horizon, Rich is soaked, out of breath, hungry again, and feeling infinitely better than he did when he went out. When Rich is lining up to try a trick for the tenth time in a row, pushing his body to its limits and caring about nothing more dangerous than hitting the water again…when he's got all his focus on boarding, it's a lot harder to worry about anything else in his life he might have screwed up, about Basil or Angela or Trimmer, about his caseworker or anything. Just the water and his board and his body and the next trick.

"Hey!" says Nate, and pulls up next to him in a rush of small waves that make Rich's board wobble under him. He gets his balance back and grins, breathless and unrestrainedly joyful; Nate grins back, and looks like he means it the same way.

"We should head in," Nate says, and plucks at his shirt, which is as sopping-wet as Rich's. "I'm starving, and if Liam finds out how sunburned I got out here he's gonna give me hell."

"Oh," Rich says, blinking. He completely forgot about the issue of sunburn. Normally he puts on sunscreen before he goes out on the sundeck, and he put it on this time, too, but they've been out here for like three hours in the evening sunlight, and he has a growing suspicion that he should've reapplied it.

"Shit, yeah, I could eat my board," he says, and surreptitiously pokes his bare forearm as they head back, testing the color. Yeah, that's definitely red, and not a 'somebody is being friendly with me and I'm going embarrassingly flushed' kind of red. He's burned all to hell. Hopefully Liam, whoever that is, only cares about Nate's skin, and Rich isn't in trouble with anybody professional. The name sounds vaguely, distantly familiar, but it's not on Rich's mental list of people to watch out for, so it's probably not a big deal.

"I bet if you ask nice, my aunt'll sign your big hungry fanboy butt," Nate says, and Rich pushes him into the water.

He doesn't ask, and she doesn't offer. But she does say, "You've got some talent, little dude! Don't be a stranger," as he's stripping his grips off, and he almost fumbles the equipment overboard in sheer flustered delight. She lets him rack his own board, and waves goodbye as Nate drives them away, and Rich feels so light he could practically float back to his berth.