After The Storm

Holtz has someone cornered and Rich just knows it's Trimmer: that old bastard won't leave the guy alone, thinks Trimmer's his personal chew toy. Rich starts forward to shove between them and sees that it's not Trimmer after all, he's not squared up at Rich's side with a knife out, there's no bared teeth, no practiced fury. It's Liam, or maybe Basil, all shocky and scared, pressing shivering-close to Rich's back.

Rich glares down at Holtz, looming over him, but it doesn't work like it should, like it usually does. Holtz doesn't snort and roll his eyes and back the hell off, he steps up to Rich and meets him glare for glare with an unfamiliar hard gleam in his eyes.

He's got guys with him, Rich realizes suddenly, one at his shoulder and two behind Rich and the kid he's protecting.

"You're in my way, Merrill," Holtz says, and for a moment Rich is uncertain, because he wasn't the one who said that, was he? It happened different last time…Then Rich realizes that while he can't quite see behind Holtz, he knows one of the guys there has a knife, the ground-sharp iron straightedge that opened his arm to the bone last time, and being big and scary isn't going to work this time.

Holtz is talking loud and nasty to all his awful friends about how nice the kid's ass is gonna be, and Rich has to stop him, has to save the kid, and he can't, there's nothing he can do except—

"Let him go, and I'll bend over for you," Rich says, and hears himself say it. The dirty, evil smell of long-unwashed metal bulkheads is so thick around them he can feel it in his mouth, chipped old paint and dust and oil and human sweat, crawling down his throat, choking all the air from his lungs. He wants to scream but he can't, he wants to run but he can't. All he can do is take it, is lean against the dirty bulkheads, is breathe that nasty smell, is tell himself: he can take it. He can take all of it. He knows he's already taken it, that they're just going to go through this over and over again, and a heavy despair numbs the sharp crazy rush of panic. He doesn't have to panic. He can take it.

"You can take it," says Holtz, "big hungry tweak like you, bet you're dying for some real meat." Everyone closes in around him, laughing and eager to take advantage. Big tough soldier boy like him, hungry mouth like his, he can take it. Of course he can take it. Trimmer and Basil and Liam are gone now, safely away, and Rich's hands are numb on the fastening of his pants. He has to, he has to, he doesn't have a choice, he agreed to this, it was his own idea. It's all already happened, anyway, he knows he can get through this. He's already taken all of it, so who cares what more there is to get through?

"Don't tell me you're crying, big boy," Perkins laughs, just the same as when Rich was seventeen and didn't know anything about what he could survive. Hard, rough hands grab a fistful of his hair and pull.

Rich slams upright in bed fast enough he almost rips his sheets. He's breathing fast and rough, too loud and stupid, someone's gonna hear. He chokes a few times, trying to swallow down all the awful noise he's making, and he has to wave on the light before he can totally reassure himself he's on the Reliant.

"Fuck," he gasps, and presses his hands against the slick, gross mess of his face, leaning back against the bulkhead and struggling for every breath. It was just a nightmare, just a stupid jumbled-up mess of bad memories. He never really bent over to take the heat off someone else, especially not Trimmer: he and Trimmer looked out for each other, made sure no one could get either of them alone like that. It was better, once Rich had Trimmer.

Fuck, he misses Trimmer so much. Don't tell me you're crying—Rich sniffs hard, scrubs his face on his arm, gasps for air a few more times. It's coming a little easier. He's not crying over shit he already survived. He doesn't have to be scared, that's stupid. Perkins never even touched him again, not since he was seventeen, not after that one single time. Rich had known better, afterwards. It never happened again.

Rich breathes. He holds the back of his neck tightly, his other arm wrapped around his stomach because there's no one else to hold. If Trimmer were here he'd already be making fun of Rich for being such a baby. If Trimmer were here Rich could know he was okay, that they were both okay: Rich would trade anything, right this minute, for Trimmer to be here right now to make fun of him for being this much of a sad sloppy mess, almost crying over stuff that doesn't matter anymore. Rich is okay. He's going to be okay. Trimmer's gotta be okay too.

He keeps thinking about what Ms Travis said. "The Fleet takes sexual assault very seriously." What a bunch of bullshit, no it doesn't, the Fleet never swooped in and saved Trimmer, or anyone else who was too small, or young, or stupid. There's probably guys all over the goddamn Fleet still getting shoved around and made to take it and what's Ms Travis gonna do about it? Nothing, is what.

Still trying to slow his breathing, Rich flicks up a screen and checks the time. Fuck, it's nearly six, the shift is going to start in ten minutes. Rich doesn't want to start work, he's all shaken up and scattered, but the thought of sitting here uselessly is unbearable.

He shoves himself up in bed, pours himself his morning shot with hands he's trying to pretend aren't shaking. It doesn't help, so he cheats his budget for a couple extra shots that he desperately needs in order to get any kind of control over his nerves. Fuck, he's running out so much faster than he planned…

Rich struggles miserably through the first half of the shift before it occurs to him that Ben will probably be even less pleased with Rich for turning in mangled bullshit solutions than he would be if Rich turned in nothing at all for the morning. He fights with himself for a while, and then gives up and shuts the screen down with a dismissive wave of one hand, cutting the shift off at a half. He can pull a full six later in the day to make up for it, it's fine. He's fine.

If he's not going to be working, though, the question remains of what exactly the fuck Rich is going to do with himself in the meantime. Floundering wildly at code for three hours has done absolutely nothing to burn off all the sick energy bouncing around in his bones, and his room's already as clean as it can get. Any cleaner and Rich will just be scrubbing paint off the walls.

In the end he just pulls up his screens, with every intention of putting on his next Family Fleet episode and doing his stupid coursework—and finds he's got a recent message waiting from Liam. Who is, right now, not exactly his favorite person in the world.

Worse, it's a brief clip of Liam in the silvery early-morning light of the Genesis's top deck, holding a huge, dick-shaped squash up to the recording screen and smirking like a fiend. It's captioned Thinking of you! ;) ;) ;). Rich assumed it was mostly gratitude making him remember Liam that pretty, but no, he really is like Rich remembered him, delicate and beautiful and smiling a perfect, dimpled smile like the world's never put so much as a scratch on him.

And…either Liam doesn't think that he might have overstepped with Rich, or he does and he's trying to make up for it with some flirting.

So, okay, maybe this morning Rich should call Liam. Time to have that conversation. Liam probably won't get ugly, "I was trying to help you out, asshole, stop being such a sensitive little bitch—" but it's hard to be certain of that, all shaken and twitchy still.

Rich settles back against the bulkhead at the head of his bed, yawns and tries to finger-comb his hair into order. He's gotta call Liam about some serious shit, he should probably not be obviously sweaty and gross and upset from bad dreams and huddled up in his berth—but actually, who cares?

He feels dirty and fragile and angry all the way through to his bones, and like maybe he wants to take all of it out on someone else for a change instead of having one more mature, serious, adult conversation with people about his feelings. Maybe he won't get all cleaned up to impress a pretty guy whose life is probably one exciting round of great sex after the next. Maybe he'll just call up looking like a tired mess and see how friendly Liam feels like being to a large and grumpy wreck who's extra grumpy because of him.

He almost loses his nerve—thinks, fuck it, gets his vodka back out and gives himself a fourth shot, then raises a comm screen and calls Liam fast, before he either wimps out entirely or breaks down and pounds back his whole stash and lets the rest of his life sort itself out from there.

Apparently it's started raining outside, because when he gets a hold of Liam the backdrop is a bank of dripping, gently-waving leaves and Liam is now wearing an ancient-looking yellow raincoat with the sleeves rolled way, way up. He looks thrilled to be called, and completely awake and very perky...and still unbelievably pretty.

"Rich!" he says, like this is the best thing he's seen this morning, and glances down at whatever he's doing. Leaves briefly pass between him and his screen as he hoists a pot, and then he reappears again and gives Rich an open once-over, eyebrows rising as he lingers on Rich's sweaty, worn-thin sleeping shirt. "...Good morning," he says, slow and meaningful, and a wicked little edge creeps into his smile. "What can I do for you, handsome?"

That was not the intended response. Deeply flustered and annoyed about it, Rich folds his arms and glowers at him, ignoring the heat rising in his face, and has the bitter satisfaction of seeing Liam's bright cheer flicker out into something wide-eyed and concerned.

"Rich?" he asks, softer now. "What's going on, hon?"

"My caseworker," Rich starts, and has to look away, feeling his face heat further—he hates this, hates talking about this, hates being someone who has a caseworker. "She was telling me about how she's heard that people might have made inappropriate fucking advances to me back on the Sympatico. Why the fuck did you—I mean, talk about inappropriate, that was my shit, it happened to me, you shouldn't have just gone telling everyone about it! That was fucked up, okay?"

Liam blinks at him. "I didn't tell everyone," he says, like that's in any way the point of what Rich said. "You didn't seem to want to talk about it, with me or anyone else, you're still… Hon, you're still obviously uncomfortable with the whole subject. If I reported it, you didn't have to, and Security could keep an eye on anybody else who was going around…" he waves a hand in the air, lip curling. "...Trying to coerce people into blowjobs, 'because that'll hurt less than biting pillows'." His voice is deeper and rougher on those words, like he's quoting somebody, quoting Burton probably, and he makes a nasty little noise, an angry hiss through bared teeth, a brief flash of that all-consuming fury of his showing through.

Rich just glares at him, not placated in the least. "If you actually wanted to help out," he growls, "you could've at least fucking warned me you'd said something before she came out with that, with—thinking I'm some poor little—whatever. She went and grilled me on it, Liam, it wasn't cool, and now all my fucking coursework's gonna be about it! I'm gonna have to go watch a bunch of goddamn puppets explain to me about bad touches!"

"The information tipline is supposed to be confidential," Liam says, "I didn't think she'd…" he slows down, rakes a hand distractedly through his hair. When he looks back up at Rich, he looks less angry, more stressed and upset.

"I didn't even think about her asking you," he says, and there's no hint of duplicity in his eyes. "Or changing your coursework assignments to, to force you to think about...things you might not be ready to deal with yet. I thought they'd report it to Security, monitor the ringleaders, I didn't—shit." He rubs a hand roughly over his face, groans softly. "I should've known, though, they'd need to ask you about what happened, hon, I'm sorry. I thought I was helping…" he shakes his head. "I'm sorry."

Rich's anger dissolves into awkward, resentful confusion, and he can feel his glare shifting from 'fierce' to 'probably just stupid looking'. He figured Liam knew exactly what the consequences would be and merrily did it anyway, because he thought he knew better than Rich. And Rich had assumed if he got an apology at all, which he wasn't expecting, it would be a huffy, reluctant thing, grudging and unfelt. He has no idea what to do with this sincerity.

"Right," he says, arms unfolding, and looks away from the screen, scowling around his room instead. "Well. Uh. Apology accepted, I guess."

"I can go try to talk to her," Liam says, and steps in from the deck to some inner passageway, pulling his hood back and shaking drops of water out of his hair. "I did part of my interning in social work and case management, they know me, I could…?"

Rich gives him an incredulous stare. "You could tell her not to ask me questions about shit? Isn't that like, what she does?"

"I mean I could...try," Liam says, but the tone of his voice is a pretty solid confirmation that Rich was right to be skeptical. "This is my fault, I can at least try for damage control."

Rich sighs and waves a hand at him, giving up the last of his anger. "Just make sure they've got a full report on Burton, I'll…deal with her. And the new questions in my prosocial assignments this week." He grimaces.

"Right, the homework," Liam says wryly. "If it makes you feel any better, it isn't just you; Behavioral Adjustment caseworkers are extremely good at digging up the exact issues you'd prefer to keep ignoring, and then making you write essays about them. 'Do you feel negative emotions when you consider how your genetic modifications have affected your life?' 'Please name three positive and three negative feelings you have about your genetic modification.' If they think they've zeroed in on what's wrong with you they're not gonna let up until they've gotten you to fix it." He half-laughs, ducking his head. "Why do you think I almost ended up in that department? Sounds familiar, right?"

Rich isn't really registering what he's saying anymore, to answer; he's too busy staring like he can see through Liam's pretty face and straight into his genetic code. He licks his lips, tries to stay casual, not to sound weird and intense and pushy, but really?

"You're modded? Or was that just a, an example for my benefit?"

"What?" says Liam, blinking back up at him. "You didn't know that? I thought everybody knew that."

"Okay, maybe you're forgetting I'm new around here," Rich says, rolling his eyes. His heart is beating faster already. He'd thought fourhands, maybe, but when he'd seen the guy's normal feet, he assumed that was that. "I'd heard your name a couple times before I met you, but no one was like 'Oh yeah, that Liam, who's also another mod, isn't that interesting and relevant!' They were mostly like 'Liam's gonna give me hell if I get sunburned' or 'Liam keeps bitching me out over not hydrating!'"

"Ha," says Liam, a vicious little smile twisting his pretty lips. "And didn't Nate just fry himself red the other day! I wouldn't have to nag you boys to take care of yourselves so often if you'd just do it yourselves in the first place."

"That's not the point," Rich huffs. "Or even if it is the point! I still don't know you, okay? I mean, I want to, sure, but cut me a little slack while I catch up on what everyone knows."

Liam gives a long, soft sigh and shucks one big, muddy glove off with a practiced motion to comb his fingers through his wet blue curls. "That's fair," he says. "I deserved that one. Well then—yes. I don't try to hide it or anything." He crosses his arms firmly, looking up to meet Rich's eyes so steadily Rich has to resist the urge to look away. "I did actually think you knew, especially with Burton hanging around, with his creepy 'pretty little tweak' dirty-talk."

"I didn't hear him call you a tweak," Rich says. "I guess I missed it...? I'd have hit him an extra one for it if I had, though."

"Well, I don't think he said it that particular way at that particular time," Liam says. "Just the…the 'babydoll' part. Babydoll Beaker." His teeth flash in another vicious scowl. "That man's got a fetish for mods, and he doesn't even have the decency to be ashamed about it."

"Yeah, he never left Trimmer alone, back on the Sympatico, no matter how often we ran him off," Rich says absently. He barely feels the sharp throb of loneliness at the thought of Trimmer, too busy trying to work out what mod, exactly, Liam might be. He doesn't have any pieces to put together except that Liam is small and pretty, like a doll, so it's an obvious nickname.

"Asshole," Liam sniffs. "He'd better get shipped out for this. If I see him again—" he makes a violent wringing motion with his delicate little hands, and Rich finds himself smiling.

"So okay," he admits, "I don't, uh, actually know what that means, 'babydoll'. I mean I know what a doll is, but I've never heard of that mod before. I don't know much about mods like, in general. I just thought you were like…a really pretty fourhands."

"Ah," says Liam, and sighs again, slow and quiet, and leans back against the bulkhead. "Well. That's flattering."

Rich shrugs hopefully. "So...what, the mod type really is just called 'babydolls'?"

Liam gives a theatrical roll of his eyes and spreads his arms out as wide as they'll go—which isn't very—before dropping them. "Obviously I was not consulted about the branding," he says dryly, and Rich gives a startled laugh. "So, stop me if you've heard this one before, right?"

"Right," says Rich, and Liam flashes him a very bright, very sharp little grin.

"So," he says, fast and light, like he couldn't care less. "When two wealthy assholes love their reputation very much, and have decided it would look good to have the most beautiful designer daughter in the whole wide world..." he makes a sweeping, derisive gesture, "they go to some exclusive, private, no-questions-asked, no-fucks-given genetic boutique, some trendy new start-up that promises them a trendier, newer kid than any of their other rich asshole friends are cooking up, and these particular assholes get sold an expensive load of dirt-cheap black-market lolita mods, spiced up with god only knows what else they happened to think would make for a better sales pitch to idiots.

"So then those rich bitches get their perfect little beautiful baby girl, and she gets about so high…" he holds a hand up a few inches shorter than his own height. "...And stops there. A beautiful little babydoll, right? A perfect little prop to trot out for the cameras and put back in her box when you're done playing parent..." He laughs, soft and humorless. "Until she gets tired of being a toy, and starts being a problem. She starts breaking things, or fucking her bodyguards, or doing an impolite amount of drugs, or she runs away from home, or all of the above in the case of my grandma. But there have already been a billion news articles about how perfect she is, how sweet and cute, how much fun her mommy and daddy have been having with her back when she couldn't do anything about it, and now everybody wants their own babydoll daughter to show off."

He's been rattling the story off like he's done it a dozen times before, but he pauses, now, glancing at Rich, one dark eyebrow going up. "Are you with me so far, hon?"

Rich nods slowly, thinking hard. "A whole bunch of haphazardly-assembled kids get born to exactly the kind of people who shouldn't be parents at all, and by the time enough of them self-destruct it's too late to do anything about how many of them were commissioned while they were still a fad? And of course since it was a fad, there's a whole cohort of them all melting down at once. And they're all baby billionaires, too. That must have been a really fun decade for reporters."

"You got it, babe," Liam agrees. He pulls up a couple of screens, flips through them, and then shoots a few screen-captures in Rich's direction. Ancient pictures of printed newspapers: DELANCEY "BABYDOLL" OFFS ROMANTIC RIVAL! screams one headline. Another one announces, TERRIBLE TWINS! WALTON SISTERS CRASH FAMILY GALA!! Another, DEMON DAUGHTER FEEDS DADDY DEAREST A DYNAMITE DINNER!

"Holy shit," Rich mutters, eyebrows lifting as he zooms in to see if he can make out any details in the articles. Not really, damn. "So, uh, the temper runs true too, huh?"

"Oh, yeah," Liam says, half-laughing. "Emotional stability wasn't part of the package, even before the first generation got raised by billionaire narcissists. 'Woman chops off cheating husband's dick and feeds it to pet alligator', 'Quadruple murder-suicide at the spa', 'Daughter crashes private jet into parents' mansion', some crazy stuff. We were notorious, for awhile. I mean, mostly just aggravated assault stuff, people harassing pretty heiresses or whatever and then getting their faces clawed off for it. Or babydolls taking one too many insults at a fancy party and having to be dragged off Senator Whatever-The-Fuck by the cops. But the really famous ones were always the gruesome murders. Of course." He drops his head again, minimizing the screen—doesn't look up, silent.

"We feel...a lot," he says finally. "I feel a lot." He doesn't sound upset, really, just tired. "I think I'm probably bigger than you on the inside, hon, and it's just...crammed down into this pretty little…" he nods down at himself, the fragile arms and thin shoulders. "...Babydoll body. I still can't believe anyone was surprised when we started exploding."

Rich nods, can't think of anything to say that doesn't sound dumb, but he has to at least try. "I don't," he starts, bites his lip, then plunges forward, "I don't wanna say I know how that feels because I'm—" he gestures at himself, "—huge, you know? Huge and, you know, strong, tough, I dunno how many times I've been told by guys they wish they had what I got. But, I, uh. I get that it's frustrating. Not to feel like you ever had a fair shot at the life you wanna live, because of the body some ancient assholes picked out for you. It's fucked up."

"Ha! Yeah." Liam shakes his head, and then smiles brightly. "But still. We can make something of ourselves, on our own! Something different. We can design our own lives. You've got to hold on to that, I guess. And each other, when we get the chance." He quirks a smile, hopeful and coaxing.

"That's—uh, that's. Not a bad philosophy," Rich manages, even while he can feel himself blushing like a moron in response to that smile. Liam's smile widens, beautiful grey eyes going intent on Rich's face, and Rich feels the heat in his face spreading down his neck despite the last remnants of irritation lingering at the edges of his mood. He hesitates a moment more, then smiles back.

"I didn't expect you to be so cool about all this," Rich says. "Or like, say sorry, and mean it. But, uh, you did, so. Maybe I'll see you around sometime?"

"Maybe in a couple days," Liam says, low and thoughtful. He shakes his hair back out of his eyes and gives Rich a warm, rueful smile. "I'm booked solid for a while here, and a single-residency's schedule isn't always as flexible as I'd like." He shifts, hefts something—more fronds brush past the screen. "I really have to go, babe, I've got a lot more babies to repot today, and you should get some breakfast. Can't have you wasting away before I get back to you, can we, gorgeous?"

"Oh, I—what?" Rich says, sure his whole face is red now. Gorgeous, someone like Liam actually calling him gorgeous, how's he supposed to handle that kind of flirting? That's just playing dirty. "No?" he hazards.

Liam laughs triumphantly, gets one hand free of the plant wrangling and blows a kiss to his screen. "God, you're cute. I promise as soon as I can, sweetheart, I'll set aside a little time to apologize in person. I'll show you how sincere I am about making amends." His flirtatious smile falls. "I really am, you know. If you want me to talk to anyone for you, I will."

"No, it's okay," Rich sighs, drags a hand over his face, and shakes his head. "It's fine." There's no point, and now he just feels stupid about all of it, anyway. Better just to drop the whole thing and endure whatever's coming than keep dragging this out.

"I'll see you later, then," Liam says gently. "We'll have a good time, okay? I'll save you all the sweetest things this boat's got on offer." He gives a fast, meaningful wink, one last flash of that bright, warm smile, and then the call cuts off.

Rich sits there, hung up on just how long, thorough, and complex Liam's apology might be, and how much more luxurious and indulgent sex with Liam could even get. Then he sighs, slouches back, and figures, hell with it—he can fit in some personal time this morning. He was going to take his pants off before his shower, anyway…

-

After a reassuringly huge breakfast, he calls Thena. A lot has happened, and he obviously isn't going to tell her about all of it, but he has to talk about some of it or he's going to explode. The minute she picks up, though, she starts telling him excitedly about a recent priority delivery she made.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"So I pick up the package and take it over to the Washington, and guess who was waiting for me!"

"Admiral Clearwater," Rich says dryly.

"No, actually, funny guy," she says, glaring, and then goes back to excitement. "A Spook! With two Security guards! He wasn't that old, like maybe Angie's age, and he looked out of it, like, kinda twitchy, but he took the package and nodded to me and just walked off without saying a word!" She shakes her head. "And then the one Security guy was giving me a weird look, of course, like 'what the fuck is a giant tweak doing making deliveries', but whatever! I got to see a Spook!"

"Oh shit!" says Rich, totally distracted from everything he was going to talk about. "Shit, did he have the scars, like on his arm, or the glowing eyes or anything? I heard some of them get retina caps so their screens can all be invisible."

"I didn't see any glowing, but he did have some scars on his wrist," Thena says, and gives a shudder, disgusted and delighted about it. "I bet they were surgery scars, I bet he had some kind of top-secret implants or something."

"That's pretty cool," Rich sighs. "I was there for two months and I only got to see like, an intern Spook or something a couple times, and that was before I'd heard any of the stories and knew what to look for."

Thena nods satisfaction and sits back. "So, anything interesting going on with you?" she says, challenging.

Rich almost bursts out laughing. Ran into an utter bastard of an ex-crewmate, managed not to get knifed, no longer starving—"Oh, you know, one or two minor details," he says, shrugging. "Got called out to the Arcadia the other day, and I met this really cute engineer."

"Oh-ho!" Thena says, grinning. "Got your eye on another hot nerd, huh?"

"I got way more than my eyes on him," Rich says smugly, and then his brain catches up with his mouth and reminds him Holy shit your little sister doesn't need to know about your sex life. It's worth it, though, because Thena goes "Eww!" and grimaces at him. He's additionally reminded of all the times Thena has totally ignored his groaning and cursing to tell him about her sex life, because Thena is as rambunctiously, enthusiastically gross as she is rambunctiously and enthusiastically everything else.

Rich crosses his arms, raises his jaw, and brags, "Not just a hot nerd, either. He's an engineer with his own personal genetics lab, and he's probably the most gorgeous fucking man in the entire Fleet, and he offered to take me back to his berth and feed me prototype blackberries and grapes and stuff. It went great. It was great. You can keep all your fighting fangirls, hot nerds are the best."

Thena huffs at him. "You suck."

Rich opens his mouth, closes it again, then grins at her, raising his eyebrows in a deliberate echo of the way she likes to do it when she's smug. Thena snorts with laughter.

"Okay, okay, point taken! But did you suck suckily or with skill?"

"You don't have the clearance to see my performance reviews," Rich says with extreme dignity in the face of this fresh new round of little sister nonsense. "But they're all extremely positive. So there."

"Well, anyway," Thena snorts, rolling her eyes extra-dramatically. "Good for you, you incredibly boring dork, you finally got laid!"

"I got a Washington's worth of laid," Rich says, instead of commenting on the 'finally'. "And he's really cool? Fun, smart, super confident—kind of high-handed sometimes, but we talked about that, I think he's gonna rein it back in, now. So."

Thena frowns. "Wait, high-handed how? He didn't, like, pull anything weird with you, right? Pull rank or whatever? You need me to go beat him up?"

Rich can't help but smile. "No, he didn't pull anything weird. He just—he was trying to help, but he went and told my caseworker some shit about—like, me, my whole situation, he thought he'd gotten this whole big thing figured out about me that she had to know and he should've fucking checked with me first that any of that was okay. Which it wasn't." He shrugs, rolls his eyes. "But then when I called him out on it he looked totally torn up about it, said he thought they'd just follow up without making me—do any extra coursework or anything, whatever. He said he was sorry, so. And he was trying to be a nice guy, and he was really nice, like, during. When we were together. He was sweet, he…he really, he was good to me."

"Well, good, then," Thena says, and instead of poking fun at him for the incoherence, she's got a small, genuine smile on. "You look a lot better than you did last week, or—for a while, actually. You look really good, Rich. Happy. It's, y'know, it's nice to see."

"Well…cool," says Rich, who has no idea how to deal with this remark. "Oh, hey, and he knew all about our mod, he's a genetic engineer—he even knew Dad was baseline just from looking at me!"

"Whoa," Thena says, blinking.

"Right? Yeah, like, one look at my fingerprints and he knew. It was nuts. Apparently we're mostly SS with a little Hastings! SS is…" he tries to remember the name. "Synergy—"

"Solutions, yeah," Thena says, nodding. "Yeah, that makes sense! We're too tall and don't have the fangs for lykoi, and archangel women tend to be like—" she gestures the curves of an hourglass figure, "stacked, instead of big bricks like the SS mods are. And me'n Angie, come to think of it."

Rich stares at her. "Are those other soldier mods? How do you know about them? There isn't anything about individual types in the Fleet Encyclopedia article for soldier mods beyond mentioning Hastings, I've checked."

She rolls her eyes at him, of course. "Um, obviously I've run into them in the ring, Rich! We get outsiders at the Mall, remember?"

"Okay, it's not we, Thena," he says, glaring. "It's not like you're berthed there."

Ignoring this completely, she goes on, "Archangels are pretty and vicious and really dumb, SS folks are way faster than they look, just like me, and good sports, and lykoi are smart and really fucking fun to fight." She smirks at Rich. "They're very bitey," she adds in a tone of voice he knows unfortunately well, and he puts up a hand before she can keep going.

"I don't need any information about post-fight activities, thanks," he says, and she pouts at him, amused. "Okay, so. SS guys are reasonably cool?"

She shrugs. "I mean, they're people. One guy was a dick, but the other ones I've fought have seemed cool, yeah. You know when they're not part Hastings they're way fucking darker than us? Tan or brown skin, black hair. The mod's from Mexico, originally."

"Huh," Rich says, blinking about that. He's nearly half SS and only one eighth Hastings, and yet the designers made sure the Hastings coloring would come through regardless. Rich would be perfectly happy without it, since the hair is a signal most people can instantly read and he sunburns way too easily, but no such luck. The thought of looking something like Miguel or Raoul, of looking that much more normal, sends a familiar pang through him, wistfulness and resentment all mixed up in old, tired resignation.

"Genes are fucking weird," he sighs.

"Story of a tweak's life," Thena snorts. "So, your boy taught you a little about yourself, that's great!"

Rich opens his mouth to snark back at her, abruptly remembers the thing with his ears, and flushes hotly. Thena dissolves into hysterical laughter, and Rich is forced to hide his face in his hands and swear at her until the mortification recedes enough that he can think again.

"Yes, okay, anyway," he says finally, casting around for a change of topic. "Hey, the other awesome thing Liam did—will you shut up, god—is he fixed my food allotment so I'm actually getting enough to eat now!"

"Why weren't you getting enough to eat?" Thena says, giggles starting to trail off.

"The Reliant bumped me back down to two blocks a meal, it's the maximum default ration," Rich says impatiently, waving a hand, "but the point is, he fixed it! I'm not hungry all the time!"

Thena has stopped laughing entirely. "How long was this going on?" she demands.

"Since—it doesn't matter, Thena, can you be fucking happy for me instead of getting pissed about the thing that's fixed now?"

"You didn't tell me!" she says, glaring at him. "You never tell me anything!"

"I didn't think of it! It was just one more annoying, fucked up thing, big surprise!" He runs a hand through his hair. "Anyway, the real surprise is that it could be fixed. It sure as fuck wasn't that easy before."

"Before?" she says, and why did he say that? Now she looks furious, and he's tensing up, readying himself for a shouting match. Then she clenches her teeth, closes her eyes briefly and takes a deep breath, lets it out with a rumbling little huff. "So when you were on the mur—the other boat, when you would say you were hungry, you didn't mean it was too long until dinner. You meant you weren't getting enough food at all."

Rich shrugs, sullen and uneasy. He should've known not to mention the food thing.

"So how long did—"

"Thena, can we just fucking—not talk about it? It's done, everything's fine now, just forget it!"

Thena's brows snap down and her back draws up straight, which is not encouraging at all. Rich glares back at her, trying to express how serious he is about this.

"I mean it, Thena," he growls. "I'm sick of talking about how fucked up things were! I get enough of it from my caseworker, I don't need it from you too!"

Thena rumbles back at him, tight-lipped and angry, and then huffs explosively and looks away. "Fine," she says, and swallows hard. "Fine. But you can't keep keeping me out of the loop like that, Rich! It's not okay!"

"Thena, come on, you couldn't have fixed it! I'm not gonna tell you just so you can worry about it—"

"You should!" Thena says, flaring up again. "No, y'know what, you should tell me anyway! I'd rather know what's going on with you and worry about you than have you lie and tell me everything's just fine!"

"I didn't lie!" Rich snaps, stung. "I left things out, it wasn't a lie—"

"Yes it was, Richard!" she snaps, the growl back in her voice. "Would you have even told me about the guy with a knife if I hadn't called when you were wearing a fresh bandage?"

He glares, aware that it's as good as an answer and deeply regretting getting onto the whole topic in the first place. At least she only found out about that one incident, and hasn't realized there were a whole lot more guys with knives than one, and several more scars Rich isn't planning to tell her about.

Thena glares back furiously and does a stomping circuit of her room, the view spinning slowly in the background as the screen floats in front of her. Then she tips her head back and lets out a noise that isn't so much a growl as it is an actual roar, full-throated and utterly inhuman and loud enough that Rich winces back. Trust Athena to make everything into some violent, stupid production, then wonder why he doesn't want to keep her in the loop!

"That's what I thought," his little sister says, breathing hard, voice still buzzing at the edges. "And just so you know, I hate it."

"Well, too bad!" he shoots back. "You flip out over everything, and the last thing I need is my own sister treating me like some pathetic fucking victim! I don't need your pity, Thena."

Her face changes, and he's afraid saying that was the stupidest mistake he's made yet, but then she rolls her eyes at him. "You're my brother, dipshit, I'm not gonna—no, for fuck's sake, Rich. I wouldn't even know how."

"Good," he mutters. "So drop it already."

She gives a final, frustrated growl, then flops over on her bed and puts her chin in her hands, visibly composing herself. "So," she says finally. "What about that first guy you were all hot and bothered over, your crewmate guy? You still gonna keep on going with all that, now that you've got, y'know, another option?"

Vastly relieved by the change of topic, Rich leans back on his hands on his own bed and shrug-nods, ignoring the 'hot and bothered' bit as typical Thena. "Probably, yeah. We kinda…hit a snag a while back, so we're gonna work on that whole friendship deal first, but yeah. Liam's really nice, it was really fun, but—I dunno, it'd be nice to—have a real friend around and—yeah." His ears are starting to heat again. "Basil's cool. And I want a friend. I don't wanna fuck things up by creeping on him or anything, okay?"

"Hah!" Thena points at the screen triumphantly. "You want a relationship! Yoouu really liiike him!" she sings.

"Fuck off!" Rich grumbles. "Maybe! So what?"

"That's cute!" Thena says. "So where's Liam gonna fit, then?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Rich says stubbornly. "Fit, that's—nothing, I don't—"

"He went and talked to your caseworker," Thena points out. "I'm gonna assume you'll just get mad if I ask like, what about, but that doesn't say 'one time fling' to me. You could be on to something there."

Rich groans. "I don't know, okay! He apologized, and he sounded like he meant it, so—I don't know! Maybe? I mean, come on, I don't know if either of them are interested in more than the occasional hookup. And it's great if they are, that's—good enough, you know?"

She nods thoughtfully. "Sure, yeah. I hope it works out! You could use someone to treat you nice. Maybe two someones. Maybe ten! Maybe if you collect a whole school of nice boys you'll finally fucking chill out sometime."

He rolls his eyes at her.

"I bet Angie thinks you could stand to chill out sometimes," he says, and knows he's hit home by the way she grimaces. "You still enjoying flitting around?"

"From boat to boat and pretty girl to pretty girl," she agrees.

"You know," Rich says in his best sober and concerned voice, "you can still have plenty of fun with pretty girls after you get a nice, respectable, stationary job on a 100—"

Thena's groaning by halfway through, "—And stop being so damn deviant!" she finishes with a huff. "Nope! I like my life, thanks. Maybe you can settle down on your big, boring 200 and go respectable, but not me."

"You couriers," he says solemnly, shaking his head. "A real threat to the peace and quiet of proper citizens."

"Especially when I keep them up at night making my girls scream," Thena says with a sharp-edged little smirk.

"And on that note," Rich says, rolling his eyes, "I'll talk to you next week. Don't let any breezes knock you off your bike, pipsqueak."

"And you don't go spraining your brain, dumbass," she snickers, and closes the call.

-

The Family Fleet episodes Rich were dreading fail to materialize in his next set of prosocial assignments, which is a small mercy. He's waiting for videos full of puppets telling him earnestly that if somebody touches him somewhere that makes him uncomfortable, he should tell an adult, but the most topical they get is a short episode about respecting it when people say no, and that it's okay to say no and expect people to listen. Which still feels pointed, after his last call with his caseworker, but at least it's...manageable.

The questions after the videos are still a pain in his ass. Most of them are just the improved version of the basic prosocial questions, but every so often another one is slipped in there that's a lot harder to deal with. "In your own words and to your comfort level, how would you summarize your history with physical intimacy?" and then, "Do thoughts of intimacy cause you feelings of shame, anger, fear or similar negative emotion?"

Those make Rich growl at his screen, and he has to shut it down for a solid ten minutes before he can get himself together enough to go back to the questions. It's not—intimacy he has a problem with, okay, not that he has a problem, and if he did have a problem it would be with fucking, the plain, violent act of it, not...intimacy. Being fed grapes in a sunny arbor, that's intimacy. Kissing the freckles on Basil's stomach is intimacy, and it's fine, and he's fine.

Rich writes "i am not comfortable with this at all actually" for the first question, and "no" for the second, and leaves it like that. Then he goes and has two extra shots and sits on his bed taking deep breaths and trying not to think, until he's got the churn of pointless memories under control again.

He goes and gets out of his berth, after finishing that assignment, because staying in there is making him antsy and twitchy and there's nothing else to clean in there, and he's got more energy than he knows what to do with. He heads off towards the rec room with the vague thought he might find something to help someone with there, and then comes through the door and into the middle of what appears to be the remnants of another Spellcraft circle. Rich must've forgotten to check his messages, he's missed the game. Nate and Miguel are standing with a couple of mechanics Rich doesn't know, all with little Two Cents voting screens up as they discuss something.

Basil is flat on his back on the deck, looking flushed and disheveled, with his shirt rucked up around his armpits and Mitch pretty much lying on top of him, one of his knees pinning down the sarong fabric between Basil's thighs so he can't get up without losing his whole wrap. Mitch has got his paint marker out again, there's a line of bright blue on Basil's neck, and Mitch is drawing big wobbly blue stars on Basil's stomach with his marker, the paint standing out bright against his brown skin.

"Rich!" says Basil when he sees who opened the door, and flails at Mitch's head, blurting out a squeaky laugh as Mitch triumphantly finishes a star and starts another one on one sharp, freckled hip bone. "Rich, help!"

Rich can't help the laugh that huffs out of him, even as gross as his mood is right now. He walks over, looks down at Mitch's work and then at Basil's flushed, hopeful face. They're such kids, it's adorable, fresh-faced and goofing off and fearless, and it makes something warm and stupid well up in Rich's chest to see them like this.

"You should put a star around his belly button," he says.

"Traitor," Basil groans, and goes back to shoving at Mitch's head and shoulders, then squeaks as Mitch laughs and takes Rich's suggestion. "Okay, now b—ha! both of you are terrible, and I'm not friends with either of you anymore! Get off!"

"Not until I'm done making you pretty, honey-bun," says Mitch primly, and finishes the star he's drawing, considering the thoroughly-decorated length of Basil's bare stomach. His own coppery skin is unmarred by paint, if Rich needed further proof of who won this round. "Much better," he concludes.

"Yes, okay, cool, great," Basil says grumpily. "Now get off."

"Can't," says Mitch cheerfully. "Suppressants, remember?" and then, while Basil is still sputtering, "Rich! Hey. You wanna play Spellcraft?"

"Is there still a game going?" Rich says, glancing around. The other guys are gathered around a screen, barely paying attention to the struggle by the door as Mitch wrestles Basil back down and lays on top of his arms, grinning. "It looks like you guys are winding down."

"Yeah, I guess so," Mitch sighs, and rolls off of Basil, finally, letting him scrub ineffectually at the dried paint on his stomach and then yank his shirt down, cheeks flushed dark. Part of his hair is still pulled back in a puff of curls, but the rest has worked its way free to form a frizzy black halo around his face.

"Well, hey, how about you play Assassins with us?" Mitch says, perking up again.

"Mitch!" Basil hisses, like he's hoping Rich won't hear. "He doesn't want to play Assassins, are you kidding, he doesn't like—"

"Sure," Rich says, "I'll play a round." Maybe it's a mistake, but it's sure going to be a complete distraction from thinking about those grating assignment questions.

"Awesome!" Mitch cheers, and digs another paint marker up for Rich out of his pocket, this one green.

"Is this really gonna be okay?" Basil says uneasily, uncapping his yellow marker.

"Don't worry, Paprika, I'll go easy on him!" Mitch says, grinning, and then dives for Basil, who yelps and fends him off with the yellow marker.

Rich grabs Mitch by the back of his neck, hauls him close, and drags the paint marker over his throat.

"There," he says, dropping Mitch to his feet. "I win, right?"

"You didn't uncap the marker, tough guy," Mitch says, and pokes him in the chest, leaving a bright blue dot over his heart. "Boop! I win again. Wanna try another round? I'll give you a head start!"

"Mitch," Basil says, "I dunno..." and Rich is so tired of this, tired of everyone who knows him tip-toeing around and looking at him like he's so sad and traumatized, like he's some screwed up broken-winged baby gull who has to be tenderly coaxed back to life and taught the meaning of friendship and shit. He can play a harmless game with some sweet kids and he can win it, too.

Rich uncaps his marker and then slowly, deliberately, cracks his knuckles, and twists his head from side to side. He straightens his spine, squares his shoulders, and looms: this is a guy he was, too. Not the pathetic victim, but the dangerous tweaked-up motherfucker, the guy no one dared to screw with. He takes a slow step forward, then another, menacing as he can, and grins when Basil backs up a step.

"You guys run," he says softly. "I'll catch up."

"Shit," Basil says breathlessly, and Mitch lets out a bright, giddy peal of laughter as Basil drags at his arm.

"Bet we're faster than you!" Mitch says, and then lunges for the door a step behind Basil as Rich comes toward them.

"Guess we'll find out!" Rich calls after him, and gives them another second before he goes tearing after them.

It turns out Basil actually does run faster than Rich, but Mitch doesn't, possibly because Mitch enjoys being thrown around like a ragdoll a lot more than Basil does. Even if the Reliant is an easy, comfortable posting for Security Officers, Mitch clearly hasn't been slacking off on any of his physical conditioning, and bounces like he's got rubber bones, laughing like it's never crossed his mind that Rich could actually hurt him—and Rich isn't going to, either. This is just a game, and they've only got markers, and Rich doesn't have to hurt anyone, so he's not gonna. He catches Mitch three times and gets two good, long green lines carved across his chest and neck before managing to hunt down Basil even once.

Once he does, though, he gets a good grip on Basil's messy curls while the guy kicks and squirms and curses at him, flips his shirt up, and starts adding his own couple stars to the long, pretty, heaving stretch of the guy's exposed stomach. Basil shrieks and thrashes, face flushing and hands shoving completely ineffectually at Rich's wrist, trying to throw him off, and it's fun to just keep going. Basil looks great like this, breathless and desperate, shivering, calling Rich's name—

"I win again," Mitch says, drawing a neat line out of nowhere across the back of Rich's neck. "Shouldn't have gotten so distracted, big guy!"

"Shit," Rich gasps, twitching hard as adrenaline snaps through him at the shock. It's okay, though, that didn't hurt, it's just paint, and he only needs another breath to settle himself enough to say, "But it's such a nice view!"

"I hate both of you," Basil says, but from the particular way the folds of his wrap are all bunched up in his lap, Rich is certain he doesn't mean it.

Rich lets go of Basil with a last, playful tug on his hair.

"Why don't you take a breather, baby boy," he says, and gives Basil a quick, daring wink, "settle down, maybe wash some of that paint off."

"So there's room for more!" Mitch says, and drapes himself over Rich's shoulder.

"—And I'll help your puppy over here work off some excess energy," Rich finishes dryly. He shakes Mitch off him and the guy hits the deck already bouncing, then dashes off down the passage with a whoop, Rich close on his heels.

Rich wins twice more, and then Mitch tries a frontal attack and Rich's knife-catching instincts get the better of him, making Mitch yelp in pain when Rich grabs his wrist too hard.

"Shit," Rich says, letting go fast. "You okay?"

Mitch tests the wrist, bending it back and forth, and grins reassuringly at Rich. "Yeah, man, I'm fine. You've got a heck of a grip!"

"I'm really sorry," Rich says, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. "Fuck, I should've been more careful—"

"Man, it's fine," Mitch says, clapping him on the back. "But don't think you're getting away this time, I'm totally gonna win!"

"You think so, huh?" Rich says, slowly relaxing again. "I doubt it."

They're circling each other where two corridors cross, markers uncapped and ready, when footsteps approach from behind Rich and a vaguely familiar voice says, "And what's going on here?"

Rich turns, sees a Security uniform, and flinches backwards, trying to get in front of Mitch, cover him just in case. Shit, it's the Security Chief, too.

"Nothing, Officer," he says, breathing a lot harder suddenly.

"We're playing Assassins, sir!" Mitch says, popping out from behind Rich, bouncing on his toes, and Rich remembers with a weird feeling of dislocation that Mitch is Security, too. He's not in danger from Chief Appleton, Rich doesn't have to try to protect him.

Mitch is chattering on, flourishing his paint marker at Chief Appleton, who raises amused eyebrows. "—It's a great exercise, you should try it!" Mitch finishes, grinning, and Rich nearly swallows his tongue. "I bet I could find you a marker."

"Despite the temptation to kick your ass in orange, Ford," Mitch's superior officer says dryly, "I am on duty. You kids have fun." He gives Rich a friendly nod and goes on down the passage.

Rich takes a deep, careful breath and starts working on getting his heart rate down to something below a thundering whirr. It takes a couple of minutes, and when he opens his eyes again Mitch is leaning against a bulkhead, idly doodling spirals on the back of one hand. He looks over as soon as Rich lifts his head, and grins as brightly as if he hadn't even noticed Rich dealing with a minor freakout.

"Hey," he says, popping the cap back on his marker, "so, I dunno about you, but I could use a snack. You want some sweet potato chips? My treat on account of how hard I won."

"Yeah," Rich says, cautiously grateful. "Sounds great, except for how I was the guy who won."

They go to the mess, still bickering about the final score, and get a couple bags of chips and a carton of fruit juice apiece, then wander around until they find Basil slouching damply out of the showers.

"Aren't you as beautiful as ever, sugarplum," Mitch says, bouncing forward to immediately ruck Basil's shirt up. "Even if you've undone all my hard work."

"Mine, too," Rich says, and grins meaningfully when Basil glances back at him, flicking his eyes down to the nice, tidy, family-friendly way the folds of Basil's wrap drape between his thighs. It makes Basil flush rosy-dark across his freckled cheeks and push Mitch off him, sputtering.

"Oh, what, are you up for a little more playing around? Should we go again?" Rich asks, crowding in close and getting a hand on Basil's damp curls. He leans in, murmurs, low and soft: "Maybe we could tag-team it this time, baby boy," and Basil shrieks, shoving at him in exactly the same way as he shoved Mitch, but with a lot less effect. Rich laughs triumphantly, falling back a step just to be nice.

Mitch is watching the interplay, a mischievous smile spreading across his face, and when Rich lets Basil go he immediately gets one of his arms around Basil's shoulders and hugs him in close, short red-gold hair bright next to Basil's barely tamed black mane.

"You know how much I like team sports, Parsley," Mitch says, and pecks a noisy kiss on Basil's cheek. "And making you scream."

"Oh my god!" Basil shouts, and tries to squirm free. "Oh my god, you delinquent fucking freak, get off!"

"I can't!" Mitch laughs. "That's what I brought Rich in for!"

"And I'm very good at it," Rich says gamely, even though his own ears are heating up now. "Tell him, Basil."

"I'm not—I'm—fuck you! Fuck both of you!"

"That's what this conversation is about, yes, well spotted, sugarplum," Mitch says.

"The Reliant's preeminent baby genius nails another difficult analytical conundrum," Rich says.

Basil makes an incoherent, furious sputtering noise, then draws his marker. Mitch barely disengages before he gets it rammed right up his nose, and streaks off down the passageway, laughing like a loon, Basil in hot pursuit.

Rich shovels the last handful of chips in his mouth, stuffs the empty bag in his pocket, and heads after them.

The second round lasts longer than the first and is even more fun: Mitch and Rich pace themselves by mutual agreement, focusing not so much on trying to assassinate each other as flustering the hell out of Basil: Rich pushes the kid up against every possible bulkhead, grabs his hair, his hips, tugs his shirt up, wraps a hand around one of his lean thighs while he's kicked at and cursed, and Mitch draws blue stars across every square inch he can reach until they let the kid go to run again, just to hunt him back down.

Finally, on towards evening, when Basil's well beyond worn out—flushed down to his shoulders, his fluffy mane straggling wildly in every direction, his arms trembling as he shoves at Rich's wrists—Mitch gets up, stretches exaggeratedly, and says, "It's Basil's bed-time, I think. I'll just let him get to it, huh?"

"Sure, man," Rich says absently, still hung up on keeping both of Basil's wrists pinned in one hand while he draws a green star around Basil's right nipple. "Nice playing with you."

"Yeah, good game," Mitch says, and punches Rich lightly in the shoulder. "See you around, big guy."

"Mmhm."

"I hate both of you so much," Basil complains weakly.

"Peaches, my dearest darling, one of these days we're gonna get couples counseling," Mitch says, "for how much you lie about your feelings." Then he strolls off while Basil's still sputtering and tugging his arms vainly at Rich's grip.

"...Let me up," Basil finally says, sounding grumpy and breathless and adorable.

Rich does so. Basil sits up and kisses him, which probably shouldn't be surprising, but somehow still manages to take Rich aback: that Basil does like him, that Basil likes him enough to kiss him, right out in the open and everything. Basil's mouth is soft and warm and when Rich tentatively leans into it, Basil makes a sweet, gentle noise and—oh. Puts a hand on the back of Rich's neck, slow and tentative, and holds him. Rich gives an absurd little shiver at that, feeling something in his chest go molten-tender, and leans even further into the kiss, thinking about grabbing Basil back, maybe, carrying him to one of their berths, getting his mouth all over everything he's been grabbing at today.

Then Basil raises his other hand, and it's got a marker in it, and Basil ruthlessly draws a line across Rich's throat.

"Fuck!" Rich goes, completely betrayed, and falls back. "Man! Aw, c'mon!"

Basil laughs—no. Basil cackles, and jumps to his feet. "Revenge!" he shouts, and points his gloved hand triumphantly in Rich's face. "I win! Good night!"

He dashes off, and Rich has…kind of a situation going on in his jeans that keeps him from jumping to his feet as enthusiastically. By the time he's levered himself upright with a minimum of pinching or chafing, Basil's long gone. Rich isn't sure if he should still be chasing Basil, where they stand as friends, or friends who have sex more than once, and when, and—how, what are the circumstances, and how exactly is Mitch supposed to be involved here, anyway.

But also, Basil did say 'good night', so if he's sitting in bed right now hoping Rich is gonna show up and give him a hand with anything, maybe he should have said something more inviting than that.

There's time to sort it out, anyway. They've got time. It's enough, right now, that Rich played around with two fun, cute boys today, and had a great time, and didn't mess anything or anyone up.

He goes and helps himself to a long, hot shower, and if he thinks about exactly what Basil was doing with his own shower—if he thinks about Basil naked and soapy and all revved up thinking about him—that's his own business, and no one interrupts it.