dog bites dog

Wet. Heavy, dense with the smell of charred wiring and rubber foam solidifying in white clouds.

Curly thrashes drunkenly, delirious from his head smacking the back wall of the cockpit. The terror and excruciating pain of shrapnel-fire sets his skin ablaze, one of his eyes crushed, ceasing to exist, half his sight gone altogether. He tries to move his arm but it falls aside in a dead weight. All he sees is blood and ruin; all he hears is the scream of metal, the shiiing of the vessel being torn apart at the front, the brunt of impact. 

Red alerts and warning lights. Critical failure, systems down. An alarm blares from Jimmy’s doing. Jimmy’s mission.

Now Curly realizes too little, too late what Jimmy’s intention was– the intent to do ill, to be victorious, but ultimately failing. He meant to kill everyone aboard. 

Before Curly can take a breath, if he is breathing still (he hopes he’s not. He prays he’s not), fists pound at the cockpit door in a stampede. A worried hoard, Jimmy’s voice distant and incorporeal. It slides open with Curly falling back with a heavy thud. When strong hands grab him and hoist him up, he knows no more.

—

Anya’s hands are covered in gore, eyes aligned with dark circles and tear tracks. Curly winces when the needle slides into torn skin, Swansea hovering over his leg, patching chewed up skin back together with Jimmy standing as overseer.

Rage and anguish tears from his throat, but before he can launch himself off the bed, Daisuke shoves him down. 

“Sorry, captain– can’t … can’t move, you know?” Daisuke avoids his eye. Avoids looking all together.

He thrashes when Jimmy pulls from behind him the utility axe. Its red destruction stares back at Curly, and all he remembers is red from the crash. Red fear, red anger, all emotions shoving themselves back in a slurry of indecipherable information, overloading his senses. 

Jimmy doesn’t have a note of sympathy on his face, but disgust as if asking how dare Curly survive. How dare you. Curly’s nostrils flare. He tries to speak, but there’s something shoved in his mouth. Cotton gauze, tied off around his face, wedged between his tongue and palate. 

“You’re gonna have to bite down hard,” Jimmy says, readying the axe. 

“Can you give me a fuckin’ minute to finish sewing him up, Jimmy?” Swansea snaps. Needle punctures back through Curly’s leg flesh, weaving in and out of his shin. 

Curly breathes, chest heaving, Daisuke still holding him down. He’s stronger than he looks. 

Or is it that Curly is too weak and  too delirious with pain?

Wet fat tears sting his face as he sobs, blood and cotton choking in his throat. Anya pets his face with a wet cloth, sopping up blood. Blood covers all of them except Jimmy. 

“It’s for your own good, captain…” Anya says quietly, hushing him. Soothing, gentle, even if the situation is anything but.

It smells like isopropyl, melted flesh, and burned hair. Rot ablaze. Someone who should have wasted to death in his funeral fire. It’s cruel they’ve rescued him.

It’s cruel they’re not euthanizing him.

The cruelty rests within a dusting of sympathy, with how Anya cries and shakes, viewing Curly as something pitiful, like a maimed dog; with how Daisuke bites his lip, a nervous sweat beading his brow, large brown eyes glazing over. He, too, trembles. Curly can hear Swansea swearing under his breath in his own form of grief.

Jimmy? Jimmy’s expression differs from the others. His cadence speaks of grueling, quiet resentment. Curly shudders when Jimmy locks eyes with him, his cruelty lurking there like a beast while his fists tighten on the axe, knuckles white. 

They’re all tainted with Curly’s defilement.

All except Jimmy.

“I don’t know why you saved him,” Swansea pants. He wipes the sweat from his brow, streaking blood down his face. “It would’ve been much kinder to let our captain die with the ship. Now– now look. He’s gonna be fucked up for the rest of his life if we even make it. If supplies last that long. If someone rescues us.” 

Curly agrees, sickeningly so. Swansea is right. They should’ve let him die, but now he’s stuck in a fate worse than death.

He is stuck reaping the consequences of Jimmy’s actions while the latter stands tall and walking, unscathed.

It pisses him off. 

“He got rescued because he survived, obviously,” Jimmy snaps, cutting his eyes to the back of Swansea’s head. “If the impact didn’t send him backwards, he would’ve burned to a crisp for sure. Luckily he wasn’t in the captain chair. I think he tried to escape before impact, but then got caught in the crossfire.”

Oh how Jimmy lies through his teeth without a shred of guilt. 

“There’s two reasons to keep him alive at this point for one reason or another. Either this is punishment for trying to kill us all or he was meant to survive. Whichever. Regardless, I’m happy he made it. I’m happy that he doesn’t have an easy way out after fucking us all over.”

Jimmy sighs and turns the axe over in his hand. Swansea hands over the needle to Anya after tying off the suture. 

“Delicate needle work is needed for the face. Can your hands stop shaking enough? My fingers are too fat,” Swansea asks, expression dark.

Anya swallows, throat bobbing. “I … I can manage. It will just hurt him so”–

Swansea slaps the bed, making Curly and Anya jump. He pants through his nose, skin throbbing around the sutures Swansea set in place. 

“Of course it’s gonna hurt him! He got blown from Kingdom Come and he's lucid! So do it.” Swansea thrusts the needle and fiber in her hands. 

Anya takes a shaky breath and nods, Curly exhaling heavily as she threads the needle. 

Swansea jerks his head towards Jimmy. “Do something useful with your hands instead of molesting the axe and hold his leg down so I can douse him in antiseptic.”

Jimmy clicks his tongue and plops the axe down on one of the uncovered medical beds. The others aside from the one Curly lays on are impacted with foam. 

A warm light casts over them when the day time projection transfigures into its evening sunset. 

“Anya, I can do it. I don’t know. I mean…” Daisuke speaks up, releasing his hold on Curly. “If it’s too much, I don’t mind? I don’t want you to hurt yourself or anything.” 

“I can do it, Daisuke. Thank you. I’ll need you to hold his head still anyway. Swansea?” Anya looks up at him.

“Hmm?” Swansea hums as he rummages through the medicine cabinet. He procures a bottle of isopropyl as Jimmy walks over, pulling his sleeves up. 

Curly tenses looking down at Jimmy who doesn’t bother to return his gaze. Swansea opens the bottle of alcohol. 

“Can you and Jimmy hold him down while I stitch his face…?” Anya asks meekly. 

“Yeah, we have to, don’t we?” Swansea responds curtly. 

Anya's lips part as if she is going to respond before she shuts up entirely.

Jimmy doesn't need further incentive as he sinks his hands down on Curly’s leg, planting it still.

The touch is worse than the impact with Curly wanting to crawl out of his skin. He wishes the bed would swallow him. He wishes that it was anyone other than Jimmy touching him. 

Anya strokes his scalp, the parts where it isn't burned. Her touch is soothing in an agonizingly sweet way. Curly doesn’t deserve it after all he has done to her. 

Jimmy was his responsibility and he failed at keeping him on a short leash.

The crew suffers because of Curly’s complicity. Anya suffers because he enabled Jimmy. There is no amount of apologies he can give to her, none that will mean anything. Curly suffers because he enabled Jimmy.

And he can’t forgive himself.

He can’t forgive Jimmy for doing this to him. He can't forgive him for lying, for spinning the fucking narrative. 

Curly tries to kick at Jimmy who holds his leg down flat.

“This is gonna hurt like hell,” Swansea warns. “But you're probably used to the pain. Kicked dog, dragged down the highway belly up by a chain. Road burned to hell up. Bite your gauze and bare it.” 

Swansea pours the isopropyl. It is liquid, white hot, razors in his wound. 

Curly screams and thrashes as Daisuke and Jimmy hold him down. 

The burning draws back like the ocean’s tide, his leg wounds rapidly cooling from its caustic wash. They twinge painfully as muscle spasms contract his calves, his toes curling in on themselves.

Anya takes a breath as Swansea wriggles between the wall and bed, large thighs strong enough to push the bed aside to make room. One hand pins his arm by the crook of the elbow while the other pins his chest down. 

Shockingly, that arm is intact mostly with first and second degree burns.

Swansea takes care to avoid the mass of the damage. 

When the needle enters Curly’s face is when he jerks, sucking sharp breaths through his nose as his eye rolls up, brow puckering. He flexes his feet, tries to kick, tries to move, tries to thrash.

It hurts so much.

Anya doesn’t cease her endless torment.

“It’s for your own good…” she reassures tenderly. 

Curly pants, chest rising and falling in rapid succession. Daisuke keeps his head still when he jerks his neck. Blood pours down his face, Anya’s hand slipping in her careful ministrations.

There is so much blood. So much blood, isopropyl, and chalky foam. 

The sunset projection casts deep shadows across Anya’s face as Curly watches her quiet focus. Daisuke’s thumbs rub soothing circles around his temples while Swansea and Jimmy death grip his limbs. 

Once more the needle laces into skin with Curly’s shouts depreciating into hollow sobs each time it passes through. 

He doesn’t know how long this goes on for, but eventually Anya is done. Eventually she sets the suture and needle on the rolling metal tray stand beside her. 

“We’re almost done, captain,” Anya coos at him. “It is almost over.” 

Curly teeth gnash the gauze when Swansea passes a saturated cloth over his facial wounds. 

“The easy part is over,” Anya repeats herself. “But… there’s”– she goes pale.

Anya stands up and nearly knocks the medicine tray over as she beelines straight out of the med bay.

“Well, that makes it easiest for us. Out of the way and all,” Jimmy sighs. He releases Curly and picks up the axe from the spare bed. 

“Do you mind if I like… don’t watch this? Everything was gnarly. I don’t mind helping, but– this is too much for me,” Daisuke requests.

He doesn’t stop rubbing gentle circles around Curly’s temples.

The poor kid, subjected to Curly’s worst moment, and all Curly can do is sob and choke on his own carnage. 

“Beat it,” Swansea barks, not missing a beat.

Daisuke needn’t be told twice. He gets up and nearly stumbles, hand lingering for a second on the top of Curly’s head before he joins Anya’s swift exit. 

Curly’s eye drags up to Jimmy, resting on that axe. He fruitlessly pushes back against Swansea’s hold.

“Before you go and chop his arm off”– did Curly hear Swansea right?– “We need to figure out how to stop him from bleeding out, ol’ wise overseer.”

Jimmy presses his thumb to his chin in contemplation.

Curly jerks his head from Jimmy to Swansea who looks forward towards Jimmy. When he turns his head again is when his stomach sinks.

His right arm is battered, burned black with parts of his arm welded together, fingers melted with fingers, his hand a swollen ball of meat. Curly gags against his gauze, nausea crashing over him in waves.

“How much of his arm is salvageable?” Swansea asks. “We’re gonna need a tourniquet and a way to cauterize the stump.”

"Probably nothing past the bicep," Jimmy says as he takes a quick glance over.

Curly finds himself at peace with a frigid acceptance. He simply can't keep his arm in its state. 

They're also going to do it anyway. He is helpless.

Swansea’s eyes widened briefly as the gears in his head turn. “You find the tourniquet and I’ll be right back.” 

Once Swansea leaves is when Curly finally closes his eye. He can’t stand to see Jimmy.

Everything is already bad enough, and that is an understatement. He overestimated Jimmy’s friendship. He underestimated Jimmy’s danger.

Jimmy turns the axe over in his hands. Curly’s eye immediately opens when he hears boots scuff the floor, axe swinging down at his face causing his heart to burst out of his chest. The blade freezes just a few centimeters from Curly’s nose.

Jimmy grins, teeth bared, eyebrows hiking up his forehead, gloating and malicious. He looks like a cat who had caught the cream. 

“Poor you. Poor, pitiful fucking you. I guess your clean track record is history. Never considered the wolf in sheep’s clothing. Never considered anything in your glamorous little life. You tried to run from us but you failed at the end,” Jimmy says acidly. “Clean track record up until me, now they all think you crashed the ship! You! Oh I’d hate to be in your shoes, captain. ”

Curly trembles on his patient bed, unable to move, to think, unable to do anything but listen. 

He is in so much pain. If a God really exists then Jimmy will kill him where he lays. 

Jimmy doesn’t kill him. He shoulders the axe and cocks his head, acrimony displacing his smile. 

“I need to remove that gauze. I wanna hear your refute, also need to let you spit out blood, bile, and all. We had that in your mouth to stop you from biting your tongue and creating another goddamned thing to fix. It’s your fault you’re like this. Remember that.”

Jimmy cuts the gauze from around Curly’s face, nicking him in the process, slitting open a burn blister as he winces. Jimmy shoves his fingers into Curly’s mouth and pushes the gauze in the back of his throat, choking him, Curly thrashing before Jimmy jerks it out altogether. 

With difficulty, Curly rolls to his side, coughing, chest beating hollow with each bark to the point of gagging. Bitter stomach bile coats his mouth before spattering on the floor.

For a minute, Curly lays there dry heaving, throat croaking violently until his esophagus stops spasming. 

Curly falls back, delirious and dissociative. He feels so small, a ruined image of the man he once was, now a monstrosity of mistakes with his biggest one tormenting him.

“J-Jimmy…” is all Curly can manage. He lifts his non-mangled arm up and shields his face. Sweat beads across his forehead. 

Jimmy ignores him. "I suppose you wanna know what you look like after running into the cockpit like a heroic retard. Here, I can show you.” 

Jimmy pulls out a foldable mirror from his chest pocket. The very one Curly constantly teased him for checking his reflection in only when he was around. 

He opens it up and holds it before Curly who dares to open his eye.

What he sees makes his guts twist in on themselves.

Half his face is covered in second degree burns leading up to his scalp. He has no hair with sutures piecing back together his face that was split just under his eye down his cheek. A part of his nose is gone with his right eye melted out. 

Curly wonders how the hell he survived, how he wasn’t burned to a crisp.

It is a cruel fate he is deserving of. God is not merciful.

Curly laughs bitterly, good hand slapping the patient bed, uncaring if it ruptures the blisters on his palm. 

All of Jimmy’s efforts were a sick joke and Curly is the punchline. 

“Are you happy now?” Curly rasps. His throat didn’t go untouched, soft tissue destroyed inside. It hurts to speak. “S-satisfied with yourself? You always villainized”– Curly cuts off.

A fit of coughing seizes him, chest barking like a seal, violently ejecting flecks of blood before he settles.

“We can have a conversation about it later,” Jimmy says shortly. He grabs Curly’s blood covered gauze. “Open your mouth.”

Curly refuses, eye closing tight. 

“I’m not going to tell you again. Open your fucking mouth," Jimmy demands through gritted teeth.

Curly doesn’t. 

The thin lines on Jimmy’s nose contract into a snarl as he presses the blade of the axe to Curly’s face, point digging into his skin, popping burn blisters like bubble wrap. 

Curly gasps at once, face stinging worse than hell as Jimmy shoves the wad of gauze back into his mouth, retracting his fingers before Curly bites down.

He glowers at Jimmy in defenselessness, full of useless hatred. 

Tears well up in his eye, threatening to spill. He blinks it back and sniffs but his efforts are futile. Curly grinds his teeth and weeps.

“Crocodile tears won’t save you,” Jimmy hums. “You know what you are. May as well accept the consequences of your actions. Take responsibility, you know. Since you’ve gotten yourself blown up, I strip you of your title as your co-pilot. Can’t really lead, now can you?”

Everything Jimmy says is cruel and callous.

He weighs his words like a knife sharpening to grindstone.

“When Swansea returns, I’m chopping off your arm. You won’t need it. It’ll just wind up killing you. The Pony Express is ill equipped to handle sepsis.”

The Pony Express is ill equipped to handle Curly.

He snorts wetly as heavy footsteps thud to the med bay. 

Dread eclipses over him in a cold washout. 

“Swansea, the man of the hour. You found something to cauterize the wound?” Jimmy asks as he turns his back to Curly. 

“I have a torch,” Swansea replies. “Did you find the tourniquet or were you too busy being a certified freak to captaino? He’s sobbing for fuck’s sake.” 

Swansea peers over Jimmy’s shoulder, brows bunching, eyes flitting across Curly’s face. Swansea and him lock gazes with one another.

Curly silently begs. He doesn’t want to be left alone with Jimmy. 

They can take his arm, but being alone with Jimmy in this state is a fate far much worse. 

He sets his jaw and braces himself for the amputation. 

“Why does he have new cuts on his face, Jimmy?” Swansea asks darkly. Observant. 

Curly’s heart curls in on itself. All he has to do is rip the gauze out, all he has to do is speak up, but he can’t due to his own paralyzing fear.

Who knows what other repercussions will face him if he does. 

Jimmy is dangerous, and Curly would rather not face the blow of his attack again. A feeling dropped upon him that this will be the case next time, because who is Jimmy without a punching bag?

The signs were there before the crash but Curly ignored them in favor of his friend. 

Anya got hurt because of it, and there is no telling what else Jimmy will do to her.

There is no telling what Jimmy will do to Curly.

“He was scratching at himself when I went to take a piss.” Jimmy lies so easily as if it is second nature. 

Swansea regards him with skepticism. “Whatever. I’m gonna look for a tourniquet since you're so fuckin’ mind-numbing useless.”

Curly closes his eye and waits.

The tourniquet they found was a simple rubber band used for labs. 

Curly lays still, taking one breath at a time. Swansea ties off the rubber band, tight enough to cut off circulation, annoying enough to irritate Curly’s burns. 

Jimmy pulls a table over and lays Curly's arm across it. 

He tests the swing of the axe like he’s readying himself for a game. Swansea steps back and holds Curly down by the shoulder and forearm. 

Curly dares not to move, breathing deep through his nose. He accepted his fate already. He accepted to live then his arm must be amputated.

The executioner drags his heels to the chopping block.

It takes little effort for Jimmy to raise the axe. He drags the blade up and high above his head.

“Don’t miss or I will use that axe on you next,” Swansea warns. 

Jimmy drops it down.

The force of his swing and the sharpness of the axe is enough to do most of the work for Jimmy. 

It sank immediately into the soft meat of Curly’s arm only to rest on bone with a soft clack that resonates through him.

Curly doesn’t comprehend it fully at first until all the blood starts gushing out. 

It spills over the table, puddling onto the floor and over Jimmy’s shoes. Swansea turns his head away from the act, eyes closing. 

Curly’s vision temporarily goes black. 

Jimmy drops the axe again, precise through the pink bed of flesh, cracking through bone as Curly’s arm sings. 

It takes one more try, all of Jimmy’s might for the axe to pass through bone with a shunk. The separation of bone from the arm rattles Curly’s core. 

His vision goes gray, and with a sinking cold revelation he realizes what has been done.

He sees himself laying on his bed, barely daring to breathe with a pallid face.

He sees an ocean of blood, warning signs and celestial lights with spokes of a structure sticking through the endless crimson. 

Curly’s vision goes white as Jimmy finishes his work, sawing through the remainder of his arm until it detaches altogether. 

“It’s almost over, Curly,” Jimmy says. Curly doesn’t register anything.

He’s trapped in the cockpit, door locked with suspended, wandering hands ghosting themselves across his body. They are in his hair, grasping at his throat, fingers shoved in his mouth until he gags. 

Swansea starts the torch. It sizzles and cracks. If it doesn’t work, it is all that they have.

They’ll make it work.

We will make it work.  

“Hold him,” Swansea advises Jimmy.

Jimmy presses Curly down.

Curly jerks when the flame licks his skin, teeth chewing through gauze, the pain splitting him in half. He smells his own skin burning once more, feels the searing pain of the torch cauterizing capillaries, arteries, and veins to a stoppage. 

He is stuck in the cockpit as the impact blasts him from the navigation panel to the back wall, fire from a thousand suns ensnaring him, licking at his exposure while the cockpit emergency system gushes foam in a spray of liquid white. 

Shrapnel pierces his face as Anya pierces his face with the needle, his clothes fraying, pieces melting to his leg. 

It is all ever so clear why Jimmy did what he had, and why he shifts blame on Curly. 

Curly screams until his throat is raw, until blood paints the gauze in his mouth red. Red like the sea of warning, red like the paneling of blaring lights.

Red like the axe Jimmy happily brought through Curly’s arm. Red like skipped menstruation.

Red like Jimmy's devastation.

A disgusting shade of red. Curly hates red.

He has seen and experienced too much of it these past few hours.

Curly's screams die into moans of anguish, a dying animal.

He is belly up, submissive, awaiting delivery from the endless suffering.

Spots dot Curly's vision, blocks of nausea steam rolling him.

He passes out from the agony of it all.

Anya satellites over Curly, her back turned away from the med bay door. She doesn’t register Jimmy who leans against the door frame. Perhaps it’s a good thing, too.

Though not for her.

Jimmy’s gaze graces Anya, slipping down her back and lingering. 

He repeated a mantra in his head moments before the crash that there will not be a second time (as if he cares, now). The damage is there, festering like a decaying wound. Anya is a visceral reminder of Jimmy’s failure. 

Everyone aboard is with how they are very much alive. 

Jimmy’s eyes snap back up Anya’s head.

Anya stands tall from her hovering and tentative ministrations, gauze in one hand and an iodine swab in the other. 

Curly breathes labored, feet rubbing themselves, toes gripping and clawing at his own skin. His burns look marginally better, or from what Jimmy observes in the low light of the med bay. 

“Do the lights work or do you just like keeping him in the dark?” Jimmy says finally. 

Anya jumps, quickly spinning around on heel as Curly makes a choking noise. 

“Oh, Jim! You startled me…!” Anya replies with an air of surprise. “ And no… the power is out in some parts of the Tulpar. It’s annoying because we have a ventilator but it’s unusable”–

“Great. The only room that matters on this ship is just as ill-equipped as our nurse,” Jimmy cuts in. 

Anya shudders. Jimmy can’t tell if it is out of exasperation. 

She looks up at him, brows creasing as a small frown tugs her lips. If she wants to retort, she doesn’t. Instead, Anya redirects the conversation because it is easier to do so. 

“I need to give him his medicine. We have oxycodone, but I’m afraid it isn’t enough to last. There is a four month supply– he will be in so much pain for a while…” Anya’s eyes glisten but she doesn’t cry. Instead, she exhales as she drops the iodine swab in a small trash bin by Curly’s bedside before placing the gauze on the table behind her.

The foam has left the med bay mostly untouched except in a corner where the counter bends in a U. Jimmy ignores Anya, eyes flitting over to the wall of foam that covers who knows what. Green plastic mattresses stick out from beneath the foam closer to the door. All the supplies that Anya uncovered sits on the end of the counter closest to the door.

Almost every cabinet is open with all its contents salvaged from the wreckage. With whatever Anya had found, she managed to make a miracle out of Curly. Everyone miraculously saved Curly with their own contributions.

Only a few days have passed, and Jimmy knows it is far from over. They all did.

If only he didn’t fail. If only Curly hadn’t intervened.

Now they’re stuck in a hell with no guaranteed means of salvation. And it is all your fault, Curly, Jimmy thinks bitingly. If all of us had died then it would have been easier. 

“Jimmy…?” Anya drags him out of his head. He must have zoned out or something.

Tender consternation paints her expression. Even Anya’s heart hasn’t been hardened by all of Jimmy’s undoing– and he doesn’t know if that makes him feel better or worse. Her tender human compassion makes him sick. It would be easier if she simply hated him just as he hates her; bitter acrimony is a familiar feeling, but kindness, something he is undeserving of, is a harder pill to swallow. He despises her more in retaliation. Dislike churning into pungent apathy.

“What?” Jimmy replies, affronted. 

Anya’s lips part then close as she searches for something to say. 

Jimmy can see her warring within herself, her dark eyes foretelling her thoughts, the micro-expressions of her face like pages turning in an open book. 

If Anya is anything, it is guileless and lacking objective. If she rather fawn and freeze before Jimmy then so be it. He knows she is undeserving of such cruelty, but he can’t help but twist the knife. 

Jimmy’s jaw sets as Anya frantically seeks a way to placate him. He knows that look.

Anya sees Jimmy as a monster. It is obvious in how she deflates before him in a lack of resolve. 

He doesn’t understand why. He doesn’t get why she’s so fucking afraid of him. 

Jimmy never did anything to her she didn’t deserve. 

“Forget it,” he snaps.

“I’m sorry– it’s just… never mind. I thought you were– you seemed unfocused. I thought something was wrong,” Anya says mutely. Her hands clench and unclench into fists, a nervous gesture. “I’m going to leave. I will be right back. Can you … can you keep an eye on the captain? He’s been scratching at himself so I had to wrap his hand in gauze so he wouldn’t break his blisters.”

Jimmy steps further into the med bay, eyes cresting over Curly who lies asleep, chest rising and falling shallowly. There is a generator in the cockpit, but Jimmy hasn’t been back in there since he, Swansea, and Daisuke uncovered Curly half-alive from his shallow grave of fire and foam. It can be used to power the ventilator until he stabilizes.

Curly looks so small in his slumber– small and mangled, a shell of the man he once was just days ago. It is hard to imagine Curly in such a state. It would have been much kinder to leave him in the clutches of death, but Jimmy isn’t kind.

His heart is a gnarled, selfish thing forever twisting up on itself. A solid wall of established hostility, clinking with a lock of iron. Within himself, there is some semblance of humanity– compassionate responsibility, if he can even call it that.

The drive to set things right, a position granted to Jimmy through sheer dumb luck. Curly isn’t in any state to lead, regardless.

“Nothing is wrong,” Jimmy says. “Or, nothing that matters is wrong.” He wrinkles his nose, rolling his eyes. “I suppose I can. Go do whatever it is you need to get done, but come back soon. I’m obviously not a caretaker.” 

Anya’s mouth draws into a thin line. She wordlessly nods her head and slips out past Jimmy who pivots on his heel in view of her. 

He likes how her uniform creases while she walks, how it folds along the backs of her upper thighs. There is a scandalous sway in her hips with how she moves.

Jimmy is a firm believer that women are created for the betterment of men. Anya isn’t remotely attractive to him, and she wasn’t when he accidentally knocked her up, but she did the job.

Anya is begging for it with how she looks at him. Jimmy is blameless in all that has happened. 

He is blameless. Why should he feel negatively regarding Anya? It is her fault for not keeping her damn legs closed.

It’s your fault for not keeping your dick in your pants. It’s your fault your friend is mangled, reasons an ever present, ever guilty thought. Jimmy snuffs it out as soon as it forms.

He knows he has done wrong. Curly is enough of an indicator.

Curly, the once great, the once patient and kind (perhaps too kind for his own fucking good) man lays on a hospital cot, one arm down and covered in the consequences of his own actions.

He should have died. Jimmy crosses over to him, hand outstretched.

All he needs to do is grab his throat. 

It will be easy.

So he does.

What stops Jimmy isn’t the act itself, but the muscle memory of his hand touching Curly being enough to draw the latter into awareness.

Curly brings his gauze wrapped hand over Jimmy’s own, his bright blue eye popping to life. 

He doesn’t know how long Curly has been awake, or if he were sleeping from the get go. Jimmy releases his throat and glowers.

In spite of it all, Curly smiles gloatingly, eye bitter and vengeful. The crash must have roughed his head up as it is not suggestive of the Curly Jimmy once knew. His face contorted in pain as he tries to sit up, only to fall backwards in a low moan, the expressive disdain mingling with anguish.

“Do… do you think you can win this game you’re playing?” Curly asks. His voice is rough, clipped, and gravely from sustained burns in his throat. 

He coughs deeply and purses his lips, grimacing. Jimmy watches as Curly leans over and lets a blood clot drip out of his mouth.

“You should have died,” Jimmy says softly as if addressing a sick loved one. “You should have been sucked into the vacuum of space, lost for eternity among others.” 

Curly flops back onto his back, letting out a body shuddering sigh before he cringes in on himself. Deserved.

“But I didn’t, did I?” Curly challenges. There is still bark to his bite, still an oomf to his step. Jimmy gives him pointers for not fawning and freezing like he used to do.

A compliant Curly only gave Jimmy what he wanted. This new Curly, this broken, resentful Curly, is an exhilarating change of pace.

Jimmy’s heart thumps; he likes a good fight.

“… I need water,” Curly comments instead, switching topics. He doesn’t care to look at Jimmy when he states his request. 

At the end of the day, no matter how much of a fighting spirit Curly possesses, he is reliant and moldable. 

“I’ll get you a shitty fucking bottle of water if you behave yourself,” Jimmy says. 

He means it like a clenched fist. Curly rests his hand over his stomach and closes his eye, chest deflating, losing all bark.

“Remember that you’re still reliant. Remember that no one will believe you if you say a word about what happened,” Jimmy reminds Curly. It is his turn to smile, teeth bared like a laughing hyena. “After all, you were found in the wreckage.”

“… Whatever you say, Jim,” Curly responds shortly. He doesn’t say anything else.

If Curly does decide to speak up, it can be bad for him. With the crash being a failure and all, Curly is the biggest error in the outcome. If only the crash robbed him of his ability to communicate. 

The gears in Jimmy’s head turn as he exits the med bay.

—

“I told you ad-goddamned-nausea to stay out of utility. That doesn’t mean pick the fuckin’ lock. That means stay the fuck out and listen to me,” Swansea says at the dining table, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Daisuke sits on the opposite side of him eating a concoction of tomato soup and instant ramen noodles. He salutes Swansea in one sweeping motion whose expression darkens.

“Sure thing, boss! I just thought I could help, you know? You’re busy all the time and I feel bad since, like… I’m an extra pair of hands?” Daisuke finishes hopefully, eyes twinkling with apprehension.

Swansea slaps the table. “No! The best help you can provide is by staying out of my way.”–

He cuts off as his head turns up to Jimmy, brow bunching, the thin lines of his nose contracting his lips into a scowl. 

“Glad you can join us for dinner, Jimmy Neutron,” Swansea greets.

“Not hungry right now,” Jimmy says staunchly. “I have more important things to do such as ‘give our burn victim a bottle of water,’ you know, responsibility and all.” Jimmy’s eyes cut to the back of Daisuke’s head. “Do we even have bottled water or is it covered in foam?”

“Hell if I know. Check supply,” Swansea says. He crosses his arms, regarding Jimmy suspiciously. “Why’re you prattling off about ‘responsibility’ when I recall you haven’t a shred of responsibility in your entire body since we’ve been aboard the Tulpar. I’m talking about day numero uno, shoving all your bullshit off on our now crispy captain. Don’t make me laugh.”

Jimmy gnashes his teeth against the soft inside of his cheek hard enough to puncture. He swallows, the front of his throat bobbing as ugly heat prickles his neck.

Swansea doesn’t pay him any mind, and when he finally looks up from the table, Jimmy retains a neutral expression.

Daisuke turns around in his chair, large brown eyes flitting up to Jimmy as his lips part then close as if lost in thought. 

“Oh right!” Daisuke chimes suddenly with Swansea and Jimmy’s eyes setting on him. “We do have water in the supply room. Five months worth if we ration it. That’s two bottles a day among the five of us. There’s also bathroom sink water, but we’re down to one bathroom…” Daisuke’s lips pull into a frown. “And that bathroom doesn’t even have a shower. We’re all gonna smell wicked within a few days unless you don’t mind a sink bath with dish soap.” 

He comically gags before returning to his ramen soup. 

“So we’re gonna be stinkin’ the place up after Curly tried to kill us all? Dandy,” Swansea retorts, his gaze lingering on Jimmy. 

Something tells him that Swansea doesn’t buy the narrative. 

A foreboding feeling washes over Jimmy. Swansea is too sharp for his own good and something tells him that he must be dealt with sometime in the future.

For now, Jimmy has other things on his plate. 

Swansea briefly looks at Daisuke before standing up, eyes carding back up to Jimmy. 

“Don’t think for one instance I believe Curly crashed the ship, Jimmy,” Swansea says suddenly.

Jimmy’s heart drops. 

Daisuke nearly chokes on his food, the atmosphere tense and threatening. He doesn’t look up from the table, shoulders hiking to his ears. 

“I don’t have proof, so it’s a baseless accusation. I don’t trust your word one bit, co-pilot. You are a slimefuck dickhead,” Swansea spits venomously. “And ironically the closest to the cockpit who lies through clenched teeth. I’ve been around long enough to know Curly. Out of character. I’ve also been riding along this company long enough to sniff out pieces of shit like a narcmutt searching for drugs, Jimmy. Don’t think for one goddamn instance I’m not watching your every move. Slip once and I’ll be there to break your fall.” 

He says it in one haughty breath, not missing a beat, each word unrepentant and sharp. 

Daisuke drops his spoon, pulling his head up to Swansea who stands tall, arms hanging by his side with clenched fists. He twists around in his seat, wide brown eyes now staring at Jimmy as he gaps like a fish out of water.

Jimmy’s hands will not stop trembling as his back prickles, ashamed and humiliated. He has never been the one to handle negative attention well. He has always hung on the outskirts of the spotlight and for good reason.

Curly weighs in the back of his mind; Curly with a good rapport.

Curly who is a good, benevolent captain. Jimmy feels like he’s about to throw up.

“Curly tried to kill us all b-because he didn’t want– he wanted to escape us! He felt like we were holding him back!” Jimmy defends himself. “I thought I knew Curly just as well as you– I did. We were at each other’s hip. It disgusts me that you’d– you’d accuse me of pulling the strings in his operation.” 

Daisuke shakily sighs, holding his hands up as if to placate the two. 

“W-we’re all stressed, guys. It will not do us any good to be at each other’s throats”– 

Swansea cuts him off with a short laugh. 

“Stressed. Yeah, kid. You’re right. Expect me to apologize, now? Sorry for being an asshole, Jimmy.” Swansea doesn’t mean it.

“I’m just saying that we– meaning you and I, boss– we don’t know what happened. Only Curly does. He can tell us the truth. He can tell us if he … he tried to…” Daisuke struggles saying the word kill, mouthing it as if he couldn’t believe it himself. “He got the worst of his actions, if he did it. We are alive. That’s what matters, yeah? We shouldn’t– we should uhm, we should have each other’s back. It’s. It’s a rough time for us all.” 

Jimmy didn’t think Daisuke was capable of stringing along emotionally intelligent words of wisdom. He also didn’t think much of Daisuke in general. 

Surprisingly, Swansea deflates, but his eyes are still locked on Jimmy whose heart thumps like a drum.

If Daisuke also intends to directly confront Curly, everything Jimmy has worked towards will go to shit.

It’s a good thing the gun is hidden as noted when he sought it out prior to destroying the Tulpar along their route.

It’s a bad thing that Anya is the only one who knows where it is. Jimmy knows she hid it; she, too, is too clever for her own good.

They all are, and they’re all out to get him.

Jimmy lets out a shaky sigh  as he turns on heel and leaves the lobby. 

He can feel Swansea’s pointed gaze on the back of his head as he leaves. When Jimmy is far away enough down the hallway, he hits the wall with the side of his fist hard enough that his wrist pops.

Jimmy keeps hitting the wall, thin metal paneling denting under his blow, the small capillaries beneath his skin bursting. A bruise will form, his hand now inflamed from impact. Jimmy spins on heel and kicks the ship before sinking down, his head in his hands

There is no need to go breaking down at every obstacle. Jimmy draws his head back, eyes pricking with tears as he looks up at the ceiling. Pipes whizz with oxygen with one leaking in a steady drip. It needs to be patched among other things on the ship. He stands to shaky legs and lets out a sigh, wiping his eyes with his bruised palm before descending down the hall to supply.

—

When Jimmy returns to the med bay, Curly is rolled over on his side. His blue eye stares, expression impassive yet observant as if he is assessing Jimmy’s soul. 

Jimmy has the water Curly requested, turning it over in his hands as he sits on the edge of the only other hospital cot that isn’t covered in foam. 

The daylight projection screen transitions into a tranquil night sky, stars twinkling peacefully on a backdrop of blue gray. Jimmy has never seen so many stars before; even back on earth, the sky in his city was veiled in a haze of light pollution. Curly promised him that once they return from their delivery, he will take Jimmy to the mountains where stars litter the sky as far as the eye can see, but now there is a chance that they’ll never return.

Space is supposedly beautiful in itself– a void of intense black, the domain of stars and nebulae erupting in an explosion of colors. It is the death place of stars.

Curly, the star himself, erupted in an explosion of colors, becoming a supernova, only to fizzle out and turn into the core of what he once was. That light will eventually extinguish. 

His death should have been instant. 

Jimmy cracks open the bottle of water as Curly rolls over on his back, face twisting in pain.

He doesn’t give Curly any water at first, taking a sip as the other anxiously twitches, watching Jimmy as his mouth parts, tongue wetting his chapped bottom lip. Jimmy is deliberate with how slow he drinks Curly’s water before he stands and drags his feet over.

Curly’s gauzed hand pets the hospital cot, chest rising and falling with baited anticipation. He must be thirsty.

“Calm down. I’ll give you your water,” Jimmy snaps. He places his hand beneath Curly’s head, cupping the back of his neck as he lifts the other up. Jimmy doesn’t place the lip of the bottle to Curly’s mouth, no. Instead he dumps half the water out on his face.

Curly chokes and sputters, kicking his legs as he asphyxiates on the water. He leans over and coughs violently, spitting out water and blood before he flops back over, glaring at Jimmy.

If he wants to say anything clever, he doesn’t. Jimmy sighs.

“Look at what you’ve done to yourself. I have to help you with everything, don’t I?” 

Jimmy doesn’t dump more water out on Curly. He places the bottle to his lips as the other drinks, swallowing with difficulty until he pulls away. Some water pours out on his chest as Jimmy lifts the bottle away, pursing his lips. He sets the bottle on the table at Curly’s bedside as Curly closes his eye, expression contorting in defeat.

He freezes when footsteps approach the med bay. Anya enters the room quietly as Jimmy steps off to the side.

“Why is the captain wet?” she asks.

Something sinks in Jimmy. Did she see?

He hopes she didn’t for her sake.

“We had a bit of an accident when he was drinking. Nothing more, nothing less,” Jimmy replies evenly. “Started coughing, spat it out all over himself.”

Curly doesn’t respond. He doesn’t challenge Jimmy, instead resting in silence, allowing for the lie to take over as truth. It’s a good thing that he does.

Anya says nothing. She walks across the med bay, sidestepping Jimmy as she opens one of the cabinets and pulls out a towel and a blanket. Jimmy doesn’t think she believes him.

He’s given her plenty of reasons not to trust him.

“I think you should leave,” Anya says finally, her voice small and betraying. “I don’t mean– I don’t mean that negatively. Captain just needs to rest and I have to change his wound dressings,” she remedies.

As much as Jimmy wants to stay, she’s right. Curly needs his rest, and there is always a second time. There will always be moments where they will have each other, where their company will be down to only two.

Jimmy doesn’t reply as he leaves the med bay one last time, unable to help the feeling that he is being watched. 

Curly wakes up with a staggering headache, Jimmy’s soft snoring puncturing the dead silence of their shared sleeping quarters. He couldn’t open his eyes at first, the throbbing of his forehead too strong. Curly tries to swallow, his mouth and throat cotton-like. After a moment of lying there, he finally opens his eyes. The green digital alarm clock reads a quarter till four. 

He tries to shut his eyes for more sleep, but finds himself tossing and turning on his thin mattress to the point of uselessness. Curly swings his legs over and wipes his greasy face with his palm; he’ll need a shower.

Navigating in the dark has become a skill for Curly as he doesn’t want to disturb Jimmy. The latter is, for lack of better term, a dick first thing when he wakes up in the morning. Curly isn’t in the mood for Jimmy’s berating. That can come later when the alarm signals the start of their day, though a part of Curly wants to shut off the alarm just to allow Jimmy a few more hours of sleep. One of them needs to have their wits about them, to be the eighty percent to Curly’s twenty percent. Pony Express’ negligence has gone on for years without OSHA stepping in, and Curly doesn’t care enough to report them when the pay and benefits are decent. He couldn’t do that to his crew. What did they say? The pros outweigh the cons sometimes.

If he has to uphold the status quo for Anya to get back into med school and for the rest to not struggle, so be it. It’s hell, though. 

Maybe Curly is a bad person for it.

Curly enters the restroom, closing the door behind him before switching the light on. His reflection greets him, eyes heavy with sleep and devoid of soul. 

He shucks his pajamas and pulls out a towel from the cabinet, shivering from the chill of the overhead vent. It is a little too cold on the ship for Curly’s taste despite enjoying winter sports. There is something about the Tulpar that sucks the life and heat out of everything with its endless dimly lit metal halls.

The shower head whizzes to life with just a press of a button. Curly sets the heat to max and steps in, skin singing from the heat as he sucks a breath between his teeth.

Curly exists for a moment, unmoving as he watches the water whirlpool down the drain. His motions are mechanical as he lathers his hands up in soap, dragging his fingers through his hair, massaging at his scalp.

Exhaustion almost catches him in its sinister clutches. Curly staggers, back meeting the wall as he almost falls.

“Are you alright in there?” Jimmy’s voice calls out. The bathroom door opens and he steps in.

Curly freezes when he hears Jimmy’s clothes drop on the floor. It isn’t the first time they’ve showered together, but he isn’t in the mood to humor anything Jimmy may pull. 

Still, when the other slips in behind him, Curly can’t help but melt against his embrace as strong arms wrap around his middle. 

Curly lets out a shaky sigh. “Mm. I am just tired. Can’t sleep well at all,” he says.

Truthfully, there is a lot on his mind, things that sleep evade him– the feelings of inadequacy. Curly has gotten full from the taste of responsibility, high on the ladder and overlooking the world. It is tiring being on top, and he has fought hard for his position for years.

Now he wants to fall from this ladder with no one there to catch him.

“Insomnia?” Jimmy asks, not leaving room for an answer. He kisses the back of Curly’s neck.

“Yeah, I guess…” Curly pulls away from him and begins to scrub grime, exhaustion, and everything else away from his skin. He should have grabbed a washcloth. Not having one makes him feel as if he isn’t clean.

Whatever. He will take another shower at the end of his nineteen hour shift. 

Jimmy crosses his arms, eyes taking all of Curly in. The attention makes him blush. 

“I don’t understand why you have the shower running so hot. You look like a lobster,” Jimmy says, now grinning. “You look ridiculous.”

Curly steps out of the way as Jimmy steps under the shower blast. He slicks his hair back, eyes closing, tan skin growing pink from the heat. Jimmy soaps himself up, scrubbing at himself raw before raking his hands through his hair. He rinses off and grabs Curly by the wrist who lets him.

Jimmy pulls Curly forward like a rag doll, their chests hitting each other as he laces his arms around his neck.

“We shouldn’t in the shower,” Curly hums. We shouldn’t in general, he keeps to himself. 

Jimmy’s hands drop to Curly’s hips, grasping him and dragging them forward. Curly doesn’t stop himself, gasping when they meet. 

“C’mon. The shower is the best place. We can clean up easily,” Jimmy pushes. Curly wishes he wouldn’t. 

He wishes his own traitorous body would obey. They rub along each other, heat pooling into his stomach, sensitive and demanding. Jimmy kisses him.

Curly kisses back, hard. He shoves Jimmy against the tile, rutting against him as a clipped whine presses from his throat. 

Jimmy’s hands wander to Curly’s upper back, nails raking down his spine as he sucks in a breath, leaving angry welts in their wake. He drops his head down on Curly’s shoulder and sinks his teeth in him.

There is never an intimate moment where Jimmy doesn’t bite Curly like the dog he is. Curly presses into the bite, taking all of Jimmy in his hands, stroking his erection. Jimmy sighs shakily, releasing his hold on Curly’s shoulder as he licks at his tooth marks. 

“We should continue in bed,” Curly breathes. It’ll be proper that way, it’ll give him an excuse to rest an hour more. 

Jimmy, defeated, nods his head. When they step out of the shower, they neglect their towels, gripping and groping each other as they stumble back into the room. Curly barely remembers to hit the shower button, powering it off.

They meet Curly’s bottom bunk, Jimmy falling on top of the twin mattress with Curly on top.

“Psych evals are today,” Curly says as he kisses Jimmy. Jimmy scoffs.

“Unsexy of you to remind me when your hands are on my dick.” 

Curly kisses him once again, smiling. “I suppose so.” He strokes from the base to the head, his pointer and thumb encircling. 

Jimmy releases a low moan. 

“These walls are thin,” Curly reminds him. 

“Let them hear us,” Jimmy pants. He wraps his legs around Curly who grinds lazily against his crotch.

It’s good, too good. In moments where they’re alone, there’s not a time where they’re not touching each other, needy and unrelenting. Codependent, perhaps. Curly quietly craves Jimmy’s audience. 

Curly craves Jimmy’s affection and sadism, gasping through his nose as Jimmy scratches down his back at Curly’s masturbating touch. He grinds and rubs at Jimmy’s cock who kisses him, tongue and teeth, snatching Curly’s bottom lip in and biting down though not hard enough to break skin. It is tentative like Jimmy wants to hurt him more but doesn’t as if to keep up appearances. Curly is sure that in another setting, he wouldn’t mind.

Jimmy bites at Curly’s neck whose eyes close, brow knitting as he nicks at his tender skin. 

“Jimmy, not so rough. Don’t leave a mark”–

“Too late for that,” Jimmy breathes. He continues his assault, continues to disobey, biting down enough to break skin. Curly winces, grinding harder against Jimmy.

“Fuck me,” Jimmy demands. “Do it like you mean it.” 

They lack the components for it to be safe; Curly lacks the initiative. 

“Next time,” Curly sighs. He kisses Jimmy and pulls away, not finishing him off, Curly’s own erection waning.

A bruise blossoms against his pale neck, one that will be visible past his overall collar. He hopes no one questions him about it. 

They’ve both been careful up until now with Jimmy leaving bruises and cuts in discrete places. Curly likes the soreness, but doesn’t like the potential attention their activities will surely bring.

“What the fuck?” Jimmy snaps. “You’re going to leave me like this?” 

Guilt eats at Curly’s heart. 

“I have things to do,” Curly says, redirecting the conversation. Jimmy rolls his eyes. “Like sleep more. Get up.” 

“How many hours of shut eye did you get?” Jimmy surprisingly asks. 

Curly was sure that he would refute as he has done before. Thankfully he didn’t. Jimmy forces his compliance, however, for some strange reason. His expression is unreadable.

It doesn’t stop the anxiety welling up in Curly’s chest.

Jimmy doesn’t get up, instead rolls closer to the wall, giving Curly some room. “We don’t have to do anything. Just lay down.”

Curly doesn’t trust Jimmy will keep his hands to himself; he never does.

His legs move on their own as he walks over to Jimmy in the dark, sitting down before lying on his side. Jimmy’s hands wander over Curly’s torso, cupping his chest before resting over his stomach, the touch feather light. His skin tingles, muscles contracting from sensitivity, a coil winding up tightly and then releasing. Curly breathes hard when Jimmy pets his ribs, but he doesn’t touch below the belt, not even with Curly’s ass flush against Jimmy’s half-hard cock. 

Jimmy finally settles with his teasing and petting, burying his nose against Curly’s nape.

They both breathe in unison, Curly’s heavy eyelids slipping close as Jimmy’s snores reverberate against Curly’s back. It doesn’t take long for his mind to shut down.

It doesn't take long for the loud blaring of sirens to wake him up in the cockpit as his vision turns a sickening shade of red. He is lost in a sea of ladders and galaxy, alarms wailing critical emergency , brace for impact.  

Curly jolts awake with Jimmy gone from his side of the bed, his legs tangled in blankets, nude and petrified.

—

“… Are you listening?” Anya speaks up. 

Curly doesn’t know how long he’s been out of it; he doesn’t remember sitting down in the chair at the counter in the med bay, eyes trained on a first aid box off to the side of him. Anya holds a clipboard to her chest, brow knitting in consternation.

“Yeah… yeah. Damn, I’m so sorry,” Curly replies, still dazed. He blinks, speckles of black swimming in his vision like gnats. “Couldn’t sleep again, but I passed the psych eval?” He doesn’t remember giving the answers that he did, the process lost to him. 

Anya hums, tapping her chin with a pencil before she sits the clipboard flat on the counter. Curly’s eyes ghost over the questionnaire. 

“Well, you gave the same answers as last time,” Anya confirms before frowning. “… Though I wish you would open up a little more, Captain. These evaluations aren’t just about you.”

Curly blinks, face tinting pink. To save himself of the embarrassment, he reaches out and grasps Anya’s hand, calloused thumb smoothing circles along her knuckles. 

“As long as I’m fit to fly in your eyes, Anya,” he says with a grin, the apples of his cheeks still warm; it is the first time he has genuinely smiled in what feels like an eternity. 

It is Anya’s turn to blush, her stammering over her own words as she pulls her hands away, one touching her chest with the other shooing him. 

“Oh, stop it…” she teases, briefly smiling before her face falls back into a gentle frown. “Guess that means I have one more eval to do.”

Anya purses her lips, eyes rolling up to the ceiling, her arms crossing over themselves planted on the counter. She slumps forward. 

“Jimmy?” Curly inquires.

“He acts like I do these things for fun,” Anya deflates, a note of bitterness to her tone. “Then I have to make a report with things like ‘I have found myself sexually excited at the sight of cartoon horses.’” 

There is a moment where worry flashes through her eyes, something that doesn’t go amiss. Curly will have a talk with him about his blatant sexual harassment as discussions are the only source of conflict resolution. Warnings, write ups, and things of that nature never make it far in the Pony Express without some sort of incentivized consequence. If the crew can’t get along, it falls back onto the captain, and if the captain fails at maintaining peaceful relations, their pay package suffers.

Curly is stuck like a rock in a hard place.

“Hah!” Curly snorts. “I could take it off your hands.”

Anya perks up, hopeful. 

“Really?”

“I’ve known him a long time. He won’t try any bullshit with me,” Curly says.

“… I suppose you are the captain,” Anya replies, unsure.

“I am the captain,” Curly retorts.

She visibly relaxes, sighing out of relief before her face falls, eyes widening slightly. She rummages in her pocket, withdrawing a crumpled yellow post-it note, a faded to-do list with rough handwriting, all capitalized.

"Oh, before I forget. Swansea asked me to give you this."

She hands the note over to Curly who smooths out the wrinkles. It says "THEY CAN'T EXPECT ME TO WORK MIRACLES!!!" with "miracles" underlined. It brings another smile to Curly's face; he will definitely put in word for Swansea to get a raise, if Pony Express will comply. 

"Not sure what it means but... sounds like fun!" Anya ends on a hopeful note. "Good luck, Captain!"

Regarding Jimmy, he will need all the luck he can get.

Anya pulls her lips into a taut line. “Daisuke described his experience as intern so far as: ‘Awesome, super cool, and like, totally awesome. Like really awesome!’ … Should I be worried…?”

She isn’t seeking an answer, talking mostly to herself. Curly makes a note to talk to Daisuke after his shift, if he remembers. Some of the minutiae tasks often become lost for Curly. He thinks about utilizing post-it notes like Swansea and keeping them on his person.

He stands and nods at Anya, turning and leaving the med bay.

Curly cuts the corner and descends the stairs to check up on the other crew members, having to maintain a good rapport and all. Jimmy stands by utility, arms crossed over his chest, leaning with one foot planted against the wall. He perks up at the sight of Curly, a smirk playing on his face with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“And Pony Express said they don’t provide on-board entertainment,” he says, not making a mention of what happened earlier that morning.

Curly prefers it that way. His neck twinges from its bruise where Jimmy had bitten him.

“Feels like there’s something always broken in that room,” Curly frowns. “Tulpar’s starting to show her age.”

“Passed inspection, right? Shouldn’t be an issue,” Jimmy comments with a roll of the shoulders.

Curly partially agrees. Pony Express is well known to get away with a lot. It is a surprise they haven’t been sued yet. It is a matter of time before they have a class action lawsuit on their hands.

“Mm. Plus they added Daisuke last minute. Didn’t account there’d be five of us now,” Curly puffs a breath through his nose. “I should have made a bigger stink about that.”

Jimmy stands up tall, craning his neck into the utility room. He doesn’t say what happened, stepping off to the side for Curly to take a look for himself.

“Maybe you should intervene,” he adds vaguely. “Or we could just close the door. Your call.”

Curly doesn’t like that purposeful neglect from his co-pilot, the technical second in command. When he whips around the corner, disaster meets his eyes.

Daisuke stands surrounded in foam, arms and legs imprisoned as Swansea shakes his head, red faced, on the verge of popping a nerve, enraged. Curly saunters up to them with Jimmy leaning against the door, now, as if this is a cheap spectacle for him.

“Well. I can see the issue,” Curly says.

“The kid was brought on just to make me suffer!” Swansea cries. “Intern my ass.”

Daisuke falters for a moment, looking at Curly as if asking for help, for a defense. “I was just trying to fix the vent!” he says instead, struggling to release himself from the foam, efforts fruitless. “H-how did that trigger the emergency foam?”

“Because yer talented in all the wrong ways!” Swansea snaps back. “I woulda dealt with this but only you can unlock the axe case. Every goddamn thing has to go through you.”

Another source of Pony Express’ negligence. There should be an emergency override for the crew, but there isn’t. The longer Curly thinks about his comfy position on the top seat, the more it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Daisuke’s predicament is just another reminder.

“I’ll handle it. Hang in there, Daisuke,” Curly says.

“I think I got it!” Daisuke announces. He tries once more to prize himself out of the foam, shouting in the process. Curly can’t help the smile that comes.

“Hang in there, yeah?”

Swansea huffs. “Back in my day we didn’t have to go through a dog and pony show for every little thing. Might as well put our cutlery behind a lock!”

Curly notes Swansea’s complaint and then makes his way over to the axe case. He pulls the code scanner from his pocket, powers it on, and then keys in the code, removing the axe from its container. Axe now propped against his shoulder, Curly returns to Daisuke, bringing it down onto the foam, careful to avoid his legs and hands.

Daisuke pulls himself away, the foam crackling like snapping rubber. He groans as his skin rips from the foam, crying out when he finally dislodges himself. It must have hurt with how his eyes pricked with tears.

“Ooof. Strong stuff, huh?” Daisuke says, shaking off his hands. Pieces of foam stick to him still, and will have to be sanded off.

“Get it through your goddamn skull!” Swansea growls. “That vent is strictly off limits! Fully fuckin’ collapsed inside! You looking to get impaled, electrocuted, and cooked?”

Daisuke blinks, bewildered. “Yeah, but like. You can’t fit in there to fix it, right? So I can totally handle it”–

Swansea snaps his head towards Curly, teeth bared. “Captain.” He tries to keep his tone even. “Give me the axe.”

Curly doesn’t, at least not at first. It isn’t that he distrusts Swansea, but he wants the other to cool his head first. He knows Swansea is one of the most level headed out of them all, even within his anger. All bark, no bite.

“Swansea,” Curly says, commanding. “This could’ve damaged the pods. You can’t let something like this happen again.”

Swansea deflates. He cuts a glance at Daisuke who whistles, turning around on his heel, avoiding eye contact with his hands in his pockets.

“Yeah, yeah… I got it. Loud and clear,” Swansea says.

Curly hands over the axe. “Keep the axe until you’ve cleaned all of this up, yeah?”

Swansea curtly nods as Curly turns away, his berating of Daisuke falling on deaf ears. They both can work whatever conflict they have out. He trusts Swansea to not hurt Daisuke as he is capable and lucid enough. Jimmy stands up straight, brows raising up his forehead.

“I take it Anya diagnosed you with ‘being sane,’ then?” he asks. He sounds bitter as if he couldn’t believe it.

“Just off center but it’s what keeps me on my toes. I said I’d do yours,” Curly replies smoothly. “I want to hear about those cartoon horses. Is that something you were born with or a recent development”–

“Alright, alright. Shut up,” Jimmy spits, wrinkling his nose. “Let’s go to the cockpit.”

He leaves without saying another word, obviously annoyed. Curly smugly smiles as he follows Jimmy down the hall through the double doors leading into the cockpit.

However, something tugs at Curly.

His world flickers black although briefly, feeling as if he is falling and falling endlessly until he finds himself in a sea of blood. The universe above him opens up in an endless expanse of red galaxies and nebulae as far as the eye can see. It's tranquil until he trudges forward.

Animal snorts and calls puncture the array of sirens that blare in the void. Curly keeps moving forward, his heart beating out of his chest as broken ladders pop out from the sea. Emergency alerts pop like warning, eye catching and foreboding as the sun rises in the horizon before it is too dazzling, casting the hallway in a flash of blinding white.

He steadies his shaking hands as he reaches for the cockpit latch, turning it to be met with the dull green of the navigational interface. He quiets his breathing, eyes wide, shell shock as Jimmy swivels in his chair. If he notices anything, he keeps his mouth shut.

Curly melts into his own seat as exhaustion eats at him, hands laced over his stomach. The psych evaluation lays on the center console. Anya must have brought it to the cockpit for him as courteous as she is. He totally forgot all about the clipboard.

“Can’t you just make something up for this?” Jimmy says. “It’s not like these psych evals go anywhere when we get back.” 

“We’ll power through it,” Curly replies, picking up the clipboard. He picks a pen out of his front pocket, clicking at the end. “Have you been able to complete your mandated tasks as co-pilot efficiently and to your fullest capacity?”

“Urgh. Let’s see. Yes,” Jimmy says. “Aside from the five hours of sleep they give us? Yeah. Between you, Swansea, and I, that coffee vending machine they have will soon be history.”

Curly checks yes. “Over the last two weeks, how often have you been bothered by the following problems?”

“This is such faggoty bullshit,” Jimmy retorts.

“It is bullshit, but it is standard. I know you dislike opening up about any problem you may have, but it’s required. Rather not have our pay docked for noncompliance.” Curly anxiously clicks his pen. They watch the navigation panel for a moment before he sighs. “I will have to document if you refuse the psych eval, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know,” Jimmy says b itingly. “Give me the anxiety question. Come on. Continue.”

“On a scale of one to three with one being– you know what. It’s probably better if you fill out the anxiety and depression portion yourself. I will do the rest because it will need either the captain or nurse’s signature.” Curly hands the clipboard over to Jimmy who rolls his eyes.

He snatches the clipboard out of Curly’s hand, the scratching of pen filling the silence of the cockpit before he thrusts it over to Curly. Curly’s brows raise.

“Never thought you were so… calm,” Curly says. 

“I lied on over half of it,” Jimmy replies. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I can handle my job, but the lack of sleep is getting to me. It’s getting to all of us. Five hours? Come on. I am at my best when I have at least seven hours minimum.”

“I’m pretty sure we all lie on those parts,” Curly agrees. “Do you have thoughts of hurting yourself or others?”

“No. Why would I? I like everyone on this ship. Nothing is getting me down, either,” Jimmy states. Curly marks no.

“Are you capable of piloting without issue or without reasonable accommodation?” Curly asks.

“Yeah, I am,” Jimmy says.

“I’ll just put ‘good’ for that one. That’s all of them,” Curly says as he signs the document. “Done and done.” He pauses. “... How are things otherwise? Off the record.”

Jimmy laces his hands behind his head, kicking his feet up on the console. 

“I like it. We’re in control here,” he says.

Curly knows Jimmy has always had issues with wanting control of situations– and sometimes people. He admitted it himself a long time ago during a more intimate moment where his hands were in his hands with no one else around to witness it except him and Curly. Jimmy’s obsession with control can be a problematic thing at times, the bruise on Curly’s neck serving as memorabilia. He briefly frowns, brows knitting.

Jimmy isn’t watching him, and thank God he isn’t. He is a little too in-tune with Curly’s emotions, easily affronted when Curly shows even an inkling of apparent disappointment in him. It is the source of many arguments they’ve had in the past, and future arguments to come. He finds himself giving into Jimmy’s whims more often than he likes, but it is easier to do so.

“Didn’t think you’d ever take to being a freighter pilot as well as you have. What with how you struggled back on Earth,” Curly notes.

Maybe it is the wrong thing to say. He realizes how much he looks down at Jimmy. The other jerks his head towards him, scowling.

It was definitely the wrong thing to say. Curly feels like a kicked dog under his leer.

“Sure. All I ever hear is how great of a leader you are. Honestly, it’s kind of annoying,” Jimmy retorts.

Curly’s gut sinks. He desperately pieces his thoughts together in formation of an apology until Jimmy changes the topic, his facial expression softening. 

“So what is it?” Jimmy goads, leaning forward. His face is enigmatic with how it moves, always expressive when it is just him and Curly alone and impassive in the face of others.

“Hm?” Curly hums.

“How come it always seems like you’re standing on the edge of a bridge with your feet in cement?” Jimmy questions vaguely.

Curly is unsure of what to say. It reminds him of his dissatisfaction with how things are.

Sure, Curly has it all on top, looking down from the pedestal he fought tooth and nail to climb to, but it isn’t enough. Being captain isn’t what he wants in life.

“Lately I’ve just been thinking. Is this enough? Should I just stay here because I’ve been successful at it? A good long haul freighter Captain…” Curly reminisces. He has achieved great things in this career path. Awards, recommendations, bonuses. Everything has gone smoothly under Curly’s leadership, but he can’t help the feeling that something is missing.

Pony Express has long siphoned the soul out of his work. He used to enjoy it. 

“And that’s bad?” Jimmy slumps in his chair, face contorting in disbelief.

“That’s what I’m saying, it’s not,” Curly finds himself appeasing Jimmy. “But… it’s terrifying. I think, ‘Am I figured out? Is this all I’ll ever be?’ Or do I take the risk and try something new? Even if I’m bad at it.”

Putting it into words makes more sense. Curly thinks he will throw in the towel after this trip and seek another career path.

“Hm. I guess I get it,” Jimmy says. He touches the navigational control, turning it slightly to the right so the vessel aligns with the destination coordinate on the compass. “You reached the highest run on this ladder. So you’re thinkin’ you might be on the wrong ladder altogether. Still a long way down from the top no matter how you look at it.” His face puckers with a frown. “… While I’m still climbing and climbing.”

Of course Jimmy twists the topic to be about him, bathing in the limelight, stamping out Curly’s anxieties with his own. It’s maddening at times, and makes Curly’s problems feel miniscule in comparison.

He keeps such selfish notions to himself. That is what Curly is, selfish.

“Something like that,” Curly says through a forced, passive smile. “But hey, hey, hey. You know I believe in you. Here. On Earth. Doesn’t matter.”
Jimmy barks out a short laugh. “Hah. You should write that on the psych eval.”

The green interface chimes with an alert, an incoming message as the fax machine prints out a letter from corporate.

“Oh no. The big guys themselves.” Jimmy stands and stretches, his shoulders popping as he steps away from his chair. “Guess that’s my cue. I’ll see you later.”

He opens the cockpit door and steps out as Curly gets up.

A hefty weight sinks down on his shoulders as he drags his feet to the fax machine, gingerly lifting up the paper. His eyes squint at the typeface font in the dim light of the cockpit, eyes widening. 

“Captain’s breathing has improved these past few days,” Anya says over a bowl of clam chowder. “I don’t think we will need the ventilator now. He can also sit up on his own, but it hurts him so much.” 

Jimmy sits staring up at the ceiling, chair rocking back on its hind legs with his feet kicked up on the table. Whatever Anya is saying goes in one ear and out the other. 

“… You’re not listening. Never mind,” she comments, her spoon clinking the side of the bowl, leaving the soup unfinished. 

Jimmy’s eyes flit down to the table. “You’re gonna have to finish that. We can’t afford to waste food.” 

Anya lips draw into a line. She spoons up more soup, allowing it to plop into the bowl. 

“I’m not really hungry now,” she states. 

Jimmy takes his feet off the table, all four chair legs slamming back to the floor. He leans in, arms crossing over each other, elbows now on the table.

“Then why did you eat initially if you’re not hungry now?” His tone is cold. “You should have thought about that before you went off and wasted our supplies. Give me the fucking soup. I’ll eat it.” 

Anya regards Jimmy with a strange light in her eye, expression otherwise neutral aside from the small frown that tugs at her lips. She slides the soup over and gets up, chair scooting hard against the floor out from under her. Without another word, she leaves the lobby, casting one disgusted look behind her at Jimmy who watches, hands folded on top of one another as they rest against his nose.

He rolls his own eyes and wolfs down the soup, grimacing at how cold it is.

Swansea enters the lobby, axe propped up against his shoulder with Daisuke tailing him, clipboard at hand.

“How many mattresses did you see stuck in the foam, boy?” Swansea asks. 

“Three. I think the captain is on the fourth. Are we sure we’re gonna be able to clear them without breaching something?”– Daisuke turns his head to Jimmy, beaming brightly, the apples of his cheeks pink. “Oh hey, Jimmy! What’cha eatin’?”

“If we breach somethin’ then lights out for us all,” Swansea replies. When he turns his head towards Jimmy, his expression darkens. “Be a contributing crew member and help us with the mattresses.” 

Jimmy spoons the rest of the soup up and pops the spoon in his mouth, swallowing before replying, “Cold clam chowder.”

“Yuck,” Daisuke wrinkles his nose. “But I suppose it’s better than cold tomato or cold chicken noodle.” He taps the clipboard to his chest and adds hopefully, “Will you help us with the mattresses?” 

Given Jimmy has nothing better to do, he shrugs his shoulders. Anything for an excuse to be around Curly. Anything for an excuse to be alone with Curly. 

“I don’t see how I’ll be much help,” Jimmy comments truthfully. “The med bay is cramped with three people let alone five.” 

He looks at Swansea, his gaze flitting down the length of him and lingering on his stomach before settling back on his face.  “Unless you stand outside the door and I use the axe.”

Swansea scowls. “Be less transparent. Go on, call me a fat fuck. I know you want to.”

Jimmy regards him with apathy, brows rising. The spoon clatters to the bowl, too loud in their tense silence. 

Daisuke watches both of them with baited breath.

“I’m gonna head to med bay now. Bye!” Daisuke peels out, walking fast, both Jimmy and Swansea ignoring him. 

“Well, it’s not like you’re small exactly,” Jimmy sighs. “I don’t get how it’s so offensive to point out a fact.”

Jimmy has never registered Swansea as a sensitive type. Tightly wound and crass, sure, but sensitive? This is a new discovery. 

Swansea crosses his arms, fingers thrumming across his biceps. “No shit! You have eyes, ‘grats. Don’t feed me a load of bullcock about ‘offense’ when I can take the truth. I’m fat. Yer observant. Unfortunately, you’re going to have to deal with the claustrophobia of a crowd because I am not handin’ the axe over to you.”

Jimmy stands and takes his bowl up with him. He sweeps past Swansea and places the dish in the kitchenette’s sink and then props himself up on the counter. 

“Well? Lead on to the med bay. I’m right behind you,” Jimmy says, curling his lip. “I have to do my due diligence, after all. Can’t have you looking down on me for being, hmm– what did you imply? Lazy.”

Swansea says not another word, head jerking forward as he walks through the lobby, Jimmy sulking behind him, hands in his pockets. They enter the med bay with Anya and Daisuke there.

Curly is sitting up, back to the wall. His jaw sets as soon as Jimmy walks through the door.

The first thing Jimmy notices is how Curly’s hand tightens into a fist, his knuckles white, healing blisters along his hand cracking from strain. The second thing he notices is that most of his first degree burns have started scarring over, leaving Curly in a splotchy casing of soft pink and red. 

Anya’s eyes dart to Jimmy but she avoids meeting his gaze as it turns to her. 

Curly swallows and makes a noise. Expressive irritation like he doesn’t want Jimmy to be here. Unlucky for him.

Jimmy will never leave much like a malignant tumor. Too fucking bad that fives a crowd. It should be him and Curly, and them alone. 

He drags his eyes from Anya to Curly, their gazes locking, hatred mingling with hatred as Curly so desperately clings to that pedestal he fell from.

Swansea wedges himself between Daisuke and Jimmy, knocking him in the shoulder with his bicep. Jimmy wrinkles his nose, expression pulling with scorn. 

“My bad. You were in the way,” Swansea says. He squats and assesses the foam, hand dragging down the length of it, eyeballing the distance between the bulk of the foam and the wall. 

“Uncovering these mattresses shouldn’t be an issue. Let’s just pray that pulling the mattresses out won’t unlock an air seal,” Swansea comments. 

He struggles to stand, his knees popping as he does. Swansea puffs out a breath and brings the axe down onto the foam, cutting it through the middle.

Stepping off to the side, Swansea looks at Daisuke and jerks his head to the foam. Daisuke puts the clipboard down on the counter behind him and thrusts his fingers through the slit, jerking it apart as it rips, the sharp sound of rubber crackling.

“Heyo, Jim, can you give me a hand?” Daisuke grits through his teeth. 

Jimmy huffs and pulls his sleeves up, gripping the foam along with Daisuke as they both part it away from the mattress until it stops tearing. 

“It’s gonna have to be cut again. Swansea?” Jimmy turns his head back towards him. “Do the honors.”

“Move outta the way,” Swansea says. He brings the axe back down and hacks away at the foam. 

It is still gore spattered with neither Swansea or Jimmy bothering to clean Curly’s mess from the blade. Anya only watches in silence.

They finally break the foam down enough for Daisuke to jerk a mattress out as he slides it across the floor.

One down and two more to go.

They manage to get the other out with difficulty, all three sweaty and hot. Jimmy wipes his palm against his brow. 

“We should move these two into the lobby.” Jimmy hoists a mattress up, the bulk of it tucked under his arm as he pushes it out, the green epoxy catching on the door jamb before he shoves it past. 

They’re heavier than they look. Jimmy carts it into the lobby and lets the mattress fall in front of the Polle mascot. Swansea and Daisuke follow behind with the second mattress as the mascot chimes with a quaint jingle.

“Polle says: ‘Another day in paradise, yay!’” 

Something in Jimmy’s brain snaps. He brings his foot to its shin, hard.

“What did Polle do to deserve your abuse?” Swansea says, grinning. “Never liked that little foal shit. Its eyes seem to follow everywhere you go.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Jimmy comments. “How else did we get credits docked for goofing off in the lobby?”

“Easy.” Swansea points above Jimmy’s head. A camera is tacked to the ceiling. “That’s the day that kid over there had that woman on his shoulders while she was wearing a party hat like a haphazard unicorn and you threw chips at her. No brainer. We got credits docked for a safety violation. I’m still pissed that my payment was involved in all of y’all’s hijinks”

“Get over it,” Jimmy says flatly. “We’re a team. One bad apple spoils the bunch.” 

“I’ll get over it when I get my one-eighty-kay for this shipment, but watch us get nothing. Hah!” Swansea barks. “I work the equivalent twenty-five an hour as a blue collared fool on a nineteen-to-five just as you do, and you fucked me in more ways than one, co-pilot. Turn over what I said in your brain the other day. The cameras might be busted now, but ol’ Swansea ain’t.” 

Jimmy suppresses the biting, snarling anger that wells up in him like a monster. Adjusting his face into something neutral (or what he assumes to be), he turns his head and goes back to medical.

If Swansea wants to assume Jimmy crashed the ship, then so fucking be it. He isn’t going to change the mind of a bitter old man who is set in his ways.

He’s a piece of shit for it, too. 

Jimmy crosses the dark hallway and steps into medical. Curly is back to laying down, his legs bent at the knee as he flexes his toes. Anya bends his leg out with Curly wincing.

“With your progress you may be able to walk soon,” she says. 

Jimmy coughs with both of them jumping. 

Anya spins around, backing up to Curly’s bed. Her hand grabs for his only falling short, fingers bending against the bed as if she had forgotten the hand she was grabbing is no longer there. 

“Don’t mind me, love birds,” Jimmy drawls. “Waiting for the dipshit duo to make an appearance.” He crosses his arms.

“That’s not”– Anya sighs, closing her eyes. She visibly readjusts her expression.

Jimmy’s lip curls up briefly before resuming its passive boredom. 

Anya opens her eyes.

“Are you all going to be able to get the last mattress out?”

Jimmy’s gaze graces the bulk of the foam. The mattress is clearly flush to the wall with the edge sticking out. That one will be problematic, imposed risk. 

“I hope so,” Jimmy says. “Or two of us will be sleeping on the couch.” 

“The couch hurts my back,” Anya says. “But these mattresses are hardly any better.”

Jimmy uncrosses his arms and digs his hands into his pockets. He thinks of berating her for worrying about such little things.

Curly rolls over onto his side, face contorting in pain as he reaches his hand over, grasping for Anya’s. Jimmy watches how his thumb smooths over her knuckles.

Jealousy flares up, threatening to choke Jimmy. He bites it back.

That should be his hand that Curly is holding. 

“The mattresses on the Tulpar are shit quality anyway,” Jimmy states. “Even in the living quarters.”

Anya licks at her upper lip, eyes zoned out, staring at the mattress. She squeezes Curly’s hand before releasing it. 

“I want to keep that mattress in the med bay,” she says distantly.

Something tugs at Jimmy’s heart, that jealousy once again rearing its sinister head. 

Anya stares at him now with a strange look, one that says clearly you know what you’ve done. 

“Why is that?” Jimmy asks, tone cold and deathly calm. He cocks his head at her as he steps forward.

Anya backs further up against Curly’s bed, practically sitting on it as if she is trying to place more distance between her and Jimmy. 

She seeks an answer, thoughts flipping over in her own head, something to pacify Jimmy as the tension grows heavy and dark between them. 

Jimmy’s lips tug at the corners in a cruel smile. Anya was stupid to have hidden the gun from him as Curly was stupid to have had the code scanner on him. Jimmy could’ve ended this all with his own and Anya’s deaths. Then no one else would have had to suffer.

Curly wouldn’t have been left in his current state. It’s all her fault.

“Anya, you really aren’t a bright girl, are you?” It slips out, unrehearsed, Jimmy’s emotions getting the better of him.

Anya’s brows furrow as Curly scowls.

A revelation crests over her, her thoughts swimming in her dark eyes. Only someone as crafty as the enemy can read Anya, and Jimmy reads her with a smile. 

He knows what she’s thinking.

“Why do you choose to torment me?” Anya asks quietly. 

Jimmy shrugs his shoulders. Anya should know why. She should know that it is due to her own actions, and that she is at fault regarding her situation.

“It’ll be easier if you don’t worry too much about it,” Jimmy says flatly.

Anya touches her stomach, looking down. 

She has gotten a little fatter since Jimmy had fucked her, or he’s imagining it. The drawl of a baby’s crying echoes off the walls. 

Jimmy winces as it gets louder and louder until it abruptly stops. He hears nursery music, and when he opens his eyes, Curly and Anya aren’t there except a disfigured Polle with grotesque proportions, its multi-gaze boring into Jimmy’s very soul as it coos.

He blinks, the medical bay returning to its hazy atmosphere of dim lighting. Anya and Curly are there, but Jimmy is looking up at them. He has fallen at some point. Anya regards him with passive disgust. 

She doesn’t help him up, doesn’t even say anything as she whips around to face and pulls out a thermometer from her pocket. 

Daisuke and Swansea return to the med bay as Jimmy jerks himself up off the floor, eyes narrowing at Anya’s back. 

Swansea shoves himself past Jimmy and whistles. “That mattress might be suicide to remove.” He rolls his shoulders and brings the axe down regardless. “Say your prayers!” Swansea calls out, sing-song. He hacks away at the foam as Daisuke watches, mouth agape. 

With most of the mattress uncovered, Swansea sets his axe down and pulls it away from the wall, face red from exertion. He successfully prizes it out, dragging the mattress across the floor, laying it out flat just before Anya’s feet.

She turns around after taking Curly’s temperature, facial expression devoid of the exchange she and Jimmy just had. 

“Can we keep this mattress in the med bay?” Anya asks. 

Swansea looks up at her, scowling. He stands up, his back cracking as he leans down and scrapes up the axe. 

“Sure. Pain in the ass bulky things to move. You have to rearrange. It’s break time for me and the boy,” Swansea says. He steps over the mattress and chunks of discarded foam, leaving medical. 

Daisuke follows close behind reminding Jimmy vividly of a baby duck following its mother. 

Anya sighs. She says nothing else to Jimmy but watches him like a hawk.

Jimmy tries to think of an excuse for Anya to not have her mattress in the med bay but couldn’t come up with something on the spot. His eyes flit to Curly who rests quietly, his expression peaceful for once as he sleeps.

Gears turn in Jimmy’s head like clockwork.

“When you get tired or something, I can take over for the captain,” Jimmy says.

Anya cuts him off. She doesn’t trust him. “I can manage.”

“I insist,” Jimmy presses. “Being that you’re pregnant and all, you must be stressed. Think of your well being since, you know, everything happened. I will take over after your nineteen hours of labor. Pony Express will dock our pay if you go over your allotted work hours without it being an emergency.” 

Take the bait, he finishes in his head, praying that she does. Anya seems uncertain, irritatingly so. 

“Please. I am fine,” Anya urges. She looks as if she wants to say something else but her eyes drop to her feet.

“Are you really fine?” Jimmy asks quietly. “Are any of us fine? I don’t think so. Sleep in here for all I care, and don’t open your mouth when you need help.” He spits every word like a dagger with the intention to harm.

Anya’s hands fall to her sides as she bites her bottom lip. Jimmy says nothing else as he turns to leave, closing the med bay door behind him.

The latch falls, lock clicking into place behind him.

There is only one reason why she would want to sleep in the med bay, but Jimmy will let her have her way for now. It is all he can do, for now. When Anya leaves again is when he will make his move, and he will do so in a way to avoid direct confrontation. Anya isn’t likely to fight back.

She never is, always accepting things despite her own silent opposition. When Jimmy enters the lobby, he sees Swansea and Daisuke lounging on the couch.

“Anya changed her mind,” Jimmy lies. “Daisuke, help me move her mattress over to the Polle mascot. Not right now, though. She is currently changing Curly and the door is locked.”

Daisuke looks up from the clipboard he is studying. Tallies marks the paper along with his neat handwriting.

“Sure thing!” Daisuke chirps before looking at Swansea. “Er– I mean, unless I don’t have anything else to do?”

Jimmy’s cuts a glance to Swansea. He leans back heavily against the couch, hands over his belly, legs spread out. “Did ya finish counting supplies and making a note of everything that got busted when we crashed?”

Daisuke nods his head. “Yeah, I got everything right here.” He hands the clipboard over to Swansea who takes it, sitting up.

Jimmy watches with agonizing impatience as Swansea turns the page over. He plops the clipboard down beside him and gets up, heavily standing to his feet. “Gotta figure out how to redirect power to Med Bay from Utility. You ain’t helpin’, boy. What you can do, however, is keep an eye on our supplies. Check and double check, and if you’re not sure, check again.”

Daisuke’s frowns. “Sure thing, boss,” he says.
Swansea leaves Jimmy and Daisuke alone as he exits the lobby, thankfully not questioning Jimmy’s motives. Daisuke doesn’t either, but the difference between him and Swansea is that he is too naive in the ways of the world. He is too stupid and childish to detect Jimmy’s hidden motives.

And he wants to keep it that way.

Curly is sick of the featureless grey walls of the med bay and regretfully sick of Anya’s careful fretting. 

He doesn’t blame her; she’s just doing her due diligence as Tulpar’s one and only nurse, making a miracle out of him with their waning supplies, things that aren’t meant to treat critical burn patients, salve and gauze only used for the most insignificant of injuries. It’s a surprise that they’ve had the tools to suture him shut. Maybe Pony Express isn’t as ill-prepared as he thought. 

The better part about it all that Curly guiltily thinks is that Jimmy hasn’t been around since they’ve unearthed the mattress. Curly bites his ruined cheek when Anya straightens his leg out for the sixth time. He’s much looser than initially, but it still fucking hurts all the same. 

“When you’re able to bend and straighten your legs out on your own, we’re going to try and get you to walk,” Anya states. “Swansea agreed to help. He said that if it means getting you back to yourself, he’s all for it.”

Curly puffs out a breath, a simple hhh in confirmation, teeth clenching as Anya flattens his right leg, his blunt nails clawing at the green epoxy covering on the mattress.

He wishes that she would relent and would give him a moment of respite. The tendons pull tight like a rubber band threatening to snap with him only able to bare it. That’s all Curly can do. Bare it.

Anya’s hands are cool to his skin that has started to peel and flake away at the edges of scabbing, revealing fresh skin beneath, raw and pink. She stops her necessary torment as a sigh of relief slips out of Curly. Anya steps back, her brows puckering in its gentle compassion. If Anya were anyone else, it would have been annoying. Curly hates pity above all else, always striving to rise above such a thing where he is capable, a leader, and someone who is undeserving of sympathy. Now he’s in such a pitiful state, and for why. Why?

It’s your chronic need to fix things head on. To fix someone else’s mistakes. To uphold the title of a compassionate leader– a friend. Friends hold their friends accountable. Curly laughs bitterly. It’s funny how his altruism was his downfall even if he should have known better, should have known that even among friends, some people aren’t deserving of the generosity that Curly has extended to Jimmy.

Curly’s big heart opened up and swallowed him whole just as how space opened Tulpar and swallowed it whole.

Anya’s sad smile draws into a frown. She clears her throat as Curly sighs. He hasn’t laughed in such a long time, and never at anything as cruel as this. Anya must think poorly of him.

Of course she does. After all Curly has done to her; it’s cruelty in of itself that she’s forced to care after the man who failed to protect her, who failed to protect the crew.

“Captain, I think I am done for now,” Anya says. She jerks her head around towards the med bay’s door as if checking for an eavesdropper.

The ship has ears, and its long grey hallways echo. At least that’s what Curly thinks, unable to evade the sound of Anya’s crying and begging even as visualized as it is. He wonders if she ever made a sound when Jimmy raped her. It haunts him. His inadequacy haunts him. 

Curly could have done something, but he didn’t, and that will be one regret he takes to his grave once he perishes, and he hopes it is soon. Five months of dwindling supplies and slowly depleting oxygen levels isn’t a hell he wishes on anyone. 

His selfishness disgusts him.

“Are you in pain?” Anya hesitantly asks. He doesn’t look at her, but he imagines her eyes darting to the supply of oxycodone that have in stock.

Yes. He’s in pain, with the feeling of fire ants crawling all over his body, singeing his nerves. What kind of question is that? 

Curly feels the air displacement by his bed and hears the rattle of the medication bottle. Anya twists off the lid and pours the pills out in a shaky hand as she looks over to him. It has become a task that Curly doesn’t look forward to, gloved fingers in his mouth, too foreign from someone too familiar. Anya’s hands always tremble when she coaxes the oxycodone down his throat like an owner force feeding their dog pills. Anya reassured that it is necessary, especially with how Curly has started to spit them out each time she has given him his medication.

The rattling doesn’t stop, not until Anya heavily sits the pill bottle back on the counter. She returns to Curly who bites his own teeth. 

“Captain…” Anya presses. He can feel the tremors in her hand as she takes his jaw. “This is the least you can do after everything.”

She holds back an “after everything you’ve done to us.” Anya is just too merciful, too soft-skinned for sincerity. Curly wishes that Anya, of all people, wouldn’t spare him such undue thoughtfulness.

Curly pulls a face and opens his mouth with Anya pushing her fingers in, pill to the back of the throat as her other hand massages his esophagus until he swallows, the intrusion enough to make him gag. Swallowing the pill is worse. He can feel it sliding down and sticking on the way, an imagined lump in his throat.

Anya withdraws her fingers and removes the gloves, rubber snapping off sweaty palms as Curly lays there, chest rising and falling heavily. That pill is still stuck in his throat, an intrusive and ever present guilt that promises to choke him. He will have to live with that pill in his throat for as long as he is alive.

Anya’s silence is resounding. They exist together wordlessly as she cups her dirty gloves in her hands, staring at her feet. Curly closes his eye just so he doesn’t have to stare at the grey metal ceiling for another second, rather to exist in his own head than in the med bay devoid of color and light aside from the false blue sky backdrop projection screen.

He misses home, misses his family, and misses the time where he could pretend to be useful. Being a captain wasn’t so bad, theoretically, and now the title is just a bitter reminder of Curly’s failure. And they all– Swansea, Daisuke, and Anya– remind him that he failed when Jimmy hasn’t. Reliable as always Jimmy.

It’s a wonder he hasn’t been around.

Anya crosses the length of the med bay and closes the door, latch sliding into place, that silence becoming ever more deceptive. She has something to say. Curly can feel it, the way she presses on with baited breath, words better spoken without an accidental audience. Quiet things, things to only be shared between her and Curly.

She lets out an unsteady breath, eyes closing briefly then opening as she throws the gloves away in the waste bin by his bed. It is overflowing, needing to be changed soon.

“I don’t think I can forgive you,” Anya says mutedly. Curly doesn’t open his eye, doesn’t make a face.

He barely moves, that shame paralyzing him as he listens.

“At least not yet. I need to convince myself that our worst moments do not make us monsters, but I see you as a monster. You doomed all of us.” Every word that comes out of Anya is improvisational raw emotion. Her voice cracks when she speaks. “Why? Why did you do it?”

Curly doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t remember how to speak, his mouth moving but in rehearsal, the words jumbled in his head, not sure if the truth will suffice. After all, even if Jimmy deployed the sinister blow, wasn’t Curly the one pulling the strings all along? Wasn’t he the one who put his blind trust in Jimmy?

“Just. Don’t answer, please,” Anya mutters. “I need time to process this. Nothing you can say will help, and you’re still recovering. I’m sorry, excuse me."

Anya turns away from Curly, struggling with the latch. She throws the door open, her heavy footsteps thudding the hall as she leaves him alone, just as he left her alone before the crash.

He never wanted to hurt her. God, he never wanted to hurt her. Anya, who came to Curly for safety only to be let down as he walked back to Jimmy even if there was little he could do, hands tied, a rock stuck in a hard place. 

It isn’t fair. None of this is fair, and Curly can only process how unfair it all is just like a petulant 
child, powerless in his own right, and even more powerless now than ever before.

His emotions spill over as he bites back a wounded sob. 

–

“Yeah, so we are going to take that mattress out of Med Bay and stick it over by Polle.” Jimmy’s voice is recognizable coming from down the hall. Curly hears his footsteps, a thumping rhythm along the belly of the ship along with Daisuke’s stride and his sneaker squeaks.

“Only if Anya says it’s okay,” Daisuke comments. “Are you absolutely sure she said it’s okay? She never changes her mind easily.”

Even if Daisuke was added at the last minute to their soon to be grave, he is dependable and considerate. It brings a smile to Curly’s face although brief. He tries to sit up, but the drugs hold him down like a weighted blanket, brain too fuzzy, body too unresponsive. Sluggish.

Curly listens as they enter the med bay, sure that Jimmy’s eyes are on him. They’re always on him. Before, Curly would have stopped Jimmy, regarded him with scrutiny, tightened that leash.

Jimmy, a once well behaved (or as well behaved for his standards) mutt, has snapped the leash, now running wild and unruly. Curly’s body doesn’t respond in the way he wants it to. He tries to speak but only something clipped and whispered comes out.

Anya says it is because his larynx is inflamed but healing. Scabs deep within his throat from where he huffed in the cockpit’s furnace.

“She changed her mind. Said that she feels more comfortable sleeping out there than in here with Curly after he…” Jimmy trails off, forcing himself to keep his voice even. 

It has always been hard to read Jimmy. Curly learned through his own errors of being Jimmy’s friend that it is because he wants to save face, unable to take responsibility for his actions, lying to Daisuke with such ease that it’s commonplace. Natural, just as a predator locks onto its prey. The worst part about it is that Curly can eventually expose the truth, and he could have before his voice was temporarily robbed. Something prevents him.

After all that has happened, Curly still wants to protect Jimmy. After all that has happened, he still wants to be Jimmy’s friend. Our worst moments do not make us monsters. It is nauseating.

Curly quietly accepts that he is a despicable person for wanting to see Jimmy as he was before the crash, before he assaulted Anya only because it is easier to. Easy and self-centered.

“Hey, man. You don’t have to say it. I get it. I know it’s hard for you to process because you were his best bro and all,” Daisuke says so earnestly, so straightforwardly bought into Jimmy’s deception. He’s only nineteen and so trusting it makes Curly sick that he can only listen to them without a voice, without a drive to defend himself or to out Jimmy for the monster he truly is.

“... Thanks,” Jimmy says thickly. “It is pretty hard to process. I sometimes can’t sleep at night because I think I should have been there for him more as he was for me. I had no idea that he was going to– that he was planning to bring us all down with him.” 

Jimmy speaks as if Curly isn’t there, each word carefully chosen, knowing that he can hear them. He wants to scream, but he can’t. He wants to launch himself off the bed and beat Jimmy’s face in but he can’t, imprisoned by his own powerlessness.

That impotent rage snakes around Curly and chokes him, unbridled hostility simmering below the surface like a pot ready to boil over but doesn’t. He sees red, and then black, teeth chewing at the scabs in his mouth, turning his cheek into a bloody paste as his hand tightens into a fist, knuckles white and peeling skin cracking.

“I know I said what I said because I wasn’t thinking clearly,” Daisuke says. “Sorry, Captain. I didn’t… I didn’t mean to talk about it. Should have not.” He is apologetic, and it pisses Curly off even more. The damage is done. 

He’s sick of his company. He wants to be left alone.

He wants Jimmy to leave him alone.

They can all believe Jimmy’s lies if only it means that Curly can waste away in peace, only except Anya will not let him. Anya is the only person on this ship that has compassion for Curly, and even then, she resents him. He earned it.

“Go.” Is all Curly manages. It comes out as a puff of air, all the bite lost in his feebleness. He’s impatient and wishes his throat worked properly, that his recovery is swift. 

It will take years to return to a sense of normalcy, and Curly doesn’t have that long. None of them do, not with death guaranteed within five months if they’re never found.

Jimmy doesn’t say anything, which is surprising. He and Daisuke pick the mattress up and carry it out of the med bay. There will be a later with him because that’s Jimmy. Jimmy knows exactly what to do and what to say to kick Curly while he’s down, and to keep kicking until he rolls over, belly up. 

And Curly accepts it. He always has, even since he and Jimmy were kids. Curly, Jimmy’s punching bag, therapist, and terrible, selfish friend who always looks down at him. The anger settles slowly into immobilizing humiliation that festers beneath the skin, emotions that Curly has never processed fully until now.

The horror of it all is that while Jimmy is walking, Curly will never witness the end of it.

–

Daisuke and Jimmy cart the mattress out of the med bay and sit it down by the Polle mascot as planned.

Polle’s jingle chimes to life, the classic “Polle says:” prompt following a “Are you working hard or hardly working? Heeheehee.” It’s grating to the ears, and all the more reason for Jimmy to shove his foot through the Polle mascot.

Swansea enters into the lobby from the other door directly across from the table, head held high, axe in his hand like he’s self-important. He has been parading around the ship with that axe since Curly gave it to him, and after Jimmy used it to chop Curly’s arm off. Gore still covers the blade, blood spattered hilt and all. Jimmy’s eyes narrow.

“Are you going to clean that or not?” He dusts his hands off together as Daisuke stands up straight.

Swansea holds the axe in front of his nose and then shrugs. “Didn’t think to. Why? A little blood won’t hurt the axe. It’s still got use in it.” The answer doesn’t sit right with Jimmy, hostilities brewing under the surface. 

Daisuke backs away and bumps into the Polle mascot, that fucking ding ding dong popping. Another fucking “Polle says:” prompt following a fucking “I rise above negative feelings and thoughts. I love who I’m becoming, how about you?”

Jimmy turns on heel and sends his foot flying to its head, knocking the mascot onto the ground. He stomps its stomach in, cueing more mindless catchphrases until the voice box within clips with a whine, voice becoming distorted and warped until it ceases to exist altogether.

Swansea cackles the entire time as Jimmy assaults the mascot, doubled over, hands on his knees as Daisuke watches in horror. Jimmy stands up straight and kicks it once more for good measure, panting. He slicks the hair out of his face with Swansea standing up, drying a tear from his eye with his thumb.

“Holy fuckin’ shit. Talk about anger issues. Jimbob, I think it’s dead. You can stop kicking it! Have mercy on the poor, pitiful Polle!” Swansea barks, still trembling with the aftermath of laughter. 

Daisuke, horrified, pulls his face into a smile although too nervous to be genuine. He rubs the back of his neck as Jimmy jerks his head towards him before taking a breath.

“At least we don’t have to listen to that shit anymore. You’re welcome.”

Daisuke’s eyes anxiously look over to Swansea for support only to find it useless. He chuckles and swallows. “Didn’t know you had such a mean kick. Remind me never to piss you off.”

Swansea, laughter all but having died completely, straightens up, his gore covered axe now propped against his shoulder. He’s posturing. It’s obvious that he is establishing dominance now that he’s no longer foolishly laughing at Jimmy’s vicious attack on Polle.

He thinks of aiming that kick at Swansea next if he doesn’t clean the axe.

Curly’s blood on that axe, the blood that Jimmy helped shed, blood that Swansea dares to touch and parade around like a glorified prize. Something evil and possessive wells up inside Jimmy.

“Wash the axe.” It isn’t a request. “Have some decency and wash Curly’s blood off the axe.” Jimmy’s voice is cold and grave, not allowing any room for argument. If Swansea wishes to argue, then he can.

Jimmy braces himself for another assault, sizing Swansea up who pulls a face, ready for retaliation.

Daisuke, alert to the danger, steps in between them. He spins on his heel to face Swansea who deflates some. He only lets his guard down when it comes to that kid. The way his eyes soften is almost sickening. Jimmy thinks there might be something between them, something much more intimate than what meets the eye. He’s overheard their conversations in the utility room before the crash. Fat old pervert.

However, it doesn’t really concern Jimmy who Swansea chooses to fuck, be it a barely legal teen or someone just as ugly and old as he is. 

“Boss, I think it’s– well, nah. It’s really weird to walk around with the utility axe with blood on it.” Daisuke pacifies Swansea whose hard expression tempers.

“I never got around to it because our water supply is a precious resource. Five months of water, even shorter time of oxygen. But fine, I’ll waste our dwindling supplies and clean the axe. I recognize what it looks like. Looks bad. I just figured that if I didn’t have it around the captain or that sorry nurse we have, it wouldn’t’ve been an issue. But clearly it is. Don’t need to tell me twice.” Swansea cuts his eyes at Jimmy, gaze lingering for longer than necessary.

Jimmy’s face pulls into a scowl, his jaw tense. 

Swansea narrows his eyes and turns to leave, holding  the axe at his side. Daisuke’s chest depresses with an exhale. He turns his head towards Jimmy.

“Can you like, at least try to… I mean to say is that, like sorry. I am just really tired… I’m tired of everything. We don’t need to be at each other’s throats, yeah? I’m not saying you should apologize, though that would be poggers if you did– I mean, that would be really cool if you did. But come on, man.” Daisuke says his piece, stumbling upon his words as he does so.

Jimmy doesn’t budge. He has no reason to apologize to Swansea nor does he have any reason to change his behavior. Nothing he did was out of the way, or wrong for that matter. Pointing out the obvious isn’t a crime, nor is being honest. Jimmy wrinkles his nose.

Daisuke really is an idiot. A stupid, spoiled kid who can’t understand that sometimes adult men fight, but it seems he will do anything for Swansea.

Just as Jimmy will do anything for Curly.

The only difference is that Curly and Jimmy are childhood friends around the same age bracket, and Swansea is getting his chode sucked by someone thirty-three years his junior. That’s what Jimmy assumes, and it’s blatantly obvious. 

“Sure, I’ll make peace.” Jimmy lies. He has become incredibly good at lying these past few weeks. “Make sure you have a chat with your boss, too. We can reach a middle ground that way.”

“D’you really mean it?” Daisuke’s eyes are hopeful, recklessly placing complete trust into Jimmy’s words like an idiot.

Peace can be had if Swansea backs off first. Peace can be had if Jimmy convinces Swansea that Curly crashed the ship, but that isn’t likely to happen any time soon, not with him on guard, and especially not when he’s projecting his own shortcomings onto Jimmy.

“Yeah, I mean it.” Jimmy lies again.

“Oh! Thanks. Well, see ya around? I have work to do.” Daisuke leaves on that note, following Swansea into the hallway he disappeared in.

Jimmy makes a mental note to keep an eye on the kid, and to keep a closer eye on Swansea. 

“He was unnecessarily… you know. Jimmy was excessively violent.” Daisuke speaks to Swansea from the lounge, his head leaning back against the couch cushions. Jimmy stops short of entering, listening to their conversation, back pressing against the cold metal of the wall. He hears the sink, and the clink of a spoon in a coffee mug. Swansea clears his throat and pulls the chair out from under the table, the feet scraping against the floor. 

“He fer sure gave that overpriced stuffed mascot a good beating,” Swansea comments over his coffee. 

Jimmy’s hand balls into a fist by his side, knuckles digging back against the wall. He can interrupt their conversation, but he stays rooted to the spot, listening in as his jaw sets– an unnecessary torment. Never has Jimmy liked others discussing him behind his back. He feels like a child again, listening through the door as his mother and father berate him as if he weren’t there, as if he were insignificant enough for their direct scorn. It’s like that now, except nothing Daisuke or Swansea was saying is out of bounds, just a cruel, objective fact. Neither of them seem to consider the walls on the ship echo, and conversations carry. Jimmy imagines picking Daisuke’s heart out with a kitchen fork for even daring to open his mouth.

It could be easy, too. All they have to do is be alone together, and there are plenty of opportunities even if space is of limited privacy. Jimmy shakes his head and snuffs the thought out as soon as it forms. He’s being petulant. 

He isn’t a child anymore. They’re talking about how violent he was? So what.

So fucking what. Jimmy knows he isn’t violent. He knows he isn’t a monster, and that Daisuke is too stupid and too sensitive. 

Of course he wouldn’t understand, unable to place himself in Jimmy’s shoes because he lives off in his own little bubble. It’s aggravating. Jimmy knows that Daisuke generally means well, even if he should keep his mouth shut. Neither he nor Swansea realize that Jimmy is lurking nearby so he stays put, ears straining for another glimpse of conversation. Daisuke sighs. 

“It was mad weird, and scary even. Spooky. I guess I’m just not used to such behavior from him.” Daisuke turns to face Swansea whose arms are crossed over his chest, head facing the ceiling. He looks tired; they’re all tired. 

Jimmy remembers how back in the cockpit, his heart was hammering and ears were rushing when he turned the ship towards the object. He remembers the mechanics of his actions, and how robotic they were despite him not really being there to witness it. It all happened so fast, a deliberate attempt to end his and the other lives. He remembers the regret he felt when he entered the hall, chased by a wailing, distorted monster. Curly found him with his head in his hands, unresponsive, and rushed back to fix shit. To cover for Jimmy just as he has always done. 

Curly’s leg is visible in the med bay, healing but still covered in burns that have started to scar over, leaving patchy pink, a stark contrast to his pale skin. Jimmy walks over, a slow shuffle, feet dragging against the diamond patterned floor of the ship, shoes scuffing loudly. Curly draws his leg back. 

Jimmy pushes the door open with Anya nowhere in sight. Curly, visibly agitated, writhes on his bed. He is noticeably more gaunt, cheekbones sunken in, the fine muscle definition whittling away in an atrophic state. Jimmy pulls up a stool by his bedside, sitting backwards in it, arms resting over one another on the back. 

Curly coughs weakly and turns his head to Jimmy, face contorting. It must hurt. He hopes it fucking hurts.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Jimmy cocks his head at him. “You know what you are. You know what you’ve done.” Curly may as well have been the one to steer the ship wayward and the one to disable autopilot. Jimmy finds it easy to lie, especially to him, picking and choosing which words to say. It’s hilarious how heavily they fall on Curly’s burned shoulders. He is just a small, bandaged thing on his cot, kept alive by whatever source of will he has and a saline drip. It’s a shame he didn’t die on impact, but then Jimmy wouldn’t have someone to direct the blame upon. 

He wouldn’t have someone to talk to, someone he can bare his soul out for. Curly definitely hates Jimmy now, their past long discussions all no longer mattering; the times where Curly had crashed on Jimmy’s couch after a fight with his now ex-girlfriend just a long past dream where they chain smoke and got drunk on Jimmy’s front porch. Their childhood, coexisting together as complete opposites, is just a bittersweet memory where Jimmy had always loitered in Curly’s shadow. Now he’s at the highest rung of this ladder with Curly’s feet in cement, looking up, only for it not to matter in the end. They’re all going to die here, eventually, if no miracle comes. If they’re not discovered within the next few months. 

“I’ll be the villain of your narrative.” Curly’s voice is a breath above a whisper, his larynx shot as the tissue pieces itself back together in its slow healing process. He’s expressive, more expressive than he has ever been, emotions etched deeply in his face. It makes Jimmy’s heart curl, the familiar feeling of warmness when Curly gives into his whims. He still wants to shield Jimmy even if it is at his own expense.

Jimmy expected Curly to resist, to deny any blame. 

It’s touching that he doesn’t. Jimmy can’t help when his lips curve, eyes lying almost dotingly on Curly. 

“You know all of this is your fault. Good thing you do.” Jimmy addresses him softly like a lover on his sick bed, words like silk draped over a razor. “I’ll take care of everything since you can’t anymore. Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.” 

Curly only presses his lips into a line, whatever is left of his lips. His chest rises and falls as he takes a shaky sigh, closing the remainder of his eyelid, a tear streaking down his ruined face. He doesn’t say anything else, staying silent out of necessity or because it hurts, or both. Jimmy doesn’t mind his silence; he watches him regardless, just a bundle of bandages, broken in ways that Jimmy has caused. 

Jimmy’s stomach does a flip. He destroyed Curly, broke him like a toy, and now he’s more reliant on Anya than ever. 

Reliant on Anya. He should rely on Jimmy– Jimmy who is his best friend. They’ve always been together, practically conjoined at the hip, and it pisses him off that Anya is slowly replacing Jimmy as an ever present piece in Curly’s life. 

Jimmy’s eyes land on the pills on the table. The med bay’s door locks. He can show Curly that he will forever be with him, and that no one else can replace him. 

Footsteps echo from the hallway, dragging Jimmy away from his thoughts. 

Anya approaches from behind Jimmy, entering the med bay, clasping her hands in front of her. He turns around, quirking an eyebrow as he crosses his arms, head cocked. She draws her lips into a line, avoiding Jimmy’s gaze, eyes fixated at a spot on the floor, her lips parting. Anya tears her eyes up at Jimmy, brow furrowing, unmasking her revulsion and fear. 

“Why did you move my mattress?” Anya asks pointedly, not bothering to hide the accusation in her tone. 

Like Jimmy needs a reason for the things he does.  Like she is worthy of a reason. 

“Don’t worry about it.” Jimmy's eyes cut over to Curly. “To give him privacy. Obviously. Men heal better when they’re not worried over a woman.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Anya’s hands ball into fists, lips pulling into a thin line. She doesn’t comment, however. She doesn’t argue back even if her eyes narrow briefly in her passive resentment. 

Anya brushes past Jimmy, her back facing him as she pulls out a thermometer from her pocket and tilts Curly’s head up. 

Annoyance courses through Jimmy like a vicious flame. He grits his teeth as he watches her ministrations, how Curly willingly opens his mouth for her while she places the thermometer under his tongue. 

“What’s all that for?” Jimmy questions scathingly. Anya’s shoulders tense but she doesn’t turn her head. 

“To check for a fever. The warning sign of an infection,” Anya answers mutedly. “There isn’t much else I can do… I’m sorry.” 

Jimmy watches her intensely with how her arms and back tremble. The thermometer beeps repeatedly as Anya pulls it out. 

“Ninety-eight-point-six. No fever at least, Captain.” She sighs, though not relieved. Jimmy’s own eyes narrow at her out of suspicion. Anya is transparent in her own feelings, and only someone as dangerously astute as Jimmy can read her like an open book. 

She is lucky that she is Tulpar's nurse and the only one who is most equipped to handle Curly’s recovery. 

“Wear your title like a badge of honor, Anya,” Jimmy says. He weaponizes his mockery with ease. “Because a subpar nurse is all you’ll ever be.” 

Anya whips around as she takes a breath, eyes searching Jimmy’s face, their gazes locking in mutual dislike. Everything she wants to say stays hidden within her own thoughts, a warring silence. If looks can kill, Jimmy would have dropped dead. 

But he isn’t afraid of Anya. Anya will do nothing to him as he knows– as they both know. Her spirit is something he can tame and silence, but not here. Not with an audience even if Curly is useless. He doesn’t want to ruin his reputation further.

Jimmy can exist with Anya’s animosity for now for Curly’s sake, even if he has done nothing to Anya except tell the truth and nothing but the truth. It isn’t his fault that Anya is a poor candidate for nursing. It isn’t his fault that Pony Express cuts corners. 

He rubs the back of his head, scuffing his sole along the floor. 

“… Sorry,” Jimmy lies. “I’m stressed. I say shitty things when I am. You don’t deserve to deal with that.” He doesn’t mean his apology, but if it means saving face then so be it.

Anya wrinkles her nose before assuming a passive expression. “I wish you just wouldn’t. But… I’m used to it.” She turns back around to face Curly. “Can you get Swansea? We’re going to try to get Captain to sit up and stand.”

Jimmy rolls his eyes. “Sure thing. Better for him to get out of bed instead of rotting there, muscles wasting away. I’ll get him. I’ll handle it.” 

Without another word, Jimmy leaves the med bay.