rhodes (ireland) wrote in warrantlogs, @ 2015-11-12 10:51:00 |
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Entry tags: | castor vance, ireland rhodes |
Who: Castor & Ireland
What: Secrets.
Where: B52 captain's room!
When: C-day after this.
Rating: F for feels.
The solid crash of the vase against the wall no doubt echoed throughout the ghost-cold halls of the B52. The vase itself hadn't been too important — it had been a passing gift after a bounty that he couldn't bring himself to throw away but not meaningful enough to fill with anything other than random keycards, keys and random bits and pieces, all of which clattered with the clay. Unsurprisingly, Castor made no effort toward cleaning it up. That had been his anger slamming into the wall of his room, erupting into shards that were sharp but broken and useless nonetheless. The world weariness was what was crippling, and it took him down onto the bed, elbows to his knees and forehead to the back of one hand. He didn't care who had heard, as long as it hadn't been Star, who would with any luck keep her distance over the next two days. Unfortunately, the ship was not entirely devoid of life as Ireland had returned for a briefly to pick up a few things he intended to leave with his parents. Residence in Ganymede had perks like that, and there was no need to keep his side cluttered with items that obstructed his work. Sentimental trinkets already took precedence in drawers and shelves. And no one would avoid investigating the crack that reverberated along the halls; it was, in Ireland's opinion, protocol to make sure everything was in order. That it had originated from the captain's room was cause for some alarm and he wished he had something other than his fists at the moment. Heart hammering, he did not knock on the door(manners being of secondary priority). Ireland was unprepared(but not entirely) for this scene; the glass showering the floor of the bedroom and Castor — well. For as long as the navigator had known his captain, there had been chinks in the carefully crafted armour, but never had his fingers prodded those; privacy and distance respected. Someone who was a better person, who would understand the need for Castor's solitude would have turned and left. Forgotten what they saw. His goodness did not extend that far, (grey walls, bare floor)padding across and shutting the door firmly behind. An attack was considered, how to press his fingers and words to sooth? Ireland took the open distraction, and closed the distance to crouch in front of Castor. Not touching. Without having to look, his captain already knew who it was. He didn't need a voice or touch to recognize Ireland's presence; it brought with the man a certain peace, the calm in a storm — his storm. But upon Ireland coming in close, Castor couldn't find the words to say. That automatic I'm fine defense mechanism that normally kicked in about now refused to budge, and for the first time in a while, he was at a complete loss for speech. The only thing he could do was lift his gaze and meet blue eyes, if only to communicate that. Shutting down the urge to ask all sorts of questions he normally would ask of others, Ireland met Castor's eyes before giving an imperceptible nod of understanding. Something in the depths of his captain's facade had been violently jolted, enough to create a wound that bled(was bleeding— Ireland corrected his assesssment). "You're not fine, I know." Ireland began softly, "You will be soon, I know that too." He placed a hand on the bed to balance himself more comfortably. "Going to stay here if you want to talk." Or needed a hug, but he was not going to chance that sort of action just yet. Slowly wading the waters, trying to measure what he knew of Castor, and reconciling it to this moment of vulnerability. (Soft inner lining that was easily torn). And Castor had known vulnerability, had (unintentionally) shown it to the other man countless times before, but this was different. This was the shell already gone and peeled away, discarded off to the side without an idea as to how to build it back up again. If anything, all that was left underneath was Markus Drake, who had died on paper back on Europa but thrived beneath the hardened outside that was Castor Vance. He swallowed a shuddering breath, taking advantage of Ireland's patience for another twenty seconds of silence, when at last words came. "My brother," (sand in his mouth all over again, his disappointment sharp and rancid) "has been piloting the Kamikaze since spring grad." And I didn't know. At least you know where he is, that's good right? Ireland wanted to reply with nonchalance, but it was not a question of whereabouts here; something else, sibling fight? Certainly concern, RAC work was not the safest career choice. Deeper still was the knowledge of Castor having a brother, his captain had never mentioned that. "Kamikaze is a good ship, solid captain." One hand came to touch Castor's elbow, carefully tugging at the inside(careful, so careful not to tear further at the wound). "But that's not the real issue, is it?" The prompt was gentle; a myriad of questions were jousting for attention, but Ireland reigned them in. Personal curiosity had no place in this moment, frail as it was, instead focused back on Castor and what he needed. It wasn't. There was no doubt that Bristol would watch over her crew, and the ship itself wasn't made of glass, but that wasn't the point. Letting his family down was the point. Not stopping Nik from joining the RAC, from leaving their mother alone was the point. Unable to help himself, he breathed an incredulous laugh, a ridiculous mania crackling in his throat. Ireland's eyebrows went up slightly before he regained a neutral expression. If his brother was hurt, or if he died, it would be his fault, however had he voiced those Ireland would have vehemently disagreed: people made their own choices, after all. As softly as he could, the navigator reached towards the inside, fingers trailing along(he sought the pressure points, the edges he might use to sooth). Once he was certain of his course of action, Ireland moved: quick but nonthreatening to Castor's side, looping one arm to pull him into a hug. "I'm listening. Just." Well, if Cas needed to laugh himself hoarse, or scream or word vomit: Ireland would patiently stay and listen. He overrode his concern, not allowing that to take hold of his actions; concern was all well, and good but it wouldn't do to let it spill everywhere. There was no fight, no resistance. The heel of one hand was placed against Ireland's closest knee for balance, and if not for that arm, sliding down to the floor was a real possibility; the physical anchor was necessary. He shelved away any residual laughter, waiting for the mania to pass. Zane Terzo, Kamikaze pilot. Terzo. Third. Elijah— Five, four, three, two, one. Breathe. "He's not supposed to be here," Castor said, quietly. "It had to be just me." Whatever broken bones or wounds came his way, however much blood stained his hands, it had once been for a purpose. Now it had been for nothing. And the words confirmed some of Ireland's growing suspicions about the captain of B52; softly pressing back to hold him, as if the physical gesture could scoop up Markus Drake and tuck him back inside Castor Vance. "Carrying all that weight is difficult." Words carefully chosen, not you can't do it, because Ireland thought Cas could, just that it was not all that healthy to do so. "Your family, the ship, the crew." He thought of his own brother, perhaps working for Santa Muerte: no escape for him now from her. Blue met blue, making sure that Castor would hear the words clearly. "Choices people make are not on you, regardless of what the person says. Ultimately the decision is theirs, you can't hold yourself responsible for it." His captain's gaze wavered, guilt flickering there. "Shouldn't I?" Switching the hold of his hands, both holding Castor's firmly in place so that he could not look away and coil back inside. Not until the words had sunk in(perhaps only partially, but once an idea settled in, it would be easier to summon in future). "No, you shouldn't. Worry about him, ask if you can help him — that you can do, but you cannot take responsibility for the outcome." Ireland sought the words, hoped the momentary slip of his fingers would convey the weight of them. He was a realist though, the heavy responsibility his captain had chosen would not dissipate with a few suggestions. Ireland did, however, understand that the armour needed to be not just mended but changed. Holding it together like Castor was was doing more damage than good. That Ireland could try to help with. "We all make our own choices, and we have to live with the consequences of them but your brother's choice and the consequence of that is not your responsibility. Do you understand that, Cas?" Beneath that grip, that hand started to curl, fingers pressing in deep. In a sense, he understood. Part of him did. The rest didn't know how to keep everything else inside where it was safer, and the words spilled, unprepared. "He has to live with the consequences of mine," he admitted, the undertone sharp. Not angry — disappointed. Ireland wanted to ask what those were, pressed down on his tongue. "He's here because of me. Whatever happens is on me, Ireland." And Castor would've shouldered any burden of that in order to keep them safe. Whatever it took. The navigator was afraid it would take too much until there was only a hollow shell filled with bitterness, he wanted to shake the other until the thoughts left; he couldn't do that, wouldn't have worked. "Why do you say that he's here because of you? Tell me, won't judge." You know that. It hadn't mattered that Nik had said as much, in those words. It mattered that he knew the weight he'd left with him, that responsibility of taking care of their mother when Nik was too young to really know what that meant, despite being fourteen himself when he'd upheaved everything they knew. That he'd taken away their life on Europa and denied him that necessary father figure, that he'd needed to stay and be one to his brother but responsibility had called first, requiring him to provide while they couldn't. He opened his mouth once, twice. Tried again. "I can't." Strained words. But I wish I could. "He's my responsibility." A tug to pull himself away, to close back in, Ireland's hold tightened, unwilling to let him retreat just yet. "All of you are, wherever that puts me." Whatever happened, it was his duty to them. "I understand, but responsibility only goes so far. Do you follow? Everyone here will make choices for which they are responsible for. So will your brother." And who will be responsible for you?. Well, Ireland knew that answer. His fingers relaxed, move to Castor's shoulders: let me help you. Though he doubted that Castor would, he'd have to push far enough in there to make room. He had already made progress for the moment; others would've been met with hostility, had they come this far. His captain could only tense, at the words rather than the touch, though there was no retreat to follow, only averted eyes. "And when those choices might end with me on our mother's doorstep? With his name on the plaque at HQ?" The tension disappeared abruptly, his weight against the other man's hands; Ireland adjusted it and shifted a little closer. "That falls to me, and only me." I won't do it again. I can't do it again. And what if it is the other way around? The thought materialized with apprehension at the back of his mind and it was that that pushed Ireland forward, encompassing Castor in a hug. "It won't, and even if it does, you got me. Maybe can't take the responsibility from your shoulders, but." Paused, struggled trying to keep his voice levelled, "Got your back, whatever happens." And he was certain that the crew would've voiced similar sentiments. That knowledge was no news, not really, but Castor wasn't sure how to voice his appreciation of that save for a tentative hand on Ireland's spine, nose to shoulder. This felt more like the hug he'd owed his brother, the one he couldn't (wasn't willing to, not in public) give. Words had never been his strength when actions had always been more efficient; they seemed to get the point across better. He twisted his fingers into his navigator's shirt, holding on a little tighter with the other arm without realizing; Ireland shifted to accommodate Cas against him. Hand pressed against shoulder blades, silence fell but it was not uncomfortable. Maybe actions were better in this case, and this secret Ireland would keep, tucked away with all the others he held. Without needing to ask, Castor knew he would. "I won't let you be a name on a plaque either," he mumbled into that shoulder, stubbornly remaining where he was so he didn't have to look Ireland in the eye as he said it, sincere though it was. The embarrassment over being this openly raw was rapidly catching up to him. While something between the ribs ached for the navigator; he remembered something like this all too well, tucked his nose against Castor's hair for a brief moment: an apology that had no place here. Ireland would do his best not to end up six-feet under, not for himself but in order to avoid adding onto Castor's guilt. He wanted to reassure the captain that such an end happened sometimes, and if it was Ireland then it was just how Lady Fate(Santa Muerte) bestowed her gift. "I know." |