bat winged man eating lion (mortale) wrote in warrantlogs, @ 2016-01-13 14:34:00 |
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Entry tags: | castor vance, ireland rhodes |
i will hold them tight and sound the sirens.
WHO: Castor Vance & Ireland Rhodes
WHAT: Guess who hates Europa? This guy.
WHEN: Sometime on the 9th/10th, before leaving for Ganymede
WHERE: Europa, aboard the B52
WARNINGS: idk darkish themes, but ends on a lighter note
The result hadn't been expected, but not a real disappointment either: another crew had taken the win, and all for the better, because it still meant leaving Europa before they began to outlive their stay. Unless Kirby or Lux expressed the desire to remain, unless something else arose, unless— Castor pressed both hands into the kitchen cupboards, the stifling reality (paranoia) of what could be scratching in the back of his mind and weighing heavy. He had yet to reconnect with the rest of the crew after the initial check in, and would, but his focus had been shifted from the moment they landed on the icy colony outskirts, and all his thoughts could circle around was a name. He exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in precisely at the moment Ireland was arriving. Enough of a shift in his frame to make the tension noticeable; an unspoken invitation. The distance wasn't much(it had stopped being that) and Ireland is clearing his throat, moving to knock his shoulder against Castor's. "Hey, Cas." Carefully enunciation of the nickname, "you look thoughtful." But he didn't ask if things were fine, they weren't. Those hands slipped down to the countertop and rested there awkwardly, seeming to want to do something. There were no words as Castor adjusted his position, shoulders not yet unwinding but expression softening, tailbone right into the edge of the counter. Ireland adjusted, an unspoken shield — metal and skin. He swallowed the next sigh. "If you have any advice on how to stop thinking, I'm all ears." Asking would be easy, but Ireland never had. Not unless it was imperative to do so, wrapping the questions in cotton to soften them as they fell. "Exercise, but not right now. Meditation, but that I can't see you doing. Shower, maybe. Trying to get some rest, I can keep an eye on things." An overused phrase, but familiar in the comfortable routine it brought. "Can't right now." Tiredly. A light shift had their shoulders brushing, briefly. "I need to check on the crew and the engines before we take off." What if the engines stalled and kept them on Europa? Castor couldn't — wouldn't — stay longer on the moon than necessary. "Hey." One hand found its way along Castor's neck, fingers at the base of his skull(that treacherous thumb pressed firmly), that was much simpler than speaking. "There is no sense in pushing yourself too hard. We lost this one but next time." Because he lacked the knowledge of Europa and its significance in Castor's world, for him it was nothing more than another place(one they rarely visited but a realisation that had not yet come). A thick silence fell, settling in the cracks between. There was something to say, here, but they were unnecessary things, things that could wait if, and when, Castor chose to admit them later. He listened to their mismatched breaths, unconsciously waiting to sync them before he managed to find new words. "You ever get those stitches out?" He lifted the shirt slightly where the wound had once been a bright angry slash, its colour now deep purple with the skin neatly sealed. A scar on its way. "Yeah, a few days ago." The memory of the injury caused him a quick brush with melancholy, an invited guest to the moment and Ireland covered it once more. "Should be no problem next bounty." "Says you," his captain queried, concern only dashed with amusement, "or says Grace?" He trusted Ireland to be able to make that judgement, but he wasn't the medic who had been tending to him for three weeks. "Won't step out until she gives me the all clear." To do so would be a professional discourtesy. Unless there was an emergency or some extraordinary circumstance, then he figured it would be fine. And if he thought Castor was shifting topics away from the issue at hand, well. Ireland was patient, he could wait. So was Castor himself, at least in times like these when the needs of others outweighed his own, as he often believed they did. He moved once again, to face this time, hand flat on the counter. "You can't do that anymore, Ireland." Blue eyes sought him out, holding in place. "You don't have to include me or anyone in your decisions when it's about your family. I won't ask you to do that." The sharp inhale— "All I'll ask you to remember is that people need you. We need you." I need you. Here came the tense sigh. "You're not replaceable, alright?" "Neither are you." A few months ago he would've clapped Castor on the shoulder and reassured him, repeated the same words back. This time he dropped his forehead against Castor's, shutting his eyes. "You took me to meet your mother, you know about my brother. Of all people here," Except Dix, but that was different, "you can ask me and of me whatever you want." Not because he was captain, "You are more than my captain now." That realization burned startlingly hot between Castor's lungs, twisting in his ribcage. He was very suddenly unaware of what to do, what to say, and in that floundering one hand came up to settle over his navigator's heart. Fingers curling, nearly fisting the material there. Another came to secure that hold. All of his secrets flooded up to the surface and settled awkwardly in his throat. He wanted to be able to tell Ireland everything that had been locked away, admitted in pieces to only Grace, Hector and Star, but there was one person keeping him from it: a shadow in the back of his mind. I know you can do it, Grace had said. But he couldn't, not this. That hold tightened just slightly. "Ireland," he started, slowly. "The reason that I became Castor was because of what used to be here. All of my ghosts are here, in Europa. And I don't know how to get away from them, so if that ghost comes for me…" His heart hammered. "You have to take care of the B52. Because I don't know what tomorrow is, or what's there, and it— fucking scares me." How did Castor manage to be more open than Ireland? "I will, don't worry about that." Ireland weighed the new information, and once again felt that he lacked the adequate words. There were the usual advice he could give: superfluous, hollow, and nothing Castor didn't already know himself. His forehead warm, he nudged slightly as he sorted through the myriad emotions all too fleeting to settle, "The ship will be fine." "And I can't promise the shadow won't come, but you're strong, and you won't have to do it alone." Whoever came for Castor was going to have more than a few individuals to deal with. "If it will come then we will deal with it. I'm not a killjoy but whatever mistakes - I will right them." The same promise Castor had made him back in Ganymede. Castor withheld his next exhale and shifted without thinking, their lips mere breaths away. "Then don't give me a goddamn heart attack until then," he muttered. "I won't as long as you promise the same." Ireland's amused huff closing the distance, intentions of treading into Santa Muerte's territory forgotten, for now. Without that space between, it was easy for a hand to slide up and curl around the back of his neck. And when Castor withdrew looking for a breath, he didn't go far. "Because you'll owe me a cake sometime," he reminded him with some forced humor, anything to distract from the previous subject and the thundering heartbeat in his throat. Shadows were easily tucked among these words, placed where they would allow a brief respite. "Don't let me forget." Later, in the privacy of his room, Ireland would carefully dissect the pieces of information. He wanted to help Castor, not with words but actions. They were typically easier, the more successful of the two options, but the events of late had been blurring the lines between those, the answer not so clear anymore. All Castor knew was that he didn't want to think about his father, about Europa, about all that had led him there. The safety of his crew was still on his mind, but he couldn't be a good captain like this: wound up, emotionally volatile. He owed it to them to not be a loose canon, and the last month had seen him nearly blowing his top. They deserved better. This was an exercise in reeling himself back in, before he pushed too hard. "You have somewhere to be right now?" Fingers sliding over a pulse that quickened involuntarily, surprise giving way to the customary smiling expression(so often worn, but always genuine). A thumb brushing across his hip, skin to skin after slipping beneath the shirt. "No, I came to see you." Searing heat flared up in Castor's ribcage, unfamiliar and uncomfortable, and rather than dwelling on that sensation for long, he resorted to action: maneuvering Ireland so that he was pressed, and lightly, with his back to the counter. Had this been anyone else, he might have pushed harder, but that near-healed wound nagged at his conscience. On Ireland, it was wrong. He didn't know how else to do this but with his lips to the side of a neck, soft against the skin there. "So what now?" Ireland's quickening breath against Castor's ear, painfully aware of what the twist of his insides meant. Right there sounded like a great idea, but it was impractical. His words came out rougher than expected, drowned in tension and an increasing sensation of want. "We should really go to your room." Evidently, his captain — no, more than his captain now — had the same idea, one knee sliding up between the pair; Ireland's composure hanging by a very thin thread. "Five minutes," he whispered into Ireland's ear, unprepared for the instinct that had him dropping a kiss to that neck and edging back with one, two steps. The unspoken Meet there written into his withdrawing touch, fingertips along a wrist. Disarmed completely by the gesture, Ireland knew those were going to be the longest five minutes ever experienced. He smiled, rubbing the back of his neck(sickly sweet taste tangled in his tongue; Castor didn't taste like ash and smoke). |