rhodes (ireland) wrote in warrantlogs, @ 2016-01-23 07:19:00 |
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Entry tags: | castor vance, ireland rhodes |
Who: Ireland Rhodes & Castor Vance
What: Some much needed catch up.
Where: Ganymede hospital.
When: A few days ago.
Warnings: Injuries, talk of violence.
Days of limited movement had Castor feeling like a prisoner: boxed in, suffocated by the sterile setting, the staggering sensation of restlessness. For all of the assurances that he was safe, he didn't feel it. It was a cold recognition in his bones that he couldn't feasibly be safe for as long as his nightmare walked free. He distantly remembered the words he'd offered Kirby, that assurances never trumped feeling when it came to safety. Standing in the window, curtains half-drawn, he was painfully aware of the possibility of a sniper scope aimed at him. Of watchful eyes following him, like tracking the wounded stag until it yielded. He reached up and fisted the curtains shut with one hand, the change from dark to light casting a shadow as Castor's latest visitor stepped in, brief knock. Ireland wasn't carrying flowers because he didn't think they were appropriate, he had wanted to, but in the end decided that such displays were unnecessary here(an odd thing for him). "Hey, captain." The little click of the door being firmly shut behind, eyes tracing the visible patterns on Castor's skin, returning to the bandage. A flicker of apprehension and terror gripping his throat with the inhale, dispelling on his exhale. "Would have brought you flowers, but they didn't have any good ones." Neither the presence nor the comment were immediately acknowledged as Castor paused where he stood, quietly taking in the fading bruises dappling his arm where they weren't hidden by ink. He counted three awkward, stunted breaths before turning halfway, finding it less restrictive than smaller movements. His eyes roved over the other man, falling at last to blue. "No food smuggled from out of the caf, either?" It was a hollow joke, but it was effort, somewhat. Ireland was quick in his feet, crossing the distance in three long strides; he just wanted to be close to his captain, to be certain that he was still there. "Unfortunately for you, I'm not a rebel that way. Anything being sneaked in would be home made." But he had not bought anything today, and was beginning to feel the sting of regret about that. A muffin always tended to make things slightly less awkward in these sort of situations. "You're looking better." Hand to jaw, thumb brushing the shell of his ear. A more intimate greeting in that passing gesture. The tension coiled too tight loosened with that touch, exhale soft and lashes fluttering briefly. Touches had come and gone throughout the days — hands over his, fingers against his arms — but none had had this effect. Not until private company, certainly, when there was no one left to watch. "Better for the crew that way, isn't it?" he offered, half-heartedly. They had seen him in complete physical disarray; they didn't need to see it for any longer than necessary. And that Ireland understood, when stabbed his first instinct had been to hide withdraw until he could hide the wound beneath rolls of bone white fabric. "The crew just wants to see you recover, and you should be focusing on that." The initial touch had served as an anchor(from me to you and back), and now Ireland reeled him in, fingertips on the back of his neck. Closer. This would have never happened in public(mouth against skin, trailing along to steal a moment). Just enough to make Ireland's heart unclench, and to offer a smile(enough for the both of them). "Hey." In response, one hand drifted up, fingertips to a hip. "How the fuck did this happen, Ireland?" Hard words but soft, hesitant touches. He leaned in closer, moth to a flame he so willingly sagged against. Except this one would not burn him, it would flicker and glow(darkness might arrive first, but light always catches up). "I don't know." There is not much he can offer in the way of comfort, certainly not with the news he has to deliver eventually, "You're alive, I didn't think much beyond that." An odd sort of admission that said more between the lines. "And I decided that, I don't care much for being on a ship if you're not on it as well." Castor's soft laugh against his neck was only pained where it tugged at the muscles beneath the bandage. "You won't have a problem there," he promised, distant still with his words, "because I'm going to put a bullet between his eyes this time. If he touches any of you, I'll kill him. If he touches my family—" my, not our "—I'll kill him. If he even thinks your name," a stuttering breath, "I'll rip him apart." But it sounded like a determined mantra, not resolve, and he sagged further into Ireland as if the declarations weighed too heavy. As if, by some measure, he didn't quite believe he could. Perhaps that was a good thing, committing patricide was a particularly heavy weight to carry. Ireland didn't think Castor killing his father would be liberating — if anything he feared the opposite, being tied down to that guilt, to that shadow for the rest of his life. "Of course." An affable agreement to conceal the doubts plaguing him, "First thing is getting better and stealing back the B52, I might just resist giving up captaincy." His mouth twitches, fingers smooth across his captain's shoulder blade(certain of its place there— of it belonging between skin and air — an armour). The words offer ample opportunity for a tease in return, but such things were rare and few. Castor had reached his humor quota for the moment. He withdrew quietly, not straying too far and all the while avoiding Ireland's eyes. The getting better part was the challenge when all he wanted to do was rip off the damning hospital shirt and burn it, cast the ashes to the wind, and return to the ship. His goal was clearer than ever, the target no longer faceless, but launching on a vigilante mission would doubtlessly ruin more lives than it would save. Instead, he clung to a subject that wasn't his father's cold words echoing in his heart. "If things had been different," he managed, "you might have been the captain instead of me." His breath hitched at the thought of those words ever coming true, Ireland refused to even consider such an event. Not that sheer will power could change death; that was a one way ticket, a permanent end. "But that didn't happen, and it won't happen." He wouldn't let it, for so many reasons he cared not to name, they were unimportant, the end goal was the same. His hand settled on Castor's shoulder, lacking the intimacy of before but no less supportive. "Our bounty wasn't able to give me any significant lead, but that won't matter. We will find him, although there is something else." This time it was Ireland's turn to avoid looking at Castor, the breakout on Pluto couldn't be sprung up as a surprise, he had to be told. The reaction was immediate: a sharp glance up, anger still swimming there causing Ireland to second guess his decision. "Something else what?" He knew that tone, that behaviour; it wasn't going to be good. Instinctively Ireland lowered his tone, recalling Jadzia's instructions for secrecy. "There was a breakout on Pluto. It is not widespread news yet, they informed the captains and asked ships to return to HQ. It is a—" an awkward pause, "—problem. The Sling was on Pluto, they stopped things from getting worse but there are around two hundred prisoners unaccounted for." Castor could only stare. It was all his body would permit as the information was processed, dissected piece by piece. Eventually, the news circled around that number, that two-hundred, where it had snagged in his mind. Two hundred was about the number of at least four combined crews. Two hundred was years' worth of effort, now gone to waste. Agents had lost parts of themselves to apprehend them; agents had died putting them behind bars. The fury that bubbled up in his chest was startlingly hot. Beneath the bandage, as if tucked deep into muscle, he thought he could feel the ghost of that bullet inches from his heart. He didn't want to see red, but it was all he saw as he stepped back, trying to coax himself through those pained breaths, and Ireland was by his side in an instant: one arm pulling him close, another resting on his hip, mouth against his jaw. He understood. Selfishness won over because even if two hundred prisoners had escaped, Castor was alive and that mattered more than the rest of the sol. Perhaps it had been his unfortunate experience with Tyler, all ash and smoke, gravel against his skin and searing pain; it drove him to be greedy. To want just this, Ireland wanted to be a good person, he just didn't know if he could - not anymore. And Castor, who had for so long fought (or felt he had) to do the right thing, didn't know if he could, either. The right thing, the wrong thing — wasn't all that was left was to do what was necessary, to do what was needed? What was it, really, that set him apart from his father anymore? He'd become a bounty hunter to do that good, and now it had been thrown back in his face, in all their faces, as if their actions had meant nothing. As if it had been for nothing. (And maybe, just maybe, Castor was the better person of the two; Ireland was beginning to think so). It wasn't an anxiety attack, but breathlessness gripped him nonetheless as he leaned in into that embrace, the hand on his uninjured side sliding up to furl into Ireland's shirt. "Does the crew know?" The delivery was forced, as a hand smoothed along his back trying a futile attempt at comfort when really the situation was out of control. It was bad, a 'it's fine' would fall short by a long way. "No. The director does not want it getting out yet, and I had to tell you first." Castor was the captain, still, and this was a decision that Ireland could not take. Not without consultation. "I'll tell them if you think that is the right thing to do." "Not yet," came the murmur, and Castor squeezed his eyes shut, hoping it would help the information slow down and process more coherently. It didn't. He sucked in a shuddering breath. "And the Sling?" Are they okay, he meant to say. "On their way back, I think." Held his breath, "I'm sure they're ok, it is a solid crew, modern ship. They will be back sooner than any of us would from Pluto." As little as he knew of them, besides Jude, and Jude he trusted: if their captain failed, Jude would make sure to see things through. That was an unshakable fact in Ireland's mind. The hand at his chest slipped higher, touch curving over neck and shoulder, whether for assurance, or balance, or the need to feel warm skin to help reel that simmering anger in. When the words meant to come, only graininess appeared: spots dancing across his vision as they had in the days after waking, leftovers of the coma. "There's nothing we can do right now," he said eventually, and the truth of it was numbing. "Travel from Pluto… takes a while, but the Sling is fast. We tell the crew soon, and brace for impact. My father—" No, not anymore. "—can wait. He already waited fifteen years." A beat. "Do you want to tell them?" There were lines that Ireland had no desire to step over, the delicacy of the situation with Pluto combined with the open attack on their captain put them in a precarious position. They were tip toeing, and a misstep meant sliding into the hole that had been dug(not by them, not by Castor but by external factors pressing in. Forcing them into a corner). This said, Ireland would want to go after Sam Drake first, eliminate the threat to Castor(but that was not the right thing, was it? The Sol needed them to mitigate the damage done). Mending muscles and tendons protested with the soft laugh given, eyesight worsening but gaze lifting. A fleeting mouth pressed over the injured shoulder. "That I've been on the run for half my life? That the bullet he might as well have put in me himself probably isn't the worst thing he has planned? I— can't. Or I shouldn't. I don't know anymore." Castor shook his head. "Telling everyone puts them in danger. Not telling them still puts them in danger." His hand shifted. "You're not all just my crew. You haven't been for a long time." A sentiment that Ireland understood without echoing himself. "You should do what you feel is right, no one is going to ask you for information. At least no one should." But then secrets were what filled Ireland's apparently soft exterior: unyielding, dark. They belonged there, not outside in plain sight of others. "Think about it, we still have to tell them about Pluto first." Rather, Castor had to, unless Ireland was asked to do so in his place. "Yeah," he breathed his agreement, swallowing a surfacing sigh. "I need to talk to Killian. Soon." This wasn't about him; it was about the safety of his family. But the wound that had incapacitated him had yet to heal — that conversation could wait, though not for too long, whatever the damage it did. His lips brushed Ireland's cheekbone with the slight shift. "I'm glad you're here," he admitted, and it sounded drained. Genuine, even so. "Always." Returned with a breathless whisper(Ireland was not immune to the fear of loss, the sheer drop his heart had when the bullet echoed across his earpiece, all those little events that set him on the edge - even as he maintained a pleasant smile for Castor's benefit). "Promise, always." |