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He thought he’d been inconspicuous; he acted normally, his boisterous, almost cocksure self. He took off in the middle of the night, a quick job, an easy in and then an easy out.
And then he came home. The kitchen light that was perpetually on was the only light on in the house. He put away his craft in the shed in the back and covered it with the canvas. He’d made it home free, but then he walked through the front door.
“Meouch,” Doctor Sung said from his spot at the kitchen island, “where have you been?”
He jumped. “Oh my gods, dude,” he said. “I’m like, a thousand, and you’re not my dad.” He began to dig through the fridge, found dinner, and heated it up.
Doc pressed his lips together. “Might as well be. We were worried,” he said.
Meouch dug into the leftovers of some brisket Phobos had made.
He’d been shot in the side and his craft had a primitive medbay, so it hurt like hell. He tried his best to eat normally, but it felt like every bite shot a line of pain downward. “Okay,” he said around the food and the pain. “And what do you want me to do about it?”
Doc thought for a second. “You’re hurt,” he said. “Where were you? You didn’t answer me before.”
“I don’t need to tell you.”
Doc sighed. The dim light overhead highlighted his nose, and made him look more weary than ever. His eye hung heavy, tired. “You’ve never told us a lot,” he said.
“Well,” Meouch replied, “my past is mine. Whatever I decide to give you is a gift.”
Doc got quiet and Meouch continued to eat. Doc shoved away from the island, got up and walked off, but paused in the doorway.
“You don’t have to lie anymore. Not like this and sure as hell not to us.”
The kitchen light hummed, and then the fridge decided to join in, too. Crickets sang and an owl hooted outside that they could hear from the open window, divided by the screen.
Meouch let his fork clang to the plate. He braced himself on the edge of the island and shut his eyes tight. “I’m not… you guys,” he began quietly, and he didn’t look but felt Doc turn around. “I’m a smuggler. Not some time-traveler or half-robot or underwater alien diplomat from a world of diamonds and light or anything. I’m bones. I’m blood. I’m just… me.”
He took a deep breath. Under the shroud of still night, he could hear every ragged step it took.
“I can’t do what you guys can do. I’ve never been good at anything else. All I have is this.”
Doc made a fist and rested it against Meouch’s upper arm. “You’re wrong,” he said.