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Alex looks cold.
Amos watches him from the doorway in the galley: He keeps rubbing his hands over his arms, and sticking his fingers into his armpits, hunching slightly as he paces, bored.
It's third shift; someone is supposed to relieve him in two hours. Not Amos, so maybe Naomi, who’s sleeping soundly tangled up in the captain, Amos suspects.
He yawns loudly to announce his presence, and Alex jumps, makes a surprised sound, and turns sharply towards him.
“You're up early,” he says, lifting his hands and putting their backs against the skin of his neck.
“Couldn't sleep,” Amos says, walking into the galley proper. “Are you cold?”
“What?” Alex says, pulling his hands down again and rubbing them together. “No, no. Just tired, is all. Coffee?”
“Sure,” says Amos, frowning as Alex turns his back to him and busies himself with the coffee machine. He’s avoiding the subject as if he’s embarrassed—it makes no sense. Sky is up, people die, space is cold—that's just facts. Cold and, sometimes, lonely. Maybe Alex is lonely. Amos pulls out a chair and climbs it, watching Alex work his magic on the machine.
His hair is getting a bit long, curling across his forehead, and it's been a while since he trimmed his beard. It gives him an air of careless rock’n’roll that people might call sexy. Charming. Amos doesn't know. It's just Alex, really, along with his warm eyes and too long jumpsuit sleeves. They cover his hands when he carries over the two bulbs of coffee.
Amos figures that Alex prefers it that way.
“Cappuccinos,” Alex says, a note of pride in his grin. He slides a bulb across the table to Amos, and sits down across from him.
Amos smiles. “Thanks,” he says.
Alex smiles back, catching his eye. Then it's as if he becomes uncertain, and he looks down on his bulb, his curls dancing slightly in the low g. Amos tilts his head.
Alex yawns. Sips at his coffee and shudders, almost like he's trying to make the caffeine work faster.
“You know that doesn't work, right?” Amos says, and Alex looks up at him again, eyebrows screwed up on his forehead.
“What doesn't work, partner?”
“The coffee,” Amos says.
Alex sighs. “You might be right. But it's comfort for a poor lonesome cowboy such as myself, yeah?”
There you have it.
“You talk to your folks?”
Alex shakes his curls more than shakes his head. The overhead LEDs reflect off them in a funny little shimmer.
“Nah,” he says. “Not in a while, anyway. That boat has burned off quite some time ago.”
Amos nods. It probably wouldn't help, anyway.
“Did you come up with that expression yourself?”
“I have a lot of time,” Alex drawls, the mood evaporating as quickly as it settled.
The sun is a bleak white circle against a thin grey sky that's fading into dark blueish clouds in the distance.
Alex is standing a few yards ahead in the middle of the street, unsteady in the full g, looking like someone easy to shoot, or worse.
Amos’ guns are back on the Roci, and he should really get them and come back, before anything happens. If someone shoots Alex, then who’s gonna fly the ship?
He calls out, but Alex doesn't listen. He’s talking but it's pure gibberish. They are supposed to pick up replacement air filters here.
Amos takes a step forward, but his feet are too heavy. He grew up in one g, but this is like walking around during fast burn.
But if Alex is over there, then who's flying the ship? Who’s driving the burn?
Someone has taken the magazines out of the guns and thrown them all over the floor. There's a single handgun in the locker. Amos looks around for the right bullets, but can't find them ‘cause his eyes keep falling shut. Straining to keep them open, he concentrates on moving his feet. It's like running through wet cement.
They are supposed to pick up replacement air filters here.
You can't get proper replacement air filters for a Martian gunship in Baltimore, though. If this is a setup, Amos should go back and get the guns.
But the locker is empty, only bullets all over the floor, and he can't move his feet, too heavy.
He calls out again but Alex can't hear him. Doesn't hear him. Won't hear him?
Would be a lot easier knowing if his eyes were properly open.
But they aren't.
Amos tries to run, but he's stuck in place.
He tries to open his eyes so hard his eyeballs feel like they're rolling back into his skull.
He’s falling asleep. He can't be falling asleep. He is asleep.
They’re supposed to pick up replacement air filters.
Who’s flying the ship?
He looks up and sees the unmistakable silhouette of a mushroom cloud behind the buildings to the left. The blast travels how fast now?
He grabs Alex and pulls him with him inside the weapons locker, pulling the door shut behind them, wondering why lead was removed from paints in the first place.
Alex looks at him with his sad warm eyes and says, “This won't hold, kid,” and everything goes white.
Who’s gonna fly the ship now?
Amos breathes in sharply. Opens his eyes to darkness.
“Aren't you tired?” Amos asks. They’re alone in the cockpit, Alex watching their flight path, Amos changing a busted LED strip.
Alex’s eyebrows approaches his hairline.
“Why?”
Amos grins and shrugs. “No reason.”
Alex marches up to him, hands on his hips, eyes narrowing.
“Did I do somethin’ funny, cowboy?”
His hair’s unwashed, glistening in the white light. He still hasn't cut it, but it's going to happen soon; he’s been running his fingers through the advancing fringe as if it annoys him, lately, pushing it out of his face. Amos finds he’s going to miss the gesture.
“Nope,” Amos says, watching embarrassment and annoyance struggle for control over Alex’s features. “Did you do something you don't want me to know about?”
“You’re askin’ a lotta weird questions,” says Alex, annoyance getting the upper hand on his face, his fingers tapping at his hip in a tell that he probably isn't even aware of. Impatience; up the stakes or he’s just going to fold.
All Amos has are 3s and 7s, but he likes the game they’re playing here. So he steps closer, all up in Alex’s personal space, and cups his bearded jaw with both hands.
Alex freezes. Swallows. Colours.
Interesting.
Amos leans forward and plants a wet, smacking kiss right on Alex’s forehead. The dark curls tickles his nose.
“You’re my favourite pilot,” he says.
He dreams about Alex again. It’s a weird dream, but not entirely unpleasant. They're drunk and leaning on each other, hands full of casino chips with nowhere to put them. They're chased around Tycho station by a sore loser, and end up hiding in the docks, Alex’s head on Amos’ shoulder.
They're eventually found by Naomi, who’s been following the track of dropped casino winnings, like some kid from a fairytale.
When Amos wakes, he’s not sure whether it's dream or memory, or a little bit of both, but his shoulder feels weirdly cold and light, exposed to the chill dry air of his cabin.
He sits on his cot for a while, mind running through the dream. Then he shrugs it off and gets up to go about his day.
The dream drifts away.
The next dream is worse. Bloody as anything, and Amos wakes suddenly, thrashing against the restraints of his couch.
He rips them off, punches the wall. It resonates in the room, and his knuckles start bleeding.
“Motherfucker,” he growls.
He’s in a mean mood the entire day, snapping at the others when he shouldn’t, slamming cupboards and stomping his feet harder against the floor than necessary. The dream-images don’t drift away like the pleasant ones did; he keeps remembering blood foaming at the lips, light disappearing from dark eyes, and he really wants to shoot someone.
The rest of the crew quickly decides to avoid him.
In the machine shop, he shifts on the camera feeds and watches space drift by while dis- and reassembling every gun and rifle they’ve got on the ship. It’s a calming task, directionless hate being channeled into repeated movements. Amos imagines his anger seeping into the pieces, charging them with the fuel and luck to kill whatever unlucky bastard trying to rob the Roci of any of her crew.
“You never answered my question,” Amos says, the words coming out slower than intended. It’s just the two of them in the galley again, side by side, watching a century-old nature documentary about sea creatures long extinct from Earth.
About halfway through, Alex said “this is some bullshit,” and Amos decided they’d need a drink, breaking out a bottle from his storage. That was a while ago.
Alex scratches his beard and glances at Amos. He’s trimmed it this morning, so it creates sharp lines at his jaw and cheek.
“Sorry,” he says with a slurring drawl, knocking his shoulder into Amos’. “What’d you say?”
Amos pours them both another shot and clinks their glasses together.
“Asked if you were tired,” he says, lifting his glass and knocking the whisky back. At this point, it doesn't taste like anything. Alex follows suit.
“‘cause you’ been walkin’ around a lot,” Amos continues, tapping two fingers against his temple. “In here.”
Alex turns and looks at him, drunken frown all over his face.
“The hell are you talkin’ ‘bout?”
“All night,” Amos says, “You show up in my dreams. Gets exhausting.”
“I’m sorry about that, cowboy,” Alex slurs, reaching out and patting Amos on the arm. “What’d I do?”
“Got shot, in the last one.”
“Oh.”
There's a silence, only intercepted by birds screaming on the display on the opposite wall. Alex lets his hand rest on Amos’ lower arm where it lies on the table.
“Didn't particularly enjoy that,” Amos says. He turns his arm around so his hand is palm-up and slides it slightly backwards. His fingers close around Alex’s.
“Wait,” Alex says after a beat, offense and recognition dawning on his face. “Wassat a pickup line?”
Amos grins.
“Maybe. Did it work?”
“Your delivery needs some goddamn attention,” Alex says. He loosens his grip, but Amos holds on.
“It's true, though,” he says, turning in his chair to face Alex while bringing both hands together. He runs his fingers over Alex’s palm. “Been thinking about you a lot. And you look like you could use some company.”
Alex curls his fingers around Amos’ and leans his forehead in his other hand, elbow resting on the table.
“This is some weird shit,” he says.
Amos shrugs.
“Weirder than self-moving asteroids and alien technology jumping ship outta Venus?”
Alex snorts and gives Amos’ fingers a squeeze.
“Don't flatter yourself, partner.”
“You gonna be weird about it?”
Alex turns his head, resting his chin in his hand and looking at Amos with half a smile.
“Don't know yet. You gonna get weird on me?”
Amos grins and shrugs and draws their hands to his lips, placing a sloppy kiss on Alex’s knuckles. Alex lets his hand go and reaches out to cup his cheek instead, thumb running over Amos’ cheekbone. It feels nice.
“Come here,” Alex says, voice throatier than before. Amos climbs off his chair and steps into Alex’s space. Alex unslouches and puts his other hand on the side of Amos’ neck, right beneath the junction with ear and skull, the high chair allowing their eyes to be at the same level.
Amos closes his eyes, momentarily amazed by how much he himself has been craving soft touch. And he’s thought Alex was the one affected by the loneliness of space.
“I'm gonna try somethin’,” Alex says, quiet and warm, and leaning closer. “And if we decide that it's too weird, blame’s on that Ganymede whisky of yours, not either of us, right?”
Amos opens his eyes again, grinning. “Still pretty sure whatever you’ve in store for me can't be weirder than anything we’ve—”
Alex swats him in the chest. “Shut up and close your eyes, Earther, goddammit.”
Amos complies, smiling while Alex’s hands cup his jaw. There’s a soft caress, then the smell of whisky, then a pair of soft, dry lips catching his own. Amos tilts his head and leans into it, one hand gripping the table, his other arm circling around Alex’s waist.
One of them makes a whining sound in his throat, an urgency presenting itself, Amos pressing closer at the same time as Alex draws him in between his thighs. Alex runs his tongue over Amos’ lips, prompting him to part them, as soft as anything.
Feeling lightheaded all of a sudden, Amos breaks away and leans his temple on Alex’s brow. Soft fingers keep stroking over his beard, a nice, dizzying feeling.
“Don't think that was weird,” he says, letting go of the table and bringing his hand up to stroke Alex’s cheek in turn. “You?”
“Might take some gettin’ used to,” Alex says, short breaths coming out against Amos’ neck. “But not weird, no.” Then he starts kissing Amos’ jaw, one hand sliding lower on his neck and on down to his chest. With a wave of his hand, Amos turns off the nature documentary.
Amos wakes up, and the dream slips away instantly. Something warm and heavy is wrapped around him; a mass of curls pressed against his face is tickling his skin. He opens his eyes to the familiar pitch black of his cabin, breathes in an unfamiliar scent.
He shifts, adjusting his grip on the body in front of him to make sure nobody falls out of the narrow couch.
“Yo,” Alex says.
Amos grunts in reply, a hangover threatening to bloom in the back of his skull. He hooks his ankle around Alex’s shin, keeping him grounded.
“—ʼtime’s it?” Amos yawns, boring his nose into Alex’s scalp.
“Dunno,” Alex says, snuggling up against Amos’ chest. “Don't particularly care, either.”
“Gonna be hungover as shit,” Amos says. Alex makes a noise of agreement, settling in comfortably. “Gonna try and sleep it off some more. ‘nless you think we need to talk about stuff.”
“Nah,” Alex says, voice muffled by the fabric of Amos’ shirt. “I'm cool. You?”
“Just peachy,” Amos agrees, tugging the blanket in around Alex’s back. “If you still feel like it, kiss me next time I wake up.”
“I’ll consider it,” Alex replies.
He does.