Archive of Our Own

Locus is in the middle of studying a selection of jerky when he hears the voice.

“Listen, mister, I grew up on a farm! I barely had to give these melons a squeeze before I knew they weren’t right!”

Locus closes his eyes, lets his breath out slowly. Private Donut can’t be here. He’s two galaxies away on Chorus, assisting in Agent Washington’s recovery. Locus can think of no conceivable reason as to how the man would end up on this backwater planet, unless it's the universe playing an elaborate joke at Locus's expense.

When he turns, though, he spies the familiar pink armor.

Before he can do more than contemplate turning on his stealth unit, Private Donut waves a hand towards the passerby and says, “I’m sure anyone else who gave them a good, firm feel would agree-- oh!” The arm pauses in mid-gesture as Donut’s helmeted head swings in Locus’s direction. Donut’s head tilts. Locus can’t get a read on his tone as he calls, “Locus?”

Locus grimaces at the sound of his name being shouted in a crowded marketplace. He briefly considers the likelihood that there are bounty hunters in the vicinity, and then sighs and crosses the aisle to seize Donut’s shoulder and steer him away from the melon seller. “Keep your voice down.”

“Why are you here?” Donut asks. At least he lowers his voice. He laughs. “Not that I’m not happy to see a familiar face-- er, helmet. Just surprised!”

“I'm getting supplies.” Locus scans the crowd, but no one seems to be paying attention to them. Still, the back of his neck prickles. “Why are you here?”

“Oh, I needed some me time after everything that happened. And everything that didn't.”

Locus blinks, but Donut doesn’t elaborate. “I see,” he says slowly, still scanning everyone around them. He releases Donut and takes a step back. “In that case, I will let you get back to your...you time.”

“Oh,” Donut says. Strange. It almost sounds like Donut is disappointed. “Right. You’re busy getting supplies and stuff. I get it. Just seems a shame for you to run off when this is clearly fate! I mean, of all the marketplaces on all the planets in all the galaxies, we both walk into this one? The universe is trying to tell us something!”

“That it has a strange sense of humor?” Locus suggests.

Donut laughs. “Probably.”

Locus is studying the crowd a third time when Donut adds, “I’ve been here a couple days. Just trying to figure out where I want to go next! Having a bunch of galaxies to choose from leaves way too many choices.” Donut’s voice brightens. “Hey, you’ve probably been to a lot of planets. Any suggestions?”

“No.”

“Really? None? There isn’t a planet where I absolutely have to try their galaxy-famous dessert?”

Locus stares at him. He thinks of the two planets that he’s traveled to since delivering Agent Washington to Chorus. The first had been facing a deadly drought. The second had been under the control of a crime family. Neither had provided opportunities to enjoy the local cuisine. “Try a guidebook.”

Donut huffs. “Oh, you can’t trust those. Half the time the restaurants have bribed the writers. Or at least they did back in Iowa. I figure people are people everywhere though!” He shakes his head. “Well, at least I’ve found a few nice places around here.”

“Good,” Locus says when he realizes that Donut is expecting a response.

“It’s not as much fun eating alone, though,” Donut says. “Not that I miss Grif eating enough for three people and talking with his mouth full, or Sarge trying to bring strawberry Yoohoos to my Wine and Cheese Hour, but….” He shrugs. “And I get the weirdest looks when I explain I’m having a party of one!”

Locus knows when he’s treading dangerous waters. The shrug, the slightly wistful tone of voice, the air of loneliness Donut is radiating for all his talk about having a personal journey? They are traps. If Locus isn’t careful, he’s going to wind up having lunch with Donut.

“Oh, but you were shopping too! We can walk and talk at the same time.”

“Fine,” Locus says. Maybe shopping will be enough of a distraction. He turns and walks towards the jerky stall again, conscious of Donut falling into step beside him.

Donut starts talking. He’s a fast talker, though not as fast as Grif when Locus found him on Iris. The loneliness is barely noticeable, hidden by a bright cheer as he rambles about the difficulty of finding fresh fruit on the planet.

His tone only changes when Locus stops in front of the jerky stall. “Oh,” Donut says. “Well, jerky is certainly, um, a choice you could make.”

Locus glances between the jerky and Donut. “It’s easy to store and lasts.”

“Yeah, but at what cost?” Donut mutters. Before Locus can defend his food choices, Donut shakes his head. “There’s plenty of food around here you can store in your fancy ship, even food that hasn’t been dried within an inch of its life. Come on.”

Locus is startled when Donut loops his arm in his. He’s startled again by the strength in that arm as Donut begins to pull him deeper into the middle of the marketplace.

Somehow by the end of the shopping trip Locus has seemingly bought everything in the market except for the jerky. He looks down at the full bags, nonplussed, as Donut says brightly, “Well, that should hold you for a while! Now, I know I get hungry after shopping, so we could store your food in your ship and then go grab a bite to eat!”

“I,” Locus says. He stops. He has the sinking feeling he has completely lost control of this situation. He sighs. “Fine.”

The server leads them to a corner booth, one that has a clear line of sight to both exits and the kitchen.

Maybe it’s good luck, or maybe the server is just used to positioning soldiers and veterans in those particular seats, because the server doesn’t bat an eye when Donut takes off his helmet and Locus doesn’t, just asks for their drink order in a bland, professional voice.

Donut smiles. Locus has read his file; he knows about the head injury. The spiderweb-like scars cover most of the right side of Donut's face, turning his smile a little lopsided but no less sincere as he says, “Water to start, but I’d love a look at your wine list!”

Once the server is gone, Donut turns that smile on Locus. “This place has a great appetizer that’s a lot like corn dip. I might have to get the recipe, my moms would like it.”

There’s a stretch of silence, and Locus realizes that he’s expected to make small-talk. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Then he remembers Donut’s file. “Your mothers grow corn on their farm?”

Donut blinks in surprise. The surprise makes Locus uneasy, like he’s made a misstep somehow. He’s never been good at conversation. Then Donut nods. “Corn and soybeans. Occasionally Ma will dedicate a field or two to some alien vegetable to see if she can grow something exotic, but mostly they stick to what will make an easy profit, you know? Or maybe you don’t. Did you grow up in a city?”

“A city,” Locus says, and leaves it at that.

Donut doesn’t press, just moves onto looking over the menu and making suggestions.

Somehow by the time the server returns with their drinks, Locus has found himself agreeing to sharing two appetizers and entrees and a bottle of wine. Locus can’t remember the last time he had a sit-down lunch like this. It’s...strange. To distract himself, he waits for the next lull in the conversation and asks about Agent Washington.

Donut’s smile fades. He fiddles with his fork. “Oh, well. It’s…. Doctor Grey says he’ll always have some trouble with his memory, but…. I mean, Carolina has his back. And everyone’s there for him, you know?” A shadow crosses his face. “Well, I guess except me. Maybe I should’ve waited until Wash was feeling a little better, or--”

There’s guilt creeping into Donut’s voice and clouding his expression.

Locus regrets asking. He’s never been good at reassurances, but he interrupts before Donut can keep second-guessing himself. “You said you needed personal time. Trust your instincts.”

Donut blinks at him. Surprise banishes some of the guilt, but not all of it. He shrugs. “I mean, I know I need it. The last few weeks have been….” He trails off, frowning, as though searching for the right word, and then never quite finishes the sentence. "It's just, uh, hard, I guess? To deal with trauma that didn't actually happen, even if you remember it happening, because of stupid time loop weirdness and...." This time when Donut pauses, it's to squint at Locus. "And you don't know what I'm talking about.”

“No,” Locus agrees, and listens with growing consternation as Donut tells him an impossible story about alien A.I. and time travel and death and resurrection and finally Agent Washington needing to be shot in order to complete the loop and save the universe.

If it’s a psychotic break over guilt from Agent Washington’s injury, it’s an odd one.

“But technically none of it happened, so,” Donut concludes with another shrug. His forced smile is brittle. “Just stuck with the memories.”

Locus is saved from immediately figuring out a response by the server arriving with their appetizers. When they’re alone again, he chooses his words carefully. “Whether it happened or not, you still remember the experience, correct?”

“Yeah,” Donut says. “But--”

“Then you need to process it,” Locus says. He has spent a lot of time alone since Chorus. That solitude means remembering a lot of ignored advice and wondering how things might have been different, if he’d listened. Advice that might help others now. Or at least Donut, who's still frowning at him, slightly doubtful.

“Okay, but everyone else--”

“Private Donut, I have met your team. Everyone on it needs therapy.”

Locus is prepared for an argument. He’s not prepared for Donut to tilt his head and give him a speculative look, a sharp, penetrating stare that seems to pierce through Locus’s helmet. “And you’ve had therapy?”

Locus pauses. “I...am a fugitive.”

Donut shakes his head. “That’s no excuse for hypocrisy!”

“If I spend more than a few days on one planet, I will find a therapist,” Locus says, deadpan.

Donut looks at him for a second. At least the shadows are gone from his face. Instead he wears a skeptical frown as he wiggles a finger in Locus’s direction. “Don’t make promises you’re clearly not intending to keep, mister!”

Locus stares, debating responses. Finally he says, “The food is getting cold.”

Donut gives him another look, this one that says he’s perfectly aware of the attempt to change the subject. But he only nudges the not-corn dip closer to Locus and says, “Tell me what you think of it.”

The rest of the lunch is relatively low-key. Donut tells a story of the Reds and Blues’ time on Iris, and Locus doesn’t tell him Grif has already told him the story during the long rescue trip. Besides, it seems like it’s good for Donut to talk. He gets animated again, miming Carolina and Sarge taking out dinosaurs with a few jabs of his utensils.

“Dessert?” Donut suggests when Locus finishes the last bite of his meal.

“Dessert is unnecessary,” Locus says.

This earns him yet another look, this one a little amused. “When’s the last time you had dessert?” When Locus doesn’t say anything, Donut says, “That’s what I thought. Live a little, Locus!”

So they have this planet’s version of ice cream, because apparently Locus has lost control over this entire day.

The ice cream is good, rich and nutty.

Locus is quietly enjoying it right up to the moment two men in masks burst through the front door of the restaurant. They’re not in armor, but they’ve donned masks. One has a small pistol. Locus recognizes the threat of violence in their movements as they look around.

He’s already moving even before they look in his direction, his hands gripping the edge of the table and ready to use it as a shield for himself and Donut if necessary.

One of them throws something straight at him.

It doesn’t land, because Donut reaches out and catches it.

Locus has just long enough to register the object in question as a stun grenade before Donut shouts, “No thank you!” and throws it straight back. It’s an incredible throw, landing at the men’s feet a second before the grenade goes off.

Locus closes his eyes just in time to avoid being blinded. Around him, the restaurant erupts into shouts and screams. Locus grabs Donut’s arm and says, “Can we get out through the kitchen?”

“Uh, probably?”

“Let’s go,” Locus says. He’ll shoot out a few kneecaps if he needs to, but he prefers to avoid any bloodshed if possible.

Donut grabs his helmet off the table but doesn’t move. “We’re going to dine and dash?” There’s more alarm in his face now than there was at the sight of someone throwing a stun grenade towards them.

Locus stares. “Yes.”

“No,” Donut says and wastes precious seconds fumbling around his armor and producing a fifty dollar bill. “Keep the change!” This is said to their server, who’s trying to hide under one of the nearby tables.

“Let’s go,” Locus repeats, this time through gritted teeth.

Locus draws a pistol, prepared to fight their way out, but if these are bounty hunters, they’re sloppy. There’s no one guarding the kitchen exit into an alley, and it’s simple enough to escape down the street and make their way to A'rynasea, cloaked at the edge of the city.

“Is that why you usually don’t get dessert? The constant interruptions?” Donut asks. He sounds unfazed by the recent danger. He cranes his head, studying the inside of A'rynasea.

“Is that a serious question?”

“Not really.”

Locus waits, but Donut doesn’t say anything else. Eventually he says, “That was a good throw.”

“Oh, the grenade?” Locus can hear the grin in Donut’s voice. “Thanks. I guess I still have some muscle memory from playing quarterback in high school!”

Locus stares. “Apparently,” he says after a moment, though it’s difficult to imagine Donut playing football.

There’s another stretch of silence as Donut continues to study the ship. The ship can fit two people, though not comfortably, and Donut manages to take up both more and less room than Grif did. He’s just as inclined to touch things he shouldn’t, though, although he does yank his hand back when Locus says, “If you pull that lever, the ship will go into lockdown and we’ll be trapped inside for twenty-four hours.”

“Weird lever,” Donut says. “So, what are you going to do about those guys who interrupted lunch?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing,” Locus repeats. “They seemed like amateurs. A'rynasea will be able to out-fly any ship they own, if they own one at all.”

“Yeah, okay. They were pretty ridiculous. I mean those masks? What century are they from, the 20th? The highwayman look is not in at all!” Donut sounds offended by their fashion faux pas. Then his tone changes. “So you’re leaving?”

“Yes,” Locus says. When Donut doesn’t say anything, Locus frowns behind his helmet. “What?”

It’s Donut’s turn to say, “Nothing!” There’s a tinge of emotion Locus can’t interpret. Donut rubs at the back of his neck, a pointless gesture considering he’s back in full armor. “I, just. I guess I was hoping the universe meant for us to hang out a little longer than just a quick shop and lunch!” He shrugs. “But if you have to go, you have to go….”

He’s disappointed, Locus realizes. Donut must really be desperate for company. Locus shifts in place, a little uneasy, and then thinks of the bounty hunters. Amateurs, yes, but they won’t forget a man in pink armor throwing that grenade back at them, especially one who spent an entire lunch with Locus. The Reds and Blues have a curious ability to draw trouble, and Donut, with his delusions about time travel and his quick assistance in Locus’s escape, has probably painted some sort of target on his back.

Locus says slowly, “The bounty hunters might come after you.”

“Really?” Donut says. “Oh, for the grenade thing?” His hand moves briefly to the right side of his helmet and he mutters, “Yeah, I’d hold a grudge about that too….”

“I’ll take you to your next destination.”

Locus doesn’t realize what he’s offered until Donut visibly straightens to his full height. “You’re inviting me along?”

“To wherever you planned to go next,” Locus clarifies, but Donut doesn’t seem to hear the correction, clapping his hands and saying happily, “That’s great! I just have to grab my stuff from my hotel and I’ll be ready to go!”

His stuff turns out to be a box of skin care supplies and a carton of carefully packed wine.

Locus isn’t really surprised.

There are many reasons Locus prefers his solitude. He’s reminded of most of them at once as Donut leans against the control panel, his hip resting against the edge as he asks, “So where are we headed?”

Locus stares. When it’s clear Donut is asking in earnest and also content to ignore the idea of personal space, Locus reminds him, “It’s your choice.”

“Oh, right!” Donut thinks for a moment. Then he laughs. “I have no idea. Does your ship have a map or something?”

Locus starts to answer, and then stops as Donut steps back, peels off his helmet, and starts working at the latches for his shoulder plates. Donut strips out of his armor with easy, practiced gestures, and Locus suddenly reevaluates his earlier doubt about Donut playing quarterback. Somehow Donut seems larger out of armor, the undersuit clinging to the broad shoulders and thick arms of a man who spent his youth working on a farm before becoming a soldier.

Locus finds his voice too late. “What are you doing?”

Donut pauses. He blinks at Locus. “Changing into something more comfortable,” he says, like Locus is the one being weird.

“Here?”

Donut glances around. “Unless you have a better spot….”

“My quarters,” Locus suggests, very dryly, and then frowns. He hasn’t even considered where Donut will sleep. The only other times he’s had someone on the ship, Agent Washington had been unconscious and Grif had been too out of his mind to sleep. He supposes they can just figure out a sleep schedule and trade off on the cot.

Donut grabs an armful of armor. “If you insist!” He stops and shoots Locus a curious look. “Do you wear your armor all the time?”

“No,” Locus says. He doesn’t add that he wears it most of the time, but Donut gives him a look anyway like he knows. Locus shifts uncomfortably, and repeats, “My quarters?”

He sighs after Donut leaves the cockpit. He’s not regretting his offer, exactly. But it was more impulsive than he generally allows himself to be, which means more problems than he anticipated. There’s the sleeping issue, and Donut’s lack of decisiveness in where he wants to go, and then just the entire concept of sharing A'rynasea’s small, cramped space with someone else for an indeterminate amount of time. It’s going to be an...interesting few days.

A'rynasea’s control panel lights up with a message alert.

The message is encrypted, but Locus recognizes the code. It’s from one of his smuggling contacts.

Aiko is one of the more paranoid smugglers Locus has met over the last year, which is probably why she’s still alive. The message is audio only, her tone as brusque and business-like as ever as she says, “Hey, Samaritan. If you’re available, I have something for you. Medium risk, and one of those feel good jobs you fucking love.” She rattles off an encoded location and throws in a message tag that lets him know she’s the real Aiko and not someone who’s mimicking her voice.

It’s about three days travel from A'rynasea’s current location.

Donut comes back into the cockpit a few minutes later, now clad in jeans and a plaid shirt that’s varying shades of red and browns, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It’s a strange sight, and Locus somehow feels awkward in his armor, as though he is the one out of place on his own ship.

Then Donut flashes him a grin. “So, that map?”

Locus refocuses. “Yes. The map. Though I just received information about a potential job.” When Donut looks curious, Locus hesitates. He chooses his words carefully. “Since Chorus I have...been doing jobs, such as taking supplies to struggling colonies, ones that can’t afford tariffs and need someone to--”

“Oh, you’re a smuggler!” Donut’s smile, weirdly, widens at this. He steps closer to the controls, staring out through the window into the dark space there. “That’s exciting! Where are we headed?”

Locus frowns. “What I’m doing is illegal. I can drop you off somewhere if you’d--”

Donut laughs. Locus freezes when Donut slaps his arm. “Aw, c’mon, Locus! I just said it sounds exciting! And I promise not to get in the way. But seriously, what’s a life-affirming space trip without bending a few laws?” Then his lips purse. His expression reminds Locus of when he refused to ‘dine and dash’ at the restaurant. “Well, unless you’re smuggling drugs, in which case we’re gonna have a talk, mister!”

“...What?”

Donut’s eyes narrow. His jaw sets. Locus freezes again when Donut jabs a finger into the middle of his breastplate. “No drugs.”

“I,” Locus says, genuinely baffled by the intensity in Donut’s face. “I don’t smuggle drugs.”

Just as quickly as Donut’s expression clouded, it brightens again. He beams. “Good! So what are we smuggling? Food? Alcohol?”

“I have no idea,” Locus says. Before Donut can say anything else, he adds, “Not drugs.”

“Oh, so a mystery. Even more exciting!”

Locus has no idea how to respond to that, so he doesn’t.

In retrospect, Locus should’ve anticipated that Donut would talk a lot. All the Reds and Blues do, so why should Donut be the exception?

But the fact remains that Donut does talk. Incessantly. Not at the insane levels of Grif’s, well, insanity, but he’s always telling stories about his family farm or misadventures he had with the other Reds and Blues. He’s talking even as he makes dinner.

“It’s too bad that we had to kill the dinosaurs on Iris. Sarge BBQed some of the meat afterwards and it was really tender. He probably could’ve started a restaurant on Chorus for exotic burgers or something.”

Locus has been regulated to chopping strawberries for the salad. He glances over. Several questions occur to him at once. He chooses the one with the potentially simplest answer. “What did it taste like?”

Donut blinks at him. “What?”

“What did the meat taste like?”

Donut keeps squinting at him. Locus wonders if he should repeat himself. Surely it’s not a strange question? Then Donut says, “Oh, you were listening?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well,” Donut says. He laughs and gives a slight shake of his head. “People usually don’t? Okay, that’s not fair, the guys are getting much better about listening, but, um, yeah. I didn’t think you were paying attention! You can tune me out, it’s fine.”

There’s still a thread of laughter in Donut’s voice amid the self-deprecation, but Locus still frowns behind his helmet as he says, “Most people think dinosaurs are interesting.”

He tuned out Grif during their short-lived trip together, but most of Grif’s rambling had been inane or invasive. Donut tends to talk about himself and, when he does ask questions, he doesn’t press Locus for an answer or he answers the question himself, tossing out personal facts like they’re not personal at all.

Like now, when Donut asks, “Oh, did you go through a dinosaur stage as a kid? Me too! I knew every single dinosaur. My moms took me this museum once that had bones and replicas of dinosaurs, and I cried when we went home because I wanted to live there.” He stops. “But to answer your question, T-Rex apparently tastes like the dark meat of turkey? With more fat, though, so the burgers ended up really juicy. It was good!”

“Interesting,” Locus says. He looks down at the cutting board. “Are these enough strawberries?”

“Hm, let’s see.” Donut, much like Grif, has no concept of personal space. He leans close to Locus, his shoulder brushing Locus’s armor, and then gives a nod. “Looks good to me!”

When Locus lands A'rynasea in the open field, he’s not surprised when the surrounding trees rustle and at least twelve rail guns emerge from concealment to point at the ship.

“Is that...normal?” Donut asks. He’s back in his armor, but his helmet doesn’t mask his tone, which is more curious than nervous.

“Yes,” Locus says. In a way, he appreciates Aiko’s paranoia. It means she’s highly unlikely to lead bounty hunters to him. He nods towards the ramp. “Walk slowly and keep your hands away from your weapons. Let me do the talking.”

Donut snaps off a salute. “Yes, sir!”

Locus makes a mental note to run maintenance on his suit. The temperature controls must be malfunctioning, because he’s suddenly a little warm. He heads down the ramp, his hands raised to show he’s not holding any weapons.

Once he’s fifteen feet away from A'rynasea, he stops. Next is his least favorite part of every encounter with Aiko. Her passcode changes every time they meet, so that someone with his stolen armor can’t meet with her and catch her by surprise. He has no objection to that. He just wishes it wasn’t poetry.

“It is our sorrow. Shall it melt? Ah, water
Would gush, flush, green these mountains and these valleys,
And we rebuild our cities, not dream of islands.”

The guns shift a little so that they’re no longer pointing directly at him, Donut, and A'rynasea.

Then Donut says, “Oh, I love sestinas! They’re always so complex and engaging and--” Then his voice changes. “Wait, are you meeting Aiko? Aiko, is that you?”

There’s a sudden silence as Donut shouts.

Locus braces for the guns to turn on them again. Instead a familiar voice says, tinged with disbelief, “Frank?” and Aiko steps from the trees, a pistol half-raised and her green helmet tilted to the side.

“Aiko!” Donut says, flinging his arms wide and almost hitting Locus in the arm. “It’s been too long! Oh, damn, I don’t think I remember the last poem. Was it Wilde? I feel like it was Wilde. Maybe Requiescat? Tread lightly--”

“Oh, hush, Frank,” Aiko says. There’s a strange sound, and after a baffled second, Locus realizes that she’s laughing. He didn’t realize she knew how. “We’ll waive it this time. Next time, though, I shoot you on sight.”

“Understood,” Donut says, laughing too. Now he puts his hands on his hips, shaking his head. “Wow, it’s been forever! I can’t believe we’re finally meeting face to face-- well, so to speak.”

“You’re...somehow exactly what I expected,” Aiko says. She looks Donut from head to toe.

Locus has never heard Aiko sound anything but hard and professional. Now he can hear the smile in her voice. The sudden shift makes him uneasy in a way he can't explain. He clears his throat, glancing between Aiko and Donut. “You two know each other?” He intends it as a statement, but it comes out as a confused question, and he can’t quite help the aborted hand movement towards one of his guns, wanting that reassuring weight in his hand.

Donut starts to say something, then stops with a startled noise as Aiko jerks her pistol up and points it at Locus. “Samaritan, you know better,” she says, coolness creeping back into her tone. She keeps the gun trained on Locus as she tilts her head towards Donut. “You’re...friends with Samaritan here?”

“Yeah!” Donut says firmly. Locus blinks as he moves a little, not quite stepping in front of Locus, but shifting his weight like he’s prepared to put himself between Aiko and Locus. “So if everyone could chill out with the guns, that’d be nice! I’d much rather talk about your armor.”

“My armor?” Aiko repeats. At least it’s not just Locus who’s confused anymore.

Donut shakes his head. “Look, I’m just saying, it’s a little drab. Have you considered another color? Oh, maybe--”

Aiko sighs. “No,” she says. She gives Locus one more look, clearly warning him not to put his hands anywhere near his weapons. When he raises his hands, she lowers her gun a little. She glances between them. “So you’re hanging out with...him? Of your own free will?”

“He’s nice!” Donut protests.

Locus has suspected that Aiko knows about his past. Her incredulous “Nice?” is just another point towards that.

He sighs. “It’s a long story. Now, you said you had a job?”

Aiko stares at him for another second. Then she shrugs. “Yeah. A colony needs some seeds and foodstuffs but can’t afford the tariffs. I need you to get the supplies there without the UNSC interfering. There’s been some food riots already, so you’ll give it to my contact for distribution.”

“Aw, that’s great!” Donut says. He turns and Locus knows he’s smiling as he says, “I’m so glad it wasn’t drugs and we didn’t have to say no.”

Aiko snorts. “If it had been, I wouldn’t have offered it after seeing you, Frank. Not after that fifteen minute spiel I got from you and the DARE pamphlet you sent with my delivery man after I made one joke about--” She stops. “So you two are working together?”

“The universe has a strange sense of humor,” Locus says dryly.

“Apparently,” Aiko says.

Amusement’s back in her voice. Locus clears his throat again. “The job?”

“Right,” Aiko says. She slides back into the brisk professional persona Locus remembers, laying out the details and the information about her contact and the commission on the whole thing. It’s only when she finishes hammering out the deal that her voice warms again and she adds, “But since you’re working with Frank, I’ll be generous and shave off five percent of my cut.”

“Aw! That’s so sweet!”

“Sweet,” Locus echoes. He wonders if Aiko feels as off-kilter at being called sweet as he did at being called nice. When Donut looks at him, he doesn’t say anything else.

Donut claps his hands. “Oh, while we’re here, could I set up a delivery for Chorus? I bet the guys would like some wine and cheese, and you always had the best varieties!”

“I think that can be arranged,” Aiko agrees. She raises her hand, and a few armored guards materialize from the forest, carrying the shipping containers.

“A'rynasea, allow them temporary access to the cargo bay,” Locus says, and then goes to assist as Donut tilts his head to the side and says, “Hm, Wash has never told me his favorite wine and cheese pairing, but he feels like a red to me. Maybe Malbec and aged cheddar, or Beaujolais and feta?”

When Locus finishes overseeing the supply storage, he returns to the field to find Donut and Aiko have apparently finished with their deal and have moved on to trying to decide the passcode for their next encounter.

“No limericks,” Aiko says firmly.

“Aw, but they’re funny! Tucker came up with a good one after the Temple of--”

“I don’t want to hear any of Tucker’s limericks,” Aiko says, even more firmly than before. Apparently Donut has talked enough about the other Reds and Blues that Aiko knows to be wary. “I’ve been using Ghazal or villanelle.”

“I guess haikus are out?”

“Depends on the haiku,” Aiko says.

Locus doesn’t know a lot of poetry. Pretty much what he does know is due to Aiko’s passcodes, fragments of poems now entrenched in his memory. He did memorize one in high school, when his English teacher insisted they present one poem to the class. She hadn’t been amused when he and half the class chose the shortest possible poems.

He hesitates for a second, and then says, “I have a suggestion.”

Aiko stares at him, but Donut waves a hand and says, “I’d love to hear it!”

Locus, feeling a little ridiculous and wishing he hadn’t said anything at all, recites the poem.

“The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.”

When he finishes, there’s silence that probably only lasts a few seconds but feels like eternity. This time it’s not his armor malfunctioning but embarrassment that warms him. Locus feels even more foolish, at least until Donut says, delighted, “Sandburg, right? I didn’t know you liked poetry!”

“I don’t,” Locus says. “I just know that one.”

“Challenge accepted,” Donut says. Somehow he sounds even more excited. “Hm, I’ll have to think about authors similar to Sandburg, but I’ll find another poem you like!”

“...You don’t have to do that.” When Donut doesn’t respond to that, Locus sighs and resigns himself to hearing a lot of poetry for the rest of their time together. He turns to Aiko. “With A'rynasea, we should be there in two days.”

“I’ll let my contact know.”

“It was so great to finally meet you, Aiko!” Donut says cheerfully.

“You too, Frank.”

A'rynasea’s stealth capabilities usually outmatch other ships and scanning devices, but Locus has never been one to take chances. On their approach to the colony, he powers down most of the ship, running the engines low.

“We’ll use inertia and gravity to get through most of monitored space,” Locus explains, pointing out their intended trajectory on a map before he dismisses the image. “Did you have any questions?”

“Just one. You need to disable the gravity, right?” At Locus's nod, Donut drops himself into the co-pilot chair and adds, “Well if your bits are gonna start rising, I’d better get ready!”

“...Right,” Locus says slowly.

Donut’s already started to buckle himself in, but now he stops. Locus is confused by the frustration in his voice when Donut sighs and says, “Ugh, sorry! I’ve been trying, but sometimes it just slips out!”

“What?”

“The, you know, innuendo. I’m working on it, okay?”

There’s a tinge of embarrassment to Donut’s words.

Locus blinks. “...You don’t do them on purpose?”

“Excuse me?” Donut says blankly. “Why would I make all this innuendo on purpose?”

“To--” Mess with people, Locus almost says, and doesn’t. Instead he shrugs and says, “I thought they were clever.”

“Well, I wasn’t saying this stuff on purpose, but--” Donut stops. In a different voice, he echoes, “...Clever?”

“Yes,” Locus says as he straps himself in. He waits a second, but Donut doesn’t say anything else. He frowns, replaying the past few minutes in his head, but he doesn’t see what’s so strange. Donut’s word play is clever, and it also has thrown off the people around him often enough to be considered strategic. Finally he says “Are you secure? I want to turn off the gravity now.”

“Uh, one sec,” Donut says. He fumbles with the buckles. “Okay, ready.”

Aiko’s contact is a woman named Maria, who’s situated just outside one of the main cities in a farming community. Aiko had mentioned food riots, but if they reached this community, there’s no sign of violence that Locus can see. He still studies the area before settling down in another open field and decloaking the ship.

Maria doesn’t seem impressed by them even after she arrives in the field and they offer her a code line from an Issa poem. She says brusquely, “Well, you did make it in two days. That’s something, I guess. I want to inspect everything before I call my people in. No point in getting hopes up if I paid for spoiled food.”

“Aw, Aiko wouldn’t do that!” Donut protests. “She’s a professional!”

“A'rynasea, allow her on board,” Locus says. He agrees with Donut, but one look at Maria tells him that Maria is a woman who believes in physical evidence and not words.

The farmers Maria calls in once she’s satisfied are much more vocal and excited. Locus helps them carry out the supplies, listening to their excited conversation as they look at the seeds, seedlings, and foodstuffs.

Donut helps too, joining in the discussion. “So what kind of soil are you working with?”

“Loamy,” one of the men says, and Donut nods.

“I thought so! That’s the kind of soil my moms have to work with. I don’t know much about this planet-- can you use grass clippings with your compost to enrich the soil, or does the alien soil need something different?”

A few of the farmers look at each other. “Your mothers farm?”

“Back in Iowa on Earth!”

That apparently means Donut is one of them, because one of the farmers launches into a detailed description of how they treat the soil.

Locus leaves him to it. Instead he goes to Maria. “Aiko mentioned food riots.”

“Yeah,” Maria says. “Mostly in the cities, but hunger makes people desperate.”

The farmers are dividing the supplies among themselves, half their backs to the surrounding area. If someone wanted to steal the food, most of them would be caught by surprise. Locus nods. “Understood.”

He activates his stealth cameo and begins to patrol the perimeter.

As he does, one of the farmers shouts over to Maria, “Do we have to go back to paying tariffs? This is so much cheaper in the long run. I'd love some apple and pear trees.”

Maria snorts. “You don’t have the fucking patience for fruit trees, Graham.”

“Yeah, Graham,” another farmer says, snickering. “You get impatient over radishes!”

“Shut the fuck up, Paulo.”

Locus doesn’t understand the insult, but everyone else appreciates it, judging by the shouts of laughter that exchange causes. He can pick out Donut’s laughter amid the rest.

After a second, he refocuses on the terrain. To the northeast, there’s farmland and flat earth. No one would be able to approach secretly from there unless they had Locus’s level of stealth technology. He doubts that, on a small colony like this. If anyone is going to try and steal the supplies, they’ll come from the west, where there’s a forest and a thick underbrush and the potential to sneak up on the group.

The supplies have almost been completely divided and packed into farmers’ trucks when Locus spies a flash of movement among the trees. A second later, there’s the sounds of vehicles. He moves forward as three motorcycles burst out of the forest.

The riders skid to a stop, kicking up a spray of dirt. All three are masked and armed. One of them levels a rifle towards the farmers and says, “You can finish packing the supplies, but we’ll take them all.”

Most of the farmers are unarmed, but Maria isn’t. She unholsters her pistol and says in the same unimpressed voice as before, “Fuck off.”

As Maria and the shotgun-wielding thief aim their weapons at each other, Donut steps forward, his hands up. His voice is cheerful and calm, like he gets weapons aimed at him every day. “Hey, look, we can talk about this. You need supplies too? We can figure something out.” By the time he’s finished speaking, he’s positioned himself between the gunmen and the civilians.

The other two gunmen reach for their weapons.

Locus moves.

The leader is currently the greatest threat. Locus shoots out his kneecaps.

The man screams and falls off his motorcycle, dropping his rifle and clutching at his knees. His companions pause, staring down at him.

One of them says, “What the fu--”

Locus slams a fist into the side of his helmet. The second man goes down. His motorcycle goes down with him, but he must already be unconscious, because he doesn’t even yell.

The last man jumps off his motorcycle, jerking his rifle up and staring around, his gun swinging wildly as he tries to figure out who’s attacking him. His finger twitches towards the trigger; he yelps as Locus rips the rifle out of his hand. Locus turns the rifle into a temporary bat, cracking it against the man’s helmet, and he goes down as well.

Only then does he drop the stealth mode. “I have some restraints on my ship.”

His words are met with a stunned silence, except for Maria, who looks almost impressed, and Donut, who claps his hands and says, “Thanks, Locus! Way to take on three dicks at once!”

This time the silence is uncomfortable.

“...Shit,” Donut sighs.

Locus laughs.

“I don’t have any jobs for you at the moment,” Aiko says after they’ve settled the payment. A hint of amusement creeps into her voice as she adds, “Though if Maria reaches out, I might send you her way again. She said that you guys weren’t half-bad.” That’s apparently high praise from Maria.

Locus nods. “I understand.”

He’s prepared to leave when Donut asks, “If you don’t have any jobs, do you have recommendations for a vacation spot?”

Locus turns to look at him, more than surprised he should be. After all, hadn’t Locus offered to take Donut to his next destination? The job had simply been a momentary detour. Of course Donut would want to continue his trip.

“...I’m not the best person to ask, Frank,” Aiko says dryly.

“Oh, come on! You have contacts all over! I bet you know a few nice places, even if you won’t treat yourself to a vacation.” Donut turns to Locus. “Just like a certain someone I could name. When’s the last time you went on a vacation?”

“When I was a child,” Locus says. He doesn’t think much about his answer -- there wasn’t much time during the war to relax -- but Donut makes a disappointed noise at him and even Aiko looks askance.

“Ugh, that’s a crime,” Donut says.

Locus stares, debating if he should call Donut out on his interesting choice of words.

Then Aiko says, “Well, I’ve heard Lunastus has some great restaurants. And that sector of space is relatively peaceful. I don’t get much business there.”

Donut says, “That sounds--”

“No.” Locus doesn’t mean to snap, but the word comes out hard enough that both Aiko and Donut stare at him. He doesn’t elaborate. The conversation has somehow spiraled out of control the way they seem to with Donut, but now he’s not amused or baffled by it. He grows tense in his armor, claustrophobic in a way he hasn’t since he first enlisted.

He barely pays attention when Aiko says slowly, “There’s always Berceuse. Lots of hot springs and tourist attractions.”

“Hot springs it is, I guess,” Donut says, but he’s still watching Locus.

Locus is hit by a wave of relief when Donut doesn’t say anything else, when he doesn’t even ask one of his usual questions. His armor makes a quiet sound as he shifts his stance, relaxing slowly. “Berceuse,” he agrees.

Donut doesn’t ask about Lunastus, but the planet still haunts Locus like a specter.

The six-day trip to Berceuse isn’t difficult travel -- honestly, A'rynasea could do it herself on autopilot -- but Locus keeps to the controls, distracting himself with the journey instead of old memories. He sleeps in the pilot chair, eats his meals at the controls, busies himself with scanning the news for anything interesting, as though Berceuse will somehow have become a hotspot for trouble by the time they get there.

He’s so focused on distracting himself with travel and news reports that he doesn’t notice Donut’s strange silence until Donut finally speaks, propping his hip against the panel once more and announcing, “Okay, put A'rynasea on autopilot and come with me,” in a determined tone that dares Locus to say no.

Locus stares at him. Donut is wearing the same plaid shirt as before, and the determination in his voice matches his expression.

Locus tries to guess what Donut wants. Is he going to insist on Locus sleeping on the cot? Locus has been sleeping perfectly fine in the pilot chair, and besides, he’s learned to rest on a minimum of sleep.

But Donut doesn’t lead him towards the sleeping quarters. Instead they head towards the cargo bay.

Locus stops in the doorway, blinking. There’s a blanket on the floor, and a picnic spread of wine, cheese, and fruit. “What is this?” he asks, though the answer is somewhat obvious.

“A picnic and, um, an apology?”

“Apology,” Locus repeats blankly.

“Yeah! You've gone all, um, grim and broody.” Donut tilts his head, all his attention focused on Locus. It’s a bit like having a spotlight in Locus’s face. But it means he can see the nervous twitch of Donut’s lips when Donut asks, “Is it the vacation thing? I should've asked, but I didn't think you'd get mad at the idea of a vacation, so, uh, if you really don't want to, we don’t--”

Locus listens to Donut ramble a nonsensical apology for a minute with growing confusion. Is that what Donut has been thinking for the past three days? That Locus was mad at him?

“Donut,” he says, but Donut keeps talking. A little louder, he says, “Donut. I’m not angry.”

“So--” Donut stops. He blinks. “What? I mean, good!” For a second he looks relieved. Then another frown creases his forehead. Concern creeps into his expression. “But, uh, you were still brooding pretty hard there, mister! What’s up?”

Locus’s first thought is to stay silent. If he stays silent, maybe Donut will just move on like he has with all the other questions Locus has ignored over the past few days. Donut will talk about how he got this picnic set up and they’ll talk about what Donut plans to do when Locus drops him off on Berceuse.

Donut doesn’t. Instead the concern just deepens to worry. Donut actually bites his lip. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to! It’s just, uh, like I said, you’re brooding pretty hard there so, uh. I’ve got a listening ear if you need one!” He taps his left ear.

Locus hesitates. Donut is clearly going to worry even if he won’t press Locus for answers. And he has enough issues with his reaction to Agent Washington’s injuries, he shouldn’t have to worry about Locus too.

But the thought of explaining Lunastus is…

Locus feels that claustrophobia pressing in again.

“Right, okay!” Donut says. Locus realizes he’s been silent for too long when Donut forces a smile and says with a forced cheerfulness, “Well, at least enjoy the picnic with me! This wine won’t stay chilled much longer.”

As Donut turns towards the picnic blanket, Locus tries to speak. He can’t quite get enough air, even with the filters working at one hundred percent efficiency. He reaches up and works at the latches of his helmet. Only years of being a soldier keeps his hands steady as he lifts it off and takes a deep breath of ship filtered air.

“Donut.”

Donut looks up. His eyes widen. Brittle cheer is replaced by something else, surprise and another emotion Locus can’t quite name. Then Donut says, “Oh. Uh. Wow. Hi.”

Locus raises an eyebrow. “Hi?”

Donut flushes. “Nothing! I just. Uh.”

Locus looks at him for a second, and then refocuses. “You asked about Lunastus.”

Donut blinks. The pink fades from his cheeks. He gets that focused look again. “Yeah.”

Locus is quiet for a moment, weighing his words, debating what he can say without calling up too many memories. He takes another breath. Finally he says, “I can’t go to Lunastus. I made a promise to an...old partner.”

Donut looks a little confused. “To not go to a vacation there?”

“To never step foot on the planet where his family lives.”

With the admission comes the memories Locus had hoped to avoid. It comes in sense memory. He tastes the ginger and brown sugar glaze on the pork belly as Wu introduces him to his family, the champagne Felix made him and Wu drink after their first successful bounty, and then, overwhelming all the other tastes, the blood and gunpowder thick on his tongue as he makes that final promise to Wu.

He swallows, but the last taste lingers.

“Oh,” Donut says slowly. He’s studying Locus’s expression, and Locus suddenly regrets taking off his helmet. Then Donut smiles. It’s a smile of encouragement, like he thinks Locus needs it. “Well, we wouldn’t want you to break your word! Besides, I was in the mood for hot springs. I bet the water will relax you too!”

It takes a second for Donut’s meaning and hopeful smile to register. He intends the Berceuse trip to be a vacation for them both.

Locus remembers Donut asking when his last vacation was, looking at the question in a new light. It had been a lead up to an implied invitation, not just one of Donut’s endless curious questions. Donut wants him to enjoy a vacation, just like he set up this picnic and offered an unnecessary apology, all to make Locus feel good.

Locus doesn’t know how to respond. His helmet dangles in his grip. He has a ridiculous impulse to put it back on.

“Maybe,” he says at last.

Donut’s smile widens. He tilts his head to the side and gives Locus another considering look, one that makes Locus feel as though he’s taken off more than just his helmet. “Maybe not. A man who hasn’t had a vacation in ages probably needs a nice, hard massage.”

Locus doesn’t get a chance to react to that, because Donut immediately coughs. He taps the side of his jaw and adds, “From a professional, of course! Now where’s that wine….”

When Donut doesn’t move, Locus points towards the small bucket holding the wine bottle and some rapidly melting ice.

“Oh!” Donut says, blinking like he’s forgotten his own picnic plans. He laughs. “Right.” He sits down on the blanket and takes the wine, popping the cork with practiced ease, the muscles of his arm flexing with the movement.

Locus sits down across from him.

Donut pours them both a large glassful of white wine. “Aiko actually let me use some of my cut for the cheese and grapes, if you can believe it.”

“Generous of her,” Locus says dryly. He takes a sip of his wine, feels his shoulders relax as the taste chases away the memory of gunpowder and blood. The cheese helps too, a tangy burst of flavor. Donut does know his wine and cheese pairings. “Do your mothers also own a vineyard?”

When Donut stares at him over the rim of his glass, Locus realizes how infrequently he asks questions. Then Donut shakes his head. “No, but there’s a hotel and vineyard nearby. I worked there in the winter for a couple years, to help out.”

“Is there not much to do on the farm in winter?”

Donut laughs. “Wow, you are a city boy, huh? There’s always work on the farm. But a few extra dollars don't hurt. You never know when something expensive is gonna break.”

Over the course of the picnic, which involves cheese, grapes, and quite a bit of wine, Locus asks more questions about the farm. He finds himself genuinely interested in Donut’s answers, which Donut gives around copious amounts of wine. After a couple glasses, Locus notices that Donut keeps turning his head a little, his unscarred ear angled towards Locus. He adjusts his volume accordingly.

Eventually the conversation shifts from the farm to Berceuse.

“We’re going to the hot springs,” Donut declares, pointing his half-filled glass at Locus. Then he frowns. “Though maybe you won’t like that. I don’t think armor is allowed, and I think everyone gets naked.” He takes a swallow of his wine, and then adds, “Wow, I would enjoy that view….”

It’s clearly meant to be a whisper, but it’s a drunken one, which is to say, not a whisper at all.

One last puzzle piece falls into place. Locus recognizes the look in Donut’s eyes now, the same look Donut wore when Locus took off his helmet. It’s heat and desire and a few other things Locus hasn’t had directed at him in...a while. Since before he became Locus and tried to forget about Sam Ortez entirely. Desire is almost a foreign concept, except that Donut’s look sparks an answering warmth in him that he can’t dismiss this time as a mistake with his armor’s temperature controls.

He almost laughs at himself, except that it isn’t funny. How did Donut slide so easily and silently under his defenses? His gauntleted fingers tighten around the stem of his wine glass.

“Donut,” he says, tasting the name in his mouth like the wine they’ve been drinking.

“Hm?” Donut glances over the rim of his glass, eyebrows up.

Locus fumbles for the right words. In the end, he goes for being direct.

“I also find you attractive.”

Donut chokes on his drink.

Locus ends up crouched next to him, patting his back as Donut coughs and splutters. “Breathe,” he advises, both amused and concerned by the way that Donut’s entire face is flushed red except for the patchwork of scars.

“Warn a guy before you say stuff like that!” Donut says when he can breathe again. He’s smiling as he says it, at odds with his scolding tone. He looks up and meets Locus’s eyes. His smile goes lopsided. “...Not that I don’t appreciate it, because, um.” He pauses. His expression changes. “Well I certainly couldn't do anything fun with a mouthful of wine, could I?”

“...Please tell me that one was on purpose.”

“Oh, definitely,” Donut assures him. His smile is an open invitation.

Locus starts to lean down.

Donut surges up to meet him. His fingers curl into Locus’s hair. Locus stills under the touch, and then Donut closes the distance. He kisses with all the expected eagerness, but sweetly too, humming appreciative sounds against Locus’s mouth as his fingers stroke through Locus’s hair.

Locus should reciprocate but Donut keeps kissing him. It’s distracting. Locus could just stay like this for a while, savoring Donut’s warm mouth.

It’s only when Donut pauses to breathe and beam at him that Locus focuses enough to stroke his hand down Donut’s back. He has the sudden regret that he didn’t change out of his armor for the picnic, that he’s touching Donut with a gauntlet. He wonders if Donut’s skin is as warm as his lips.

Donut doesn’t seem bothered. His unsteady breathing becomes even more unsteady. He stays close. “I am so glad we bumped into each other in that marketplace.”

Locus remembers hearing Donut criticize fruit and wondering if the universe was playing an elaborate joke on him. Perhaps it was. If so, this is an unexpected punchline. He smiles. “Yes.”

“Now,” Donut says, and his hands slide from Locus’s hair to his shoulders. “Mind helping with that armor? Not that I wouldn’t enjoy unwrapping you, but….” He leans in for another kiss and doesn’t finish his thought.

Locus gets distracted too, kissing Donut back. He makes a halfhearted attempt at taking off his armor, but it’s difficult when Donut is sitting and Locus is kneeling and Donut doesn’t seem inclined to stop clutching at his shoulders.

When they stop, Donut laughs, a warm, delighted sound. “Okay, better idea. Sleeping quarters.” He gives Locus a lingering once-over. “I can’t wait to get you into a real bed on Berceuse.”

Locus has never been particularly imaginative, but it doesn’t take much to reverse that promise, picturing Donut spread out on a large bed, that smile of invitation back on his face. He touches Donut’s cheek, at the edge of the scars. “If I push A'rynasea’s engines, I can eliminate a day’s travel.”

“Promises, promises,” Donut says, laughing again. He turns his head a little to kiss Locus’s fingertips.

Locus can’t feel the kiss, but it doesn’t dull his desire. “Maybe a day and a half,” he amends.

Donut practically jumps to his feet. “Let’s go see if that cot is big enough for two!”

“And if it isn't?”

“We'll improvise.”

Definitely a joke from the universe, Locus decides, as he smiles fondly at Donut's suggestive eyebrow waggle.