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The balmy summer air was sweltering even at this time of night, and even out here in the vast middle of fuck-off-nowhere. The journey to the next port – where the fleet intended to moor for a few days and get raucous and inhibited in the first town they stumbled upon – felt tediously long in this weather, the boredom having already set in for many of the crew with very little persuasion. Factions had split off throughout the divisions, separating those who claimed they didn't care about the high humidity or the sheen of sweat they all sported, never evaporating... And then there were the others who told the truth, loudly, and moaned about it almost as much as they moaned about wanting to reach port already.
Marco was resolutely somewhere between these two warring sides, refusing to be pulled into the men's bickering and whining regardless of how they tried enticing him in with stupid comments and banal attempts at rousing his anger. He didn't care, and he was perfectly at ease with reminding his division – and any other division for that matter – that he didn't care. He liked the heat, and the moisture in the air didn't bother him. The allure of the promised port town washed off him as easily as rain, unfazed and blankly uninterested in getting shitfaced on land when he could do it quite happily right here at home.
Which was probably why he was on nightshift duty in the infirmary and the other doctors, save for Deuce, were decidedly not. They had suggested in long-suffering tones that barely carried the whisper of sincerity that, as Marco was quite happy to stew in his sweaty scrubs, maybe he could take one for the team (or division, in this case) and sit through the night. He had been agreeable, waving off the late shift team with a broad, sarcastic smile before turning back to Deuce.
Deuce, however, was not of the same mindset as Marco. Deuce was very much one of the Moaners, making irritated quips at how uncomfortable it was in the infirmary despite the fans being on full power, tugging at the neck of his scrubs and tsking far more often than Marco thought was strictly necessary. So put out by getting wrangled into the nightshift was Marco's favorite subordinate, he didn't even laugh at any of Marco's jokes that night, instead glowering at him like he'd just traipsed mud in through the clean suite.
“Come on,” Marco had said genially, bumping his shoulder to Deuce's with a grin, “it's not that bad, is it? I bet you wouldn't be able to sleep even if you tried anyway, so what better way to while away the night than chatting with me?”
Normally, Deuce would have probably flushed under the subtle implication that Marco enjoyed his company, or else conceded defeat and admitted that yeah, there was no way he'd be getting any sleep in this heat, so why not have some fun with his commander?
Tonight, unfortunately, Deuce only gave him a cold look as he scraped his hair back into a ponytail, muttering an annoyed, “I can think of plenty of things I'd rather be doing.”
Ah. Right, then.
Marco couldn't exactly dismiss him from duty (even though right at that moment he dearly wished he could) seeing as there had to be two medics on shift as a minimum at any given time. Marco was not about to flout that rule for any reason; who knew what could happen in this fleet, on this ship, in the dead of night when tempers were already running far higher than usual?
This was going to be a long night after all.
... Made even longer, it became apparent around 2am, by Deuce falling asleep at his desk, nodding off right where he sat due to lack of anything to focus on, resolute in his decision to decline engaging Marco in any friendly banter.
Guess he could sleep through this after all.
Marco didn't wake him. He couldn't say he really blamed him, given that there were no overnight casualties to keep them busy with check-ups and check-ins to see if everyone was definitely still alive. No nurses were on shift to bother Deuce with squeals of ooh baby doc or otherwise fawn over their youngest doctor, either – Marco had dismissed them all, insisting they have a night off.
(If they were going to add to the complaining and huffed sighs that Deuce continuously produced, then Marco didn't really want them around anyway).
So it was just him. Just him, the book he'd been trying and failing to get into, and Deuce's gentle breathing.
And, apparently – suddenly, from nowhere, with no warning – Ace, standing at the door, wide-eyed and giving Marco the impression that he himself didn't fully understand what he was doing there.
For a second they stared at each other, this meeting certainly not one that Ace had planned nor anticipated, judging by his expression. Then Marco cleared his throat pointedly and raised a questioning eyebrow at his fellow commander, filling the silence.
“You're up late,” he said, because hello didn't seem to fit in anywhere into this scenario. “What gives?”
Ace shifted uncomfortably, hand jumping up to play with his hair. “Just passing,” he said in a plain attempt at nonchalance, failing spectacularly, “saw the light was on, thought I'd say hi.”
Marco's eyebrow rose higher still. “In the middle of the night?”
“Yeah,” Ace said to Marco's knees, twirling his hair between his fingers, “as you do, y'know.”
The urge to smile caught him, but Marco fought it down under an impassive, blank look. “I see,” he said flatly. Ace looked relieved for the split-second pause Marco granted before he added, “and this wouldn't have anything to do with Deuce being on duty tonight, would it?”
Because yes, Marco was fully, totally, painfully aware of how close the two friends were. They might try to argue that sharing a bedroom with your best friend was normal, but Marco was pretty certain that if he had suggested Izou budged over and surrendered half of his bed, then he would get told where he could go park his ass instead.
It was weird – bordering on abnormal – for a commander to share a bedroom with a member of a different division, especially given that the two denied dating… yet Marco guessed they must have their own reasons, whatever they may be.
“Why would it have anything to do with him?” Ace asked just a bit too quickly, a little too defensively. “We're not married, we're not—he's not—I can sleep just fine without him, it's not like I need—”
And there it was.
Marco put his book down on the desk, marking it with the bookmark he'd definitely not stolen from Thatch a couple weeks ago.
Perhaps this endless shift was going to become interesting after all.
“Come in and keep me company; stay with me 'til dawn, even,” Marco instructed, not offering, not up for debate, “and feel free to shut the door if you like. There's no breeze anyway; we just left it open in the hope of tempting one in.”
Ace did as he was told, easing the door shut, his eyes fixed on Deuce over Marco's shoulder. “He fell asleep?” He asked quietly, clearly surprised. “Since when does Deuce fall asleep on shift? And since when do you let anyone get away with falling asleep on shift?”
Marco grinned, wheeling his chair around to face Ace, who flopped down onto the couch against the far end of the office that regularly doubled up as a napping spot for the nurses on their breaks. “Special circumstances,” he said, “seeing as it's a slow night.”
“A hot night, too,” Ace frowned, bending to pull his boots off, “do you mind?” He checked before yanking the first one off; Marco shook his head. “This heat's really getting to me.”
You and everyone else, Marco thought, but decided not to comment. Rationally speaking, it probably was a whole lot worse for Ace than anyone else on board.
“Is that why you couldn't sleep?”
Ace hesitated mid-tug on his second boot, then said, “sure, yeah, that's why.”
He couldn't be more obvious if he tried. Explanations sprang to mind at once – many of them, each more abstract and stranger than the previous – to try and unpick Ace's behavior, the real reason for his appearance in the med bay in the dead of night.
“Would you like something to help you sleep?” Marco offered, sure that finding a pill to aid him wasn't what had brought Ace here at all. “We've got all kinds of pills that could help knock you out, if that's what you want.”
The look Ace gave him then was curious at best, and worrying at worst. Reluctance drew his expression inwards, sinking deeper and deeper down into himself until he was in danger of becoming lost in whatever thought this question had triggered. The frown Marco pulled went unnoticed, Ace's hands coming to a rest in his lap, sitting upright and rigid as if he were at an interview rather than sitting in the comfort of a friend.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Marco gently offered, wheeling in closer still. Gray flashed as Ace looked up again, obviously nervous (though why, Marco couldn't guess), and Marco added, “if you'd like to, that is. I get the feeling that something's bothering you.”
Holding his gaze for far longer than necessary, refusing to look away though allowing for a blink, then another, Marco was given the opportunity to study Ace's face properly, to really look at him closely. The whites of his eyes were pink, though not from a lack of sleep of the type that Ace was trying to portray. There was a difference – a small one, yes, but a difference nonetheless – between the eyes of someone who was simply up later than normal, and of someone who had been asleep, but then awoken far too soon. Ace bore the latter, betraying that he hadn't been tossing and turning in bed for hours under the weight of the humidity, but rather had found his peace disrupted.
“Nothing's bothering me,” Ace said firmly, the old defiant inflection from the early days making him gravelly, deeper. “I'm fine.”
“Then why are you here, if not for Deuce?” Marco challenged, expecting Ace to flare up at the direct question.
He was disappointed.
“I went for a walk, like I said,” Ace said, dropping his gaze again, “I didn't intentionally set off to end up here.” He looked up, met Marco's eyes - frowned, annoyed, looked away. “Nothing's wrong,” he spat (at himself? At Marco?), “stop doing that thing where you look for reasons and explanations and shit.”
“Why can't I? It's part of my job,” Marco countered easily, resting his chin on his knuckles, elbow to knee. “No one ever wants to tell their doctor they didn't fall on the beer bottle and did, in fact, willingly insert it into themselves, after all. I've got to be at least a third-rate detective to get anywhere in this role, with this crew.”
Ace snorted, biting his lip in an attempt to stop the unwilling smile from spreading before it turned into laughter.
“I haven't inserted anything anywhere in myself,” Ace said, glancing at him, reluctant amusement dancing in his eyes.
“I'm glad to hear it.”
Now there would have been a hilarious reason for waking Deuce – hey Deuce, we've got a patient. Get your gloves on and come perform a PR on your ex-captain, please.
“But I don't believe you otherwise,” Marco added; the smile went out in a puff of smoke, leaving Ace looking drawn and guarded again. “Something's wrong, and I want to help you.”
Ace snorted again, this time without mirth coloring it. “Why?”
“Because you're my friend, and I'm concerned about you.”
Was that an accusatory glare? Was it contempt that flashed through Ace's eyes when he lifted his gaze to hold Marco's, to challenge it? This felt a little dramatic this late into the night, the closeness and sticky quality of the air making for an uncomfortable environment as it already was – although the snort of a snore from Deuce at that moment punctuated the tension somewhat. He didn't wake though, only grunting at himself as if annoyed by the disruption before settling back into his steady, slow breaths.
And then, at last, Ace exhaled long, low, and whistling, visibly deflating with it, as if he had been holding onto so much – too much – energy that only sought to twist him inside, leaving him drained and anxious.
“You're not allowed to laugh at me,” he informed, frowning.
“You have my word,” Marco agreed.
“Promise?”
“Absolutely.”
Ace hesitated again, leg bouncing nervously on the spot all of a sudden. The humidity seemed to close in on them as Marco waited as patiently as he could manage, quite certain that the big reveal would not be anything lifechanging and would, in fact, be rather benign. That was typically how it went with the younger members – they would wind themselves up over little, insignificant details, over worries and thoughts that seemed intrusive until unraveled and smoothed out, spread between friends and examined in detail until all of the anxiety was rationalized and addressed.
And Ace, as ever, did not prove Marco wrong.
“I had a nightmare,” Ace mumbled as if he were admitting he liked doing something invasively disgusting in his spare time, “a really bad one. I woke up in a panic, and Deu wasn't there.” He huffed a humorless, soundless laugh. “I knew he was on the nightshift tonight, but when I was panicking, I forgot that. I thought he'd—” But his words stuck in his throat; Ace swallowed hard, teeth gritted and jaw clenched, suddenly looking desperately vulnerable and small.
Marco's first instinct, on hearing the word nightmare, was to make a joke of it. Oh, poor thing, were you dreaming of monsters under the bed? Sea kings attacking the ship? There there, poor dear, let's get you a cup of cocoa and tuck you back into bed.
But a nightmare like that wouldn't make a man look like he was on the precipice of a breakdown now that the secret was voiced, staring back into the eyes of whatever demon had snared him and refused to release him even on waking. Ace looked haunted, gaunt, and tired. Impossibly tired, right down into his core, into his heart, like the nightmare had never ended and he was living and breathing it even now.
Nodding slowly, Marco asked, “would you like to tell me about it? Maybe talking about it will make it seem less real.”
But Ace shook his head vehemently, suddenly looking nauseated by the suggestion. “I can't,” he gasped, wide eyes giving him the look of the cornered, the caught. “I can't.”
He glanced over Marco's shoulder again to where Deuce napped, his expression imploring, perhaps silently screaming in his mind for his friend to wake up. When Marco tilted his head in mute questioning, Ace reluctantly added, “it's the same nightmare every time. Deuce knows all about it – he's known about it for years.”
Ace looked pained when his gray gaze flickered back to meet cobalt blue, apparently not registering the pang of irrational jealousy that must have crossed Marco's face no matter how hard he tried to control it.
“It never changes,” Ace mumbled, lacing his fingers together in his lap then unthreading them, then again, repeating this motion over and over in rhythmic repetition, “it never goes away.”
To Marco, this sounded like a trauma response. A suppressed memory, perhaps. A phenomenon where the individual experienced something horrifying as a child, maybe, and was never given the chance to make sense of what they saw, or come to terms with something deeply upsetting they had witnessed... or – and Marco shuddered at the thought – suffered from first-hand.
Therefore, Marco wasn't entirely sure what to say off the back of that thought. Ace hadn't come here to further relive his past, assuming that Marco was right and that was what had caused the nightmare. Ace hadn't come looking for therapy, but instead was almost definitely seeking comfort.
Marco glanced round at Deuce, understanding rushing as a solid heartbeat in his ears.
Deuce, who had been with Ace since the beginning, who had alluded to knowing things about Ace that he probably shouldn't, that when hungry and desperate and stranded on Sixis, one might reveal more about themselves than they would under normal circumstances. That perhaps, just as Marco knew more about Izou's past and inner workings than anyone else in the crew did, it was plausible that these two shared secrets of the likes that Marco couldn't begin to guess at.
Ace's past before Sixis was a mystery to Marco, to the crew – although he suspected that Pops knew something that he hadn't deemed acceptable to divulge, too – but it wouldn't be unreasonable to assume that Deuce knew it with unparalleled intimacy.
“And you say this is a recurring nightmare?” Marco asked carefully, gently. Ace nodded, though looked thoroughly ashamed of this fact. “How often would you say you have it?”
Ace hesitated, then said, “at least once a week, probably. I dunno. It varies. Sometimes it'll be every day, then nothing for a couple of weeks.” He shifted, bringing his feet up onto the couch to fold his legs crisscrossed, almost as if he were trying to protect himself. “It just depends.”
“Is that why you room with Deuce?” Marco asked before he could stop himself.
Could it be something as simple as that?
Ace shot him an unreadable look – something that conveyed both terrified anger and the challenge to laugh at him, go on Marco, laugh at the measures I need to take to protect my mental health.
Marco did not laugh. Ace's look confirmed everything he needed to know, and all Marco could think of was how severely sorry he felt for him.
“I don't make him do it against his free will,” Ace said with something of a defensive bite to his voice. “I've told him plenty of times that he doesn't have to do this if he doesn't want to, but he won't listen to me. And I'm... I'm really so...”
Grateful. Thankful. Blessed to have a friend who understands and addresses my needs, even if it is to his own detriment. Marco could almost hear Ace say these things, could see them lighting up his face as he chewed on his lip, lost in how to go about expressing such raw emotions.
“I wasn't expecting to whisk him away from his work, by the way,” Ace continued when Marco simply nodded, processing and evaluating, mind racing with ways he could help them, help Ace. “I just didn't want to be in there alone, in the dark, with my thoughts and no one and nothing to distract me from them.”
Marco understood all too well.
“You're welcome to sleep here if you'd like to,” he said gently, and, though Ace twitched at the touch, he laid a hand to his bent knee, squeezing it reassuringly. “I can't let Deuce go, even though it doesn't look like we're going to have much to do tonight... You never know who's going to do something thoughtless in the middle of the night and get themselves injured. I can't risk having a casualty come in that I can't handle alone.”
“Yeah, I get it,” Ace sighed, “even though I can't imagine a scenario where you wouldn't be totally fine on your own, just for the record.”
“Oh, you'd be surprised. You think you've seen it all in this position, but then in comes someone with an injury that looks so thoroughly medically impossible, you start to question just how capable people really are at fucking themselves up.”
Ace snorted, giving Marco's hand a surprising squeeze back in return. “I think I'll take you up on your offer, then,” he said, suddenly looking utterly exhausted as he tried to stifle a yawn, “if you really don't mind.”
“I wouldn't offer if I did,” said Marco kindly, standing to lean over Ace and retrieve the knitted blanket that the nurses had made for him one Christmas from the back of the couch. “Here - you probably won't need it, but—”
“Thank you,” Ace said at once, taking the blanket, “and sorry for—”
“Don't apologize when you haven't done anything wrong,” Marco said quietly, reaching out to affectionately ruffle Ace's hair. “If you have another nightmare, I'll be right here to take care of you, okay? We don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to, either.”
Ace's smile was too soft; his gratitude too naked in his expression, lending him a vulnerability that Marco so very rarely saw in the young man. It pulled at something deep in his heart, made him want to protect Ace from whatever it was that haunted him—made him want to demand he learned his secrets too, to insist that he didn't have to confine himself to Deuce when he could share, could rely on Marco too, could let himself trust that little further beyond what he was already comfortable with—
“Thanks, Marco,” Ace murmured. “I appreciate it.”
Marco hesitated briefly before wheeling his chair back over to his desk, putting deliberate distance between them lest he do or say something unbearably affectionate. “How does Deuce usually comfort you after a nightmare?”
“Cuddles me,” Ace said perfectly easily, no shame to be found whatsoever, “talks to me. Tells me nice things.”
“Like what?”
Ace stared at him for a few agonizing heartbeats, looking at Marco as if trying to gauge how safe it was to tell him something that had to be pretty private and personal.
“Like...” Ace pulled a face, scrunching his nose up; his cheeks had colored, interestingly, as if sharing a bed and cuddling with his best friend wasn't anything to be embarrassed about, but being told nice things was. “That I'm loved by a lot of people... That he'll always be with me, no matter what... Uh... That I'm not... not...” Ace trailed off here, chewing on his lip again, looking frustrated. “Just normal stuff,” he finished feebly, shrugging, “whatever you'd normally say to a guy thrashing around and elbowing you awake, I guess.”
“Right.”
There was more to it – way more, far more than what Ace was willing to offer up right now – but Marco wouldn't press him further. Doing so wouldn't be for Ace's benefit, but to sate his own curiosity, hoping to gain a little insight into Ace's mind and Ace's inner workings. Selfishness masquerading as concern was not appropriate, and, as Marco watched him, Ace yawned widely, eyelids drooping when he scratched absently at his bare chest.
“I can do all of those things for you too, should you have another nightmare,” Marco said, avoiding Ace's eyes when he looked curiously at him, “so don't worry and get some sleep. If Deuce wakes up – and he should wake up soon enough if he wants to stay in my good books – I'll fill him in on why you're here.”
“Thanks, Marco,” Ace said through another stifled yawn as he shuffled around to get comfortable, pillowing his head on his arm. “And thanks for being cool about this. I appreciate you not laughing at us for rooming together, too; everyone else made fun of us when they first joined the Spades, saying it wasn't normal for friends to be that close.” He paused, frowning, then said, “guess they're right, actually.”
“Friendship like that is to be envied, not ridiculed,” Marco said sagely, smiling at Ace. “They're just jealous that they don't have a bond with anyone like you two do.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
Ace hummed in thought before offering a vague, “well, night, then.”
“Sleep well, Ace.”
The air still felt too close; the stillness almost choking. Calm took the place of vaguely annoyed, spreading through Marco right down to the tips of his fingers, and warmed him in ways the balmy summer air couldn't hope to.
He hoped that one day, through care and effort, he could be granted full access past Ace's barriers too.
And maybe, if he were lucky – if he were blessed by fate and good fortune alike – he might find himself permitted where even Deuce couldn't go, learning Ace on levels and in deep intricacy unlike anyone else ever had.
But ultimately, that would be up to Ace to decide.