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People always say that practice makes perfect. That you'll reach the top, rest and watch everything you overcame to get where you are right now. But most people focus on the finish line. The truth is, when gaining (or regaining) a skill, the climb is the most prominent part. The frustrating, torturous journey up, sluggish, and stupid, and so, so hard.
My name is Juno Steel. I used to be a sharpshooter before I lost my eye, and my evil prosthetic eye, and getting my skill back seemed at the time harder than climbing a mountain with no rope.
Buddy insisted on me practising every week, no matter how many times I remarked that, without depth perception, I might as well have been trying to lick my elbow.
It took me days to even pick up the blaster, and even more time to actually start using it in target practice. Not that I had much of a choice, Buddy said, and I quote, "Take all the time you need, darling, but I don't plan on waiting more than a month." So after three weeks and a half, I showed up to Buddy's room with my blaster at hand.
There's no sugarcoating this, I was bad. It was a miracle if I managed to hit the target anywhere, and the wall was covered in scorch marks. Buddy clapped her hands once and called our first practice session a success, then left before I could snap at her.
It kept going for weeks. We would spend two hours in that goddamn room, trying to make a camel pass through the eye of a needle, and every time I tried to convince Buddy that it was a lost cause, she would swat my concerns away with a wave of her hand. "Nonsense, you're already making progress. See? Now you hit inside the target half of the time."
Still, it became clear to me that two hours a week wasn't enough, so I started sneaking out of my room in the middle of the night to practice. I would spend at least three hours in the ship's storage, willing myself to stay awake and focused as I fired shot after shot after shot. Every improvement came by so slow, and was so tiny, that it didn't even give me satisfaction. I had to blink away tears several times every night, shooting until my arms were sore and my eye burned.
It was during one of these night trainings that it happened. I had fired four shots in a row, none of them even close to the perimeter of the target. "Goddamn it!" I yelled, clutching the blaster tighter as to not throw it against the wall.
"I don't think getting this irritated will help you sleep."
I gasped and turned around, pointing my weapon at...
"Ransom, what the hell?"
Nureyev shut the door and raised his hands in playful surrender. "We're alone, detective, you know what to call me. And I knew you were jumpy, but to threaten my life like this?"
It had been a couple of weeks since Nova Zolotovna, and we were still in the middle of talking things through. I could feel the way awkwardness slipped through his mask in the way his smile curved upwards a little too high.
I lowered the blaster and turned to stare at the target. "You don't have to worry, Nureyev. I wouldn't have been able to hit you even if you had been standing a few inches from me."
He walked closer, and in the corner of my eye I could see him next to me. "Oh, don't sell yourself short. That target tells a different story."
"Look, if you came here to make fun of me, you can turn away and go back to your room." I snarled, and I felt him tense up. "... I'm sorry."
"Juno..."
I turned to face him, and I saw something on his face. Hurt, obviously, but also something that looked suspiciously similar to concern.
"Why would you think I was mocking you?"
I remained quiet for a few seconds. "Because I'm crap. Look at that goddamn wall, I fired 60 shots while I was down here, and out of all of them, barely 15 hit the target."
He took a step forward, and I saw his hand twitching as if wanting to reach my face and cup my cheek. "You lost an eye. It's already impressive that you hit the target at all."
I snorted. "Yeah, right, after weeks of training, this is the best I can muster. How impressive."
"Fine, don't believe me if you want to. But even if you were, as you put it, crap, what good will beating yourself up do?"
"Well, for one it would give me immense satisfaction." He glared at me, and I stared at the floor, cheeks burning in embarrassment. "Force of habit."
"Oh, Juno..." He sighed. It wasn't one of his usual, fake sighs: sure, it was overexaggerated, as many things were with Peter Nureyev, but the feeling behind it was real and strong. "I know your stubborn little brain will never accept this, but you're doing great." I scoffed and turned around, grip tightening around the blaster as I aimed it at the target. "Of course you're not perfect right away, it takes time! You think I became a master thief overnight?"
I let my shoulders relax slightly. To anyone else, it wouldn't seem much. Just an offhand remark to drive his point home. But I knew Nureyev better at that point. It was a small detail about himself, something tiny and predictable, but he was offering it to me, and I knew from experience how much it cost him to be open. To be vulnerable.
"I guess not. But I have to get good at this, or-"
"Or what, Juno? Hm? Do you think Buddy invited you to join her simply because of your sharpshooting skills?"
The tone in his voice was slightly harsh, but not cold. I couldn't bring myself to look him in the eyes. "Well, I ain't got much going for me anyway."
He drew in a sharp breath, struggling to keep his composure. "You are the thickest person I've ever met in my life."
"Thanks, I'm finally eating properly, and I'm feeling very comfortable with-"
"That's not what I meant and you know it. My god, you're smart, you have a sharp tongue, you're determined-"
"Last time you called it being 'stubborn as a child in a supermarket'."
"-you're brave," he carried on, his voice going a little louder, "I'm not even going to mention how beautiful you are, you have so many qualities, and yet you always diminish yourself, dismissing your skills as overplayed, or as a product of sheer luck." He placed his hand on my shoulder, light enough that I could slip away from his touch whenever I wanted to. But why would I?
I placed my hand over his, turning to face him. "I know. Every time I think I'm getting better, I fall back into my old thought processes. It feels like I'll never truly get better."
He moved his other hand up, and his thumb brushed the stubble on my jaw. "You're doing it again." He warned me softly. "Downplaying your achievements just because you have more road ahead of you."
I stood on my toes and pressed my lips on his, all but melting under the hands of Peter Nureyev. "You're right." I said as I pulled away, stroking his cheek with a sigh. I turned to the target and looked at it once more, trying to keep at bay the old voice yelling that I was good for nothing. "You know, it actually is pretty impressive."
Nureyev beamed and kissed my temple. "About time you caught up. Now, will you please go to bed?"
I shook my head. "I've only been here an hour and a half, I have to-"
"My god, Juno, I think if you cut your training short this one night nothing will happen." He reached forward to fix my silk cap, which had gone askew sometime during the previous hour. "Will you accept to sleep if I stay in your room for the night?"
I turned again to face him, feeling like a spinning top. He was taking a leap of faith: sure, things were going better between us, but his wound wasn't fully healed. Once again, Peter Nureyev was opening himself up to me, and this time, I wasn't going to waste it.
"Fine. But only because it's you."
"Excellent." He grinned, as we started walking to my room.
"Why were you around the ship's storage in the first place?"
"I heard you leave your room several nights, and when curiosity got the best of me, I decided to follow you. You're not exactly quiet, you know?"
I groaned, rolling my eye with an annoyance that was completely performative. "That's why I leave the sneaking around to you."
"Hm."
Once we were in my room, I waited for him to be looking elsewhere to tuck the blaster under my pillow. "Are you gonna come to bed anytime soon, or will you keep me awake all night just to look at my stuff?"
He chuckled, climbing into bed and under the covers. "Apologies, my dear detective. I wouldn't want to put myself between a lady and his beauty sleep."
I muttered something in return, before turning off the light and rolling over to the other side. An arm slipped on my waist and I took it as an invitation to scoot closer.
"Thanks, Nureyev." I mumbled, right before I fell asleep, feeling perfectly safe in the one place I could truly call home.