Work Text:
Sometimes, when you look in the mirror, your face is all you see. Just that, the facts, the images, nothing more. Blueish eyes, the colour pale and faded in the harsh sodium light, facial hair, a tad too long to be called stubble but still too short to pass for an actual beard, skin, tinted grey and blue, the obvious sign of someone living in enclosed spaces, far away from any sun. Sharp angles, frowns and wrinkles. Tiredness. Stress. Lack of sleep.
The physical description blurs into something deeper, something with actual meaning. The wrinkles around eyes turn into last few hours in the cockpit, assisting, steering, taking care of all that is to be taken care of when simple act of landing turns into game of dodgeball with space rubble and pirate's missiles. A frown pulling the eyebrows close together turns into days, weeks, years of glaring and eyes-narrowing, duelling and intimidating. A tight line of lips turns into the bitterness of long, lonely hours after the lights are off and there's no one to see, no one to judge, no one to ask questions.
Gary wasn't a big fan of mirrors. He needed them, of course, he had to use them to maintain his looks, take care of the impression he was about to give to the outside world, cringing at the very idea of turning into one of those space thugs, looking like beasts and behaving accordingly. He was never going to be one of those, no, so he needed something more than just his crewmen eyes to reflect his presence. He needed an objective tool.
He moved his hand up, smoothing the white collar of his shirt – not white enough, unfortunately, but still passable – and then sliding down to the thicker fabric of his vest. Metal buttons, nicely polished and casting silver reflexes, the chain of his watch, hanging just right, the discreet nod towards the 'good old days' and the tradition, a detail that could earn some extra points from the possible employer.
The weight of his jacket felt like home as he pulled it over his shoulders, hands sliding through the sleeves like so many times before, making him think of uniforms, those he used to own and wear, those that made him feel like putting on an extra layer of his personality, revealed only on special occasions. This one, it felt like that as well, it was his uniform, even thought it was just a fancy piece of thick wool, dark blue and well worn. The brass buttons popped into their holes easily, the fabric tightening over his back, hugging him closely, causing him to stretch and straighten up just a little more.
The man from the mirror looked back at him, the eyes suddenly not so pale any more, the lips even tighter, almost a straight, white line, the jaw set, the shoulders broad and strong. Gary liked that image, liked the confidence it was pouring into his heart, banishing the tiredness, doubt and guilt. He shuffled his feet, flexed his neck, reaching out to brush a small speck of dust off his high collar, and then he froze still.
There it was, glaring back at him – a lump of gold and black, a shiny, intricate mechanism in a place of his hand.
His hand.
Funny, how it would always take him by surprise, even after all those years. It was there, a part of him, something that was truly his whether he wanted it or not, but it would still make his heart skip a beat, make his breath hitch, as if the realisation was sneaking upon him. It was his hand, his artificial hand, shaped like an ancient gauntlet. Stylish, functional, perfect in its fakeness. A statement of his wealth for those who had no idea it wasn't him who paid for it. A piece of his past for those who were close enough to him to know.
For him, a forever unresolved history.
Sometimes, what you see in the mirror, are just facts, just images, information about how things look like to the outside world. But as Gary kept on looking at this man in the mirror, his captain jacket, his messy stubble, his strong shoulders, all he could really see was that pale hand with long fingers wrapped around the metal wrist of the gauntlet, and the pale blue eyes slowly filling with cold, metallic glint.
There was no room for sadness here, no room for peeking into the past, no room for remembering, he told himself as he turned away from the mirror. He was ready to face what was ahead of him.
The metal felt surprisingly warm under his fingertips.