Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Curly's first days out of the cryopod are surreal. The hospital room around him is both too quiet and too bright, clinical walls pressing in on him in a way that the ship never had. He feels the soft press of pillows behind his head, strange in their clean, unfamiliar texture after so long in the stark, icy stillness of cryosleep. His body is heavier, too—weighted by the thick, heavy layers of gauze and wrappings over every bit of him that used to be whole, yet they do little to hide the raw, aching spaces where his limbs once were.

A nurse steps in and dims the lights, her shoes squeaking softly as she crosses the room. He watches her with a lidless eye, his sight flickering between hazy awareness and darkness as exhaustion tugs at him. The nurse leans over, adjusting his bandages gently, keeping her hands light and careful as if any touch might hurt him. She tells him, softly, that he's safe. That he’s home. But Curly only looks past her, his mind barely processing her words. The place where he’s lying doesn’t feel like home—no, home had been his ship, with the hum of machinery and the comforting murmur of familiar voices around him. 

Every now and then, when the medical staff leave him alone, fragments of memories seep in, unbidden, flooding him with the echo of voices from his past. He remembers Jimmy’s laugh—sharp, almost mocking—and then the confusion as he felt himself being put under, a final look back before the world went dark.

As days pass, visitors come. Some of them are doctors, adjusting the cryopod’s effects on his system, and others are friends and family he barely recognizes. They try to talk to him, ask him questions, but the words only jumble together, the outside world still feeling distant and strange.

Curly drifts in and out, time slipping by in fragmented pieces. The nurses come and go, murmuring soft encouragements he barely registers, and sometimes a doctor hovers close, his voice a quiet hum explaining procedures that Curly can't quite hold onto. He catches snippets: "Recovery... grafting... nerve damage." The technicalities slide over him, meaningless when so much of his body is gone or broken beyond feeling.

One afternoon, the monotony of hospital routine shifts. A woman enters, her presence quieter than the nurses, her steps deliberate and careful. She’s older than he remembers, lines etched deeper around her eyes and mouth. She carries an air of strength he’s always known, but now there's something else—something brittle in her movements, as if her own body might fracture under the weight of her worry.

Curly blinks, his unbandaged eye struggling to focus as she moves closer. Recognition comes slowly, like a memory surfacing from deep water. His mother. For a moment, he wonders if he's still dreaming. She feels too solid, too real, in a world that has felt so foggy and elusive. But when she reaches out, her hand trembling as it brushes gently against the edge of his bandaged arm, he knows it’s her. Her touch is so light it doesn’t even hurt, but he feels it anyway—an ache beyond the physical, a tenderness that seems to burrow right into the marrow of him.

“Oh, my baby,” she whispers, her voice thick with emotion she can barely contain. “You came back to me…”

Her words hang in the air, as heavy as his own body. He opens his mouth to respond, but the damaged muscles refuse to cooperate, and all that escapes is a strained, gravelly rasp. He shuts his mouth, frustration pooling like bile in his throat, and tries instead to meet her gaze, to convey what he can’t say. 

She sits beside him, her hand lingering on the bandages wrapped around what used to be his wrist. Her fingers tremble slightly, her eyes tracing over the layers of gauze as if trying to see through them, to find her son beneath the scars and burns. She looks at him, but her eyes hold a distant, haunted quality, as though she’s remembering a much younger version of him—one who had scraped knees and chubby, curious fingers that used to pull flowers from the yard to give to her. The image flickers between them, almost tangible, and for a moment, Curly feels the ache of his missing hands with brutal clarity, as if the bones themselves remembered the things he could never hold again.

“I thought I’d lost you forever,” she says softly, her voice cracking under the weight of each word. “When they told me… when they said you’d…” She chokes off, taking a breath as her hand drifts to her mouth, trying to regain composure. “But you’re here. You're really here.”

Her words unravel something inside him, a wound he thought had been buried along with everything else in the void of cryosleep. He feels the burn of tears building, stinging the raw skin around his lidless eye, and his mother, seeing this, gently wipes it away. The tender, almost motherly act feels strange against the grotesque landscape of his face, but he leans into it, craving the warmth, the reminder of something good and human.

They sit in silence for a while, his mother’s hand holding the part of him that used to be his wrist, as if her grip alone might keep him tethered here, in the world of the living. He can’t move to hold her back, can’t even speak to tell her how much he’s missed her. But in the way her hand stays steady over the bandages, he senses she understands. There are things beyond words, things he can’t explain in this fragmented, broken state, but her presence is enough. It’s as if she’s piecing together the parts of him that are left, drawing together a memory of the person he used to be—before the ship, before the crash.

Eventually, she speaks again, her voice softer, carrying the warmth of a lullaby she used to sing when he was a child. “Do you remember when you used to pick me flowers? Dandelions, all the time, and you’d give them to me like they were the most precious thing in the world.”

Curly’s mind swims with the faded memory—hands that once reached out to her, grubby with dirt, clutching fistfuls of weeds as if they were treasures. He remembers her smile, the way she’d tuck the wilted flowers behind her ear, calling him her “little hero.” The memory feels distant now, more like something he read in a book than lived himself, but her voice brings it back, as if breathing life into a faded picture.

“I always thought you’d go on to do big things,” she murmurs, looking down at her hand holding his stub—hers warm and alive, his still and scarred beneath the bandages. “And you did, didn’t you? You were… a captain. They told me. They said you saved people.”

The words stir something in him, a flicker of pride mixed with a sorrow he can’t fully grasp. In his mind, he still sees the ship, the familiar faces, Jimmy’s laugh—sharp, cutting. He remembers the weight of responsibility, the thrill of exploration, but also the ache of failure, the lives lost. He wants to tell her about all of it, to fill the empty space with stories and confessions, but the weight of his broken body holds him back.

Finally, his mother leans over, pressing a kiss to the edge of his gauze-wrapped forehead. Her lips linger, and he feels the warmth of her breath against his skin, grounding him in a way he hasn’t felt since waking from the cryopod. It’s a fragile comfort, but he clings to it, letting the warmth seep through the cold places inside him.

She pulls back, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, and her mouth quirks into a small, brave smile. “I’m here, baby. I’ll be here every day, however long it takes.”

Her words resonate in the quiet, filling the space between them with something soft and steady. Curly meets her gaze, holding onto the promise she’s made, and feels, for the first time since the crash, a tiny flicker of hope—fragile, but real—kindling in the depths of his fractured heart.

Curly’s mother stays with him, her hand gentle but grounding on what’s left of his arm, a tether keeping him from floating off into the depths of regret and memory. He stares at her, at the face lined with worry and age, and there’s a churning in his chest he can’t release—something heavy he wants to scream but can’t, even if he had the voice. He tries to move his lips, but there’s nothing left to move, only the raw, unfeeling skin stretched tight over what used to be his mouth. 

And he thinks, even if he could speak, what would he say?

She’s sitting here, believing he came back a hero. But all he returned with was an empty vessel and the memories of those he failed to save. Every one of them lives inside him now like ghosts chained to his bones, pulling him down. They weren’t saved. None of them. Anya, with her quiet hum of soft ballads echoing through the corridors. Daisuke, who would mutter nonsense to himself, his mind wandering off to home. Swansea, rough around the edges and dutiful to the end. And Jimmy…

Jimmy, the friend he couldn’t save, the man he once trusted, the one he never truly understood. The betrayal, the crash, all of it felt like a wound that hadn’t yet bled, a wound too deep to reach. They were all gone, every single one of them. His mother’s belief in him, her gentle pride, it presses down on him like a weight, knowing he’s come back as nothing but a remnant of failure. And he can’t even tell her.

His eye blinks slowly, his vision swimming. The words are like a scream trapped in his head, louder and louder, until all he can do is turn his head and wish for darkness. He wishes he could tell her the truth—that there was nothing noble, nothing courageous in the end. He had been alone, his crew already gone, and all that remained was him, hollow and scarred beyond recognition. 

His mother’s fingers squeeze his arm gently, a silent comfort. Her presence is the only warmth he has felt since waking up, but the guilt claws at him from the inside. She deserves to know who he really is now, the man who couldn’t even keep his friends alive, who couldn’t bring them home. But he doesn’t have the words, even if he had the voice. And he knows she’ll keep coming, day after day, her belief in him unbroken, binding him here with kindness he doesn’t think he deserves.

Curly lets her stay, his mother’s hand the only comfort he knows how to hold onto. But deep inside, where the silence festers, he feels the weight of their names—the names of the friends he couldn’t save—echoing in his mind like a cold, unspoken confession.

Chapter Text

Spring brings a gentle warmth that Curly feels even through the twisted nerves under his healing skin, and he breathes in the air, taking in the scent of damp earth, budding flowers, and fresh grass. His wheelchair hums softly as he guides it down the path, his hands steady on the controls, leading him toward the little lake nestled in the park's heart.

Without the heavy bandages, he feels lighter, though the cool breeze grazes the skin of his face and limbs, some patches still raw and sensitive, a reminder of the delicate line he’d balanced on between survival and something far worse. Yet here he is, breathing in the day, watching the sunlight glint off the water where ducks swim lazily, their quiet quacking floating over to him.

The birds dart from tree to tree, oblivious to the man sitting below, his presence no more disruptive than any other passerby. Curly watches the tiny, fluttering movements, the way they dip and soar, oblivious to the weight that presses down on his chest even as he sits in the peaceful silence.

He comes here often now, drawn to the park’s rhythms—the way life continues, untouched by his own scars. Watching these simple creatures, these ducks and sparrows living unburdened, fills him with something he doesn’t quite have a name for. Not peace, exactly, but close. He has something to cling to, something he never expected he’d feel again.

And then, one afternoon, as he sits there, a man walks by with a soft smile and pauses just a little ways off, looking down at him. The man is tall, wearing a weathered coat and scarf, his hands tucked into his pockets as he takes in the lake, the ducks, the gentle rustling of leaves in the breeze. For a moment, he seems lost in his thoughts, like he’s wandered here with a weight of his own.

Curly’s gaze drifts up to the man’s face, catching the briefest hint of something familiar in that distant look. Before he knows it, the man has turned his way and caught his eye. Curly can’t help but straighten, his stump adjusting slightly on the wheelchair control. It’s been a long time since anyone looked at him for more than a passing glance, let alone someone who actually stopped.

The man’s eyes soften, his smile just shy of warm, as he nods toward the ducks. “Peaceful, isn’t it?”

Curly nods, trying to smile back, though his lips can’t quite shape the way they once did. Instead, he offers the slightest nod, gesturing with his shoulder toward the lake.

“Mind if I join you?” the man asks, his voice gentle, carrying the easy warmth of someone who means no harm.

Curly shifts his shoulder in a soft shrug, offering the man the faintest hint of welcome, his gaze returning to the lake. The man seems to take it as an invitation, settling down on the bench beside Curly, his posture relaxed, hands folded in his lap. There’s an ease about him, a quiet sort of presence that doesn’t press in, but sits comfortably in the silence, content just to be there.

They sit for a while without saying anything, and Curly finds he doesn’t mind. He’s spent so many hours here alone that the quiet has become a kind of companion, one he doesn’t give up easily. But this man doesn’t disturb it; instead, he seems to blend into it, matching Curly’s quiet with his own.

After a few minutes, the man speaks, his voice low, almost hesitant. “You come here often?”

Curly nods, feeling the faint tension in his shoulders ease. Words aren’t easy for him these days, not with his damaged throat and the muscles around his jaw tight and unyielding. But something about the man’s voice, his gentle presence, makes him feel like maybe he doesn’t need to say much.

The man glances over, studying Curly’s face with a look of gentle curiosity, and Curly braces himself, expecting the usual questions, the kind he’s come to dread. But the man only nods, as if he understands, and turns his gaze back to the lake.

“I get it,” he says quietly, as if to himself. “Sometimes, you just need a place to sit. To watch things… just be.”

The words are simple, but they settle in Curly’s chest, soothing something raw inside him. For a moment, he lets himself forget the scars, the memories that haunt his nights, and just breathes in the soft rhythms of the park around them.

He risks a glance at the man, studying him out of the corner of his eye. There’s something calm, something solid about him that Curly can’t quite put a name to. The man catches his gaze and offers a small smile, one that crinkles the corners of his eyes.

“I’m Ray,” he says, his voice soft, like he’s letting Curly decide if he wants to respond.

Curly’s arm trembles slightly, but he reaches up, nodding in acknowledgment. He tries to force his mouth to shape the word, but his voice comes out more of a rasp, his throat uncooperative. Still, Ray doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink. He just waits, patient and unhurried.

“Curly,” he finally manages, his voice little more than a breath of sound.

Ray’s smile grows, warm and easy. “Nice to meet you, Curly.”

There’s a silence, a comfortable one, and Curly feels something settle inside him, like a door opening just a crack. Ray doesn’t pry, doesn’t ask for more than Curly can give, and for the first time in a long time, Curly feels the faint stirrings of something he thought he’d lost.

Over the following weeks, Curly and Ray find themselves crossing paths at the park more often than either would have expected. At first, it’s simply by chance—Curly wheeling his way to the lake, his mind drifting as he watches the ducks, the trees, the wind ruffling the grass—and then Ray, always at the right moment, always sitting on the same bench, his eyes on the horizon or the quiet ripples in the water. It’s unspoken, but somehow, each time Curly arrives, Ray is there.

At first, Curly wonders if it’s coincidence. Maybe Ray just likes the park too, enjoys the peace it offers, the space to think without the world closing in on him. But after a few encounters, Curly starts to notice the way Ray’s eyes scan the area when he arrives, as though searching for something—or someone—before settling on the spot beside him.

They don’t say much at first. Curly isn’t much for talking, and Ray doesn’t push him. There’s a kind of understanding that grows between them in those moments. Ray simply exists next to him, a steady presence, while Curly sips the peace the park gives him. The birds, the rustling trees, the lapping of water against the shore—it all feels so distant from the life Curly once knew, from the noise and chaos of the ship, from the burning memories. It’s easier to breathe here, to let the silence fill the space instead of the weight of his past.

One afternoon, as they sit in their usual spots, Ray makes an offhand comment that draws Curly’s attention.

"You know," Ray says, looking sideways at him, "I’ve seen you here enough that I think it’s my turn to bring you something." He grins, reaching into his bag with a smooth motion. Curly watches with interest, though his gaze is more out of habit than curiosity.

Ray pulls out a small thermos and a cup, offering them to Curly with a soft smile. “I thought you might like some tea. It’s my favorite kind. Calms me down, y’know?”

Curly hesitates for a moment, not used to someone offering something so... kind, but he takes the cup from Ray’s hands, squeezing between his stumps. The warmth of it is a welcome contrast to the coolness of the afternoon air, and when he takes a sip, the taste is soothing, familiar. His eyes soften, though he doesn’t smile. It’s not a habit of his, at least not yet, but the warmth in his chest feels good, more than it should.

Ray watches him, his eyes flicking over Curly’s face, gauging the subtle shift in his expression. “You know,” Ray starts again, this time his voice quieter, “I’m glad you come here. Even if you don’t say much. I’m starting to look forward to it, when you show up.”

Curly feels the unexpected pang of something—an emotion he hasn’t let himself feel in so long. His gaze drops to the lake, trying to mask it. It’s strange, this kind of connection, when so much of his world has been about protecting himself from the rawness of life. He doesn’t know how to respond, not with words, but his stumps shift slightly, holding the cup more firmly. A small gesture, but Ray seems to understand. The silence between them deepens, but it’s comfortable now, a quiet rhythm that Curly doesn’t want to break.

As the days pass, their encounters continue. Sometimes they don’t speak for hours, simply existing in the same space, watching the world move around them. Other times, Curly will bring a book or a sketchpad and they’ll share a few quiet words here and there—about the weather, about the birds, about the park itself. And every once in a while, Ray will bring tea, or a snack, or something small and thoughtful that Curly never asks for, but always seems to appreciate.

Eventually, one afternoon, when the sky is heavy with the promise of rain, Ray surprises Curly again. He stands up, brushing the grass from his jeans, and without a word, reaches out a hand. It’s a simple, unspoken request. A gesture.

Curly hesitates, the space between them charged for just a moment, before his arm moves—tentative, but steady—and he places it in Ray’s.

Ray smiles at the contact, the warmth of it, and Curly feels a shift inside him. The touch is simple, unhurried, but it carries something heavier—something unspoken, a possibility that neither of them are ready to name just yet. But it’s there, lingering, like the tension before a storm, and for the first time in a long while, Curly feels that maybe it’s okay to let himself stay in this moment. Just here. Just with Ray.

The park feels like a different world to Curly. The trees sway in the breeze, their leaves rustling softly, and the chirping of birds sounds like distant music. It’s a welcome contrast to the chaos he once lived in, the harshness of the ship, the constant noise of machinery, and the screams—his own, the crew’s, the agony that still lingers in the pit of his stomach.

Curly pushes his wheelchair slowly along the gravel path, the soft click of the wheels the only sound accompanying him. He’s gotten used to the chair, used to the lack of legs, the lack of hands. What else could he do? After the crash, after the blood and the fire, after the things he couldn’t remember and the things he wished he could forget—there was no use in dwelling on what he couldn’t change.

What he hadn’t expected was the park. The quiet. The stillness. Here, he doesn’t feel like an alien. Here, he doesn’t feel the disgust that followed him everywhere before, not even from himself.

And then, there’s Ray.

It started with chance meetings. Ray sitting on a bench, the same bench each time. And Curly... Curly would just end up there too, pushing his chair into the grass or closer to the small lake. Ray would glance up, as if sensing him before he saw him, and the two would sit in silence. No words at first, but there was something there. Something unspoken.

Over time, Ray brought things for Curly—tea, sometimes a snack. Little things. He never pushed Curly to talk, never asked questions that dug too deep, but there was something in his presence that made the quiet feel safe. Curly had never been good with words, especially since his accident. Not that he had much to say anyway. What was there to say?

But Ray never judged him. Never made him feel less for the way he was now—broken, scarred, incomplete. Curly hated how he looked, how his body had been reduced to stumps, to raw flesh, but Ray never seemed to mind. It was like Ray didn’t see the scars and the absence. Maybe he saw the person Curly still was, beneath the mangled body.

Today, like any other, Curly wheels himself to the bench by the lake. The sun is low in the sky, casting a warm glow over the water, and the air smells like rain—distant and teasing, but not quite there. Ray is already sitting there, his hands in his lap, his gaze turned toward the horizon. He doesn’t look at Curly when he arrives, but Curly knows he’s aware. He always is.

Curly hesitates. He doesn’t know why. Maybe because the memories are clawing at him today, as they often do. Jimmy’s face flashes in his mind, his eyes filled with something twisted, something dangerous. His hand, gripping Curly’s amputated leg—shoving it toward his mouth, forcing it in... Curly can’t get the taste out of his mouth, the sensation of being powerless, of being... nothing. He swallows hard, pushing the image away, focusing on the lake instead.

Ray’s voice cuts through the fog in Curly’s mind. “You okay?”

Curly blinks. He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. Ray already knows. The silence stretches between them, but it’s not oppressive. Not like before, when it would have suffocated him.

Ray leans forward slightly, and his presence feels... reassuring, even in the quiet. Without a word, Ray pulls something from his bag—a thermos—and sets it next to Curly’s chair. His hand lingers on the edge of the thermos, just a small gesture, but it feels intimate in a way that Curly isn’t quite prepared for.

“I thought you might like some tea,” Ray says quietly. “I can make the silence a little more bearable.”

Curly feels the corner of his mouth twitch, though it’s not a smile. It’s something else, something unfamiliar but welcome. He’s not sure what to make of it, so instead, he simply nods. Ray pours the tea, carefully sliding the cup into Curly’s lap.

Ray doesn’t rush, doesn’t crowd him. He lets Curly take his time. The warmth of the tea is soothing, the taste familiar and calming in a way that Curly didn’t realize he needed. For a moment, Curly looks down on his lap, letting the quiet seep into him, letting the warmth of the tea fill the emptiness in his chest, the place where all those memories used to live.

Ray is patient, waiting for Curly to finish. The silence isn’t uncomfortable anymore. Curly doesn’t feel the need to speak, but Ray’s presence doesn’t feel like a burden either. It feels like something soft, something that has come to mean more than words.

And for once, Curly doesn’t feel like he’s trapped in his body. For once, he feels like he could be... okay.

Curly gazes at the cup of tea that Ray poured for him. His arms rest on the chair’s armrests, almost motionless as he contemplates how he’ll go about drinking. Every small act requires intention and planning, a reminder of the limitations he’s grown used to but never fully resigned to.

With a slow breath, he shifts forward slightly, bringing one arm up toward the cup. It’s an awkward motion, his shoulders bearing the weight and strain that his forearms used to manage. His stump presses against the side of the cup, nudging it closer, and Ray’s watchful gaze catches the faint tremor of effort.

Ray leans forward, his hand hovering just above the cup, but he doesn’t make a move to help right away. He’s cautious, respecting Curly’s independence, but the offer of help is unspoken, ready if needed.

Curly angles himself to hold the cup between both stumps, lifting it inch by inch, focused on not spilling. His shoulders burn from the exertion, but the warm ceramic in his grip is grounding, a small victory in a world of constant struggles. He brings the cup closer to his mouth, careful, feeling the faint steam against his lips. The first sip is tentative, but the familiar, soothing taste fills his mouth, easing a bit of the tension in his shoulders.

But as he draws back, the cup wobbles, tilting slightly. A few drops spill, splashing onto his shirt, and Curly feels his face flush with frustration, a familiar sense of helplessness prickling under his skin. He lowers the cup, shoulders slumping in defeat.

Without a word, Ray reaches over, his hand warm and steady as he gently takes the cup from Curly’s stumps. He doesn’t make a fuss, doesn’t say anything that might embarrass him. Instead, he holds the cup up, raising it just enough for Curly to take another sip.

Curly glances up at him, hesitating. His eyes meet Ray’s, and the soft understanding there—a quiet patience without pity—does something to ease the knot in his chest. He leans forward, pressing his mouth to the cup as Ray holds it, taking a longer sip this time. The warmth spreads through him, a kind of comfort he hasn’t felt in a long time.

“Thank you,” he rasps, voice barely a whisper, but Ray smiles, a gentle curve of his lips that speaks louder than any words could.

In these rare, quiet moments, Curly feels a flicker of peace—a fragile thing, like the trembling leaves under a gentle breeze. Sitting by the park’s lake, watching the ducks glide over the water’s surface, he lets the stillness settle over him, wrapping him in its soft, calming embrace. When he doesn’t think about Tulpar, when he doesn’t remember the cries echoing through the ship’s hollow corridors or the faces of his lost crew, he can almost breathe easily.

He focuses instead on the faint rustling of trees, the chirping of birds as they flit from branch to branch, catching beams of late afternoon sunlight. The world feels vast and alive, an endless expanse of green and sky, nothing like the cold, metal-clad confines of Tulpar. Here, there’s no hum of machinery, no distant clang of pipes, and no reminder of the relentless march of time.

But that peace is delicate, slipping away the moment his mind drifts back. Even the faintest thought of Tulpar cracks open that hollow ache he keeps buried—its jagged edges just beneath the surface. Memories blur together: Jimmy’s laughter, Swansea’s steady hands at the console, Anya’s gentle voice that always calmed the crew. He closes his eyes, willing those images to fade, to slip away like water through his fingers.

He senses movement beside him as Ray settles onto the bench, a comfortable silence enveloping them. The weight of Ray’s hand on his shoulder brings him back to the present, anchoring him to this moment, to the air around him, warm and alive.

In Ray’s presence, the sharp edges of memory soften a little. Curly can almost feel like himself again, not haunted or broken, but simply... here. The thought is fleeting, fragile as a whisper, but for now, it’s enough.

The next time Ray joins Curly in the park, he carries something new—thin, sleek, and unmistakably modern. Curly’s gaze lingers on the tablet, and when Ray hands it to him, he gestures to the stylus clipped neatly along the side.

“For you,” Ray murmurs softly, meeting Curly’s eyes. “Thought it might be… easier to get things across, maybe.”

Curly stares down at the tablet. His arms, ending in shortened stumps, shift with a moment’s hesitation. He hadn’t used anything like this since the crash, since before everything changed. The world had felt too far away from him, wrapped in bandages, memories, and silence. But Ray seems to understand the weight of that distance. Carefully, he takes the pen, holding it up.

“Here,” Ray says, sliding his hand under Curly’s forearm to help guide the stylus, positioning it against the blank screen. The contact is gentle, respectful, and so careful it nearly steals Curly’s breath. Slowly, with Ray’s support, he manages to scrawl a rough line across the surface, his uneven, halting movements turning into the letters he hadn’t been able to voice for so long.

The first word he writes is “thank you,” but it trembles and wavers, smudged in places from the pressure. Ray’s lips curve into a quiet smile when he reads it, his thumb brushing briefly over the curve of Curly’s arm.

"Want to try something else?" Ray murmurs, the patience in his voice encouraging Curly to let his guard down.

Curly hesitates, the wordless weight of his memories pressing at the edges of his thoughts. Then, with a faint tilt of his head and Ray’s steadying hand, he scrawls another word.

Curly's hand, or what was left of it, trembles as Ray steadies the stylus between his arm and Ray’s fingers, letting the word emerge in shaky, uncertain strokes: “peace.”

Ray’s eyes soften as he reads it. There’s no need for words—they sit together in the park’s quiet, interrupted only by the rustling of leaves, the faint splash of ducks on the water. Curly feels a warmth settle over him, the simplest kind of companionship he hadn’t known he’d been aching for.

Ray shifts his hand to let Curly try again, and, gaining a bit more control with each pass, Curly sketches the beginnings of a shape—a wing, a wisp of movement, almost like the flight of one of the birds they watched so often. He’s not sure if he’s doing it justice; his movements lack the precision he once took for granted. But Ray’s steady presence, the way he doesn’t flinch or rush him, turns the scribbles into something more meaningful.

At one point, Ray’s hand settles over Curly’s arm to take the stylus and, without a word, he starts adding to the rough drawing. He adds another wing, turning Curly’s one half into something whole, a full span poised to take flight.

Curly blinks at it. He rasps out a low sound that Ray’s come to recognize as his version of a quiet laugh, a note of something between disbelief and a fragile kind of happiness. For a moment, his mind drifts, almost unconsciously, back to the crew—the faces, the voices, the way they once teased him. He might never share that kind of laughter again, but something about this feels close, like he’s reclaiming the smallest piece of himself.

They stay there for hours, Curly tracing more shapes and lines with Ray’s gentle guidance, his tired body leaning into Ray’s side as the day wanes. And when Ray finally pulls away, just as the sun dips low over the lake, Curly feels a tug of reluctance.

Ray smiles at him, lifting the tablet between them. “Next time… we’ll make something even better.”

Curly lets a smile tug at the corners of his mouth—a ghost of what he once had but no less real—and nods. For the first time since the crash, he feels ready for the next time, the next day, with a quiet resolve that’s as much about hope as it is about healing.

Chapter Text

Ray’s apartment is warm, lived-in—a place with bookshelves filled to the brim, a mismatched armchair in the corner, and a soft, worn blanket draped over the couch. It’s a space that seems to have gathered memories and comfort over the years, and for Curly, who’s grown accustomed to the sterile, almost clinical atmosphere of the hospital, it feels like stepping into another world.

Ray wheels him inside, closing the door behind them, and lets out a breath, his expression somewhere between gentle anticipation and quiet pride. “Welcome home,” he murmurs, as if letting Curly in is some quiet victory he’s wanted to win for a while.

Curly takes in the space slowly, lingering on the little details—the framed photographs on the wall, the small stack of records leaning beside an old player, the way Ray’s coat hangs casually over the back of a chair. He hasn’t been inside anyone’s home since before the crash, and there’s a strange intimacy in being here, surrounded by pieces of Ray he’s only ever caught glimpses of before.

Ray moves to help him out of his coat, and Curly lets him, feeling a warmth settle over his skin as Ray’s hands brush over his shoulders, linger a moment at his neck, then drop away. He follows Ray’s gaze as he glances around, deciding where to settle Curly. Then, as if coming to a decision, Ray wheels him over to the wide couch by the window, where the light filters in softly, illuminating the space with a warm glow.

“Let’s get you comfortable,” Ray says, his tone soft, a bit tentative. He moves with careful precision, shifting pillows and draping the worn blanket over Curly’s lap. 

Curly wants to say something—anything to express the quiet gratitude blooming inside him—but he knows his voice will betray him, scratchy and raw as it is. Instead, he gives a small nod, and when Ray catches his gaze, he hopes the look in his eyes says enough.

Ray sits down beside him, close enough that their legs touch, and something about the casual intimacy of it—the way Ray doesn’t flinch, doesn’t treat him like he’s fragile—makes Curly feel more grounded than he’s felt in a long time.

For a while, they sit in silence, letting the ambient sounds of the city filter in from the window—a distant honk, the murmur of people below, the faint hum of life continuing. And then Ray reaches for his arm, the scarred, imperfect limb that’s left, wrapping his own fingers around Curly’s arm in a firm, grounding grip.

“Curly,” he says softly, his voice threading through the quiet like a promise. “I’m here.”

The words aren’t anything grand or profound, but they hold a weight that makes Curly’s chest ache. He turns slightly, facing Ray, and raises his remaining arm, clumsily brushing his stub against Ray’s jaw in the closest thing he can manage to a caress. And Ray leans into it, lets his eyes drift closed as he catches Curly’s arm in his hand, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the scarred skin there.

Curly’s breath hitches, and Ray doesn’t pull away. He just holds him there, thumb brushing gently over the edges of scars, as if mapping out a path to something softer.

Curly’s gaze lingers on Ray’s face, drawn to the curve of his lips, the warmth in his eyes—a warmth that feels so undeserved and yet so vital, like sunlight after a long, endless night. Ray’s fingers are still wrapped around his scarred arm, thumb tracing gentle circles over the rough skin, grounding him in a way Curly had never imagined needing until now.

There’s a longing he can’t shake, a pull deep in his chest—a wish, almost instinctive, to lean in and press his lips to Ray’s, to feel that connection in a way that would have been so simple, so easy before…before everything. But the reality of his body now hits like a dull ache, settling somewhere low in his stomach as he’s reminded, painfully, of what he’s lost.

His lips are gone. Burned off, along with so many other pieces of himself, leaving only scars in their place, scar tissue where once there was softness and sensation.

Curly’s chest tightens, but he can’t let go of the need, the aching desire that fills him as he looks at Ray. His stub trembles as he moves closer, pressing his scarred, mouthless face to Ray’s cheek instead, letting the warmth of his skin seep into him. It’s a rough, imperfect gesture, but Ray doesn’t pull away, doesn’t flinch; he just breathes in, his hand tightening gently around Curly’s arm as if to tell him that it’s enough—more than enough.

Ray turns his head just slightly, his nose brushing against Curly’s cheek in a gentle, unspoken affirmation. And then, in one soft, careful movement, Ray’s lips find the edge of Curly’s jaw, pressing a kiss to the scarred, uneven skin there. The touch is impossibly tender, like a promise woven from gentleness and acceptance, and Curly feels something inside him crack open—something he hadn’t realized he’d locked away.

He closes his eyes, letting himself lean into Ray’s touch, and for a moment, he imagines that he can feel the shape of Ray’s lips even where his own once were. Ray kisses along his jaw, his breath warm against Curly’s skin, trailing gentle, patient touches that say all the things Curly wishes he could say out loud.

“I’ve got you,” Ray murmurs, his voice a low, steady hum that settles something deep within Curly, grounding him in this moment. And it’s true; here, in Ray’s touch, he’s found a kind of completion he thought was lost to him forever.

Curly’s movements are tentative, but he shifts himself closer, edging into Ray’s warmth until they’re chest to chest. Ray catches him gently, his arms wrapping around Curly’s scarred shoulders, holding him with an unspoken understanding, an acceptance that radiates in every touch.

Curly breathes in Ray’s scent, that familiar grounding presence calming the frayed edges of his nerves. He tucks his head into the curve of Ray’s shoulder, letting his weight lean against him, finding comfort in the solid, steady strength of his embrace. Ray’s hands trace a soothing rhythm along his back, fingertips brushing over the scars with a tenderness that eases the knot of tension curled in Curly’s chest.

In this quiet moment, he feels protected, safe. Ray’s arms are a shield against the memories that still linger, and the horrors he wishes he could forget. Curly closes his eyes, allowing himself to melt into Ray’s warmth, savoring each quiet heartbeat pressed close to his own.

Ray tilts his head, pressing a kiss to Curly’s temple—a gentle, reassuring touch that sends warmth flooding through him. Curly’s handless arms rest awkwardly between them, and Ray seems to sense the unease, adjusting his hold, drawing him in even closer, as if to say that none of it matters. Here, there’s no need for anything more than just being—no need to hide or explain the pieces he’s lost.

In Ray’s arms, Curly lets himself breathe a little deeper, the tightness in his chest loosening as he nestles into the embrace. For once, he feels whole, as if he’s found a place where he belongs, scars and all.

Chapter Text

Curly wakes slowly, the soft rise and fall of his chest syncing with the rhythmic warmth of the blanket that’s been draped over him. His body, stiff from the strange angles he often ends up in due to his deformities, stretches gently as he stirs awake. For a moment, there’s a familiar haze—fuzzy edges of disoriented thought—but the warmth of the couch, the soft blankets, and the distant sounds of Ray moving around the kitchen ground him back into the present.

He blinks, squinting at the light filtering through the windows, casting soft, golden hues across the room. He’s tucked in. Somehow, Ray has tucked him in, treating him with a care that feels foreign, but also deeply comforting. Curly’s handless arms rest in a neutral position across his chest, but he feels the absence of them less now, with the peace that Ray’s presence always seems to bring.

The sound of plates clinking softly, the hum of Ray’s movements in the kitchen, and the quietness of the space around him make everything feel still. Ray must have let him sleep—he must have stayed by him while he rested, ensuring he was safe.

Curly shifts slightly, stretching his thighs. He refused prosthetics so the heavy weight of his phantom limbs is a quiet, pulsing reminder of the life he once had, but he pushes it down. He lets the comfortable silence fill him, sinking deeper into the peace that Ray’s presence offers.

After a moment, he decides to leave the comfort of the couch. He pushes himself to sit up, the blanket slipping off his body as he stretches his back and shoulders. The action isn’t as smooth as it once would’ve been, but he’s getting used to it. Every movement, every inch of progress feels like a victory.

Curly looks toward the kitchen area, and there, standing at the counter, Ray is busy prepping something. The soft sound of his voice hums through the room, something unintelligible but soothing. 

Curly, still groggy, drags himself over to the kitchen area, balancing on his legs—or more like his thighs— with a little more ease than before. His wheelchair sits nearby, but for now, the simple act of standing feels like a quiet triumph.

Ray hears his soft steps, turning around, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Morning,” he greets, his voice low, gentle—more familiar now, something that wraps around Curly like the blanket he was just nestled in.

Curly can’t say much, but the look he gives Ray says it all—gratitude, a quiet yearning, and something deeper. He’s here. He’s safe. Ray's done this for him, and it's more than just shelter. It’s more than just care. It’s everything.

Ray sets the pan down with a gentle clink, stepping over to Curly. He places his hands lightly on his shoulders, guiding him gently to the table. "How are you feeling?" Ray’s tone is easy, like it's the most normal thing in the world, but the sincerity in his voice makes the question weigh heavy in the quiet between them.

Curly offers a small nod, his gaze softening as he meets Ray’s eyes. His throat tightens for a moment, and though he can’t find the words to explain it, he hopes the sincerity of his gaze reaches Ray. He’s feeling more than just ‘fine.’ He’s feeling... something that he hasn’t felt in a long time.

Ray watches him for a moment longer, his hands still resting on Curly’s shoulders, his expression thoughtful. Then he gives a soft sigh and smiles. "Good," he says simply, his fingers moving to gently caress Curly’s face. "Let’s get you something to eat. You need it." The way he says it—soft, like it’s an act of care—gives Curly a quiet sense of belonging, something so simple yet so powerful.

Ray guides him back to the table, and Curly climbs to sit. Even without words, they’re speaking in the spaces between each gesture, each look. And for the first time in a long while, Curly doesn’t feel like the broken man he’s been. He feels human, seen. Here, with Ray, he’s not the damaged soldier from the crash or the lonely figure lost in memories. He’s simply Curly.

Curly settles into the chair as Ray sets a mug of coffee in front of him, the steam swirling up in soft curls. It's a simple gesture, and yet it feels like an invitation into a life Curly thought he'd lost—a life of small comforts, of mornings spent with someone who cares. Ray moves with an effortless ease around the kitchen, pouring himself a cup as well before settling in the seat across from him.

They sip in companionable silence for a while, the soft hum of the morning filtering through the window. Ray watches Curly with that gentle warmth in his gaze, that quiet attentiveness that makes Curly feel seen. It’s something he’s still not quite used to—having someone look at him like that, not with pity, but with a kind of admiration.

Finally, Ray reaches across the table, his fingers brushing Curly’s forearm lightly. “You know, I was thinking,” he says, his thumb absentmindedly stroking along the edge of Curly’s arm, “maybe we could take a drive out of the city one day. There's a spot by the lake—it’s peaceful, and I think you’d like it.”

Curly feels the flicker of a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth, a warmth spreading through his chest. He nods, unable to hide the excitement that flares up within him. The idea of a drive, of open skies, and the gentle lapping of water—things he’s missed so deeply—fills him with something close to hope.

Ray's hand lingers on Curly’s arm, grounding him in the moment, in the here and now. “Or maybe,” Ray continues with a playful glint in his eye, “we could do something simple, like… trying out a new recipe together. I know I’m not much of a cook, but with you supervising, I think I could manage something edible.”

Curly gives a soft chuckle—a sound that surprises even him. His laughter has been rare, rusty, but Ray’s lightheartedness has a way of coaxing it out, breaking through the layers of grief and guilt that he’s held onto. He finds himself nodding eagerly at Ray’s suggestion, the thought of something as domestic as cooking together making his heart ache in the best possible way.

Ray seems to pick up on the shift in Curly’s mood, and a slow smile spreads across his face. He stands and moves around the table, kneeling beside Curly, one hand resting gently on his knee. “Hey,” he says softly, “you don’t have to pretend with me, alright? Whatever you’re feeling… it’s okay.” His voice is a steady comfort, his gaze unwavering, patient.

Curly swallows, and he feels a small shiver as Ray’s thumb rubs soothing circles over his knee. He lets out a shaky breath, his gaze meeting Ray’s, and in that moment, it’s like Ray is seeing all the broken parts of him, but accepting them without hesitation. He leans into the warmth, his shoulders relaxing as Ray leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to Curly’s forehead. The touch is featherlight, reverent, but it feels like everything.

The days go by, and Ray’s place begins to feel like home in a way that Curly hadn’t thought possible. They find their own little routines—Ray brewing coffee for the both of them, helping Curly adjust to the new prosthetics he’s been fitted with (he hated them with a burning passion), always there to offer a steadying hand or a soft word when Curly feels uncertain. They try that new recipe together, filling the kitchen with the scent of herbs and spices, their laughter mingling in the warm space as Ray fumbles with measurements and Curly gestures instructions, his silent encouragement a language Ray has come to understand without needing words.

One evening, as they sit together on the couch, the gentle light of dusk streaming in through the windows, Ray reaches over, his fingers brushing Curly’s wrist. Curly turns, and there’s a softness in Ray’s gaze, something vulnerable yet unspoken. He shifts closer, letting Curly lean into his shoulder, and they sit like that, letting the quiet settle around them.

And then, with a hesitance that feels almost sacred, Ray lifts his hand, brushing his fingers along the edge of Curly’s jaw, tracing the scars with a tenderness that sends a shiver down Curly’s spine. His thumb pauses, hovering over Curly’s mouth, and though he has no lips, he can feel the intention there—the quiet, aching desire that pulses between them.

“I wish…” Ray’s voice is barely a whisper, rough with emotion. His hand lingers, and though Curly cannot kiss him in the traditional sense, he leans into the touch, letting his own forehead press against Ray’s in an intimate, wordless gesture. And in that closeness, he feels whole, feels like maybe, just maybe, he can be loved exactly as he is.

They spend their nights like this—wrapped in each other’s warmth, sharing pieces of themselves that words can’t quite capture. For the first time, Curly feels like he’s not merely surviving; he’s living, he’s healing. And with Ray by his side, he knows he’s not alone in the journey.

That first night together, Curly felt an uncertain mix of anticipation and dread. It had taken time—weeks of tender glances, shared mornings, and quiet evenings spent entangled in each other's arms—before they both felt ready to take that step. But as the intimacy deepened, Curly's nerves bubbled up, sharp and unrelenting. The scars on his body were something he had slowly come to terms with, or at least he thought he had. But this was different; these were scars in places that felt deeply vulnerable, areas of his body he hadn't let anyone see since the accident.

Ray sensed it, his hand stilling as it traced a path over Curly's scarred stomach, fingers resting gently on the line where unscarred flesh met the rougher tissue. “Curly,” he murmured, his voice a quiet anchor, “we don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

Curly's throat tightened. He wanted this, wanted Ray in every way possible, and yet there was a shame that wrapped around him like a shadow. Even without words, he conveyed it—a tilt of his head, the way his body tensed beneath Ray's touch. He wanted so badly to explain, to somehow tell Ray that it wasn’t him, that it was the remnants of who he had been before the crash, clinging to him like ghosts.

Ray brushed his fingers along Curly’s cheek. “If you feel comfortable, let me know how I can help,” he whispered. His gaze was steady, his expression a balance of tenderness and restraint. He wanted Curly to feel loved, not pressured.

Gathering his courage, Curly gave a small nod, guiding Ray's hand down to his arms. Ray's eyes softened as he realized what Curly was offering, and he squeezed Curly’s wrist gently. “I promise I’ll be gentle,” he said, and he meant it—his fingers tentative, reverent as he continued, as if the very weight of his touch was a vow.

As Ray moved carefully, he never rushed, each gesture slow and attentive, his focus never wavering from Curly. Even in the moments when Curly faltered, his gaze darting away in shame, Ray’s soothing murmur, his soft reassurances, brought him back. “Hey,” Ray whispered, brushing a thumb along Curly’s cheek, “you’re beautiful. Just as you are.”

It was hard for Curly to believe it. But as Ray continued to explore him with a gentleness that left no room for shame or hesitation, he felt himself relax, letting go of the self-consciousness that had held him back. He felt cherished, understood. And in Ray’s hands, for the first time since the crash, he felt like a whole person—scars, injuries, and all.

When they finally came together, Ray was attentive to every shift, every wince, moving in rhythm with Curly’s needs rather than pushing forward. The physical connection was secondary to the emotional one—a steady current of love and acceptance. Curly felt filled, not only in the literal sense but in a way that soothed every ache, every scar he’d carried for so long.

Afterward, they lay together in a tangle of limbs and warmth. Curly nestled into Ray’s embrace, his heart full, his body relaxed, and the insecurities that had haunted him slowly quieted. Ray pressed a kiss to the top of his head, cradling Curly close as if he was the most precious thing in the world, and in that moment, Curly felt… complete.

Curly settled against Ray’s chest, the steady rhythm of Ray’s heartbeat under his ear a comforting lullaby. Ray's arm wrapped around him securely, and in that warm embrace, Curly felt the kind of peace he’d thought was lost to him forever.

Ray’s fingers traced gentle patterns along Curly’s back, each touch soft and grounding. Curly closed his eye, letting himself fully relax in the warmth, sinking into the quiet intimacy they’d created. The weight of Ray's hand over his shoulder, the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of Ray’s chest—it was all so real, so solid, like an anchor pulling him back to a reality where he could feel safe and wanted.

Ray’s breathing slowed as Curly began to drift off. A tender, almost instinctive kiss found its way onto Curly’s head, and in the stillness of that moment, nothing else seemed to matter. The world outside, the memories of Tulpar, the scarred fragments of his past—they all faded away. Here, in Ray’s arms, he could be something new. Whole. Loved.

Curly’s breaths softened as he drifted to sleep, and Ray’s fingers continued their slow, soothing patterns. Ray didn’t move, didn’t dare break the precious silence between them, as if sensing how much this moment meant. They lay there in each other’s warmth, Curly cradled close, their hearts aligned in the quietest, purest expression of love.

Chapter Text

Curly’s mother sat beside him on a park bench, her hands folded in her lap as she looked at him with that careful, watchful tenderness that had become their way of communicating. She knew he couldn’t speak, and the wounds he’d carried back from Tulpar meant he’d never express himself in the same way again. But Curly had found his voice through other means, quieter, softer, but no less meaningful.

With his tablet and stylus balanced carefully in his lap, Curly began to write, his stubbed arms making precise, deliberate movements. He hadn’t spoken about Ray before, not even hinted. Leaving his mother to think he finally found himself an entertainment, or just needed some space. But as he scratched out the letters, the corners of his mouth twitched with the ghost of a smile, one that his mother, after all these years, knew how to read.

'There’s someone I want to tell you about,' he wrote.

His mother’s gaze softened, her brows lifting slightly. “Someone?” she echoed, her voice warm but gentle, waiting for him to go on.

'Ray. He’s… someone I didn’t expect to meet,' Curly scribbled slowly, pausing every now and then to let her catch up. 'Someone who doesn’t look at me like... I'm a monster.'

Curly’s mother reached out, brushing her hand along his arm, her thumb tracing over his stub as if to offer a small bit of reassurance.

'He sees me,' Curly wrote, his heart tightening with each word. 'Even with... everything. Ray just sees... me.'

A small sound escaped his throat, barely audible—a low, soft hum of contentment he hadn’t felt in so long. It was a noise he’d never made since he’d come back, except when he was around Ray, something almost like laughter. His mother’s eyes glistened, recognizing the warmth in his face, a warmth she’d been afraid she’d never see again.

“He must be very special,” she murmured, her voice catching slightly. “I hope he knows just how much.”

Curly paused, thinking about Ray—about the gentle way Ray had held him, the kindness in Ray’s eyes that had soothed the frayed edges of his own self-image. 

'He makes me feel... normal. Like I could be loved, even like this,' Curly’s hand paused before he wrote the last few words, 'I think he loves me, Mom.'

She reached out, placing her hand over his thigh, and held it there in quiet understanding. “And you deserve that, my sweet boy. Every bit of it.”

Curly gave a small, breathy laugh that he couldn’t fully voice, but that she could see as clearly as if he had spoken it aloud. And as he sat there, his mother’s hand over his thigh, he realized that he’d found two people in this world who truly saw him—one who’d known him his whole life and another who’d found him in the ashes, in the quiet, and had made him feel whole again.

'I'm not sure if i deserve him,' Curly writes. 'I'm not a hero unlike you think.'

His mother’s gaze softened as she looked at the words on the screen, and she reached out, gently brushing her fingers along the side of his face. There were parts of him that had changed beyond recognition, both inside and out, yet she saw something more—the boy she’d raised, who had always put others before himself, even when the world had given him so little in return.

She kept her hand on his arm, firm and grounding. “Sweetheart, it’s not about being a hero,” she said softly, her voice catching in the stillness. “It’s about being… you. And if Ray sees you the way I do—the way everyone who loves you does—then you’re exactly who he deserves, too.”

Curly’s eye, thay steady, wounded eye, seemed to shine just a little at her words. He paused, arms hesitating over the tablet, then slowly scrawled out the next thought that had haunted him since his return:

'I left them all behind. I couldn’t save anyone. I was so weak, Mom… I wasn’t strong enough.' 

She reached up, brushing her thumb across the scarred edge of his cheek, and shook her head. “You didn’t leave them, honey. You survived, even though it was impossible. And you’re here. And you’re finding love. Sometimes,” she continued, her voice wavering, “that’s the bravest thing anyone can do.”

Curly’s hands shook, but he managed to write, 'I just don’t know if he can handle... this. All of this. The scars, the things I remember...'

She squeezed his arm. “Give him a chance, honey. You’ve held on to so much for so long. Let him in. Let him be there for you. You’re worth that, aren’t you?”

For a moment, Curly didn’t move. He only looked down, processing the enormity of her words, feeling them settle somewhere deep, in a place he’d tried to lock away since Tulpar. Slowly, he nodded, gaze drifting away as the world around him softened.

He was still learning, still trying to believe. But with Ray… maybe, just maybe, there could be a future where he didn’t have to hide from the past. Where he didn’t have to carry it alone.

Chapter Text

That evening, Curly sat in his wheelchair by the window of Ray’s apartment, watching the warm glow of the city lights reflect against the glass. He felt Ray’s gentle presence behind him, the comforting weight of his hand resting on Curly’s shoulder, grounding him in a way that he was only beginning to trust. Tonight, though, he was ready to try.

Curly turned his head, his eye meeting Ray’s, and gestured for his tablet. Ray passed it over, and Curly took a moment, stubs trembling slightly as he typed.

'I want you to know how I feel about you,' he began, pausing, thinking carefully over every word before he added, 'Even though I’m still scared you might not want all of me.'

Ray’s brows lifted in surprise, but he knelt beside Curly, his gaze earnest and tender as he studied the words on the screen. “All of you is all I’ve ever wanted,” he said quietly. His voice was steady, but Curly could hear the weight of truth in it.

Curly took a shaky breath, shifting to steady himself. He typed again, 'There are still so many things I don’t understand. But every time I’m near you, I feel… safe, and like there’s something left for me. You’ve shown me more of that than I thought I’d ever feel again.'

Ray’s hand moved gently to Curly’s forearm, his thumb brushing over the edge of his scarred skin, and he nodded, as if he understood everything Curly couldn’t put into words. “You’re not alone in this, Curly. Whatever you feel, whatever memories or fears come up—I’ll be here, as long as you need me to be.”

Curly’s heart felt tight, but a hopeful, steady warmth bloomed through him. Finally, he typed, 'I want you to know… I love you. And I’m not afraid to say it anymore.' 

Ray’s hand moved to cup his cheek, his touch so careful that Curly closed his eye, letting himself lean into it, even without the lips to speak or kiss. He felt everything he wanted to say in that one, delicate moment of connection.

“I love you, too,” Ray murmured, his voice raw, quiet. “And I’ll show you. Every day.”

———

Morning sunlight spilled softly into the kitchen, casting a golden glow that warmed the countertops. Ray held Curly steady, his strong hands settled carefully on Curly's waist as he helped him up onto the counter, his touch gentle and attentive. Once Curly was settled, Ray stepped in close, his body fitting between the edges of Curly’s legs, stopping just at the rough ends of his thighs.

Curly’s breathing quickened, anticipation mingling with a thrill of vulnerability he had only ever felt safe enough to show Ray. His hands—or where they once had been—rested against Ray’s chest, allowing him to feel the steady beat of Ray’s heart, grounding him.

Ray's fingers traced over Curly’s waist and hips, feeling every curve and edge, his movements slow, savoring, and full of warmth. Their breaths mingled as he leaned in close, pressing soft kisses along Curly's jaw, along the lines of scars, letting Curly feel cherished in every place he feared to show.

Curly let his head rest against Ray’s shoulder, his body leaning into every careful, passionate touch. Even without lips, he wanted so desperately to show Ray just how much this meant, to convey his own passion through the way he shivered, the way he held on. Ray’s arms wrapped around him, and as he pressed closer, every gesture, every brush of skin against scarred skin, made Curly feel whole in a way he hadn’t thought possible.

Ray’s voice came soft, filled with love. “You’re perfect,” he whispered, holding Curly steady, his embrace strong and warm as he deepened their connection, giving Curly everything he needed to feel truly seen and deeply loved.

Curly moved his arms, gently letting the soft ends of his stumps brush against Ray’s back. It was an intimate gesture, tender and warm, as if he were tracing invisible words of love onto Ray’s skin. His motions were careful, but filled with a kind of affection that made Ray pause, his eyes closing as he savored the touch. 

Ray’s breath hitched, feeling each gentle caress with an intensity that went beyond words. The rough, scarred texture where Curly’s hands once were added a weight to each gesture, making every movement a promise, every touch a reminder of how far they had come together.

Curly let his stumps trail slowly, brushing across Ray’s shoulders and down the curve of his spine, his touch full of trust and longing. He couldn’t say what was in his heart, not out loud, but this—this was his way of showing Ray how deeply he felt, how much he loved him.

Ray’s fingers gently traced Curly’s back in response, returning each touch with a reverent softness. He leaned his forehead against Curly’s, whispering words of love that filled the spaces between them, binding them together in a silent promise, in a warmth that spoke of acceptance, of passion, and of healing.

Ray’s hands were everywhere, gentle and careful as he held Curly on the kitchen countertop, his touch slow and tender, grounding him in the moment. Curly felt like he was floating, as if each soft caress was a reminder that this was real, that he was alive, and that he was safe here with Ray. 

Ray’s fingers trailed across his scarred skin, treating every inch of him with the same affection, as if each part was precious. The warmth of Ray’s hands on his body made Curly’s heart swell, driving away the memories that had once haunted him, the fears that had held him back. Here, in the embrace of someone who cherished him exactly as he was, Curly felt whole.

The kitchen was filled with the quiet, intimate sounds of their breaths mingling, of whispered words that needed no explanation. Curly’s world narrowed to the feel of Ray’s body against his, his presence soothing and reassuring. There was no shame, no hesitation in Ray’s gaze as he looked at Curly, only love and a kind of awe that made Curly’s pulse quicken.

Curly felt beautiful, felt wanted, and he couldn’t help the quiet sighs that escaped him, feeling like he was in a dream too good to be true. And as Ray’s lips pressed soft kisses to his skin, moving slowly and lovingly, Curly let himself believe it. He let himself believe that this was his life now—a life where he was loved, deeply and fully, by someone who saw beyond his scars to the person he truly was.

Chapter Text

Ray carefully navigated the quiet backroads, the landscape around them transforming from the dense cityscape into lush greenery. Curly sat beside him, watching the world outside the window as they ventured further from the familiar concrete jungle. It felt liberating, this drive, like an escape from everything that weighed on him back in the city.

After a while, the lake Ray had mentioned came into view, nestled like a hidden gem among towering trees and a sprawling meadow. The water was calm, reflecting the soft blue sky and the gentle sway of trees framing its edge. Ray parked the car on a patch of grass nearby and looked over at Curly with a warm smile.

“Here we are,” he said, reaching over to squeeze Curly’s shoulder. “Thought it’d be a nice change of pace.”

Curly’s eyes sparkled with quiet gratitude as he nodded, looking over at the peaceful lake with a sense of awe. This was exactly what he needed, a place untouched by memories of Tulpar or the ghosts of his past. Just him and Ray, the stillness of the lake, and the serene beauty surrounding them.

Ray got out first, then came around to Curly’s side to help him. Curly accepted Ray’s hand, feeling the familiar warmth and steadiness of his touch as he transferred into his wheelchair. The soft breeze carried the scent of wildflowers and water, soothing and fresh, filling his lungs with a calm he was trying to get used to.

They moved closer to the lake, settling near the water’s edge. Ray set out a blanket and helped Curly onto it, arranging him comfortably against his own chest so they could sit together and take in the view. Curly leaned back, resting his head against Ray’s shoulder, his heart swelling as he felt Ray’s arm around him, holding him close.

They sat in peaceful silence, listening to the sounds of birds chirping, water gently lapping against the shore, and the occasional rustle of leaves as the wind danced through the trees. It felt almost surreal, like they had stepped into another world, one far removed from the pain and struggle that had defined so much of Curly’s recent life.

Ray turned to look at Curly, his gaze soft and thoughtful. “How are you feeling?”

Curly met his eyes, and though he couldn’t speak, he reached out with his stump, brushing it gently against Ray’s hand in a silent answer. He couldn’t express it fully, but Ray seemed to understand, squeezing his hand back and smiling.

“This place... I wanted to share it with you because I know it’s special. Just like you,” Ray murmured, pressing a kiss to the side of Curly’s head. Curly’s heart raced, the words sinking in with a warmth that spread through his chest, filling him with a quiet joy he never thought he’d feel again.

They stayed like that for a long time, wrapped in each other’s presence as the afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the lake, casting rippling reflections over their faces. And in that peaceful moment, with Ray by his side, Curly allowed himself to believe in the future, one where he could feel this kind of happiness, this kind of love, without fear.

The sun was low, casting a gentle glow across the landscape, painting the world in hues of gold and amber. They hadn't spoken much since arriving; Curly had only just started to open up to Ray about his life, though he'd only scratched the surface. Now, the weight of his past—the mistakes, the guilt, the loss—pressed down on him, like a stone lodged deep in his chest. It had been there for so long, gnawing at him in silence.

Ray was waiting, patient, allowing Curly the space to speak if he ever chose to.

Curly sat on the edge of the lake, his stumps brushing the grass, gaze fixed on the shimmering water. Ray’s presence was warm and steady beside him, his closeness grounding but unobtrusive. Curly could sense Ray waiting, patiently, giving him space. After a long moment, Curly’s hand shifted to reach into his bag, pulling out the tablet he used for communication. He gripped the stylus firmly, each stroke of the pen deliberate as he etched out his words.

'I should’ve done something, Ray.'

He handed the tablet to Ray, who took it carefully, his expression softening as he read. Curly held his breath, waiting for judgment, for any sign that Ray might view him differently after reading the confession that had been festering inside him.

But Ray only set the tablet aside gently, his gaze never wavering from Curly. He didn’t speak immediately, his hand coming to rest softly on Curly’s shoulder, a quiet reminder that he was here, that he wasn’t going anywhere.

Curly felt his throat tighten as he took back the tablet, writing slowly, the memories clawing at him as he put them into words. 'They all died because I didn’t act on time. I wasn’t the hero they thought I was.'

Ray’s fingers brushed gently against Curly’s cheek, offering a silent comfort as he read the new message. His voice, low but firm, broke the silence. “You did what you could, Curly. You were trying to survive. Sometimes it’s hard to see the signs, or… we don’t want to believe what’s happening.”

Curly’s stumps flexed unconsciously, the weight of his failures heavy in his chest. He pressed on, forcing himself to write what he had never been able to admit. 'I didn’t stop it, Ray. Jimmy… he killed them all, and I let it happen.'

The words stung, even as he wrote them. They weren’t just a confession; they were an admission of failure. He couldn’t keep anyone safe, couldn’t keep them alive. And now he had to live with that knowledge.

Ray read this, his own face haunted as he placed a hand on Curly’s cheek, the warmth grounding. “You couldn’t have known, Curly,” Ray said quietly, meeting his gaze with steady eyes. “You did your best. And you’re here now. That’s more than enough.”

Curly looked at him then, his eyes distant, haunted by memories he couldn’t forget. He shifted uncomfortably, unsure if he could bring himself to continue. But he had to, for his own sake, if nothing else.

Curly looked down at his scars, the remnants of who he used to be, and swallowed hard. The guilt still sat like a stone in his chest, but Ray’s words began to ease it, if only a little. The shame would always linger, yet for the first time in a long time, with Ray beside him, he wondered if he might someday start to forgive himself. 

Ray gave him a soft smile, one that said he didn’t need to explain every detail, that he understood enough. But Curly still had more to say.

Curly's throat tightened. The guilt didn’t fade, no matter how much Ray reassured him. He had seen the signs, had felt the growing tension, and still hadn’t done enough. He had failed them all.

But Ray... Ray was still here. Ray was still by his side. That meant something, didn’t it?

'I failed them,' Curly wrote, his hand shaking as he wrote the words. 'I’m not a captain, not like how they thought I was. I’m just... me. I didn’t even want to be a damn captain.'

Ray’s eyes softened as he read the words, and after a long pause, he reached out to pull Curly into his arms. It wasn’t a grand gesture, but it was enough. The warmth of Ray’s body was a reassurance, and the gentle way he held Curly felt like a lifeline—something he hadn’t known he needed.

“You’re still here,” Ray whispered into Curly’s ear, his voice a steady presence. “And that means you’ve got a chance to make it right, to do better. That’s what matters.”

Curly let out a soft breath, his body relaxing into Ray’s touch. For the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to believe those words.

He let the tablet fall to the side as he rested his head against Ray’s shoulder, feeling the quiet comfort of the moment wash over him. The past couldn’t be undone, but maybe, the future could still be worth fighting for.

Curly’s breath was soft against Ray’s shoulder as the air around them thickened with quiet tension. After sharing the most vulnerable part of himself, his arms trembling slightly as he had written out his guilt, Curly let his body speak when words failed. His stub, where his hand should’ve been, found Ray’s thigh, pressing gently against the fabric of his pants. 

It wasn’t an urgent or demanding touch. It was something different—an unspoken plea for comfort, for connection, for understanding. The gesture was simple, but it carried with it a weight of longing and a desire for reassurance that words couldn’t express. Ray’s body tensed, but not in discomfort—in recognition.

Ray turned his head slightly, meeting Curly’s eyes for a brief moment. He saw the vulnerability in them, the hesitation. He could feel the warmth of Curly’s skin through the small contact, the softness of the moment that still carried the rawness of the past between them. 

Without saying a word, Ray placed his own hand over Curly’s, gently guiding it further up his thigh, as if to silently say, 'I’m here.' Ray’s thumb brushed lightly across Curly’s skin, grounding him in a way that only silence and closeness could. 

Curly, for all his guilt and uncertainty, felt a soft warmth spread through him at the touch. It wasn’t the answer to his past, nor was it a complete balm for his inner wounds. But in that moment, it was enough. He was enough.

The space between them, filled with the quiet sound of the lake lapping at the shore, no longer felt heavy with the burden of unsaid words. Instead, it was filled with something softer, more intimate—a connection that didn’t need to be explained, just felt.

Ray gently guided Curly’s body down onto the grass, his hand pressing softly to Curly’s chest to ensure he’s comfortable. With a steady and practiced motion, Ray loomed over him, his shadow falling across Curly like a protective shield. The warmth of the sun above is momentarily obscured by Ray’s presence, but it’s the way Ray hovers that feels more intimate than anything before. 

Curly’s eye, full of a mixture of longing and vulnerability, met Ray’s. He felt the weight of the man’s gaze, and in that moment, the unspoken words—everything Curly wanted to say, every secret he buried—seemed to fade, like the fleeting ripples on the water behind them. Ray’s presence was grounding, everything he needed in this moment, and yet, something heavier hung in the air: a delicate balance between desire and fear, comfort and hesitation.

Ray’s hands were steady as he adjusted Curly’s body, his careful movements betraying the deeper care and affection he feels. As Ray lowered himself closer, their faces just inches apart, Curly could feel the warmth of Ray’s breath ghosting over his skin. It’s like being drawn into the orbit of a force he couldn’t resist, and for once, he didn't want to. With no lips to press against Ray’s, Curly reaches with his stub, moving with a slow deliberation to rest it gently against Ray’s chest, as if asking for reassurance, as if to silently say, 'I’m here with you, and you’re here with me.'

Ray’s eyes soften as he takes in the gesture, his hand finding Curly’s, giving it a small, understanding squeeze before moving to support himself above Curly. Ray’s expression, filled with something tender, lingers for a beat before he lowers his face even closer, the space between them vanishing with a soft brush of lips to Curly’s forehead.

There is no rush—only the slow, deliberate pace of two souls finding solace in each other’s presence. And as Ray rests above Curly, the weight of the past, of everything unsaid, finally seems to fall away. For this brief moment in time, it’s just them, together, quietly whole.

Chapter Text

After the emotional weight of the day, Curly falls into an uneasy sleep, but the nightmares come quickly. The peaceful lake and Ray’s comforting presence seem to slip away as his mind spirals back to Tulpar, back to the wreckage, the chaos of the crash. The deafening sound of metal twisting and bodies screaming fills his ears. 

Curly sees the crew, their faces frozen in fear, their eyes pleading for a chance to escape. But in the dream, he’s frozen too, unable to act, to save them. The fire from the crash is too hot, the smoke too thick. He can hear Jimmy’s voice, twisted with anger, like a phantom calling out to him, blaming him for not stopping him sooner. 'You should’ve known. You should’ve done something, Curly.' His heart pounds in his chest, and he’s suffocating, but there’s no way out.

Curly tries to scream, but the sound is caught in his throat, like it’s locked behind the remnants of his broken body. His chest tightens, and he feels the familiar pressure of the stumps where his hands and feet should be. The sensation of helplessness and loss is overwhelming, as if the entire world is crashing down around him.

In the dream, the ship’s control room is alive with flashing alarms, the floor tilting as the ship begins its descent into chaos. Curly reaches out for something—anything—but his arms are just stumps, useless. He reaches again, but this time, it’s not a console or a handle he grabs. It’s Jimmy’s face, his eyes filled with hatred, his lips twisted in a malicious grin as he pushes Curly to the ground. The memory of Jimmy forcing piece of his leg into Curly’s mouth, the overwhelming disgust, comes crashing back. Curly tries to fight it, tries to push the vision away, but he can’t. The pain and the shame are too much.

Suddenly, the dream shifts, and Curly is back in the cryopod. He’s trapped, confined to that small space, the world outside too far away, unreachable. He can’t move. He’s powerless. And then, the air grows thick, as if he’s drowning. The panic rises in his chest, suffocating him.

Curly jolts awake, drenched in sweat, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His heart is still racing, and the remnants of the nightmare cling to him like a heavy fog. He lies there in the dark, struggling to breathe, trying to calm the storm inside his chest. His body feels numb, his skin cold, and for a moment, he feels utterly alone.

But then, he feels the warmth beside him—the familiar presence of Ray, still sleeping, unaware of the nightmare that haunted him. Curly doesn’t want to disturb him, but the rawness of the terror is still alive within him. He reaches out with his stub, lightly brushing Ray’s side, as if trying to ground himself in reality, to remind himself that he’s not alone anymore.

Ray stirs, sensing Curly’s distress, and turns toward him, his arms instinctively pulling Curly closer. “You okay, baby?” he murmurs sleepily, his voice soft and soothing, pulling Curly back from the edge of the nightmare.

Curly doesn’t have words, but he feels the steady warmth of Ray’s embrace. The fear begins to fade, and he slowly relaxes into the comforting rhythm of Ray’s heartbeat. 

Curly presses his face into the crook of Ray’s neck, despite the absence of his nose. The burn marks on his face, the disfigurement that once felt so sharp, now don’t seem to matter as much in this moment. The absence of his nose, the silence of his inability to fully breathe as he once did, doesn’t matter as he nuzzles closer to Ray. The warmth of Ray’s skin, the pulse beneath it, is enough to pull him back to reality.

Ray shifts slightly, adjusting so that Curly can lean more fully into him. Ray’s scent is soothing, a sense of familiarity that Curly desperately craves. The pressure of Ray’s hand on his back, a comforting weight, keeps him tethered to the present. The rawness of Curly’s scars, the remnants of the crash, is pushed aside in this small, intimate space between them. Here, he isn’t the man who failed to save his crew. Here, he isn’t defined by what he lost, by the mistakes he made, or the parts of him that were taken. 

Curly can’t speak. He can’t offer the soft words or gentle breaths of affection that would normally come in such moments. But his stubs find Ray’s chest, a silent but tender gesture of connection. It’s his way of saying that he trusts Ray, that he’s grateful, that he feels safe. 

Ray’s fingers move gently through Curly’s face. His thumb traces the lines of Curly’s cheek, not with pity, but with a sense of acceptance and love that fills the gaps the words can’t. 

Ray tightens his embrace, pulling Curly closer until there’s barely any space between them. Curly, grateful for the contact, relaxes against him, feeling the rise and fall of Ray’s chest beneath him. The sensation is grounding, like the steady pulse of life that Curly feels he’s been missing. He’s pressed against Ray’s warmth, the soft beat of his heart, and in this moment, nothing feels broken. 

Curly shifts slightly to get more comfortable, his stubs resting gently on Ray’s back, clinging softly in his own quiet way. Ray’s arms feel like a shelter, wrapping him in an unspoken promise of protection. Curly breathes deeply, his face still pressed into Ray’s neck, feeling the steady rhythm of his breaths mixing with Ray’s, synchronizing as if the world outside has been erased. Here, the darkness that lingers inside Curly—his failures, his scars, his regrets—seems so far away. 

Ray’s hand rests on the small of Curly’s back, offering silent reassurance as they both drift off. There’s no need for words, no demands. They don’t need to speak to feel understood. The closeness, the shared warmth, the unspoken bond—they’re enough to fill the quiet gaps between them. And as they both fall asleep, tangled in the softness of each other, it feels like a new beginning.

Ray has gotten used to the raspy sound of Curly’s breathing over time, each breath a reminder of the man he’s holding, a rhythm that’s become as familiar as the beat of his own heart. It’s not a sound he’s bothered by—quite the opposite, actually. It’s a comforting noise, something real. It marks Curly’s presence beside him, the steady reminder that Curly is here, alive, surviving despite the scars and the past. 

In the quiet of their shared space, Ray’s senses have grown in tune with the little things—the way Curly’s breath catches sometimes when he shifts in his sleep, the subtle rasping, the softness of his movements, the slight shifts of weight when Curly presses closer in the night. It’s a language of its own, one that Ray knows by heart. And every night, as he feels the warm press of Curly’s body against his, as he hears the breaths that are uniquely Curly’s, he’s reminded of how far they’ve come, how much they’ve both endured.

When Curly stirs in the night, Ray knows immediately, and it isn’t just from the subtle sounds he makes. It’s the way his body tenses, the way he becomes alert even in his sleep. He doesn’t need to ask if Curly is struggling, he can feel it in the silence that settles between them. And so, Ray holds him tighter, adjusts his position to make Curly more comfortable, murmuring quietly in his ear, offering soft reassurances in the silence.

Curly’s breathing is no longer something Ray simply listens to—it’s something he feels in his bones, and with each breath, Ray becomes more and more attuned to it, just as Curly has grown more attuned to him. It’s a shared understanding without words, a connection forged in the quiet moments.

Ray isn’t sure what triggers it, but sometimes, in the quiet of the night, he’ll hear the soft, muffled sobs from Curly. At first, the sound startles him. He’s used to hearing Curly’s labored, raspy breathing as he sleeps, but these sobs—they’re so full of raw emotion, so different from anything Ray’s encountered before. They come in waves, sometimes soft and barely audible, other times louder, as though Curly can’t keep the weight of everything inside anymore.

The first time it happens, Ray is frozen, unsure of what to do. He reaches out hesitantly, unsure if Curly wants to be touched, unsure if he’ll pull away. But before he can make any decisions, Curly turns into him, his body trembling as he presses his face into Ray’s chest, arms shaking as they clutch at his shirt. Ray immediately wraps his arms around him, holding him tight, offering comfort without asking anything in return. He doesn’t speak at first—words don’t seem to matter as much as the simple act of holding Curly close, steadying him, letting him know he isn’t alone.

When Curly finally pulls away slightly, his tear-streaked face turned toward Ray, it’s a look of vulnerability Ray isn’t used to seeing. But he’s learned not to push, not to force Curly to talk, because he knows the emotions are there, unspoken, and they run deep. Instead, he wipes the tears gently from Curly’s face, his thumb tracing the scars on his skin, an unspoken promise that he’s here, that nothing can take Curly away from him.

"Stay," Curly croaks, his stubs shaky as he reaches for Ray, a small plea. And Ray does, always. He stays, quietly comforting, not demanding, just letting Curly cry it out if he needs to. There’s nothing to fix, no right words to say. Just the warmth of Ray’s embrace, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath Curly’s ear, and the silent promise that Curly doesn’t have to face it all alone anymore.

Chapter Text

Eating has become an increasingly difficult task for Curly, especially after the crash. His body, still in the process of recovery, has developed an aversion to anything even remotely rough or smoky. It’s not just that food no longer tastes the same, it’s that certain textures or smells can trigger a visceral reaction. His gag reflex is unpredictable, and he’s learned to dread anything that might remind him of the fire, of the wreckage, or the people he failed to save. 

Curly, having lost so much—including his ability to speak—finds it hard to even try eating some days. His stubs don't help. He’s had to adapt, but even then, the struggle is exhausting. It’s not just physical weakness; it’s a psychological hurdle too. When Ray or someone else prepares food, Curly can sometimes only nibble, taking small bites, but the moment anything even slightly smoky or rough touches his tongue, his stomach lurches. The burning sensation, the flashbacks to the crash, flood his mind, making it almost impossible to swallow.

Ray, ever attentive, has learned to avoid any foods that might trigger Curly. He’s figured out the textures that are safe—soft, tender meals that won’t cause Curly to choke or gag. Curly never asks for anything special; he doesn’t need to. Ray knows what works, and every meal is prepared with thoughtfulness, sometimes even silently, to make the experience a little less stressful for Curly. It’s not about the food. It’s about taking care of him, and that’s something Ray does with quiet dedication.

On the bad days, when it’s all too much, Ray simply sits with him, offering water, a gentle touch on his shoulder, and the comfort of his presence. Curly doesn’t need to explain his discomfort; Ray can see it in his eyes. So they sit in silence, Curly leaning into Ray for support, and sometimes that's all it takes—no words, just the quiet understanding that Curly isn’t alone in his struggle.

Curly feels a deep shame as he pushes the food Ray carefully prepared away. The moment it touches his tongue, his body rebels—gagging, retching, and eventually vomiting it all up. It’s not that he doesn’t want to eat. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate the effort Ray’s put into making something for him. No, it’s the feeling of failure that overwhelms him—the realization that he can’t even stomach the simplest act of nourishment without causing distress.

He sits there, stubs clutched in his lap, eye welling with unshed tears. He doesn’t want to cry, doesn’t want Ray to see his vulnerability, his brokenness. But he can’t help it. The tears come, quiet at first, then heavier, the emotion spilling out. He sobs, muffled and ragged, overwhelmed by the shame of being so fragile. Of being unable to care for himself. Of failing to do something so basic, so necessary. 

Ray, ever the patient presence in his life, doesn’t say anything right away. He just watches Curly, his gaze soft but understanding. Then, with a gentle motion, he slides closer, wrapping his arms around Curly in the most tender embrace. He doesn’t need to tell Curly that it’s okay. He doesn’t need to explain that there’s no shame in being vulnerable. He just holds him—quiet, comforting, steady. 

Curly leans into the embrace, his sobs slowly subsiding, the warmth of Ray’s arms helping him regain his composure. It’s hard, though—so hard to allow himself to be cared for when he feels so broken. But in Ray’s arms, for once, he doesn’t feel so alien. He doesn’t feel like the man he used to be, the man who couldn’t protect the crew, couldn’t stop the crash, couldn’t even protect himself. He feels something softer, something safe. 

“Sor…ry…” Curly croaks.

Ray gently shushes him, pressing his forehead against Curly’s in a way that says everything without words. His arms tighten around him as he murmurs, “Don’t apologize, Curly. You’re not a burden.” He rocks him slightly, allowing the sobs to slow without judgment.

Curly’s breath hitches, and he wipes at his face with the back of his arm, the motion awkward due to his deformed arms, but Ray only smiles softly, guiding his movements. There’s no shame here. No need to apologize for existing or for being vulnerable. Ray doesn’t say it, but it’s clear in the way he holds Curly close—he’s not going anywhere. Not now, not ever. 

Curly struggles to breathe evenly, trying again, his chest rising and falling in sharp gasps. With tremors running in his arms, he grabs the tablet and stylus, writing down the words.

'Sorry...'

Ray tilts his head, his thumb tracing the curve of Curly’s shoulder, and softens his gaze. He leans in closer, speaking in a gentle tone, “There’s no wrong, Curly. You’re allowed to hurt, to be broken. We all have our scars, in one way or another.”

Curly’s eyes close for a moment as he processes the words, and slowly, he nods. The silence between them is heavy, but it feels safer now, like they’re both allowed to exist without the need for forced strength.

Ray’s fingers stop moving, and his touch lingers against Curly’s trembling form. He watches as Curly’s fingers glide across the tablet, writing again.

'I couldn’t beg Anya to kill me. I should have, but I... I wanted to live. Isn’t it selfish?'

Ray leans in closer, his breath warm against Curly’s ear as he speaks softly but firmly. “Curly, wanting to live is never selfish. Wanting to survive, to keep fighting—that’s what makes you human. You survived things no one should have had to endure. You made the choice to fight for another day. That’s strength, not weakness. You hear me? You’re not selfish.”

Curly’s breath catches, the weight of the past threatening to crush him. He feels the old guilt creep up again, the “should have” and “couldn’t” that had haunted him for so long. But Ray’s words settle over him like a blanket, comforting and solid. 

Curly looks at Ray, his arms now still on the tablet as he processes the meaning behind the words.

Ray presses a soft, lingering kiss to Curly’s forehead, grounding him in the moment. “You’re not alone, Curly. You don’t have to carry the weight of that guilt. Not anymore.”

Curly’s breathing catches again, the weight of his past mixing with Ray’s words. He’s heard the word “selfish” too many times, echoed in his own thoughts as he replays the mistakes he made. It feels like an insurmountable burden. But Ray’s words, tender and unyielding, seep into his soul, reminding him that survival isn’t a crime—it’s a victory.

Ray doesn’t hesitate, moving quickly to grab a towel, his hands steady despite the chaos in the moment. The mess on the floor is a stark reminder of how fragile Curly still is, how delicate the process of healing can be, even in the calmest of moments. Ray wipes it up, not with the discomfort that might come with such a task, but with a quiet focus, as though it's just another thing he has to take care of, just another part of Curly’s world that he needs to manage.

Curly watches, his heart sinking further as he sees Ray’s patience—his care. It should have been him doing this, not Ray. He should have been the one in control, the one taking care of his own mess. But the reality of his condition, of the scars that marked him both inside and out, made such simple tasks feel impossible.

When Ray finishes, he doesn’t say anything, just comes over to Curly’s side, offering him a hand to help him sit up. His touch is gentle, grounding, as though saying he’s not alone in this. Ray sits down next to him, close enough to feel the heat from his body, his presence a constant reminder that Curly isn’t a burden—not to him.

“Feeling better?” Ray asks quietly, his voice softer now, as if the question has deeper layers. It’s not just about the vomiting—it’s about how Curly feels, how he’s been carrying the weight of everything in silence. Ray looks at him, the understanding in his eyes more than just a glance—it’s something rooted in care, in love, that speaks volumes without needing to say a word.

Curly doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he shakes his head slightly, not in denial but in a way that speaks to how lost he feels. He still can’t shake the feeling that he’s damaged beyond repair, that he’s not the person he once was. But Ray doesn’t need him to speak to understand. He knows.

Ray wraps an arm around Curly’s shoulders and pulls him into a quiet embrace, a safe space to rest. It’s not a solution, but it’s a start—a small moment where Curly can just be, without needing to apologize for what he can’t control.

Ray feels each shudder that passes through Curly's body, the quiet, uncontrollable hiccups that follow his tears. He doesn’t try to hush him, doesn’t offer words of comfort that might fall flat right now. Instead, Ray just holds him closer, his hand gentle as he rubs soothing circles over Curly’s back, offering all the warmth and reassurance he can.

Curly clings a little tighter, the trembling only growing as he lets himself cry. In Ray’s arms, it’s safe to unravel a little, to let the raw edges of his pain and guilt show without fear of judgment. Ray’s presence anchors him, grounding him as each tear falls, every hiccup echoing in the quiet.

They sit together like that for what feels like hours, Ray’s patience unwavering, his steady, warm touch a constant comfort against the weight of Curly’s emotions. And slowly, as the hiccups begin to quiet and his breathing evens out, Curly feels something else stirring—a sense of relief, fragile but real, nestled in the solace Ray provides.

There are days when Curly’s pain wraps around him like a vise, deep and unyielding. It seems to seep into every corner of his body, flaring with any small movement, like fire spreading through his nerves. He tries to keep his face neutral, to hide the struggle, but Ray sees the tightness in his eyes, the way he tenses and then goes still, bracing himself against the ache.

Ray never presses him to talk about it—he just stays by his side, offering his steady presence. Some days, when the pain becomes unbearable, Ray will reach for him, gently stroking what’s left of Curly’s arm, murmuring soft reassurances. He knows that sometimes there’s nothing to be done, that all Curly wants is someone to sit with him in the quiet, helping him feel less alone in his suffering. 

In these moments, Curly leans into Ray’s touch, finding comfort even in the simple warmth of his hand. And, though the pain doesn’t fade entirely, it becomes something more bearable—a weight shared, if only for a little while. 

When Ray mentions painkillers, Curly's reaction is immediate and visceral—a sharp intake of breath, a flash of terror in his eyes. His body freezes, then begins to tremble, his chest heaving as if he can’t get enough air. Ray’s hand barely touches his shoulder when Curly recoils, curling into himself with his stumps clenched close, as if bracing for an invisible threat. His breathing becomes ragged, and he struggles to swallow, each breath escaping in panicked, broken gasps.

Ray’s heart breaks, seeing the depth of Curly’s fear. He kneels beside him, speaking softly, grounding him in the present. But Curly can barely process the words; his mind is lost in a flood of dark memories. Memories of Jimmy’s hands gripping his throat, forcing pills past his mouth, ignoring the sounds of Curly’s protests, the muffled cries that escaped despite his missing lips. Curly can still feel the brutal impact of Jimmy’s fist if he resisted—punishment for daring to make a sound, to show he was in pain.

As Curly’s breaths start to slow, Ray gently presses his forehead to Curly’s, whispering reassurances, promising that he’s safe now, that he doesn’t have to take anything he doesn’t want to. Curly, still shaking, finally meets Ray’s gaze, the remnants of fear softening as he focuses on the warm, steady presence in front of him. And in that moment, something inside him unclenches, a small release from the trauma, because he knows Ray’s patience and care won’t falter.

Ray places a tender kiss on the top of Curly's head, lingering there as if hoping the touch alone might ease some of the residual fear still coursing through him. He moves slowly, gauging Curly's reaction, his lips brushing softly across the scarred surface. Then, he lets his kisses trail downwards, peppering Curly’s face with warmth and affection. Each gentle press is careful, as if Ray knows exactly where to touch, where the skin is the least sensitive, where it still feels the most like him.

Curly blinks, struggling to steady his breath, but with every kiss, he feels his chest ease a little more, his mind drifting further from the shadows Jimmy left. Ray’s closeness wraps around him like a shield, a safety net, until Curly’s heart begins to beat in rhythm with his.

Chapter Text

Ray’s presence in Curly’s life might seem soft and understanding, but beneath that surface is a man once driven by a different kind of intensity—a drive tempered only by life’s hard edges. Patience wasn’t something he carried naturally; it was a skill he learned, often reluctantly. In his younger days, Ray was known for a short fuse and a single-mindedness that alienated as much as it impressed. Working as a mechanic, he developed a no-nonsense attitude, focused on getting the job done quickly and efficiently, without much concern for the emotional weight of his work. The machines he fixed were just problems to solve, and he didn’t linger on the details once the job was done.

Meeting Curly changed something deep within him, revealing the softer, buried side that he hadn’t let himself feel for a long time. The first time Ray saw Curly struggling—fighting just to perform the simplest of daily tasks—something in him cracked. His instincts told him to jump in, fix, and control, but Curly’s resilience stopped him. He didn’t want or need fixing in the way Ray had always approached things. Curly needed someone who would sit with him through the difficult moments, someone willing to be vulnerable alongside him, rather than charge ahead with solutions. It forced Ray to slow down, to listen, and to truly care.

By day, Ray works as a mechanic, a job that has its own rhythms of precision and problem-solving but one that demands little of his heart. He leaves early, typically before dawn, slipping quietly out of the house so Curly can rest. It’s honest work, using his hands to bring machines back to life, but there’s no deep fulfillment there—it’s simply what pays the bills, what keeps a roof over their heads. There’s a certain comfort in the repetitive, mechanical nature of his work; each part has a place, each problem has a fix. But Ray knows that, unlike machines, healing a person like Curly requires something that can’t be so easily solved.

While Ray is away, Curly spends long hours alone at home. The empty silence is both a comfort and a reminder of how isolated his life has become since the crash. The shadows in the room shift throughout the day, marking time in a way that often feels endless. Curly’s world is contained within these walls, where he navigates his daily routines with a quiet endurance, sometimes struggling to make himself food, other times simply sitting in the stillness.

Yet, when Ray returns, there’s a visible change in Curly’s demeanor—a slight easing of the tension that builds up during those lonely hours. Ray watches him carefully, noticing the unspoken gratitude, the way Curly seems to relax just a little at his presence. And in those moments, Ray’s own walls soften too, finding a peace he didn’t know he was capable of offering. It’s in these simple, quiet interactions that Ray realizes Curly has made him a better man, pulling something gentler and more enduring out of him that he might never have discovered on his own.

It had been an unforgiving day at the shop. Ray’s hands ached, grease staining deep into his skin, and his head pounded from hours of hammering parts that refused to fit. A job that should’ve taken minutes dragged on through the afternoon, slipping out of his control, and every small failure seemed to pile onto a mountain of frustration. By the time he made it home, there was a weight in his chest that wouldn’t ease, a clenching tension in his jaw he couldn’t seem to release.

When he walked through the door, he saw Curly at the table, struggling to open a jar. Curly’s face was tense, his expression one of determination mixed with a faint, familiar despair as he held the jar between his stumps, fumbling and twisting it with visible frustration. Normally, Ray would take the jar, say a soft word of encouragement, and that would be enough to ease Curly’s struggle. But today, with his patience already frayed, something in Ray just snapped.

“For God’s sake, Curly, can’t you just wait for me?” Ray’s voice came out sharper than he intended, loud and cutting in the quiet space of their home. “You’re gonna hurt yourself! Why do you always have to make things harder?”

The room fell into a cold silence, Ray’s words hanging in the air like shards of glass. The color drained from Curly’s face. His whole body went rigid, his stubs instinctively curling inward, pressing close to his chest as if shielding himself. Ray watched the light leave Curly’s eye, replaced by a look of raw, unfiltered terror. He’d seen that look before, but never directed at him. Curly’s breathing hitched, fast and shallow, his gaze darting around the room as though searching for an escape.

Curly’s stubs trembled, pulling even closer to his body. Ray’s anger dissolved immediately, replaced by a deep, sinking horror as he realized the effect of his words. “Curly… I—” He reached out, but Curly flinched back, his eye wide and unfocused, retreating into himself as the memories resurfaced.

Curly’s breaths turned into panicked gasps, his chest heaving as he clamped his mouth shut, forcing himself silent even in his distress. The rigid tension in his shoulders, the way he shook—everything about him screamed that he was no longer here, in this room with Ray, but somewhere darker, somewhere he fought every day to leave behind. Ray could see the fear consuming him, twisting into something visceral and uncontrollable.

Ray’s throat felt dry as he forced himself to stay calm. He knew he couldn’t just rush in, couldn’t apologize it away, not with the state Curly was in. Instead, he knelt slowly, lowering himself to Curly’s level. He kept his voice low and steady, gentle in a way he hadn’t been just moments before. “Curly… it’s okay. You’re here with me. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Curly didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the floor as he wrapped his stubs tightly around himself, as though trying to disappear. His breaths were shallow, the tremors in his body growing stronger with each second. Ray could see the flashbacks overwhelming him, his mind trapped in those memories he tried so hard to bury. And all Ray could do was sit there, heart breaking, realizing how deeply he had just hurt him.

Tentatively, Ray shifted closer, his movements slow and careful. He reached out, but not to touch—just to let Curly know he was there. “Sweetheart, I’m not mad. You’re safe. I didn’t mean it—I never meant to hurt you.” The words came out choked, a mix of regret and helplessness.

Gradually, Curly’s breathing slowed, the haze in his eye lifting just enough for him to recognize Ray’s presence. His gaze softened, but his body remained tense, coiled like a spring ready to snap. Ray’s heart ached seeing the lingering fear, the mistrust he had inadvertently ignited.

Ray gently placed a hand over his own heart, showing it was steady, that there was no anger left, only remorse. He stayed there, grounded, speaking softly until Curly’s shoulders loosened, the grip on his stubs easing slightly. It was a start, a fragile truce that Ray knew he would have to rebuild with care. He stayed by Curly’s side, vowing silently that he would never let his own frustration cost Curly his sense of safety again.

That night, as Ray sat on the edge of the bed, watching Curly finally drift into a fitful sleep, he felt the weight of his own guilt settle deep in his bones. He couldn’t stop replaying the moment he’d snapped—the look in Curly’s eye, the fear, the way he’d pulled himself in, shutting down like he had in the worst of times. Curly had gone through so much, fought battles Ray couldn’t fully understand, and yet he’d flinched from Ray as though he were an enemy.

Ray’s hands fisted in his lap, his knuckles white. He was supposed to be the one who protected Curly, the one place where he didn’t have to brace for impact. But tonight, he’d failed at that. And for what? Over a stupid jar he could’ve opened himself in seconds if he hadn’t been so consumed by his own frustration. Ray rubbed a hand over his face, trying to will away the self-loathing clawing at him.

He leaned closer, studying the lines of Curly’s face, the way his jaw trembled even in sleep, as though still bracing against an unseen threat. Ray’s chest ached at the sight. He could see the exhaustion etched into Curly’s features, a tiredness that never really left, only faded in moments of rare peace.

Ray knew his own life had been shaped by survival too, just not in the same way. He’d always been the one to keep moving forward, head down, pushing through whatever obstacles life threw at him. A day’s stress, a bad job—those things had never felt like they were worth holding on to. But with Curly, everything had changed. Curly made him feel in a way he hadn’t for years, peeling back the hardened layers he’d built up around himself. He wanted to be better for Curly, to offer him the quiet, consistent safety he deserved.

Tonight, though, Ray realized he’d been clinging to some illusion that he was done with his own demons. That just because he’d learned to be gentle with Curly didn’t mean he wasn’t still haunted by anger, by the frustration that had long fueled him. And when he saw Curly pull away tonight, as though Ray himself had become another ghost from his past, it had hurt in a way he hadn’t anticipated. He hated that he had become the source of Curly’s fear, even if only for a moment.

Ray sighed, leaning back in the chair beside Curly’s bed, letting his head fall into his hands.He’d spent years repairing machines with bolts and welds, mending broken parts but not broken spirits. It was just how he survived, how he moved forward. But mending Curly’s trust—that wasn’t something he could do with his hands. He would have to approach this in a way he didn’t know, a way that required patience and a willingness to sit with his own flaws instead of hiding behind them.

He reached out, caressing Curly’s temple with a gentleness he rarely showed to people other than Curly. “I’m so damn sorry, Curly,” he whispered, voice rough with regret. “You deserve someone who’ll never make you feel afraid.”

Curly shifted in his sleep, his face scrunching together as though he sensed Ray’s presence, his breathing hitching before settling again. Watching him like this, so vulnerable, so scarred by a past Ray couldn’t erase, he felt a fierce protectiveness bloom within him. Curly was the first person in years who made him want to do more than just exist, who made him want to be worthy of something beyond survival.

As the hours ticked by, Ray sat beside him, silent and unmoving, determined that when Curly woke up, he would see only the man who cared for him, who would work to be a constant presence without anger or frustration. He didn’t know if he could ever forgive himself fully for tonight, but he knew one thing for certain: he would do whatever it took to prove to Curly that he could be the safety he needed.

Ray found out about the appointment later that evening when he came home and noticed the telltale signs: a half-folded piece of paper sticking out from under Curly’s coat, the subtle scent of antiseptic that lingered in the air, and, most of all, the tired, distant look in Curly’s eye. At first, he didn’t say anything, hoping Curly might offer up an explanation. But as the night wore on, it became clear that Curly didn’t intend to mention it at all.

The realization stung more than Ray wanted to admit. Curly had gone to the doctor on his own, taken the trip, endured the sterile, uncomfortable environment—all of it—without telling him. After everything they’d shared, after all the times Ray had tried to show that he was here, that he would be there for whatever Curly needed, Curly had chosen to do this alone. He knew it wasn’t fair to feel hurt, but he couldn’t shake it. Had he pushed Curly away that much after snapping at him the other day? Was Curly that uncomfortable relying on him now?

As they sat in the quiet living room, Ray watched Curly from across the room, his stubs nervously twisting the paper in his hands, though he kept his gaze fixed on the table, avoiding eye contact. Ray took a slow breath, trying to quell the ache in his chest before speaking. “So… you went to the doctor today?” he asked, keeping his voice as even as possible.

Curly looked up, momentarily startled, his jaw clenching. For a moment, it seemed like he might try to brush it off or shrug, but then he nodded, looking down at his stubs. His face was unreadable, but Ray caught a flash of something—maybe guilt, or maybe it was something he wasn’t quite ready to face himself.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Ray’s tone was softer than he felt. He wanted to say more, to ask why Curly hadn’t trusted him enough to let him come along, but he bit his tongue, afraid of sounding accusatory, afraid of pushing Curly further away.

Curly’s stub hovered around the edge of his jacket, his expression turning defensive. He fumbled for his tablet and stylus, taking a long moment before he finally scrawled out a message: 'Didn’t want to bother you. You work hard.'

Ray closed his eyes, exhaling a shaky breath. He hadn’t realized how much it would hurt to read those words. Curly saw himself as a burden—saw his needs, his appointments, as something Ray couldn’t possibly want to take on. And maybe that was Ray’s fault. Maybe his anger the other night had painted him in a way he hadn’t intended, made Curly feel like his presence was something Ray merely tolerated.

“I want to be there,” Ray said quietly, looking at Curly, willing him to understand. “I don’t… I don’t want you to feel like you have to handle this on your own. I know I have a job and bills to pay, but this isn’t just my life anymore, you know?” He paused, trying to find the words. “You’re… important to me, Curly. You don’t have to do these things alone.”

Curly’s single eye was cast downwards, his stubs hovering over the stylus, visibly struggling to respond. Finally, he wrote, 'Not fair to make you worry about me. Just easier this way.'

Ray’s heart twisted at that. Curly had been hurt so deeply that he’d come to believe his existence was something others had to bear. That feeling, Ray understood in his own way—the belief that his burdens were his alone, that asking for help made him weak. But watching Curly shrink into himself, trying so hard not to “bother” him, made him realize how wrong that thinking was, how it only kept people further apart.

“I want to worry,” Ray insisted, his voice firmer this time. He leaned forward, his gaze steady. “You think I go to work every day just because it’s something to do? Curly, I work so we can both live, not just to keep myself busy.” He reached across the table, placing a hand gently over Curly’s, hoping his touch would convey what his words might not. “You don’t have to spare me. This isn’t easier—not for me, not for you. Let me be there for you.”

Curly looked at Ray’s hand, his mouth parting slightly, as if to argue, but then the fight seemed to drain from him. His shoulders sagged, and he finally nodded as his gaze softened, a flicker of understanding passing between them.

Ray gave his hand a gentle squeeze before pulling back. “Next time, tell me, okay? I don’t care if it’s a rough day, or if work’s been hell. You’re worth showing up for, Curly.”

Curly’s cheeks flushed slightly, and he nodded again, though his eye remained fixed on his lap. For now, it was enough—a fragile trust, one step closer to feeling like neither of them had to face their struggles alone.

Chapter Text

The morning was crisp as Ray wheeled Curly down the uneven sidewalk, the sun casting a soft glow over the quiet street. Ray kept a steady pace, careful over the bumps, his hands firm on the wheelchair’s handles, all the while casting small glances at Curly to gauge his comfort. Curly sat quietly, his gaze drifting over their surroundings but never lingering for too long. He knew what would come once they entered the busier part of town, and so did Ray.

The first few people who passed by offered only a glance, a brief, startled look that quickly turned away. But as they moved deeper into the bustling areas, the stares became harder to ignore. People slowed their steps, their eyes lingering on Curly’s face—his missing features, his raw scars that healed unevenly across his skin, the space where an eye should have been, the twisted remnants of his lips. His arms, or what was left of them, lay motionless against the thin blanket Ray had draped over his lap.

Ray felt his jaw clench as he noticed the gawking, his pulse tightening in that familiar way it did when he felt the urge to shield Curly from the world. He wished he could tell everyone to look away, to stop making his partner feel like a spectacle. But he knew he couldn’t fight their stares; all he could do was be there, a steady presence as they navigated the crowded street together.

Curly kept his gaze firmly down, his head tilted slightly away from the passing people, his body shrinking inward with each passing glance. Ray could see the tension in Curly’s shoulders, the way he tried to make himself smaller, as though he could somehow disappear. Each stare was a silent reminder of everything he’d lost, everything he was forced to carry in plain sight.

Ray leaned down, his voice soft but firm. “Let’s take it slow, yeah? We’re just here to get some fresh air. People can stare all they want, but it doesn’t mean a damn thing.”

Curly’s head tilted just slightly toward him, and Ray caught the faintest flicker of acknowledgment in his good eye. It wasn’t exactly relief, but it was something—a quiet trust that, in Ray’s presence, he didn’t have to hide.

As they reached a small park bench beneath a tree, Ray parked the wheelchair and settled down beside Curly, keeping close but giving him the space to breathe. Curly looked out at the trees, the soft sway of their branches in the wind, his gaze distant. Ray noticed the way Curly’s arms, or what remained of them, twitched slightly, a nervous habit he’d picked up in the absence of his limbs.

A group of children ran by, laughing and shouting, their energy loud and oblivious. One of them paused, staring openly at Curly before being hurried along by a parent who threw an apologetic look their way. Curly’s eye drifted downward, his shoulders pulling in tighter, and Ray felt a surge of anger simmer within him. He could feel Curly retreating, slipping back into that place where he thought he didn’t belong, where he was nothing more than a broken, unsightly reminder of something people preferred not to look at.

Without thinking, Ray reached over, placing his hand on Curly’s, his touch firm yet gentle. “You’re with me,” he said quietly, his voice steady. “I don’t care who stares. They don’t know you like I do. They don’t see what I see.”

Curly’s eye met his, and for a brief moment, Ray saw the raw vulnerability there, the part of him that still struggled to believe he was worth more than the sum of his scars. Slowly, Curly’s arms relaxed beneath Ray’s hand, his body releasing some of its tension. He didn’t smile, didn’t soften in any obvious way, but there was a subtle shift in his posture—a quiet acceptance that, at least here, with Ray beside him, he could let his guard down just a little.

Ray leaned back, glancing out at the park as though daring anyone else to stare, to look at Curly like he was less than the man he truly was. For a while, they sat in silence, surrounded by the sounds of the park, the world moving around them, until the tension in the air slowly faded, leaving them with only each other’s presence.

Ray gave Curly’s arm one last squeeze before letting go. “Whenever you’re ready to head back, just say the word.”

Curly nodded, his gaze lingering on Ray for a long moment before he looked back out at the trees. In that shared silence, Ray knew he didn’t have to say anything more. Curly was here with him, and that was all that mattered.

Curly's shoulders hunched tighter as they sat in the park, his good eye flicking over the faces of those who passed, wincing whenever he caught a look of shock or, worse, pity. He had grown used to mirrors and their brutal honesty; he had seen his reflection enough to know what others must see—a face that looked as if it had been molded in fire and left to harden in agony. He didn’t need reminders, but the expressions of strangers always seemed to twist that knife a little deeper.

Ray glanced at him, picking up on the unease that clung to Curly’s every movement. Curly’s breathing was shallow, his jaw clenched tightly together in the way they did when he was holding himself back, forcing himself to sit still, to bear it. Ray wanted to tell him that he didn’t have to—that they could leave, that he didn’t need to endure any more stares today. But he knew Curly, knew the quiet resolve that made him stay, that made him refuse to back down even when it hurt.

Curly grabbed around the small edge of the wheelchair’s arm, his stubs trembling slightly. Ray noticed the way his gaze lingered on the families around them, the laughter of children playing nearby, the soft, comfortable ease with which they all seemed to belong. And then, he looked down, the corners of his mouth pulling inward, as though he could sink far enough into himself to disappear.

“It’s not fair,” Curly finally wrote, lifting the tablet with trembling arms. His eye didn’t lift to meet Ray’s; instead, he stared fixedly at the words, as if they were a confession he didn’t want to voice aloud. 'Being seen like this, as something to fear. I know it’s what I look like, but… it’s not who I am.'

Ray’s heart twisted at those words. He wanted to tell Curly that the people around them didn’t matter, that their shallow judgments were worth nothing. But he also knew that wouldn’t help; Curly didn’t need empty reassurances, didn’t need Ray to pretend it didn’t hurt. Curly had lost so much—his body, his voice, pieces of himself he could never get back. And, in their place, he’d gained a silent, constant reminder of what he had been through, stamped in the burned remnants of his skin and the twisted contours of his face.

Ray leaned forward, his voice soft but unwavering. “I don’t see you that way, Curly. I don’t see you as something to fear. I know it doesn’t change what other people see, but… when I look at you, I see someone who’s survived things I can’t even imagine.”

Curly’s gaze remained downcast, his stubs clutching the tablet tightly. He typed again, his movements slower this time. 'I hate that they see me like a monster. Like I don’t belong here.'

Ray’s hands tightened on his lap, the helplessness rising within him. He wanted so badly to make it better, to erase the stares, the pity, the ugly truth of how people looked at Curly. But he knew he couldn’t change their minds, couldn’t erase the hurt that each glance left in its wake. Instead, he reached out, gently placing his hand over Curly’s, feeling the way his stubs trembled beneath the touch.

“Curly… You do belong here. You belong anywhere you want to be. They don’t know you; they only see what’s on the surface. They don’t know the man who fought to survive, who gets up every day and keeps going even when it’s hard.” Ray’s voice broke slightly, the frustration leaking through despite himself. “They don’t see you the way I do, and maybe they never will. But that doesn’t make you any less… you.”

Curly’s eye lifted, meeting Ray’s for a brief moment, a flicker of vulnerability hidden beneath the layers of defense he’d built up over time. Ray felt the weight of that gaze, the unspoken struggle that lingered between them—the need for acceptance, the fear of being forever reduced to his scars. In that moment, Ray wanted to reach in, to pull Curly out of that isolation he’d been forced into, to show him that he was more than the remnants of his suffering.

After a long silence, Curly took a shaky breath, then typed out one more sentence. 'I just don’t want to be seen as a reminder of everything people are afraid of.'

Ray’s chest tightened at that, the words hitting harder than he’d expected. He understood now; it wasn’t just about the stares—it was about what those stares meant, how they reflected a collective fear of pain, of loss, of everything that could break a person. Curly was a walking reminder of those things, and no amount of resilience or strength could change that reality in others’ eyes.

Ray reached out again, his hand resting firmly on Curly’s shoulder. “They might see you that way, but I don’t. And I think… if they really looked, if they could see past the scars, they’d see the same thing I do. Someone worth admiring. Someone worth caring for.”

Curly’s gaze softened, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly under Ray’s touch. He still looked weary, still burdened by the stares and whispers, but there was a faint spark in his eye—a hint that, maybe, Ray’s words had reached him.

They sat in silence a while longer, surrounded by a world that might never truly understand. But in that moment, it was enough. Curly wasn’t alone in his pain, and Ray was there, unwavering in his quiet support. And even if it didn’t take the hurt away, it was a reminder that he was still seen—not as a spectacle, not as a warning, but as a person, whole and worthy, scars and all.

"I like kids." Curly wrote. "They're carefree little gremlins.”

Ray looked down at the tablet, a small smile tugging at his lips as he read Curly’s message. The word “gremlins” made him chuckle, imagining the way Curly must have watched the children earlier, the hint of softness beneath his scarred exterior. Curly’s eye followed a group of kids playing tag on the grass, his gaze wistful and, just for a moment, free of the usual guardedness. Ray noticed the way his shoulders relaxed, as if the sight of the kids running around—laughing, completely unbothered by the world—brought him a rare sense of peace.

“Yeah,” Ray murmured, keeping his tone light, “they’re trouble, but the good kind. They remind me that life can still be simple… at least for some people.” He glanced over, catching the way Curly’s expression softened as he watched the children. “You ever think about having kids?”

Curly blinked, his expression shifting in surprise. He lifted the stylus, hesitating before writing out his response. 'I don’t think I’d be good with them. Not anymore.' The words were small, a quiet admission that held a weight Ray hadn’t expected.

Ray’s smile faded, his gaze lingering on Curly’s face. “I don’t know about that. I think they’d love you,” he said softly. “Kids don’t judge the way adults do. They’d see you for the person you are, not what’s on the outside.”

Curly’s mouth tightened, the faintest trace of bitterness flickering in his eye. 'They’d still see it. Maybe not the way grown-ups do, but… they’d know something’s wrong.' He paused, as if searching for the right words. 'I don’t want to scare them. I don’t want them to look at me and see… something broken.'

Ray leaned forward, placing a hand on Curly’s shoulder, his touch steady and grounding. “You’re not broken, Curly. Not to me, and not to anyone who really matters.” He knew it was a simple answer, but it was all he had—the truth as he saw it, stripped of the doubts that Curly carried. “Maybe you’re not exactly like you were before. But you’re still whole in ways that count.”

Curly looked down at Ray’s hand, a flicker of gratitude softening his expression before he returned his gaze to the kids. After a moment, he typed again, 'I like them because they’re… free. They don’t know what it’s like to be afraid all the time. To live with… this.'

Ray nodded, understanding the depth of what Curly wasn’t saying. The carefree innocence of children, the simple way they navigated the world, was something he knew Curly admired, maybe even missed in himself. “Maybe that’s why they’d be good for you, you know? You’d get to be part of that. Maybe even help them hold onto it a little longer.”

Corners of Curly's mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but close. He typed slowly, 'I don’t think I’d make the best parent. Probably would teach them some… colorful language.'

Ray laughed, the warmth of it breaking the tension. “Oh, I’d pay to see that. Little gremlins cursing like sailors.” He gave Curly’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, a silent reassurance that, in his eyes, Curly was capable of more than he realized.

They sat there a while longer, watching as the kids darted across the grass, their laughter echoing in the crisp air. And for a moment, Curly let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he could be part of something like that—something untainted by fear, something filled with laughter and life. And with Ray beside him, he almost felt he belonged there.

Ray tapped the rim of the wheelchair thoughtfully as they made their way back home. The sun was setting, painting the streets in soft golds and reds. Curly sat quietly, his hands resting on the thin blanket over his legs, his eye distant. Ray couldn’t stop thinking about what Curly had written earlier—about liking kids, about seeing them as carefree gremlins. It was one of the few times Curly had spoken about something beyond his pain, his fears, or his past. And Ray couldn’t shake the thought that maybe, just maybe, there was something more to that spark of interest.

“You know,” Ray began, his tone casual, “there’s this group at the community center. Therapy and rehab, mostly, for folks recovering from surgeries, trauma… stuff like that. But they also run a program for kids.”

Curly turned his head slightly, his expression unreadable.

“They pair kids with adults who’ve been through… hard things,” Ray continued. “It’s kind of like mutual therapy. The kids get someone to look up to, someone who can understand what it means to be different. And the adults? They get to see the world through the kids’ eyes, maybe find a little bit of that joy they’ve lost.”

Curly didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he looked away, his gaze fixed on the sidewalk ahead. The tension in his shoulders told Ray he was thinking, weighing the idea.

“I’m not saying you have to,” Ray added quickly, not wanting to push too hard. “But… I think you might enjoy it. You said it yourself—you like kids. They’re gremlins, yeah, but they don’t care about what you look like. They just care about how you treat them. You’d be good at it, Curly.”

Curly’s lips pressed together, his eye narrowing slightly as he reached for the tablet. After a long pause, he began typing. 'They’d stare. Just like everyone else. They’d ask questions. They’d want to know what happened.'

Ray stopped walking, turning the wheelchair slightly so he could face Curly. “Yeah, maybe. But kids aren’t like adults. They don’t stare to be rude—they stare because they’re curious. They’ll ask questions, sure. But they don’t ask to hurt you. They ask because they want to understand. And once they get it, once they know you’re not some nightmare, they’ll see the real you.”

Curly glanced at him, skepticism written across his face.

“I’m serious,” Ray insisted, crouching slightly so he was at eye level. “They’ll see you for who you are, Curly. Someone strong. Someone who’s been through hell and came out the other side. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll see that part of yourself too.”

Curly’s fingers twitched on the tablet, the stylus hovering over the screen. Finally, he typed, 'What if I’m not ready?'

Ray smiled softly, his hand resting gently on Curly’s shoulder. “Then we take it slow. I’ll be with you every step of the way. You don’t have to dive in headfirst. Just try it once. If it’s too much, we’ll stop. No pressure.”

Curly didn’t look convinced, but there was a flicker of something in his eye—curiosity, maybe, or a hesitant willingness to at least consider the idea. 

As they continued their walk home, Curly remained quiet, but his posture seemed a little less tense, his gaze less distant. Ray didn’t expect miracles, but he hoped this small step might help Curly see himself the way Ray saw him—not as a broken man, but as someone who still had so much to offer.

Chapter Text

The room was quiet, the air warm and heavy in the aftermath of their intimacy. The faint glow of the bedside lamp cast soft shadows across the walls, illuminating the sheen of sweat on their bodies. Curly lay sprawled on Ray’s chest, his head tucked into the crook of Ray’s neck, listening to the rhythmic thud of his heartbeat. Ray’s arms encircled him loosely, fingers idly tracing the faint scars along Curly’s back, offering a touch that was grounding and tender.

Neither of them spoke; they rarely needed to. Moments like these were sacred, a reprieve from the world outside, a space where they could just be. But as the minutes stretched, Curly shifted, rolling carefully off Ray’s chest. He reached toward the nightstand, his movements deliberate as he fumbled for his tablet.

Ray turned his head slightly, propping himself up on an elbow, his eyes following Curly’s actions. “What’s on your mind?” he asked softly, his voice still husky from their earlier moments.

Curly didn’t answer right away. His stubs hovered over the tablet, hesitant, as though weighing the significance of what he was about to type. Finally, he began to write, each tap of the stylus deliberate. When he turned the screen toward Ray, his good eye lingered on Ray’s reaction, searching for any hint of doubt or judgment.

'I think I want to try the kid thing.'

Ray blinked, his heart skipping a beat as he processed the words. For a moment, he wasn’t sure he’d read it right. “The therapy thing? At the center?” he asked, his voice low, careful.

Curly nodded, his jaw clenching. He typed again, quicker this time, as if needing to explain himself. 'I’m scared. I don’t know if I can do it, but… I think I want to try. Just once. To see if I can.'

Ray felt a warmth spread through his chest, a mixture of pride and affection swelling within him. He reached out, brushing his fingers gently along Curly’s arm, his touch light but firm. “You don’t have to be perfect at it, Curly. Hell, you don’t even have to know what you’re doing. Just showing up, just trying—that’s more than enough.”

Curly’s eye softened, a flicker of relief crossing his face. He typed again, 'What if they don’t like me? What if they’re scared of me?'

“They won’t be,” Ray said with certainty, his voice steady. “Kids are better than that. They’ll see you for who you are—a man who’s been through the worst but still stands tall. And if they don’t? If it’s too much? Then we walk away, no harm done. But I think… I think you’ll surprise yourself.”

Curly glanced at the tablet, then back at Ray, his expression a mix of apprehension and cautious hope. Slowly, he nodded, his stub brushing over Ray’s hand in silent agreement.

Ray smiled, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to Curly’s forehead. “You’ve got this, Curly. I’m with you every step of the way.” 

Corners of Curly’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile but close, as he placed the tablet back on the nightstand. He shifted closer to Ray, settling against him, the warmth of their shared moment still lingering in the air. For the first time in a long time, the future felt a little less daunting, a little brighter, as they lay together in the quiet comfort of each other’s presence.

The community center buzzed with quiet energy, the sound of chatter and laughter echoing softly in the brightly lit room. Curly sat in his wheelchair near the corner, watching the small group of children being paired with their mentors. His heart thudded in his chest, his stubs resting awkwardly on the armrests as he tried to remain calm. Despite Ray’s reassurances, he couldn’t shake the nagging thought that he didn’t belong here. That his scars, his missing limbs, and his burned features would do more harm than good. He even wore his prosthetics, hoping they would lessen the impact of the obvious despite hating the metal touching his scarred skin.

But then, a small girl peeked out from behind one of the staff members, her wide eyes locking onto Curly. She was tiny, her frame almost birdlike, with long, dark hair tied into loose pigtails. Her arms clutched a stuffed rabbit to her chest, its ears worn and frayed, a sign of many restless nights. She didn’t move closer, instead shifting nervously on her feet as the staff member gently nudged her forward.

“Curly,” the staff member said with a warm smile, “this is Ella. She’s a little shy, but I think you two will get along great.”

Curly’s eye softened as he took in the little girl, her gaze darting between him and the floor. He gave her a small nod, lifting the tablet from his lap. After a moment, he typed: 'Hey, Ella. Cool bunny. What’s their name?'

Ella’s eyes widened, surprise flickering across her face. She hesitated, clutching the rabbit tighter, before mumbling, “Thumper.”

Curly tilted the tablet slightly, typing again. 'Good name. Thumper looks like they’ve been on some big adventures. Just like you, huh?'  

Ella’s gaze flickered up to meet his for a brief moment before darting back to the rabbit. A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, but she said nothing. Still, Curly could see the faintest crack in her guarded demeanor, a glimmer of curiosity breaking through the shyness.

Curly tapped the tablet again. 'I like adventurers. Wanna tell me about Thumper’s?' 

Ella hesitated, her fingers nervously picking at the edge of Thumper’s ear. Finally, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “Thumper… um, he helped me when I was scared. Like, at the hospital. He stayed with me when… when nobody else could.”

Curly nodded, his expression softening even more. He typed, 'Sounds like Thumper’s a real hero. You must be, too, for getting through all that.'

Ella blinked up at him, her lips parting slightly in surprise. It wasn’t often that someone called her brave—most people just saw her as small and fragile. Slowly, she took a step closer to Curly’s wheelchair, her grip on Thumper loosening just a little.

As the hours passed, the other kids started to notice Curly. At first, it was just sideways glances, curious looks they didn’t bother to hide. But then, one of the older boys, maybe nine or ten, marched right up to him.

“Whoa,” the boy said, staring at Curly’s scars and prosthetic attachments. “What happened to you? Did you, like, survive an explosion or something?”

Curly glanced at Ella, who now sat cross-legged on the floor beside his wheelchair, holding Thumper close but watching the interaction with wide eyes. He typed, 'Something like that. Ever seen a robot in a fight?'

The boy’s eyes widened. “No way! You’re like… part robot? That’s so cool!”

Curly typed with a faint smile, 'Only the cool parts. Wanna see?' He raised his prosthetic arm slightly, letting the boy examine the sleek mechanisms.

Soon, other kids gathered around, their excitement building as they peppered him with questions about his scars, his wheelchair, and his “robotic” parts. Curly answered each one patiently through his tablet, weaving stories that were just enough truth to satisfy their curiosity but lighthearted enough to keep them engaged.

Ella stayed quiet, watching the growing crowd with a mix of awe and hesitation. When one of the kids tried to pull her into their excitement, she clung tighter to Thumper, shrinking back.

Curly noticed immediately. He shifted his attention to her, typing out a message just for her: 'It’s okay if you don’t want to join. Wanna sit with me and Thumper instead?'

Ella nodded quickly, relief washing over her face. She scooted closer to his wheelchair, resting Thumper on the armrest between them. For the first time, she looked up at him with something close to trust.

By the end of the session, Ella was glued to Curly’s side, her shy demeanor softening as she began to see him not as someone to fear, but as someone who understood what it meant to feel out of place. And as they left the center, Ray waiting by the door with a proud smile, Curly couldn’t help but feel a small spark of something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

The first time Curly asked to return to the center, it was tentative, almost hesitant. He had rolled his wheelchair into the living room where Ray was sprawled on the couch, flipping through the mail. Curly tapped lightly on the tablet balanced on his lap, the faint sound catching Ray’s attention.

Ray sat up, raising an eyebrow as Curly turned the screen toward him. The message was simple: 'Can we go back? To the center?'

For a moment, Ray was too stunned to speak. He hadn’t expected Curly to want to go back so soon—or at all. “You’re serious?” he asked, his tone gentle, not wanting to sound doubtful. But the look in Curly’s eye told him everything he needed to know.

Curly nodded, his expression calm but resolute. He typed again. 'I think I like it there. Ella... she’s special. And the kids... they don’t look at me the same way other people do.'

Ray felt a warmth bloom in his chest, a mixture of pride and something softer, something deeply personal. “Of course,” he said, standing and reaching for his jacket. “We’ll go tomorrow. I’ll let them know to expect you.”

The visits became routine after that. Each time they went, Curly found himself opening up a little more, connecting not just with Ella but with the other kids, their families, and even some of the adults in the program. The center was filled with people who, like Curly, had been through their own versions of hell—some physical, some emotional, but all of them seeking a place where they could feel understood.

Ella remained his constant, her shyness fading bit by bit as she grew more comfortable with him. She started showing him her drawings, little scribbles of Thumper going on wild adventures. Curly, with his limited ability to draw, would awkwardly sketch stick figures on his tablet to add to her stories, making her giggle.

But it wasn’t just Ella who brightened Curly’s days. There was Jason, a boy with a prosthetic leg who wanted to know everything about Curly’s “robotic” arm. There was also Naomi, a young girl with a burn scar running down her face, who would sit silently beside him during craft time, stealing glances at his scars as if trying to draw courage from his presence. 

The adults, too, began to approach him. A woman named Clara, who had lost her husband in an accident, often sat with him while the kids played. “You’ve got a gift,” she said one afternoon, watching as Curly entertained the children with his tablet stories. “They see you, not your scars. You’re a natural.”

Curly had only shrugged, typing out a quiet 'I just know how it feels to want someone to see you.'

Each visit brought new faces, new stories, and new challenges, but Curly found himself looking forward to the trips in a way he hadn’t expected. The center became a place where he wasn’t defined by what he’d lost but by what he could still offer—a listening ear, a reassuring presence, or even just a distraction for a child who needed it.

Ray noticed the change, too. There was a lightness to Curly now, a quiet confidence that had been missing for so long. He smiled more—small, fleeting smiles, but genuine. And when he typed, his words carried less hesitation, more purpose.

One evening, after another visit, Ray and Curly sat together in the kitchen, the soft hum of the refrigerator filling the silence. Curly tapped his tablet, then turned it toward Ray. 

'Thanks for pushing me to go that first time,' it read. 'I think I needed it more than I realized.'

Ray leaned back, a slow smile spreading across his face. “I didn’t do anything but drive you there,” he said. “The rest? That was all you, Curly.”

Curly’s gaze dropped to the table, but there was a faint flush to his cheeks, his embarrassment only making Ray’s smile widen. He reached across the table, resting his hand over Curly’s.

“You’re doing something amazing,” Ray said quietly. “For those kids, for Ella… and for yourself. I’m proud of you.”

Curly didn’t type a response. Instead, he leaned into Ray’s touch, his head tilting slightly as if to say, 'I’m starting to be proud of me, too.'

Chapter Text

Curly was seated in his usual spot near the window, the warm light spilling over the table where Ella sat beside him. She was coloring a picture of Thumper on what she insisted was an epic quest to rescue “the coolest robot ever.” Curly had grown used to her dramatizations, and he encouraged them, his tablet ready for any notes she wanted him to add. 

The kids nearby were as lively as ever, occasionally running over to show Curly their drawings or tell him stories about their latest adventures. Jason, the boy with the prosthetic leg, had just challenged another kid to a race, confidently declaring, “I’ve got a robot leg; I’ll totally win.”

It was one of those rare, peaceful afternoons that Curly had come to cherish—until he caught the sharp edge of a whisper behind him.  

“Honestly, I don’t know why they let him around the kids. He looks like something out of a horror movie,” a woman muttered to someone beside her.  

Curly froze, the familiar sting of shame washing over him. He didn’t turn around, but he could feel their eyes boring into his back, the heat of their judgment making his skin crawl. He tightened his grip on the edge of the wheelchair, his good eye focusing on Ella, who was oblivious to the tension.  

Another voice chimed in, quieter but no less cutting. “I’m just saying, it’s… unsettling. The kids shouldn’t have to look at that. It’s not right.”  

Curly’s arms shook, his tablet slipping slightly from his lap. He wanted to type something, to defend himself, but the words wouldn’t come. He wasn’t sure they ever would.  

Before he could retreat further into himself, a small, fierce voice cut through the room.  

“Hey!”  

It was Ella. She had stood up, her tiny frame trembling with a mix of fear and determination. Her dark eyes glared at the two women, her fists clenched tightly around her crayon. “You don’t get to talk about him like that!”  

The room went silent as everyone turned to look.  

Jason was the next to speak, hobbling over to stand beside Ella. “Yeah! Mr. Curly’s the coolest person here. He’s a hero, and you’re just mean!”  

Several other kids began chiming in, their voices a chaotic chorus of protests. “He’s not scary!” “He tells the best stories!” “You’re the ones who are scary, being so rude!”  

One of the women opened her mouth to respond, but Clara, one of the adult volunteers, quickly intervened. “Ladies, I think you’ve said enough,” she said firmly, her expression a mix of disappointment and anger. “This center is a place for healing and understanding. If you can’t respect that, you’re welcome to leave.”  

The two women sputtered, their faces flushing with embarrassment as they grabbed their things and hurried out the door.  

As the room settled, Ella turned back to Curly, her cheeks flushed with indignation. She hesitated for a moment, then reached out, placing Thumper on his lap as though the stuffed rabbit could shield him from the cruel words.  

Curly’s chest tightened, his good eye welling with unshed tears. He picked up his tablet and typed carefully, his stubs still trembling. 'Thank you.'  

Ella’s face softened, and she nodded solemnly. “You’re my friend, Mr. Curly,” she said quietly. “And friends stick up for each other.”  

Jason leaned in, grinning. “Besides, you’re way cooler than them. They’re just jealous.”  

The kids gathered around Curly again, their chatter returning to its usual lively rhythm. They didn’t linger on the incident, their innocence allowing them to move on faster than Curly could.  

But as he sat there, surrounded by their warmth and acceptance, he felt something shift inside him. 

When Ray came to pick him up later, Curly didn’t say much about what had happened. But as they drove home, he glanced out the window, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in the faintest hint of a smile. 

The first weekend Ray accompanied Curly to the center, he was ready before Curly had even finished adjusting his wheelchair. The building bustled with energy as usual—bright laughter from the kids and the hum of conversation from adults filled the air. Ray, with his broad shoulders and scarred hands, stood at the entrance, scanning the lively scene with an eager grin. Beside him, Curly glanced up, raising an eyebrow at Ray’s obvious excitement.

“You gonna sit here all day, or are we heading in?” Ray teased, leaning casually against the doorframe.  

Curly smirked faintly, typing quickly on his tablet before turning it toward Ray. 'Didn’t know you’d be more excited than me.'  

Ray scoffed, giving Curly a playful nudge on the shoulder as he reached to push the wheelchair. “Are you kidding? You’ve been raving about this place for weeks. Thought I’d finally see what all the fuss was about.”  

Curly gave a short laugh, the sound light and quiet. He typed another quick response: 'Just don’t embarrass me in front of the kids.'  

Ray grinned, his tone full of mock offense. “Me? Embarrass you? Baby, I’m the definition of cool.” He pushed Curly into the room before he could type a comeback, his deep chuckle echoing behind them.  

“Mr. Curly! You’re here!” Ella’s voice rang out, her small figure bounding toward them with Thumper in tow. Behind her, Jason and a few of the older kids trailed, their faces lighting up when they saw the familiar wheelchair.  

Curly adjusted the tablet on his lap as the kids rushed toward him, their faces lighting up with excitement. Ella was the first to spot Ray standing behind the wheelchair, her wide eyes scanning him up and down.  

“Who’s that?” Jason asked, his voice full of curiosity as he tugged at Curly’s sleeve. “He looks like he could lift a car!”  

Curly tilted the tablet slightly, a sly smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He typed quickly and turned the screen toward the kids. 'That’s Ray. He’s my partner.'  

Ella tilted her head, confused. “Like, your teammate?”  

Jason chimed in, pointing at the scar running beneath Ray’s eye. “Or like, your bodyguard? He looks tough enough to be one.”  

Curly raised an eyebrow and typed again: 'Not my teammate, not my bodyguard. My partner. Like... someone you live with, care about, and who cares about you back.'  

Ella’s face lit up in understanding. “Oh! Like Thumper’s my partner! But, um…” She glanced at Ray. “Way taller. And scarier.”  

Ray laughed, crouching slightly to meet her gaze. “I promise I’m not scary. Just big. You can even climb me if you want.”  

Ella giggled, her shyness fading as Jason immediately took Ray up on the offer, tugging at his sleeve. “Can we really? You’d let us?”  

Curly rolled his eye, typing quickly as Ray grinned down at the kids. 'You’re encouraging the chaos already. I knew this would happen.'  

Ray chuckled, placing a hand on Curly’s shoulder. “Hey, if I’m going to be here, might as well make an impression.”  

The kids didn’t seem to mind—or question—their dynamic beyond that. To them, Ray and Curly were just another part of the center’s warmth, a team that fit perfectly into the lively, chaotic rhythm of their lives. And from the way Ray carried himself—already fully immersed in the kids’ excitement—it was clear he felt the same.

Within minutes, they were tugging at Ray's sleeve, asking him endless questions about his scars, his size, and whether he could lift a chair with one hand (“Only if you behave,” he’d joked, earning a round of cheers).  

Even the shyer kids found their way to him. Naomi, the girl with the burn scar, hovered nearby with her coloring book until Ray knelt down, his voice softening as he asked about her drawings. She showed him a picture of a bird in flight, her voice barely above a whisper as she explained it was her favorite animal.  

“Pretty good,” Ray said, nodding appreciatively. “You’ve got a knack for detail. Ever think about painting?”  

Naomi’s eyes lit up, and she shook her head. “I don’t have paints.”  

Ray smiled, making a mental note to fix that the next time he was in town.  

As the day went on, Ray found himself drawn into the rhythm of the center. The kids’ energy was infectious, their laughter and boundless curiosity chipping away at his initial discomfort. Even the adults seemed to warm to him, exchanging friendly smiles and nods as he helped organize chairs or joined in a round of storytelling.  

By the time the session ended, Ray was sitting cross-legged on the floor with Ella and Jason climbing on his back, both of them laughing as they tried to “wrestle the giant.” Curly sat nearby, his tablet resting on his lap as he watched with a faint smile.  

“You were right,” Ray admitted later as they packed up to leave. “They’re a good bunch.”  

Curly tilted the tablet toward him: 'Told you. You’re good with them. Maybe even better than me.'  

Ray scoffed, pushing Curly’s wheelchair toward the door. “Not a chance. You’re the star here, Curly. I’m just your backup.”  

Curly typed again, the faint smile still lingering on his face: 'Then I guess we make a good team.'  

Ray paused, looking down at Curly. His chest swelled with a quiet pride he didn’t often let himself feel. “Yeah,” he said softly, pushing the door open to the crisp afternoon air. “We do.”  

From that weekend on, Ray became a regular at the center. Though his presence was more sporadic than Curly’s, the kids adored him, often asking when “the giant” would come back. And as time passed, Ray found himself looking forward to those Saturdays—not just for the kids, but for the rare joy of seeing Curly in his element, surrounded by laughter and acceptance.

The kids at the center were all there for reasons that no child should have to endure. Each one carried their own story, their own scars, and their own way of coping with what life had thrown at them. The community center provided a safe space where they could just be kids—loud, curious, and full of life—but beneath that energy was a shared understanding that they were all in this together.  

Ella, the shy little girl who had become attached to Curly, was among the youngest. At just six years old, she had already endured a lifetime’s worth of trauma. A car accident had taken her parents and left her with a jagged scar down her side, one she often kept hidden beneath oversized sweaters. She carried Thumper, her stuffed rabbit, everywhere—her only constant during endless hospital stays and foster homes. Despite her quiet demeanor, she had a fierce protective streak, especially when it came to Curly. She would hover close to him during every visit, often grabbing his sleeve or wheelchair when she felt overwhelmed.  

Jason, on the other hand, was loud and brash, his energy filling every room he entered. At ten years old, he had lost his leg to an infection after a severe accident in his neighborhood. It had taken months of physical therapy and countless surgeries to get him to where he was now, proudly showing off his prosthetic leg as if it were a badge of honor. He was fascinated by Curly’s prosthetics, often asking endless questions about how they worked. Jason’s boundless curiosity extended to Ray as well, especially once he realized how strong Ray was. “Can you lift me?” was one of his favorite challenges, which Ray always answered with a mock struggle before scooping him up with a grin.  

Naomi, the quiet girl with the burn scar running down her face, was different. At nine years old, she didn’t speak much, but when she did, her voice was soft and hesitant. A house fire had taken her parents and left her scarred, both physically and emotionally. She often lingered on the outskirts of the group, observing rather than participating. But when she sat beside Curly, there was an unspoken understanding between them. She would pass him her sketches without a word, her drawings often depicting phoenixes, dragons, or other creatures rising from the ashes.  

The interactions between the kids and their two unlikely mentors were as varied as the kids themselves.  

On one Saturday morning, Jason was showing off his running skills, his prosthetic leg pounding against the floor as he raced another boy. “Did you see that? I totally won!” he called, running back to Curly and Ray with a triumphant grin.  

Curly typed on his tablet: 'That wasn’t even close. You’re faster than me, though.'  

Jason’s grin widened as he turned to Ray. “Can you run? Or are you too old for that?”  

Ray chuckled, crossing his arms. “Old? I could outrun you any day of the week, kid. But I’m not about to embarrass you in front of your friends.”  

“Yeah, right!” Jason said, clearly ready to argue, but Ella tugged at his sleeve.  

“Don’t be mean to Mr. Ray,” she said, her voice small but firm. “He’s nice.”  

Jason huffed, but he let it go, sitting beside Curly and asking, “How do you walk with those arm things, anyway? Does it feel like robot arms?”  

Curly patiently typed out a response: 'Takes practice. Want to try them sometime?'  

Jason’s eyes lit up. “Really? You’d let me?”  

Curly nodded, smiling faintly as Jason peppered him with more questions.  

Meanwhile, Ella had wandered over to Ray, clutching Thumper tightly. “Can I sit with you?” she asked quietly, glancing nervously at the group of older kids nearby.  

“Of course,” Ray said, patting the spot on the bench beside him. “What’s up?”  

Ella hesitated, then climbed up, placing Thumper carefully in her lap. “Do you think Mr. Curly ever gets scared?”  

Ray frowned slightly, glancing over at Curly, who was still talking with Jason. “Why do you ask?”  

“Because… he doesn’t look scared. Even when people are mean to him. I wish I could be like that.”  

Ray leaned back, his tone soft. “Curly’s been through a lot, Ella. But that doesn’t mean he’s never scared. He just… doesn’t let it stop him. And you know what? You don’t have to be like him. You’re already brave, in your own way.”  

Ella blinked, her grip on Thumper tightening. “Really?”  

“Really,” Ray said, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder.  

Naomi sat quietly beside Curly during craft time, her sketchpad open on her lap. She had drawn a phoenix this time, its wings spread wide, flames curling around its body.  

Curly glanced at it and typed: 'That’s beautiful. You’re getting better every time.'  

Naomi blushed slightly, ducking her head. “Thanks.”  

She hesitated, then added, “I like drawing stuff that… comes back, you know? Like it doesn’t give up.”  

Curly nodded, typing again: 'I think you’re like that, too.'  

Naomi blinked, her eyes widening slightly before she looked back at her sketchpad, her cheeks pink. She didn’t respond, but the faint smile on her face said enough.