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"You have got to be kidding me."
Right on time. The watch on Curly's wrist said it was 00:38, signifying that the interruption had arrived during its usual window (anywhere from midnight to one in the morning, typically). He shifted his gaze from the half-filled paperwork scattered across his desk to the man standing in his doorway, and he flipped a hand up in a reluctant greeting.
"Bit busy," Curly said as Jimmy slouched into the room and threw himself unceremoniously onto the bed - another part of the routine, up to and including dragging dirt onto the clean sheets no matter how many times Curly requested that the shoes stay on the floor.
"Doing what, seeing how quickly you can turn your brain into paste?" Leaning back against the meticulously placed pillows with both hands hooked behind his head, Jimmy arranged his features into a withering glare. He jerked his chin toward the radio on Curly's desk, as though the source of his displeasure wasn't immediately obvious.
The radio, out of which flowed a stream of nearly indistinguishable holiday instrumentals, was playing at so low a volume that it was a wonder it could bother anyone, but Jimmy's annoyance at something objectively inoffensive wasn't necessarily a surprise. Curly resisted his initial impulse to oblige and shut it off, returning instead to the monthly status report he'd been hoping to finish before the day's end.
"Christmas is next week," he replied distractedly, trying to remember where he'd left off on the form. When his eyes located the next vacant entry and immediately glazed over in defiance, he sighed and spun back around to face Jimmy. Not that he'd been making the greatest progress to begin with, but being derailed hadn't helped at all, and he felt a prickle of annoyance as Jimmy idly tapped his feet together and sprinkled more debris onto the bed.
"So?" Jimmy's sneer, already almost cartoonish in its exaggerated downturn, somehow deepened even further. "We're a million miles away from any obligation to care about Christmas, and here you are, voluntarily listening to this garbage. Sorry to say, but I think you've finally lost it."
Swallowing the retort that threatened to break through his insomnia-weakened composure, Curly took a second to breathe before responding. He had to ignore the smug glint in Jimmy's eye, knowing full well how much the other revelled in needling him over work responsibilities. The choice of angle was somewhat ironic, given how bitter Jimmy would become as soon as anything distracted him from the task at hand, but hypocrisy was among the many vices Curly had learned to overlook throughout their friendship.
He always told himself it was a two way street; he certainly wasn’t perfect either.
Maybe the partial indifference had something to do with the fact that Jimmy's gatecrashing, however irritating in the moment, was a guaranteed way to get Curly to pack it in and actually try to sleep. Over time he'd even managed to convince himself that it was deliberate, and only Jimmy's unwillingness to take credit for a legitimately magnanimous act - something truly out of the goodness of his own heart - kept Curly from knowing whether or not his optimistic conclusion was anything but pure speculation.
Realistically it was far more likely that Jimmy simply enjoyed getting under Curly's skin, but thank god for small favours: for as long as the captain could remember, that predilection had always gone both ways. Teasing Jimmy in return was a delicate game, one that ran the risk of ending in either swift departures or genuine anger, and Curly was the only person on board who was willing to play.
"Ah, I see the problem," he told Jimmy with a sympathetic nod. He reached for the radio, greatly enjoying the way the other’s jaw tightened as his fingers found the volume dial. "Can barely hear it, right? Needs to be a bit louder."
"Don't be st-" The rest of the jeer was drowned out by the sudden fanfare of royalty-free piano melodies and jingling bells, and Jimmy's expression morphed from wary irritation to actual disgust.
"What's that?" Curly shouted over the music, hand still on the dial. "I couldn't quite make it out. Louder?"
It took everything within him not to burst out laughing at the palpable rage radiating from the bed, but Curly was also well aware that this would end with the radio being bodily dismembered if he pushed his luck much further. Twisting the volume back down to muzak levels, Curly grinned in response to Jimmy's glower and leaned back in his chair.
"You know," Jimmy began drily, "before tonight I might've said that you had the least intolerable music taste on this ship. Couldn't be worse than the mopey, droning crap that Anya always puts on, anyway. But you sure showed me."
"Well, for starters, this isn’t technically my music. I didn’t bring anything Christmassy with me, so this is one of the company stations. And… I mean, these are my quarters." The reminder wasn't going to have any more of an effect now than the hundred other times Curly had wielded it, but fruitlessly requesting privacy (or at least a courtesy knock) was just as much a part of the routine as the boots dirtying up the sheets. "If I want to listen to Christmas music while I do my job, then..."
"Right, of course, because you're so busy in here, doing your job ," Jimmy said. His casual posture belied the acid sarcasm creeping into his tone. "Implying that I'm just dragging my heels and being useless, right? Dead weight, compared to our all-important Captain doing his all-important business in the middle of the night?"
"Not what I meant," Curly replied, rubbing his temple with the heel of one hand as if it would massage out the headache knotting there. With more sleep he could’ve done a better job at parrying Jimmy's faux-defeatist barbs (usually best deflected with humour, since it served to highlight just how ludicrous and juvenile they sounded), but currently he was too exhausted to offer much more than denials.
Whether due to Curly's lack of playful engagement or because he was experiencing a rare moment of restraint, Jimmy didn't continue his tirade. Abandoning the guilt trip, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed so that he was facing Curly, and Curly could make out the barest trace of worry in his friend's eyes.
"What were you doing that was so important, anyway?" Jimmy asked. In spite of the echo of his previous jab, the question sounded as though it came from a place of concern rather than spite. More reason why the childish digs never struck Curly as anything more than banter; when the situation demanded it, Jimmy knew when to reel it in.
Usually.
"Just the status report," Curly said. "The big guys gave me hell for passing it in late last month, so I was trying to get the jump on it."
"Late?" Jimmy's nose wrinkled in confusion. "It wasn't even late. And I know that for a fact, since I was there when you submitted it. Couldn't miss it, since you wouldn't shut up about needing to meet the deadline even as you were hitting send."
Curly laughed without humour. "Apparently 'late' is a vague period that could extend up to three days before the actual deadline, depending on who's looking." He sighed again, still rubbing his brow to no effect and wondering whether the credit cost of a painkiller would be worth it. Sleep was the cheaper antidote, though often harder to come by.
Jimmy scoffed, all traces of his former hostility now diverted toward the company rather than the captain. "Stingy bastards. Still, that gives you at least a week to get it done. And as much as I hate to say it, you look like shit right now. Get some sleep. The report can wait."
"Cheers, Jim." Curly smiled, partly at Jimmy's ungainly means of showing care and partly at the knowledge that Jimmy, contrary to his own words, probably didn't hate saying that at all. And Curly knew well enough not to argue with the suggestion that he looked like death reheated. He most certainly felt that way, from the headache to the bone-deep ache that was settling into joints he never used to think twice about.
"And, look, if you ask me, the music isn't helping," Jimmy continued, shooting an unimpressed glare at the radio as though hoping it would spontaneously explode. "It sounds like you're in a horror movie or something."
"No it doesn't," Curly replied indignantly. He didn't even feel particularly strongly about Christmas, but there was something about being on the job over the holiday season that made him feel faintly wistful. Not that things would've been much different back on Earth either way, given he'd spent the last few terrestrial December 25ths getting drunk with Jimmy and watching Die Hard because it was the only "Christmas" movie his friend would deign to watch.
Once or twice Curly had considered calling up a cousin and seeing what everyone was up to for the holidays, but he'd discourage himself before the idea could get off the ground - usually by imagining the barrage of questioning he'd have to endure if he showed his face at a family event for the first time in ages. He figured that, by this point in his life, it was easier to keep the social excursions limited to passing acquaintances... or Jimmy, which was more often the case.
"Bet we can't even have real Christmas music anyway, huh?" Jimmy was saying. "It's always gotta be this public domain crap. Pony Express being cheap as usual."
"It's funny you should mention that," Curly said. "Did you know they actually considered doing something for Christmas once? Properly, I mean."
"Seriously?" To his credit, Jimmy actually looked intrigued. "Do you mean a bonus, or...?"
Curly shook his head; the Tulpar had a greater chance of escaping a black hole than the staff did of receiving extra credits from the company. "Ha, I wish. Do you remember that haul we did to Gliese 581g?"
Jimmy's face twisted in recognition, mouth puckered like he'd just bitten into a lime. "Ugh, yeah. That time the autopilot went haywire and sent us through the ice belt, right? And Pony Express decided to blame us for being late, as if it was our fault we had to spend three days defrosting everything so that the damn ship would even fly."
"That's the one," Curly said, the memory alone dredging up phantom pain in his fingers from the borderline frostbite. It certainly hadn’t been the winter wonderland he missed back home. "Before we left, the higher ups had briefly - as in, they might've talked about it for a couple days, tops - thought about providing uh... Hang on, I'm trying to remember what they called it. Something like a... 'festive-themed incentive for the purpose of boosting crew morale during the holiday season,' or whatever."
"Yeah, that sounds about right. What were they gonna do, put a tree in the lounge?"
"Honestly, I think the main benefit was an extra cake allowance." Curly stared into the middle distance, remembering how he'd been forced to bite his tongue lest he laugh in the face of the superior who had proposed the "incentive" like it was a treat and not torture.
"That's it? Even for Pony Express, that seems -"
"It gets worse," Curly interjected grimly. "They also suggested playing this -" (he gestured to the radio) "- over the intercom system for the 24th, 25th, and 26th. And they wanted to have the lounge screen playing old Christmas movies 24/7. But it would’ve been the same sort of thing, old free stuff, whatever they could find."
"Jesus Christ ." The information had Jimmy looking predictably aghast; he actually shuddered visibly. "All right, if your plan was to make me grateful that I only have to suffer through the music in your room, then congrats, I see now just how much worse it could've been."
"Thought you might feel that way. Believe me, I'm right there with you." At the time, Curly hadn't even needed to dissuade the higher ups from ditching the festivities; it was an uncommon instance of the company's cheapness being a boon rather than a source of frustration. Even with his passing nostalgic fondness for the season, Curly suspected that an inescapable stream of cheap Christmas trash might've turned him into a more murderous version of Scrooge.
"Thank god for small favours," Jimmy muttered. "I still think you're insane for choosing to listen to this, for what it's worth, but I guess I'll let it slide. If it makes you happy... for whatever godawful reason."
Coming from Jimmy, that was almost sweet. "Hey, I appreciate the support," Curly said. He cast his eyes around the room, once again oddly disappointed by the incongruity of the music and the utter lack of festivity everywhere else on the ship. "Sometimes I wish they'd let us decorate a bit though, yeah?"
The veneer of affability Jimmy had sported for the last few minutes vanished in an instant, and he groaned in disbelief. "I try to give you some credit, and then you turn around and say you wish they'd given us more work to do? Yeah, no, there isn't an ounce of sense in that giant blond head of yours. I take it all back."
"You can't tell me a few strings of lights wouldn't brighten this place up," Curly admonished. "It'd give us something new to look at for a bit, at least."
"Yeah, and something new to clean up. Weren't you just saying how busy you are already?"
Opting not to remind Jimmy that he was the one who'd made that particular comment, Curly glanced back at his paperwork, then at his watch again. Past 01:00 now. Definitely late enough to fall into bed and see if he could snatch a few minutes of rest in between the inevitable tossing and turning and snippets of stress dreams.
Holding back a yawn, Curly stood up and stretched both arms above his head. He felt a concerning muscle spasm somewhere in his lower back and made a mental note to do some more targeted stretches the next day. As the years passed and his tenure with Pony Express overstayed its welcome, the fear that he was becoming as rundown and battered as his own ship gained steadily more ground.
"Right, on that note, I think I'm gonna call it there." He nudged the toe of Jimmy's boot with his own. "You should get some sleep too. Don't forget, we've got -"
"Inventory, bright and early," Jimmy finished in a robotic voice. "Don't worry, Captain, I think the last twenty reminders did the trick. Unless you think I'm just that much of an idiot."
"You know I don't think that," Curly said, unerringly earnest despite the petty bait. "I can't stand inventory days. I think I'm trying to reassure myself more than anything."
"Well, can't blame you there." Jimmy also rose to his feet and stretched, an unconscious mirror of the other. "Just do me a favour and turn that shit off before you sleep, okay? Good chance it'll give you nightmares."
"I'll take it under consideration."
"You'd better. Look, I seriously thought about trashing the radio to save you from yourself, but in the spirit of the season, I'm deciding to trust you with your own questionable judgement. Consider that my gift to you."
Curly grinned in spite of himself. "Your generosity knows no bounds."
"Yeah, yeah." It was difficult to tell under the ancient, ailing fluorescents of the Tulpar , but Curly could've sworn a faint colour had risen in Jimmy's cheeks. "You can't give me shit for not getting you anything this year."
"I don't think you've ever gotten me anything," Curly said. Genuinely mystified, he wracked his memories for any recollection of Jimmy gifting him so much as a cheap card in all the years they'd known each other, and he came up with nothing.
"So? My point still stands."
Curly blinked a few times in response to Jimmy's unnervingly serious expression, then burst into another peal of laughter before he could stop himself.
In a heartbeat Jimmy's face had fallen from stern to furious, and he'd made it several steps toward the door when Curly caught him by the upper arm. The grip was just firm enough to hold him without being impossible to break, but Jimmy didn't shrug out of it immediately - a good sign.
"Hey, I'm sorry," Curly said, eyes locked on Jimmy's (narrowed and hateful, like a wild animal backed into a corner), the unwavering stare a secondary silent plea on top of his vocal one. "I didn't mean it like that."
"Sure," Jimmy said, tone still prickling with venom. "I know it's easy to forget that some of us are too broke to do the whole Christmas thing. It's probably nice not to have to worry about being able to afford to eat that night even if you buy someone a pointless gift they're probably gonna throw out anyway, but hey, what would I know?"
"You know I don't care about that," Curly insisted. It was stupid for him not to have anticipated how Jimmy would respond to what he'd thought was an innocuous observation, in light of the subject matter. Much as he hated to admit it, it was impossible to miss that his general existence was often the impetus for Jimmy's jealousy, no matter how misplaced Curly found the sentiment to be.
All he could do was try to avoid the conversational landmines and, failing that, talk Jimmy off the ledge if need be. For better or worse, he'd gotten pretty good at that over the years.
"I'm serious, Jim. I'm sorry."
Jimmy made a noise somewhere in his throat that was neither an agreement nor a denial. He shifted his weight uncomfortably, though he still hadn't pulled out of Curly's grasp.
"Whatever," Jimmy mumbled, and Curly was relieved to hear that the fire had been extinguished, even if the overall tone was still moody. "Weren't you going to bed or something?"
"Right, yeah." Curly finally let go and took a step back, wordlessly communicating that Jimmy was now free to abscond if he so chose. When he didn't turn tail immediately, Curly relaxed somewhat, cautiously accepting that the potential spat had been evaded. Jimmy was prone to cloudy moods, but their arguments, if left unchecked, had a way of poisoning the air for the entire crew.
"Don't forget inventory tomorrow," Jimmy said in a nasal, mocking voice that sounded nothing like Curly's. "If you pass out midway through, I'm not picking up your slack."
Wouldn't expect anything less was the joke Curly wanted to make, though he suspected that all of their progress might crumble if he did. Instead he smiled slightly, attributing the sudden rush of inscrutable fondness for his tempestuous co-pilot to a combination of sleep deprivation and the tiny glimmer of sappiness gleaned from the music.
"It'd take more than a bad night's sleep to knock me off my feet," Curly replied breezily. "Maybe the music will actually relax me, who knows."
"It'll give you nightmares, I'm telling you." Jimmy shook his head. "Right, can I leave, or do I need to suffer through more lessons about the magic of Christmas? Are we gonna make paper snowflakes? Try to jerry rig the meal fabricator into making gingerbread? Hang some mistletoe?"
"Mistletoe," Curly echoed, glancing at the ceiling above the doorway. The thought of hanging the plant (or some plastic approximation) as a visibly festive deterrent was oddly amusing, if only because it was so ridiculous. Of all the methods of dissuading potential interruptions, a veiled threat of an awkward interaction with the boss was perhaps one of the most inspired. Dubiously moral and an HR nightmare waiting to happen, sure, but funny to think about. "Now there's an idea."
A long moment of silence stretched between them before Curly realised what he’d said aloud and how it must’ve sounded absent of context. He looked back at Jimmy only to be met with an expression of mild alarm.
"Okay, I was right, you've lost your mind," Jimmy said. The words came out stilted, like he was having a difficult time putting them together. "I'm getting out of here before you get any ideas. See ya."
Curly had half a compulsion to explain himself to Jimmy's rapidly retreating back, but there was no real point in trying. "Night, Jimmy," he called out instead, grateful when the door hissed closed and left him alone once more with no other company but his own self-recriminations.
Well done, he thought as he went to arrange the paperwork into a neat pile that he hoped would be more appealing to a future version of himself. Now he's going to think...
He paused in his half-hearted organisation, thinking about the particular look of - worry? uncertainty? - in Jimmy's face when he'd thought that Curly was suggesting... well, what exactly?
For one, there wasn’t even any mistletoe aboard the ship. And two, it wasn't like the notion of hanging mistletoe explicitly indicated who was going to be affected by its (admittedly archaic and slightly fucked up) tradition. But maybe the specific situation - namely, the two of them being the only people present for the discussion - had worked against his favour.
Still, Curly would've expected that they could've at least laughed off the accidental implication. It wouldn't have been the first time one of them had made a slip of the tongue that provided several days' worth of teasing fodder for the other.
And yet Jimmy had jumped to the conclusion that Curly was not only being serious about the mistletoe, but that he had a specific target in mind.
The headache, almost forgotten throughout the end of their conversation, decided to return with an angry spasm, reminding him that getting horizontal ASAP was more important than trying to figure out why Jimmy was so afraid that Curly wanted to kiss him.
The thought alone made him want to laugh. Talk about absurd.
By the time he was ready to crawl into bed, Curly had decided that his exhaustion had probably distorted the interaction into appearing more dramatic than he'd first assumed. He was no longer certain if Jimmy had actually looked perturbed by the mistletoe comment or if it was part of the bit, and he was content to assume it was the latter. Jimmy had been the one to bring up the mistletoe in the first place, after all.
After a moment's consideration, Curly turned off the radio before lying down. Originally he'd intended to leave it going quietly with the hope that the instrumental music might have some sort of soothing effect, but Jimmy's warnings - however disingenuous their source - were on loop in his mind. Given the recent string of restless nights interrupted by unpleasant dreams that weren't quite nightmares, it was prudent to at least mitigate the risk.
Even with the lights out, the room never got fully dark thanks to the continual effusive glow that seemed to emanate from the ship itself, and Curly found himself staring at the space above the door once again. With all the sheet metal and crowded pipes, there wouldn’t really be a good method of hanging anything in that spot anyway.
Not that he even had something to hang there. Nor any actual reason to do so.
Why bother considering the logistics of putting up decor that couldn’t be found on the ship? And to what end? Best not to think too much about it. Sleep was more important, elusive though it continued to be.
Maybe Jimmy was right. Maybe the sentimental music was getting to his brain, infesting it with… something.
Sleep addled and increasingly unsure of his grasp on reality, eyes still glued to a phantom bough of mistletoe that didn't exist, Curly did his damnedest to ignore the seed of curiosity taking root at the back of his mind.