Work Text:
Sissix did not want to talk to Artis Corbin. Unfortunately, they were going to be stuck together for the foreseeable future, so a conversation between them was long overdue.
He hadn't really changed much since the Quelin incident. She would have thought an identity-shattering reveal like that would put some kind of dent in his personality, but hey, what did she expect? He was an asshole. He was still an asshole, even if he had experienced trauma. Sometimes she thinks she should have left him on the ship. She would have never, actually, Corbin was still a person and no person deserves to be treated like that, but stars, if he didn't grind on her gears.
The point was, she would usually never be standing in the algae lab of her own free will. But, here she was.
“We need to come to some kind of peace,” she says. “We're going to be stuck together, and we'll need to work together for your legal proceedings. So…we should talk. Get it all out or whatever. Can you do that?”
“I'm sorry saving my life has been such an inconvenience on your end,” he replies dryly, not looking up from his scrib where he is doing…something algae-related. He sighs heavily, setting the scrib down. “But yes. We should…talk.”
His teeth grind together. His blue eyes dart to look at her, before he averts away, turning his whole body away from her. He can't even give her the basic decency of eye contact.
“If Aandrisk children are not primed to survive, they die,” Corbin says, which is maybe the worst possible thing he could have said to open this conversation.
“If this is some more of your mammalian, speciest–” she hisses.
“It's not,” he snaps back, voice harsh and grating. “I am…trying to tell you something, if you would not interrupt me.”
The tension in the air is electric. Sissix’s hackles are raised and she forces herself to take a breath even as her tail lashes from side to side, irritated. This is supposed to be a civil conversation. Stars, how are they going to spend a whole galactic standard stuck to one another?”
She gestures for him to continue and he turns away from her again. Rude.
“I am…asocial, even by Human standards,” he says. Which, yeah. Obviously. “It is something I have always found difficult. I am caustic and irritable and– yes, an asshole. I am well aware.”
He sighs, his hands wringing together. He still won't look at her, but he doesn't sound how he usually does. She reminds herself that Humans are much less open about their emotions– and Corbin especially is not one to talk. She thinks this is him trying to be honest. It looks like it is the emotional equivalent of him prying his own tooth out.
“Your species–,” he says, and she goes tense. He cuts himself off, shooting her a glance, but she doesn't interrupt. “Your species,” he continues, “is known for its ability to socialize. Everything that I find most difficult in the world is second nature to you. I find it…frustrating.”
She blinks. Her feathers and plume– which had been blown out in aggression– begin to smooth back down. Her tail lashing goes still as she processes what he's said.
“You're…bad at socializing?” she asks, a laugh in her voice. It's an absurd concept to her– sure, she knows that social disorders exist, but …
But she had never even considered the possibility that Corbin was anything other than an asshole choosing to be an asshole. Which is exactly the kind of ignorance that she's given him hell for.
“Yes,” he hisses, pink skin going even pinker at the admission. “Incredibly. Terribly. I am good at one thing, and that is why I am here. I have no illusions about my role on this ship. I am not a part of the group. I make algae. The ship runs on algae. That is the extent of our relationship. I am not a part of your…”
He glances at her again, nervous. “Is ‘feather family ' the correct term?”
“Yes,” she replies, wary. It's not a secret she considers the Wayfarer crew her feather family, but she's surprised he knows that. She's surprised he’d gotten the term right, let alone cared to get the term right.
She doesn't know how to feel about his declaration that he isn't a part of her feather family. Because the truth was– you often got stuck with members of your feather family you didn't like. A friend's partner, a friend of a friend, it wasn't uncommon. That was how family worked, even for Humans, that you didn't necessarily like everyone. Corbin was her family, she didn't like him, both could be true. But, she supposed, even if you didn't like that person, somebody in the group usually had to. Nobody on the ship seemed to get along with Corbin well, he was here for a business purpose. Even Ashby didn't like him. He had always been uniquely alone. Ohan seemed friendlier than he did, and Ohan rarely left their room.
She thinks back to the old woman she met on the station, the rashek. She had anguished about how it must feel, to want to find connection but struggle to, to be completely isolated by your society for something out of your control. Most rasheks did not live nearly as long as that woman had. It was one of the flaws of Aandrisk society. Sure, by most standards they were welcoming, but they were not without their prejudices. Most rasheks– or people like them, undesired or strange in some way – simply did not live long enough to become people. If they did, they were still largely kept outside of communities. It was no coincidence that the old woman had been far, far away from her home.
Was Corbin her feather family? Yes, but mostly by circumstance. He certainly didn't believe he was, though, and that was more upsetting to her than she realized it would be.
His shoulders curl in on themselves. His voice goes quiet, and he turns away from her. She thinks that maybe he is not doing that to be rude, after all. It feels like he is forcing every word out of his mouth. She thinks about how much effort it takes to cull back her natural Aandrisk affection, and wonders if it is a similar ask for him, to be this vulnerable.
“I had always wondered why it was such a struggle for me,” he says. “I suppose now I have an answer. I'm not a person.”
Sissix goes very, very still.
“I was grown in a lab,” he says, his voice wobbling with emotion. “I was not designed for the purpose of social connection, I was designed to be my father's replacement. A better, perfect version of him. An Aandrisk child like me– and there is no Aandrisk child like me, because you don't have cloning, because your species is not so egocentric and stupid– an Aandrisk child like me would not have survived and I wish that–”
He cuts himself off, jaw slamming shut, cutting off the stream of words suddenly pouring out of him.
“You– what the fuck, Corbin?”
She curses herself for assuming he had been fine since the Quelin. He was a Human, a Human who especially hated to show emotion. Of course he would act like everything was fine. Had he spoken at all to Dr. Chef? Had anybody really checked in with him? Did he have…anybody?
Corbin does not reply. He stares very angrily at an algae vat, his face pinched. His hands curling into the fabric of his lab jacket. His eyes are red and shining with unshed tears.
“First of all,” she says, “you don't get to decide if you're my family or not.”
He startles at that, turning towards her in surprise.
She hadn't been sure, before, but this– she suddenly has a much better understanding of the man before her and every instinct is screaming at her to hold him, comfort him, remind him that he is not so alone. She has to clench her hands into fists and remind herself of Human social norms.
“You don't get to decide if you're my family or not, Corbin, and you are. We may not always get along, but you are. You are a part of this group, as far as I'm concerned.”
He doesn't seem to believe her, but she doesn't know what else to say, so she soldiers on.
“Second of all…I'm sorry. I get angry at you all the time for not respecting Aandrisk social norms, but I haven't considered your own boundaries and norms. You are an asshole, and I'm not forgiving all the bullshit you've said, but I never even considered your perspective. Socializing, talking to people is…I don't even think about it.”
Corbin shrugs, the movement not unlike an android, it is so stiff. “Most Humans don't consider it, either,” he admits. “My…issues are unique to myself, in that way.”
She wonders if he truly is a rashek, some Human equivalent.
“Still, Sissik says. “I will…I will try to be more understanding of that. Is there anything I could do to make it easier?”
He shrugs again, before he sighs. He turns a little away from her and speaks again. She has never heard his voice so…small. Even when he was being led out of the Quelin prison, though he hadn't talked much, then. “I get overwhelmed very easily, and this makes me irritable,” he says, fiddling with the buttons of his jacket. “It is why I don't speak much during dinners except to snap. It is why I wear the helmet when we are in certain places. I find a lot of stimuli all at once to be…difficult. There are certain tools that might help. Noise blockers. But I did not…”
His voice goes even smaller. “I did not want to be made fun of.”
She cringes. Corbin has often been a target of their jokes, and she's never really felt all that bad about it. She does now.
(Kind of. Some of those jokes were justified.)
“Okay,” she says. “We can do that. And…I can talk to the mechtechs, too, about leaving you alone about certain stuff. I'm sure they'd understand.”
“My algae sheets,” he says. “Ask them not to touch my algae sheets. Jenks, especially. I know–” he makes a frustrated noise. “I get it. I react easily. It's…funny. But algae is the one thing that makes sense to me, that I can control. I need– I would appreciate it if that was left alone, more than anything.”
She nods. She's starting to understand why he's so particular about that. If she found the world as overwhelming and difficult to manage as he seemed to, then she would certainly latch onto something she could make sense of.
“And…for what it's worth, I'm sorry, too,” he says. “I am trying to be less of an asshole. Really. I didn't…realize how it felt to be demeaned like that, until the Quelin. Now my ID profile says I'm a clone, and people have– I see the way I am looked at differently. I see the way I am treated differently. I'm...sorry that that's what it took for me to realize. Saturn, where I grew up, was a very close minded, insular community. We didn't see a lot of other species. University was the first time I'd met anybody other than a Human. I can't promise that I won't make mistakes, or lash out, but I am…trying.”
“You are. I see that,” she says, and she means that genuinely. “And I'll try, too. The only way this works is if we both put the effort in.”
She's hesitant to speak, hesitant to break this fragile peace brewing between them, but she can't not say anything about this matter. “You are still a person. Your own person, origins be damned. You are not your father. You are not– a hatchling who won't survive. You don't deserve to die.”
He doesn't respond to that, though she sees his jaw go tight. He keeps his eyes averted.
The fact that he doesn't argue with her kind of breaks her heart. She bites back the instinct to pull him into an embrace.
“You don't,” she repeats. “Hey, look at me.”
He does, reluctant. She can see on his face that doing so makes him uncomfortable, but she needs him to hear this. She needs him to understand this.
“You don't deserve to die,” she says. “Stars, Corbin. Have you spoken to anybody about the Quelin? Dr. Chef? Have you had any trauma treatment at all?”
“I am not traumatized,” he snaps. “Everything is fine. Everything is normal. I've been doing my job, haven't I?”
“Your job is not the metric of fine I'm concerned with,” she snaps back. “If you are suicidal–”
“I am not suicidal–”
“Oh, you're not?” She yells. “Then what are you? What else do I call you telling me that you think you shouldn't have survived to adulthood?”
His face goes red, but he doesn't say anything to argue her point.
“It's not a bad thing,” she relents, her voice going softer. “Kizzy has nightmares sometimes, about the Aakarak attack. I get them, too. It's not a bad thing. It's not a flaw,” she says, remembering the way his voice had gone harsh when he'd described himself as his father's ‘perfect’ copy. No wonder he had so many hangups about making a mistake– suddenly him wringing out Rosemary for just ordering the wrong part made a lot more sense. “It's what happens when our bodies and minds need time to heal. Talk to Dr. Chef. He might be able to help you, or get you in contact with someone who can.”
Corbin looks like he'd rather eat nails, but he nods. She'll have to check in with Dr. Chef later to make sure Corbin actually does.
“Okay,” she says, clapping her knees and standing up from her seat in the universal this-conversation-is-ending gesture. “This was good. I'm glad we had this talk. I think we understand each other a little better now.”
Corbin nods. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I …I am sorry about sticking you with me for a whole standard. This is not ideal for either of us.”
“Don't apologize for something that isn't your fault,” she says. She hesitates. Does she want to do this?
She looks at Corbin and thinks about how small and scared he had looked on the ship. She thinks about the genuine surprise on his face when he had seen her, as if he hadn't been expecting anybody to come for him. Yeah. Fuck it. She's given a feather for less. She reaches up and plucks one out, extending it out to him. Corbin looks up, hesitant to reach out for it.
“For when you need the reminder,” she says. “You're a part of my family, Corbin. Even if you're an asshole, sometimes.”
His hand shakes a little as he takes it from her, cradling it like it is something precious. He sets it gently down on the table, wringing his hands. He looks nervous.
“I…” his face goes pink again. It's a little funny how many shades of red he can turn. “I do not…I don't like physical contact. But…”
He opens his arms out and she softens. Aw. Bless his little Human heart. She takes him up on the offer, pulling him into a full body hug, nuzzling her head into the crook of his neck. She feels him go stiff at first and she almost lets go right away–but he makes a soft, keening noise, one she's sure he hadn't meant to make, and melts into her. ‘Don't like physical contact,’ her tail. When was the last time he'd had physical contact? A tet might do him some good. Or at least a row in the sheets.
She pulls him closer and his hands scramble around her back before finding purchase clutching onto her vest. His shoulders shake with effort– she realizes he is fighting his instinct to cry. He is a clone of his father, she remembers. She can't imagine his father had ever endeavored to provide him much comfort, if this is how he acts.
“It's okay,” she says, rubbing circles into his back. “It's okay.”
His shoulders keep shaking. It takes her a moment to realize the difference, until she feels the wetness against her scales, that he is now silently sobbing. His breath hitches and stutters, but it is so quiet, even to her Aandrisk senses that are more sensitive about these kinds of things than a Human is. She thinks again, unprompted, of the old woman, how starved for affection she had been. She thinks that Corbin is more like that woman than she'd realized. Humans aren't as tactile as Aandrisks are, but she can't imagine what it must be like to be alone for so long, that even his cries, a sound meant to alert others of pain, are quiet.
“I'm sorry,” he chokes out. “I'm sorry, I don't know why– I don't–”
“Do you hear me complaining?” she says, rubbing a claw in his hair. He seems to melt even more at that – she is definitely taking notes for future reference. It would be nice to win an argument with him by giving him scratches until he forgets why he's angry. “Believe me, if I was uncomfortable, I'd complain.”
He laughs into her shoulder. “You would,” he agrees.
They stand there together for a few moments longer before she feels his body language shift in a way that she takes to mean ‘I am done with this now, thank you’, and she pulls away. He rubs his face with the palm of his hand, splotchy and red and wet. If she were capable of crying, she thinks she might have shed a few tears as well.
“I’m glad we had this talk,” she repeats. “I think we all could stand to get to know you a little better, Corbin. As long as you're willing to put the work in, too, I don't see any reason why this galactic standard shouldn't be perfectly fine.”
“I will. I…thank you, Sissix. Really. What you are doing for me is no small thing, and I recognize that. I will endeavor to be more …accommodating.”
She nods. Before she takes her leave, though…”And see Dr. Chef. Really. Or I'll drag you kicking and screaming.”
His face pinches a little, but he sighs, resigned. “Yes. Fine. I will have Lovey check our schedules and find a time to meet.”
She smiles. “Good enough for me. I will see you at dinner, Corbin.”
“See you later, alligator.”
She stops. His face goes red. “It's an– old human saying, I thought it was funny to– I didn't–”
She laughs, a loud, barking noise. “In a while, crocodile,” she replies, giving him a wave as she leaves down the hallway. In her peripheral vision she sees him smile, shoulders relaxing.
She and Artis Corbin were going to be stuck together for the foreseeable future– but she wasn't so worried about that, anymore.
Family sticks together, after all.