Chapter Text
Gas pumping is exhausting work. His life narrows to two week increments. Working in space, eighteen hour days, go, go, go. Followed by three or four days off that he spends alternating between barstools, brothels and rented beds. He doesn't allow himself to think and time streams past him at the speed of light. He blinks and he's on a new ship.
Every make and shade of human comes to Saturn for helium: gas haulers, prospectors, military, contractors, construction. For once he doesn't have to worry about fitting in or finding his place. He's not crew, he's just labour. Aboard these ships, eyes skim over him because he is not a person, he's essentially a piece of machinery.
He keeps an eye on the duty boards at Iapetus, but the greengiant never returns. A late-night drunken search tells him it was deregistered and sold for scrap at Ceres. Five years he spent keeping that old girl alive and now she is gone. He likes to imagine Cosmos and the Black Mardi crew taking her down to the screws. They'd treat her right, give her parts another life in space; she still had something to give. That night after he puts his terminal down he acknowledges to himself that this feeling of nostalgia and melancholy has nothing to do with a rotting and rusty Luna freighter and everything to do with burning bridges anytime he gets slightly close to anyone. Cosmos, Mattio, and especially Albo. He ruined those relationships and that was entirely on him. But he can't dwell, if he thinks too long about any of the horrible things he's done, it might just swallow him whole.
This time it's different. As a helium specialist, he works in a team of four. The men on his team are all life-long spacers. Born on rock hoppers or distant moons; scrubbing for ore and gas since they could walk, they feel more comfortable with their suits on than they do with them off. He barely speaks for his entire first run. He keeps his head down and he works, he already knows the shit jobs and is content to do them. He can tell his new team doesn't necessarily like him and what his body stands for, but they tolerate him, begrudgingly acknowledge that he knows what he's doing. And he tells himself that has to be enough.
On his third rotation, all four of them are squeezed into quarters built for two on their way back to Iapetus. Amos is bone tired and laid out on the floor, but he can't help but smile as Mavor tells an exaggerated story of intrigue, stolen ore, and homemade liquor.
"Does this Inyalowda understand me?" Mavor queries Raoul in low Belter.
The three of them turn to look at him. He smiles, shrugs with his hands. He's working hard and underpaid labour on the outskirts of the system. What do they expect? "Suppose I do." Amos responds back with a quirked smile.
Their eyes are on him now, eyebrows raised and expectant. He's spent more than enough time on Belter ships to know what they want: outer planet entertainment - a story. He doesn't stop to think, he just launches into the darkest story that comes into his head in the harshest Belter he can muster.
"I was working aboard this scavenger, and we'd been on this rock, looking for ore and gold and any spare parts that war-hungry Mars had left behind." He begins. "We were almost done when this old rusty bucket with a Black Sky insignia puts down. Because this is what they do. Put down sensors on any rock they think might attract a crew desperate enough to pick among the rubble, and then show up to forcibly take their bit."
Danilo, the hose man of their crew has an OPA tat on his neck, but Amos doesn't consider his feelings. A story is a story.
"I worked lower crew. Labour. The upper crew is all aboard our ship, a good run away." They never would, and never did, come to mount a rescue. "Lower crew had to handle this on our own. I didn't have a weapon, lower decks wasn't allowed to have them. Last time OPA came, none of us ate for four days as punishment for losing the product. This wasn't happening this time." It had been Fausto, Genni, Colvin, Tayri at his side. Black Sky was used to unquestioned and cowering obedience, but they'd clearly never met a group of blood boiling, hungry rock scavengers with absolutely nothing to lose. "All we did, our job, was swing sledgehammers. We might not have guns, but a head inside a helmet might just explode if you hit it hard enough." Amos says with a wide smile. "We left four bodies on that rock and left with every pebble we dug up. But upper crew was mad we'd gone and made an enemy of Black Sky. We still didn't eat."
Three eyes wide with astonishment, respect and maybe a tiny bit of fear look back at him.
"Okay, Beratna." Mavor, the de-facto crew chief, nods back signing respect over his chest.
He tells black stories and funny tales, he makes crude jokes, and comes up with a somewhat derogatory nickname for every member of his team. He laughs loud and smiles wide, and he never, ever, brings up anything that had ever hurt him. No sob stories. They all met him as he presented himself; dangerous and outgoing Amos. Laugh with him or he might fuck you up. Have a drink or four and tell your best story or your proudest conquest. They don't question it.
Between the mindless interactions with his team and the liquid gas of Saturn, he is all hard work, and busy hands. He pushes back the shame and the horror he feels about what happened with Albo to the furthest corner of his brain. He shuts off and disconnects from it. That night joins the back rooms, the videos, his mother and Matty as one of the things he tries his damnedest not to think about.
He's a monster. He knows that on a tangible level. He knows what he's done and that nothing can take it back. Exhaustion keeps it at bay. And if he feels the tendrils of shame creeping up on him, he works harder. He doesn't have a gym, a heavy bag, a sledgehammer, or an available face to punch. All he has is work: fourteen days where he forgets where his hands end and his tools begin.
For his four days a month on Iapetus, he lets himself do whatever his brain and his body tells him he needs. He gains a reputation as a ruthless fighter in the bars, but in the brothels it's the exact opposite. He's not looking for gentle sexual companionship and if the only place he can find a grown man to fuck him is in a seedy BDSM lair, then that's where he goes. He wants it to be brutal; he needs to be vulnerable. It's completely contrary to the five years with Albo, because he can't be reminded of what they had and what he destroyed. If on the next ship out to Saturn he finds himself bruised and in pain, he revels in it. If he's being held down and if he has no control, he can't become that man again. He hurt his only true friend. He vows to never put himself in a position to do that even if it means he never allows anyone to get close again. Sex is not for friends, or anyone you might like. It's too dangerous for them, he's a monster.
On Saturn, he pumps gas, repairs valves, and tells dirty jokes. On Iapetus, he drinks, fights and is held down. It's existence and life and he is content in the moment, but after thirty-odd trips to Saturn, the shine rubs off. He craves new tasks and a new backdrop to keep his mind busy and his thoughts locked up.
It almost feels like fate when the opportunity presents itself on his next rotation.The tanks are full on a Earth-based transit hauler when every single comm on the ship starts buzzing.
Mavor is dirty and sweat streaked in their too-small room. "Pirates." He says with a wide smile. "Belters come along to show Earthers how to share." Danilo smiles wolfishly and laughs. There's no question which side they are on.
Being boarded is just something that happens: UN, MCRN, OPA, pirates. They all want something and it's up to the captain to decide between killing the boarding party and burning like hell or letting them take. Amos has seen both sides and he isn't surprised when the Earther captain allows them on the ship.
An unfamiliar young face is at their door. Tattoos up his neck, and a ratty suit with the logos long scratched off.
"You da gasser crew?" He asks roughly.
Raoul nods with his hands and they all stand. They want the helium, of course, it's the only thing on this ship of any worth.
"One of ya, need to come and unlock da tanks." It's Amos that needs to go, he'd sealed the tanks less than two hours ago and even after thirty rotations, he's still the lowest on this totem pole.
He walks with the pirate. The kid is maybe 18, scrawny, and never anything but dirt poor, but cocky and proud with a gun on his hip. Amos understands, in another life, he once fancied himself a gangster. Fifteen and armed. This boy will feel invincible until he grows up or dies.
There is a man and a woman standing powerful and expectant in the tank hangar. They are tall, shoulders back; rough and ready, as the strongest Belters always are.
The lockers are ransacked with tubes and tools scattered across the floor. Amos cuts to the chase immediately. "These tanks are built into the ship. You're going to have to pump the gas out."
"We can't take the tanks?" The man asks confused, muscles bulging in his forearms as he balls his fists, his shrewd eyes looking Amos up and down.
"This ain't my ship. I'm a temp pumper from Iapetus. I got no money in this game." Amos tells them honestly. "Nine out of ten ships filling up here, the tanks are on the outside, you can pull them off and go. This is a UN contracted vessel and they don't like having their shit stolen. These tanks are welded to the inside of the hull. You try to pull them off and you'll blow the whole damn ship."
The woman, her face gaunt with eyes that have seen it all, shoves a gun in his face. Amos doesn't flinch. He's not afraid, it's not like this hasn't happened before.
He puts his hands up and signs the word for peace. "Not my ship." He pauses, looks at the gun, and responds his voice steady. "I know just about everything about helium. These tanks cannot go with you."
The man and a woman share an uneasy glance. The woman clicks the safety off the gun and Amos can feel the metal grazing his forehead.
"Way I see it, you got two options." Amos continues, calm and unphased. There is something about these two, a type of quiet desperation. Had they not done their research? Every pirate vessel he'd ever come across always knew exactly what they wanted and what they needed to get it. One look at this pair and he could tell they had been at this a long time, so why had they flown in so underprepared?
"Board a different ship. There is a tanker bound for Ganymede that is gassing up on the dark side. It'll be finished in five or six days." The woman visibly grimaces and Amos can see by her face that they can't afford another week. "Is there anything on your ship that can hold over 5000 litres and is capable of hooking up to a standard pump? If so, I can drain this helium to the collapsible outdoor tank and transfer it to your ship."
The gun lowers slowly.
The man shifts, his boots clicking loudly in the large space. "We got water tanks."
Amos nods. A plan, unlikely and impulsive, is starting to form in his head. "That will do. But it's going to take time, a couple of hours for outfitting and pumping and it would be better if you didn't do it right here. You got a tow line?"
Amos walks across the hangar and pushes the button to release the collapsible outside tank. Pulls together his gear from the items strewn across the floor and starts unsealing the tanks.
He feels three eyes on him, following his movements as he reverses the pump.
The two speak in lowered voices to each other and he can feel the distress in the air, but he's rather enjoying this change in his routine. He hasn't had to think on his feet, or make a decision, in such a long time.
"Anyone on your ship have experience with helium pumping? You got any equipment over there to hook the outer tank to yours?" He wants to give them the benefit of the doubt, but he knows the answer.
"Water pumps?" The man replies uncertainly and Amos bites back a laughs. Do they know this is unrefined helium?
He pauses before plowing on with his plan. "I've got the equipment and can pump it into your tanks. But I'll need to come on your ship to do it."
He can feel their eyes on him, appraising his thick muscles, his tattoos, his Earther physique.
"You can drop me off anywhere. I don't need to come back here." He tells them in quick Belter and their faces soften by just a few degrees.
"We've got salvage out past Umbriel." The woman tells him untrusting and short. "Nowhere to drop you off along the way."
Amos calculates the distance in his head. A small alarm in the back of his head starts to ring. There is no salvage past the moons of Uranus. In order for there to be salvage, there has to be ships that venture that deep into space and no one does.
But he's hungry for change and adventure and now he's just downright curious."It's going to take me a couple of hours to adapt your tanks to be ready to drain the outside tank." He raps loudly on the titanium tanks flanking the room. "These ain't water tanks."
He clears his throat. "So you can wait and hope this ship doesn't squeeze out an SOS call while you're out there tinkering, or you can tow that outdoor tank maybe half a million klicks at low burn, pull behind a moon, and I'll adapt it and pump it out." Is this how you audition to be a pirate?
The man reaches for his hip and now it's his gun in Amos' face.
Amos blinks slowly, levels him with a stare. "Go ask my team. They'll tell you the exact same thing and that I'm the best man to do it. We all have our roles and this is mine."
They keep their eyes locked on each other for a long moment until Amos purposefully looks away, letting the pirate bosmang win.
"I got no love for the UN or Mars, and I know how to keep my mouth closed. I don't mind sticking around for awhile, if you'll have me. I was about done with this anyway." Amos tells him earnestly, but he knows they are desperate and he has presented them with the only feasible option.
The young kid escorts him back to his shared quarters, where he picks up his bags. "See ya later buttercups. Tell the corporation, I decided to go pirate." And he leaves the three gassers wide-mouthed and confused. He's given them a story they can tell for years.
The Longda Xing is a converted prospector ship that might not have a single original part. There are wires and coils hanging from the ceiling, bulkheads jutting out at odd angles in the corridors and the floors and walls are dizzying shades of reclaimed metal. He doesn't have time to look around. The two bosses disappear as soon as they get on the ship, and they leave him with the kid, who takes him down to the cargo bay as the ship starts with a wheeze and a rattle that reverberates under his feet. Ten hours later, and hiding behind one of Saturn's numbered moons, Amos finishes the helium transfer and reels in the collapsible tank.
His young, mouthy shadow shows him to an empty room, locks it behind him, and Amos waits. Either the crew is going to take him on or they are going to force him out an airlock.
He's already spotted ten things on this ship that he could fix with muscle, spit and a little ingenuity and he's hoping he can convince them of his value because he doesn't feel like dying today. If they are insistent, he knows he won't die alone. He might be the shortest man aboard, but he's willing to bet he's the strongest.
The man-in-charge comes to his room hours later. His features just as hard as they had been in the tanker bay.
"You UN?" He fires off before the door is even closed behind him.
"Fuck no." Amos responds without standing, his body language passive, schooling his face into something open and sincere.
"You're from Earth." The man responds, his deep voice dripping with accusation.
Amos nods. "Yeah. I am. Went up the well when I was 15 and I ain't ever going back. I've been out here longer than I was ever there."
But the man isn't convinced, crossing his arms across his chest and leaning across the only door. His meaning was obvious: I'm in control. "You seem a little too eager to get aboard this ship."
He is well and truly stuck and Amos weighs his options. When in doubt, always go for respect. That was something Liev had told him around the time he switched corners for guns. Now he's going from legitimate to illegal, the same rules apply.
Amos stands casually, leaning against the opposite wall, mirroring the taller man's stance. "You and your pirate ship boarded a state of the art UN contracted vessel without the slightest idea of how to steal helium or without a single tool to do so." He says, his voice neutral and steady. "If I hadn't come over to this ship, you'd either be blown to shit or had this raggedy ass ship impounded and all of your crew would be on route to a prison barge. You and that woman of yours would probably be floating out in space without your helmets."
The man opens his mouth to interrupt with a blustery grunt, but Amos continues on. "I've been in space long enough to know desperation and your little stunt back there was exactly that. 20,000 litres of unrefined helium ain't worth shit if you don't have the ability to process it and you're currently steaming full ahead in the exact opposite direction of every legitimate refinery."
Amos stops but the man has lost his bluster. "My guess? You're burning faster than you can maintain to meet OPA, or some other equally desperate group. I'm imagining some faction has set up a covert refinery on the darkest moon of Uranus, because no one does salvage at Umbriel."
The man looks down. Busted.
"How am I doing?" Amos retorts cockily with an amicable smile, afterall he isn't here to make enemies.
The man just nods. "Guess you'll be staying then."
Amos raises an eyebrow. "If you'll have me." He sits down again, schooling his face into passive obedience. The man stands up a little straighter, reclaiming his role as leader.
"I'm Jan. Nobody's captain but on this ship, I am the most likely to throw your ass out the airlock if you step out of line." His face cracks the tiniest of smiles and Amos knows he's in.
"I'm Amos."
"What can you do Amos?"
"I can scavenge, scrap, fix anything that's broken and beat a man within an inch of his life, or further, if you need it."
Jan's business face crumples and he laughs, his whole body shaking. "I believe we might be able to use you Amos."
And that is how Amos Burton became a pirate.
The Longda Xing has a crew of ten; nine belters and Amos. Jan was born on this ship to a prospecting family that had scratched a living off the Belt for two generations. It still is a family ship with Jan's wife, son and cousin all serving aboard. The other five are a motley group of mixed specialties they've picked up along the way: thieves, miners, scavengers. Not a capable mechanic among them. Amos is frankly shocked that the ship hadn't shaken apart at all the unsealed patches millions of kilometres ago. There is plenty to keep him busy, and after over a year working as a gas pumper, he has to admit that it feels good to be working with a wrench and soldering gun again. Jan's son, Maxi, the rough and tumble nineteen year old with a gun on his hip, follows him for the entire three month trip to Umbriel. The boy is a rock hopper through and through, but he dreams of finding a way off his family's boat and his parents' control. Amos had never thought he has anything worth teaching, but it feels good to have someone look up to him, and ask him questions that he actually knows the answers to.
Maxi tells him all the history he needs to know. Tres Copains, the OPA faction of the furthest reaches of the Belt, built a black helium refinery on Umbriel and then Pavel Ongdaya, the faction leader, kidnapped Jan and Marcella's twenty year old daughter over unpaid debts stemming from a botched container ship heist. Pavel demanded helium in payment to get her back.
Well that explains the desperation, thinks Amos.
"Wish they had taken me instead." Maxi pouts one evening as they hammer out titanium plates from the scrap bin. Amos hopes that Tres Copains is treating the girl right, but he's never been an optimist, and he doesn't want to explain to Maxi exactly why an OPA faction stationed on an isolated moon would select his sister instead of him.
"When they came to collect, I'd let 'em pay and then stay. OPA sounds a hell of a lot better than this ship." Maxi tells him seriously.
Amos is happy to admit when he is wrong and it turns out Maxi and his sister, Makiko, are equally eager for a new life. It's been eight months since her family forcibly abandoned her on Umbriel and in that time she took comfort with Pavel's second-in-command. In the end, they leave Umbriel without Maxi or Makiko. Instead they have a new mission because Tres Copains OPA is now part of the Longda Xing's family business.
Thief turned navigator Damaya tells him humping for the OPA ain't much different from pirating when you really break it down. Jan doesn't get to pick what they steal, instead they get some new tattooed faces onboard, a few crates of guns, and a list of items to procure. The far moons of Saturn is a place where no one can hear you scream, or recieve your distress calls, and the crew takes full advantage. They mostly pillage helium, which Tres Copains refines and sells. Every other refinery in the system is owned by Earth or Martian conglomerates, and by making their own the OPA cuts one more colonial string to the greedy inners that seek to cripple them at every turn.
Amos has been violent all his life, but it takes the furthest expanses of human settlement to return him truly to the mentality of Baltimore. Jan likes Amos spearheading every boarding party, because he's confusingly Earther and isn't afraid to shoot on sight if the situation goes sideways. His new OPA crew introduce him to the finer points of shooting a gun in low g, breaching charges, grenades and flash bangs. He is muscle, helium pirate and mechanic. Everyday is filled with violence and adventure. He knows loving this life goes against every rule he ever set for himself but he does it all the same.
For over a year they hunt unchecked as the pirates of the furthest reaches but all too soon Tres Copains becomes a victim of their own success in the only great downfall of Belters: talk. One OPA goon on Ceres or Pallas blabs at a bar or on the docks about their sweet Helium deal and is overheard by a passing Earther captain, or maybe a Martian with a broken heart in the shape of a Belter girl. Like any good Belter story it changes in the retelling, but the final result is a joint UN-MCR mission to destroy the Umbriel refinery. It's an easy choice, OPA is stealing their helium and endangering their bottom line, Earth and Mars haven't agreed on anything so readily in a decade.
The Longda Xing is hiding behind the moon Kiviuq and stalking a construction barge when MCRN torpedos turn the refinery into just another crater on Umbriel. Last they heard Maxi was working maintenance at the plant and it will be years before his parents find out if he's dead or imprisoned somewhere, and Amos will never know. Death, and even presumption of death, is a way of life for pirates and there is no time to grieve. Jan and Marcella discover through a UN intercepted tight beam that their transponder and their drive signature is black listed. They are effectively dead in the water, a single ping and they are done. There is not a single legitimate port they can land, and not a job, illegitimate or legitimate, they can take. Their life of plenty disappears into scarcity in the span of time it takes both Mars and the UN to place the Longda Xing on their terrorist registry. For Amos, the only silver lining is that he is just one of the nameless and unknown crew aboard. They don't know his name. He isn't flagged. But Jan and Marcella were legitimate once and are still listed as the owners of the vessel, they are not so lucky.
It takes them months to reach Eunomia. Running dark and losing entire days to floating in zero g like just another piece of space trash. The jovial aggression and the free spirit of piracy that once imbued itself throughout the ship, is replaced by one of the darkest transits he has ever experienced.
There is little to do, and they subsist on nothing but a dwindling supply of protein mash and flacid mushrooms Damaya grows in a converted storage room. Without regular station stops to top up their tanks, their air becomes so over recycled that the smell of bodies, desperation and overcooked protein embeds itself in his hair, his clothes and his lungs. He spends the first three weeks lost in one dark, long night that even the terrible videos can't pull him out of. At the end, the only choice is leave the room or kill himself. Every emotion he's ever felt is on overdrive, but he wants to live. He can't die a nameless pirate on a unidentified ship. He leaves his room. He rigs up a heavy bag of canvas, insulation and space suits in the machine shop, and propositions a Tres Copains lieutenant-turned wanted terrorist for a fight, and then a fuck. It gets him through the long months ahead.
Eunomia, the same black OPA port he ended his career on the Saham Dalia, has not changed but he suspects that maybe he has. It's been over ten years since he was here last, and he finds himself in a similar condition; bruised, angry and dark, but unlike last time, he is not broken, and he is not directionless; scrambling aimless for rules to organize his life. He's got a pirate tattoo on his forearm, a gun on his hip and he is no one's to collect. He knows what works for him and he knows what he needs. He can't stay, because if he joins crew with another ship here, he knows where it will end. While the thought of unbridled violence is appealing and he supports the cause of the OPA, he also knows this is the best way to lose himself and go down a dark path he'll never emerge from. And he isn't ready for that yet. He needs legitimate and consistent work. He wants to work with his hands in a place that won't swallow him whole if he lets his guard down.
He doesn't say goodbye, he packs up and walks off before anyone figures out he came off the tagged pirate ship. He trades Martian steel, stolen from a disabled mining vessel off Tethys, and pirated to the bottom of his bag, to a Matar Kubileya freighter for passage to Pallas.
He waits for the bruises and the stank of badly recycled air to fade before he finds work, which is how he ends up facedown on a bar with a bottle of rotgut.
"Burton."
He cracks open a bleary eye and sees the last person he expects.
He must be hallucinating. He closes his eyes, lifts his head and opens them again. The hallucination is still there.
"Timmy."
A shiver runs down his spine as his eyes fly open.
Albo.
They are wearing a blue jumpsuit instead of greengiant green and they have a little more hair. Their back is straight and shoulders back. Seeing them again makes his heart clench for the greengiant and the easy existence he had there with Albo, compared to everything that's happened since then.
"You look good." He says out loud, not thinking. Because they do. Strong. Confident. Grease under their nails.
His heart is hammering in his ears but his voice comes out steady and sure.
They cast an eye down on him. "You look like shit." They respond in that deadpan honesty he always loved about them. Albo will always tell you exactly like it is.
He chuckles, because he can't refute it. "Yeah, well."
Their eyes are surveying him now. His tattoos, his face, his hands. His jumpsuit is a ratty one left over from gas pumping, all the logos scratched off.
"You working?"
"Sort of in-between jobs." He responds lightly and smiles at them because seeing them again he feels light in a way it hasn't in years. "You want a drink?"
He doesn't want them to leave. He motions to the waitress for another glass and Albo's eyes train on the gun strapped to his hip.
"That's new." They say, their voice flat and neutral, no judgement, just observation.
Amos pours them a drink. "I was in procurement for awhile." He responds dryly and their eyes flash at him. He can't be a mechanic with a gun, he knows, but he's become accustomed to it. He's still waiting for the paranoia and run-run-run to slow down in his blood and his head. To feel normal again. It hasn't happened yet and he's starting to wonder if it ever will. But what does normal really mean for him?
He asks them where they've been so that they don't ask him first.
They smile, a half embarrassed, half confident. “Turns out you were right. Crewing on a Belter ship is way better for me.” It's an inter-station freighter, and Albo is the engineer, not a mechanic. Belters accepted them in the way the Earthers never did. "Guess I always had too much UN bullshit about Belters in my head."
He listens to them talk about the stations they've been to and the work they've done, but he can't steer the conversation away from him forever. Albo pauses and casually remarks, "You look different."
He knows. He's seen himself in the mirror. Is it the physical changes? The weight loss, the tattoos, the black bruises and his swollen knuckles? Or can they see the blood on his hands, the things he's done? The monster that lurks under his skin?
They haven't talked about that night but he can feel it floating unsaid and obvious between them. How long has it been since he did a terrible thing to them? Eighteen months gas pumping, two years with the pirates.
He nods.
They fill their own glass and drink it back.
"I hope this isn't because of what happened that night." They admit to him quietly, their eyes locked on his.
He looks away, he feels like every bit of oxygen just got sucked out of his lungs. It is. Of course it is. But outwardly, he shrugs. "This is just who I am."
They grab his hand, tight and quick. "It isn't. I know you. I worked with you everyday for five years. I slept in your bed, I was closer with you then I have ever been with anyone."
Oxygen slowly trickles into his lungs and he takes a shuddering breath.
"I forgive you for that night, and I want you to forgive yourself."
Amos knows Albo. He's seen them angry and happy, pissed off, and nonchalant. Albo has always struggled with people. How many times did he overhear them practicing their duty report or some update they had to give to the XO or the engineers? This sounds just like that; practiced, rehearsed. They hadn't decided to forgive him just because they'd seen him by chance. They forgave him when they knew they might not ever seen him again. They had said the words, prepared themselves for this moment.
The realization ruptures something deep and heavy in his chest. The swell of emotion pricks at his eyes, and he sniffs back the tears with alarm.
"Thank you." He whispers his voice rough. He'll never forgive himself, he can never forget, but all the same, their forgiveness rolls over him and leaves in its wake something that feels like normalcy and relief.
They talk then of lighter things and finish the bottle. Albo stands and Amos tells himself the universe offered him a gift in bringing them into his world again when he was at his lowest. He likely won't ever see them again.
"Where are you staying?"
Amos shrugs. "Here and there." He responds. His gear is in a locker down at the docks, but he doesn't have the scrip to rent a place. In the end, being a pirate hadn't paid at all, and only other criminals would take metal as barter. Pallas is infuriatingly legitimate.
Albo starts walking and gestures for him to follow them. They take him back to their ship, their quarters, wordlessly. He would follow them anywhere. Tonight is no exception.
They certainly see the terrible state his body is in. Albo’s shrewd eyes never missed anything and he feels their eyes lingering on the hand shaped bruises on his shoulders, his hips, and around his neck. The muscle wastage in his legs and chest from their long floating journey at zero-g.
He lets them make all the choices. They always did. Except for that last night. And he'd die before he did that again. Instead he's exceedingly gentle. He’s kind. He’s passive.
The next morning when he opens his eyes, they are already awake and looking at him.
“Jesus Christ Burton, what are you doing to yourself?”
So he tells them about gas pumping, and piracy and the OPA of the outermost planets. Of the Longda Xing, and escaping with his identity intact. He doesn't bring up the casual murder or the BDSM brothels or the OPA lieutenant.
Their fingers trail over the pirate tattoo of the Longda Xing, a way to identify themselves wordlessly to allies. They touch the lines on his upper bicep next.
"And this one?"
Eight lines, from one point to another. It was one of the first things he'd done on Iapetus.
"That's you." He tells them honestly. "Eight trips from Ceres to Saturn."
Albo rarely smiles, but they do then. Albo tells him more about their last three years, and it feels comfortable and safe in a way he hasn't feel since he left the greengiant.
He wakes up again when they return with coffee.
Their offer is rehearsed.
“My ship is leaving tomorrow. We’ll be docking in Ceres next. Come with me, get away from here. We run slow, it'll take us weeks to get there. I'm short a mechanic and I got an outstanding repair list a mile long. At Ceres, I can give you a reference. I'll say you've been on this ship for years, and the greengiant before then. Real work Burton.”
They aren't offering what they once had. That was a snapshot in time that they can't go back to, but they are giving him the chance to be legitimate, to have a second shot at life in space.
Three weeks later he signs on to the Canterbury.