Work Text:
At first, Curly didn’t notice it. The dead pixel, a deep, inky black that forbade any light from entering. So small, so easy to ignore.
It was all Anya could see, of course. She told him as much. Not in so many words. She never told him in so many words. Always so determined, capable. She was a powerhouse, a force to be admired, for her endless drive and hopeless optimism. They shared the belief of natural human good. Look where that landed them.
Curly sat outside the cockpit. He could hear Swansea yelling at Jimmy, bound in utility for the crew’s safety. His soft hands dug into the skin of his thighs, covered by his blue denim coveralls. They dug, dug, dug deeper into the pumping blood and the muscle and the nerves. He was living. He barely managed to stop the ship from crashing into the asteroid that threatened to slaughter them all.
He didn’t feel alive.
The guilt was thick, potent, crawling alongside the blood that flowed through his veins. It held the bitter scent of regret, of bubbling hatred like black ichor. It flashed visions of the pixel, that dead pixel, in his mind on loop. Never letting him forget. Never letting him stop seeing it. Never letting him forget every warning sign that he barely noticed.
‘He thinks I do these things for fun. Then I have to make reports with things like ‘I have found myself sexually excited at the sight of cartoon horses.’’
‘Why do you think Pony Express put a lock on the medical room doors, and not the bedrooms?’
‘If you look in the upper right corner, you can see a dead pixel.’
‘In the back of my mind, it’s always there.’
‘I told you.’
She told him. In every little way, every way she could manage. Always so damn independent, Anya. He should’ve picked up on that. He should’ve noticed that her silence was out of fear and not tiredness, that her glances to Jimmy were out of terror and not of concern the way Curly felt. He should’ve opened his fucking eyes, for once.
He thinks he might hate Jimmy. Deep down, he thinks that his pumping red heart, bleeding with nothing but love and hope for the human race is slowly withering. After all, Curly did everything he could for Jimmy, didn’t he? He got him the Pony Express job. He cleaned cuts, talked him off of bridges, bailed him out of jail. Sweeped his mess under the rug and asked as few questions as possible. Never once stopped believing that one day, Jimmy would pick the broom up himself. He gave Jimmy every chance possible. Every conversation involved forgiveness for the previous, a second, third, fourth thousand chance. Wasn’t that what friends do? Didn’t they believe endlessly, tirelessly, desperately, that their friends weren’t beyond repair?
Jimmy had believed in him. Every angry yell, every critique, every instance of violence, was done out of a belief that Curly wasn’t as pathetic as he seemed. Curly should be thankful. And he was. For the longest time, he was. But now, the scars left simply seem bitter. He feels weak. Pathetic. A shoddy excuse for a Captain.
He thinks he might hate Jimmy, and that scares him, because he couldn’t help but rely on him.
Curly was a good man because he was forgiving. He had hope for others, he only ever wanted to help. Did giving up on Jimmy mean giving up on everything he ever believed? On everything he ever slightly prided himself on?
He glances to the side, as Daisuke exits with tears in his eyes, Swansea hot on his tail. How selfish of Curly, to sit here, knees curled to his chest like a child, while Jimmy continues hurting others. The crew are his responsibility.
Curly steps inside, blue eyes trained anxiously on the man tied to the chair in front of him. Jimmy has a wolfish grin. His canines look sharper than usual. But deep down, Curly knows they were always that jagged.
“How nice of you to finally visit.” The bound man bites, grinning like the cat that caught the canary.
“Have you eaten?” Curly asks. He doesn’t realise it was him at first, because his voice is so small, he’s sure it can’t belong to him.
Jimmy scoffs, “Yeah. Your mechanic was nice enough not to let me starve. Not that you care.”
Guilt stabs like a dissonant chord. “I care.”
“Nah, not really.” Jimmy’s head rolls back, cracking uncomfortably. “If you cared, I wouldn’t be tied up here like a convict.”
“You raped Anya,” Curly responds, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Allegedly,” His voice is cool, collected. Curly’s seen this before, this confidence. Jimmy was always more confident around Curly. Maybe his voice
was
always this small. “Innocent until proven guilty, remember?”
“Anya’s
pregnant.”
“Prove she didn’t want it then,” Jimmy responds.
Many prey animals, when cornered, give in. Bow their heads to the shotgun pointed at their skull, ready for the killing blow, no matter how afraid they are. Jimmy was no prey animal. He was a talker. He could talk his way out of anything, any rope, any cell, any consequence to his actions. When all his options were spent, he began talking. And more often than not, it worked.
But now, the words sent a chill down Curly’s spine. Not a guilty chill, no. A hateful one. A chill at just how heartless Jimmy could be. At how heartless Curly was to excuse him so often. Wordlessly, Curly exits, the door slamming shut behind him.
Daisuke tilts his head when he returns, eyes fixed on the huffing Captain, eyes wide and focused on the floor.
“Uh, Captain? You okay?”
Curly looks up. Swansea doesn’t even look at him. Daisuke seems to pity him. He hates it.
“Unless you’re feeding Jimmy, I want his mouth duct taped shut.”
Swansea glances up, an eyebrow raised. Daisuke’s face hardens. He nods.
“Got it, Captain.”
Curly walks into the cockpit, feeling the pair’s eyes linger on him. It only makes him feel more guilty. Why was discipline so shocking, coming from him?
Curly doesn’t feel real, most days. He finds himself drifting through the world around him. He wakes up, eats, ends up in the cockpit, steers when required, eats again, wanders to the bathroom, back to the cockpit, steering again, eats a third time, ends up in bed. Rinse and repeat. His eyes are unfocused, always unfocused, staring off blankly. That is, until someone else is around. Then, he’s confident. Poised. He knows exactly what he’s doing, every move is purposeful.
He goes through psych evals, giving one word answers, and doing his best not to wince every time Anya lets out an annoyed huff. He approves every repair Swansea asks to make, until Swansea decides there’s no point asking. He gives Daisuke the code to the sweetener, just so he’ll stop asking, but finds he misses the small break from walking through his life like a zombie. He begins to forget his own name, he begins to forget he has one. He begins to forget he’s alive. Until his hands dig into his thighs when Swansea screams at Jimmy, and he feels the blood, the muscle, the nerves, the ichor guilt. It hurts. Maybe that’s what being alive means.
When Jimmy’s gone, taken by Pony Express officials at their next fuel stop, Curly feels empty. Numb. The guilt, mourning, hatred, all overloads until it stops entirely. He simply describes the incident as evenly as he can, then leaves. Curly falls into silence. Through walls and halls, he can hear Daisuke and Swansea joking, laughing. He can hear Anya talking to Swansea about his casual sexism and for once, Swansea listens. He can hear Daisuke comforting Anya when she wakes up from a nightmare, so certain that Jimmy’s in the room with her. Curly doesn’t intrude. After all he’s done, he won’t deny them the simple pleasure of being in company with good people.
When Curly is home, finally off that ship, nothing changes. He walks around his house, cooking, cleaning, and barely existing. He works as a bartender and personal trainer for money. He pays his bills, eats, sleeps. Nothing more, nothing less. Numb. Numb, numb, numb. Always numb. Like fingers in the cold. Numb.
He doesn’t talk to anyone anymore. He doesn’t imagine why he’d need to. He used to always talk to Anya between hauls. Now her number sits at the bottom of his contacts. The last he spoke to Daisuke was months ago when the boy asked for a reference. Swansea never spoke to him, so nothing’s new there. He simply exists from day to day, and he hates every second of it. But the hatred is far away from him.
Curly finds himself on a bridge. Not on the edge, not quite yet. That requires effort. Awareness. He blinks, and the water’s swimming below him. Cold. Welcoming. He doesn’t feel numb, suddenly. Suddenly, the guilt is crashing around him, swallowing him, tossing him around helplessly. He’s drowning in it. He can’t breathe. He sinks to the ground as shaky sobs overwhelm him, clawing at his chest. He pulls out his phone, and types. For the first time in a long time, he opens Anya’s contact in his phone and types.
October 12
Curly you can’t hide from me forever.
For fucks sakes pick up your phone
Please
I miss you.
October 19
Happy birthday
Meet up again? I have stuff to tell you!
Of course not.
Fine. Fuck you.
November 2
I still miss you. You know that.
You’re my best friend, of course I fucking miss you you dick.
Talk to me.
Please.
Curly, please.
I can’t do this alone.
Everything always hurts.
I need you you asshole.
Tell me it’ll be okay.
We’ll be okay.
Just like you always did.
You had no issue telling him that, why can’t you tell me?
Everything’s so fucking hard, all the time.
And I need my best friend to help me through it.
But you just shut down.
I hate it.
Fuck you.
November 22
Did you change your number?
If you did, I’m sorry.
If not, fuck you. I miss you still.
I hope you’re happy because I’m sure fucking not.
November 23
I’m sorry. All of this was my fault. Every last second of it. You needed me and I failed you at every step. You needed to be believed and I didn’t. You needed to be protected and I didn’t Not until it was too late for it to matter. It took him nearly crashing the fucking ship for me to help you. I’m so sorry. I haven’t been happy in a long time. But I hope you can be soon. Please be happy. Please don’t mourn. You deserve better, you always have. Merry Christmas, happy birthday, happy new year. Everything I’m going to miss, I’ll congratulate you now. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me, but you don’t anymore. I’ve done nothing but hold you back but I won’t anymore. You deserve closure. You’ll be okay.
I love you Anya.
Curly closes his phone, standing once more. The water is cold, the november chill sure to make it numbing. Good. Because Curly prefers the guilt, prefers it because it reminds him he’s alive. Pain is how we know we’re still living. As long as he’s living he can hurt. But not anymore.
His hands tremble as he stands on the edge of the bridge. He’s alive. Blood, muscle, nerves, ichor. Soft hands that have clawed at others for the last time. Blue eyes brimming with tears that can still only see that dead pixel. The pixel and Anya. He hopes she doesn’t mourn. It’s cold. It’s a long drop. Curly’s foot shifts forward. He stares. He doesn’t know how long for. Blood muscle nerves ichor. All soon to stop. He needs it to stop. He needs to put an end to the hurt that he’s inflicted. Stop it at the source. Jimmy was on the ship because of him. No more. His bloodstained hands pull away from the pole holding the bridge upright. His heart pumps. Blood muscle nerves ichor. He steps forward.
And he falls back.
He falls onto something soft, with sharp pinpricks in his back. Something drip, drip, drips onto his shoulder. He feels hair against his face. The soft is shaking, trembling, with heavy gasps and sobs. Angry mutterings as she clings to him.
Anya.
“You- you idiot , I hate you, I hate you so fucking much, you absolute dick-”
Her voice is weak, shaky, scratchy from yelling. Curly thought he’d heard a voice before. Her hands cling to him like he might still jump. Curly blinks. He isn’t numb. Blood, muscle, nerves. Guilt.
Slowly, his arms wrap around Anya. He sits up properly, and her face falls into the crook of his neck, clinging onto him as she sobs.
“I’m sorry.”
It’s all Curly can mutter.
He isn’t sure how long they sit there. He lets Anya sob as long as she needs to. Even when it makes his heart hurt. Especially when it makes his heart hurt.
“Wit the fuck were ye thinking?” She asks weakly, pulling away. Her black eyes are fiery with hurt, with love, with grief. “Did ye hink killing yerself wid fix anyhing? It widnae. I couldnae have taken it, Grant, I wouldae followed ye,” Her sobs still wrack her as she clings onto him, “I tellt ye, I need you. Please, please, Curly, I need you. I cannae dae this anymore, I cannae be on ma own. Please, Curly, please .”
Curly feels his heart shatter in two. And all he can think to do is pull Anya in closer. He can’t fix this with a few words or a simple action, and he hates it. Anya sobs into his chest, violently. Curly can only try and shush her gently. He can only cling to her the same way she clings to him.
“I’m sorry.” He murmurs when her sobs quieten.”
“Don’t be sorry,” She responds. “Be here. That’s a I want.”
Curly sniffles. Then, wordlessly, he nods.
Anya’s hands dig into the blood, muscles, nerves. They draw life back to the surface in their desperation.
“Thank you,” She whispers.
Curly feels his heart pump again. The world around his refocuses. And his eyes focus on Anya. As he runs his hand through her hair, he doesn’t let his eyes leave her again. Not again.
Blood, muscle, nerves. He’s alive. He has to be. One day, he might enjoy it again, but for now, he has to be for Anya’s sake. Maybe that’s enough for now.