#desandra/open space.

[womanlives]

SHE’S SUPPOSED TO BE WATCHING THE NAV CONSOLES. Especially considering the last planet had a bit of a hot exit situation. They’ve had hotter. Least this one didn’t have live gunfire. Least this time, Clarence didn’t get hurt. 

So Desandra should’ve been watching the nav consoles, making sure no one caught their trail, no one tried to follow ‘em back to black space. Except she couldn’t shake the last time, when Clarence had been hit and gone to bed with a face like a man burning alive. Hard to watch nav consoles with a memory like that. 

She’s been watching him instead. Or trying to, long as her eyes could stay open. It’s like she’s eight and back with her kid-sister again. Staying up past 3am, ready to take the nightmares away. Foolish girl. Didn’t learn then, didn’t learn now. Some things in life Des can’t fix. Doesn’t mean she won’t still try. 

Only he’s caught her slipping, hasn’t he? The blanket’s new: warm, and welcome, and lulling her back from that dreamless state. Des furrows her brows but doesn’t open her eyes. Not until she hears Clarence’s voice. Clarence. Right. Her watch; it hasn’t ended. Is he okay? 

Des sits up in the bunk opposite his with a grunt. Her hands reach out to clutch the blanket possessively — warm, welcoming, home — and blinks blearily up at Clarence. A brief moment of alarm as she searches his face for any sign of discomfort. None. Aside from the haystack hair, he looks great. She relaxes, lets out the breath she didn’t know she was holding.

“If I get killed by a cold,” Des says, voice softened by the blanket, “shoot me. I’d never live that down.” It’s meant to be a joke, but it comes out flattened by irony.  She lifts a hand, motions him to lean down. Closer. “C’mere.” Her fingers splay when he’s close enough, run themselves through the waves of his hair. Smoothing them down, putting stray locks back where they belong. She’s not normally one for touch, but she’s gotten used to this — used to him — in the same way she’s gotten used to the creaks and groans and shudders of the ship. Their little haven. One well-placed blaster beam from certain destruction, maybe, but what’s that matter? It’s theirs.

“How’d you sleep?” Her eyes search his. For what, she doesn’t know. Peace, maybe? Impossible to say.

✧･ﾟ very niche & tender interaction call ( accepting ) | @womanlives ･ﾟ✧

A head of haystack hair rouses like the sunrise. Slow, gradual, and a sight to behold. There's no sense of urgency this time around, and the lack of it feels.. wholly alien. Half of the time Clarence wakes in agonizing pain. Whether it be from his heart restarting, limbs reforming, nerves intertwining - so on and so forth. Then the other half of that half is a series of dire situations that leaves him little choice than to snap to; lest he'd like to hand over his jolly life and reawaken at a later point in the aforementioned agonizing pain.

Point is - he's awake without the familiar sense of panic. And it's because of that absence that he actually takes a moment to observe. Just a casual look around to make sure everything's still in place. Can't be too surprised or cautious when this tin can of a spaceship frequently rattles.

That's when he sees her.

There, nearby, in some level of rest. It's funny how often he finds himself privy to such a sight; all of which could be counted on one hand. Gently, he rises from the cot - makes the extra effort to be quiet with his steps. "Can't be catching a cold now," he murmurs, more to himself than anything, as the still warmed blanket is carefully draped around Des.

[mirafirstmate]

womanlives​ :

DESANDRA GETS IT. She recognizes the confusion. The rush of adrenaline battling the larger rush of fatigue. She wonders if he has a heavy, horrible knot of anxiety in the pit of his stomach right now. She always did, whenever she woke up someplace different from where she last closed her eyes. Maybe it’s this bit of shared trauma that makes her even more patient than she usually is. A hard feat. Desandra could wait for years for something as simple as a smile. 

She leans in again, resting her elbows on her knees. Her hands clasp, and she studies John Doe over the tops of her fingertips. Considers telling him that he was medically dead for three and a half minutes, and that it took over seventy-five percent of the Normandy’s medical resources to resuscitate and treat him, so he really shouldn’t be moving around so soon. Then she sees the flash of pain in his eyes before the close, and decides against it. Smart man.

He speaks. One eyebrow lifts, and her expression turns to confusion.

“A — drink?” Des considers this. Odd. She thinks she’d be thirsty after being spaced, if she were in his shoes. “Okay,” she says, and with that she gets up and marches out of the medbay. She’s not worried or in a rush as she marches to the mess hall to get him a glass of water. John Doe can barely keep his eyes open, so there’s no need to hurry back. Unsurprisingly he hasn’t moved much when she returns two minutes later. Desandra drops down into the seat next to him and slowly, patiently lifts his hands to wrap around the glass. She hovers for a moment until she sees he can hold it on his own, then leans back in her seat. 

“There’s your drink.” She frowns, remembering. “I didn’t buy it. I’m in charge of this ship, so I can’t really buy anything. Sorry.” She’s not. “You’ll have to make do.” What else, what else — ? Ah, yes. “You’re on the Normandy. She’s a deep scout frigate. I’m in charge. We caught you on our sensors nearing the gravitational pull of a large asteroid in the nearby belt. I made the call to pick you up.” 

Despite the fact that there was no evidence of any sort of ship nearby: malfunctioning, exploded, or otherwise. John Doe was spaced on purpose, and both of them know it. She doesn’t ask him why. Doesn’t need to. They wanted him off their damn ship. 

Time to figure out if she wants him off hers.

“Now we can get into the intimate details of your life story, rinyalowda. You also have your drink. Who tortured you?”

he hears her footsteps retreating and he wonders if she took offense. he’d shrug if he could be bothered to move much at all. soon enough, though, the doors hiss open and his hand is wrapped around a cool glass — huh. an eye peeks open again to see its contents, wary of testing anything sight unseen on a strange — ah, so it is a ship he’s on.   ❝ not exactly what i meant, ❞   comes the reply, but then the water is lifted to his lips and he sips, still cautious... but grateful.

he relaxes back, silently asking her to take the half-empty glass as he holds it out to her, now. eyes close again. he sighs.   ❝ mmm, never heard of it, ❞   the words are smooth even as something akin to a stone drops in his stomach. he’s gotta admit, it’s easier to stare at the backs of his eyelids rather than to work at avoiding eye contact.

the silence in the wake of his quip drags on and his hand moves above his eyes like a visor, lips pulled into a thin, grim line. he can’t avoid looking at her any longer.   ❝ why’s it matter, ❞   voice breaks as he croaks,   ❝ when it happened over a lifetime away from where we are now? by any subnuclear means of travel, anyway. ❞   his gaze is cast to the side.  

blinking, he is thrown back — he doesn’t even know how far, he doesn’t know how long he’s been out. doesn’t know why he was saved. all he knows for certain is that space was colder than he’d ever known it when thrown out by the one person he lov... trusted most. ( but he’d deserved it, hadn’t he? he couldn’t save hero, it was his knife that stabbed... who? god, he doesn’t even remember the words blue had said to him when the knife fell from her hands at his feet, the shock setting in as it had. hell, he could count doc and ari’s blood on his hands too — if only he’d been more perceptive )...

       ❝ the russians, ❞   he finally offers,   ❝ at least... i'm fairly certain they were russian. i’ve blocked a lot of that whole ordeal from my memory, i’m sure you can understand. ❞   another blink. eyes shift back to meet hers.   ❝ what’s your name, captain? ❞

[womanlives]

DESANDRA SITS BACK AND LISTENS. Her whole focus is on Clarence. She hangs hard onto every word, brows furrowed, trying to piece it all together in her mind: his tone, his expression, his narration. What he’s describing is in some ways what she was expecting and in others even more horrific. She has never been very good at empathy, but for Clarence she tries. Tries to imagine what it feels like to drown. She once got put in airlock as a threat for a solid minute. It’s not the same thing, but it’s the closest she has to compare. Then Clarence tells her about what happened when he came back up, and Des closes her eyes in a grimace. Fuck.

He moves to fire. Desandra opens her eyes again, because she needs to see, needs as many clues as she can possibly get. Her eyes are as dark as the space that envelops their ship, only without the promise of stars. She watches his lips compress; she hears the slight rattle of his knuckles against the metal table. After I’m put out — she understands, then, even if she’ll never fully be able to relate, and her expression turns melancholy. This is the first she thinks about what she’s really asking of him when she does anything that puts him at risk. It’s sobering, and Desandra is ashamed. Stupid, stupid welwala. Clear as day, it is. Selfish of her never to think of it.

Clarence falls silent. Desandra shifts in her seat, still watching, unsure of what to do. He’s distressed — her fault, but it’s important information, and she’d ask it again knowing what she knows now. Even she can see that. She’s just never been very good at cheering people up. Doesn’t have a whole lot of practice, neither. But that’s no excuse.

Desandra stands abruptly, picking up her chair. Without preamble she carries it slowly to the other side of the table, right next to Clarence. Her movements are hesitant. Skittish, almost, because she’s trying to give him enough space to pull away if he wants it. She puts her chair down next to him, sits, and then places a hand on his wrist. “Sorry,” she says, and means it. She looks down at his clasped hands. Then, very slowly, her fingers move to his, slip in between his palms, and wrap around one of his hands. Hesitant. Earnest. Like she’s holding a baby bird.

What next. What next, what next, what next.

“When I was little I liked it when I got held. It helped sometimes.” She looks down and sees her own blurred reflection in the table: malnourished and tiny, back when her eyes still had lights. She blinks, once, then turns back to Clarence. “If it doesn’t help, that’s okay. We can try other things until something does.” It sounds like a promise. Maybe it is. Desandra gives his hand a small squeeze, then releases him. Doesn’t want to overstay her welcome. As if she even knows what a welcome is.

Still, though. She doesn’t move her chair away.

“We can stay away from water-planets, yeah? Just treat it like death’s still final, so you don’t gotta burn anymore.” She’s watching him closely. For any more hints, any more clues. “Does talking about it help or hurt?”

Everyone has their moments when a bad storm blows through. An expectation falls short, everything goes to shit, the other shoe finally drops. But that’s just the way of life, he’d always reason. There’s bound to be just as many rotten fruits as there are ripe ones in this basket woven by the marriage of time and fate.

Doesn’t mean it’s anymore enjoyable, though.

The awaiting pill doesn’t get any smaller to swallow or easier to stomach. It’s just there. Handed to him without preamble and stamped with the message of ‘no refunds’ in big bold letters.

Life hands him these things and all he can do is sit with it. Roll the hurt between shaky hands — back and forth and back again. Until maybe, hopefully, the mess turns into wool, the wool into yarn, the yarn into a bridge so he can make it out to the other side.

Reasonable the coasting conversation may be, he’s suddenly really down in the dumps. As seen by the exaggerated slumped shoulders, downcast puppy eyes and all. For a man that’s usually chock-full of life and unrivaled optimism, he’s stepped outside of it. Let that skin slough off and reveal all the vulnerable bits to the only person that’s bothered to stick around. Well, besides… No, too soon. He still can’t think about it, him — much less speak it.

Clarence knows how lucky he is, practically stupid with luck, crammed with it where it shouldn’t count. “Changes, yeah.“ Dejection radiates tenfold as a sudden clutch of fear grips him. "Always happens when I’m in danger. Cool in theory, but I’m tired of changin’, mate— sick of it. Can’t exactly die ‘cause I’ll always come back— immortality’s what they call it I guess. And it’s so highly sought after, yeah? People wanna live forever n’ ever, but what they don’t tell you 'bout is the pain. It’s always there. Always hurts more than what one fella should be experiencin’ in a single lifetime.

"But I’ve been… I’ve drowned, only to not drown a few seconds later. Got these, uh, gills that kick in here.” A single finger tails along the side of his neck. Five lines, to be exact. “Got all this water in my lungs already— gotta expel that. go to breach the surface and then I’m suffocating in plain air 'cause of the gills that just saved my life.”

“Got set on fire a few.. hundred times and I’m fine. Just can’t tell when that part'a me’s gonna also change into that sorta fire. Just 'cause I’m immune to it sure don’t mean that others are.” Lips tighten at that. His hands seek shelter within each other, clasping to help ease the slight tremors that begin to set in. “Which totally makes sense talking 'bout it after I’m put out, but in the moment? Hard to tell what’s up, down, or around town. So sometimes it doesn’t click that I don’t gotta be brandishing a gun to hurt someone.”