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“McCabe?” Park asks, stealing their attention from the tablet they’re staring at. They’ve been alternating between talking animatedly with each other and sitting in companionable silence for the better part of three hours, with their last conversation sending RJ stumbling down a research rabbit hole that they’ve spent the last fifteen minutes providing him occasional updates on.
He’s flying overnight tonight, and RJ will never fully admit how much they appreciate the excuse to be up and about without anyone asking questions.They’ve been having trouble sleeping, and as much as they love their crewmates, they don’t particularly feel like talking about it. They’d rather sit in the cockpit with Park all night. He doesn’t try to pry or coddle them, just talks to them, laughs with them, and lets them read wiki pages out loud to him while he flies. They’re sure he appreciates the company as much as they do.
“Hm?” they reply, lowering their tablet to look at him from where they’re laying on the small cot that Brian keeps in the cockpit for when he sleeps there during Krejjh’s shifts.
“Do you think you could, uh— could you run to the medbay and get me some painkillers? Whatever OTCs Violet has. My neck is acting up,” he informs them, demonstratively rubbing at his neck with his one free hand.
He explained it to them once— why his neck is always bent out of shape or leaning at an angle— the loss of sight on his right side has him subconsciously craning his neck that way, trying to make his vision more central. Losing an eye is an adjustment your whole body makes.
“Yeah, of course,” they answer, sitting up and fixing their gaze on him for a second. He looks exhausted. “Anything else you need?”
“Some… coffee might not be a bad idea,” he asks hesitantly. “I’ve got the long shift tonight. Five more hours to go.”
They nod a little, smiling. The first time they met Park, he was bemoaning the quality of the breakroom coffee at headquarters. It would not be the last time they’d hear him do this— hell, several years and planetary systems away from their old office on New Jupiter, he still complains about it sometimes.
“Yes, Sir,” they respond, giving him a mock-salute.
“Not your boss,” he responds amusedly. It’s become a new call and response for them, more of a joke than anything, but still a strange comfort.
They get up and leave the cockpit, heading towards the mess first to brew a pot of coffee the way he taught them to, so that while it’s brewing, they can head towards the medbay for his painkillers.
The friendship they have now feels a little strange, but definitely a good sort of strange. Before… there’d been an obvious care. But it had been more of a tactical relationship than a personal one. They looked out for each other, they protected each other where it was necessary, but they were for a long time falling short of actual companionship. It’s weird; he’d been the most important person in their life for months before they’d ever even really talked about anything besides survival or the mission.
But they are friends now. They play cards in their downtime and make jokes and talk about all of the ridiculous things on their mind. He reminds them to take breaks when they’re stressing themself into a downward spiral, they keep him company on his overnight flying shifts, and sometimes, on occasion, they even talk to each other about their feelings. And it’s nice. They like being close with Park even if it means that sometimes, they have to think a little too hard about the feelings they don’t talk to him about.
They quickly locate the over-the-counter pain meds Violet keeps in a cabinet near the door and head back to the mess, pouring two cups of coffee and stirring half a packet of hazelnut creamer into one. Thank God for Krejjh’s habit of leaving those things lying around.
When they return to the cockpit, he somehow looks even worse off than when they left. They hand him the pills first, watching as he throws them into his mouth before handing him the coffee to wash them down. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“That bad?” they ask, trying to make it sound like a joke.
He just huffs a loud sigh in response.
“Is it really that bad?” they ask a bit more sincerely, placing a hesitant hand on his shoulder. It’s not a type of touch that’s unfamiliar to them— quite the opposite, in fact. It’s not something they would have ever guessed about him, but once they noticed it, they couldn’t stop— while Park was averse to any public displays of affection, he seemed to crave casual touch. After everyone had learned about his relationship with Sana, they’d started touching more. Nothing overt, nothing overly-affectionate, but still noticeable. RJ didn’t pay much attention to that, though; didn’t really notice until he started touching them too. Resting a hand on their back, bumping shoulders when they stood next to each other, gently taking their arm to get their attention. And when they’d started following his lead, doing all the same things, he would smile like it was some pleasant surprise.
It wasn’t something they expected when they got closer to him, but it was certainly welcome.
“Are you sure you should be flying?” they ask, setting down their coffee as he takes another long drink of his. “I’m sure Krejjh or Captain Tripathi wouldn’t mind if…”
“I can manage it,” he huffs unconvincingly, sounding very much like a man in a great deal of pain.
They absentmindedly move their hand from his shoulder to his neck, feeling the muscles in it, tense and tight. He leans back into their touch— probably even subconsciously— and it sends their stomach into somersaults. They think the smart decision might be to pull away, but that’s not what they want to do and clearly not what he wants either. So instead they bring their other hand to his neck as well and hesitantly— gently— press their thumbs into the tender flesh, moving slowly up and down.
Park's breath hitches a little, and he wordlessly adjusts in the pilot’s chair, moving to allow them better access. They take it for the sign of encouragement that it is and start lightly rubbing circles over an obvious tension knot.
This feels like a new level of intimacy than they’ve previously ever crossed, and they cross it tentatively. They work their way upwards, quickly finding another knot, asking nervously, “Is this helping?”
“Yes,” he answers right away. “Yes, it’s…. It is. Thank you,” he sighs. “Could you—” Keeping one hand on the control panel, he sets his coffee down and brings his free hand to his neck, touching the spot he had been earlier.
“Yeah, here—” They take his cue, gently massaging the side of his neck. He sighs again in relief, and RJ can’t help smiling a little, feeling strangely proud of themself. It feels good to be able to help him like this.
They work at that spot for a while, until they’re satisfied they’ve managed to loosen it up a bit. Then they work downwards again, digging into the point where his neck meets his shoulders and—
The next sigh he lets out isn’t quite that— it’s part sigh, part moan. The sound sends a shock to their system and they’re glad he can’t see their face because they can feel their cheeks starting to flush as they continue on like normal.
This is normal, they remind themself. They’re sure it’s a completely normal sound to make while being massaged, especially considering how badly he clearly needed it. They’re just being ridiculous, just reacting like a freak because of those feelings that they don’t talk about and—
They absentmindedly dig in deeper and he moans again, this time apparently feeling the awkwardness that settles across the room when he does. “I’m— sorry,” he stammers quickly after. They don’t think they’ve ever heard him sound this flustered. “I’m not trying to…”
“Don’t worry about it,” they say a little too quickly, trying to ignore the almost dizzy feeling at the thought of him being unable to control himself because of something they’re doing. “It’s okay. You— you deserve to relax a bit,” they add, trying to settle on a response that isn’t so eager, that isn’t please don’t stop making those sounds because I love them and I love you and I want to make you feel good.
No matter how badly they want to say that.
“I, uh… I might…” He moves forward for a second, returning his attention to the control panel, and for a second as he begins hitting a series of buttons, they worry that they may have failed at not making this weird. And then they see the words ‘autopilot engaged’ flash onto the screen, and he leans back again. “Don’t tell the others,” he mutters, clearly only half-joking. They know that all three pilots really only try to use the autopilot when necessary, but they’re sure neither Krejjh nor Sana would begrudge him a short break, especially given he’s still within arm’s reach of the controls.
“I’ll let you know if we crash,” they joke, continuing to massage his shoulders as he closes his eye and lets out a heavy exhale. They hate how much they’re enjoying this. They try hard to stop their more inappropriate thoughts in their tracks, but it’s hard not to imagine their hands drifting elsewhere, his body against theirs, what kind of noises he’d make then—
They need to snap back to their senses, to stop being such a pervert and just—
“You’re… very good at this,” he informs them, eyes still closed, a look on his face they can only really describe as pleased. “Thank you.”
Fuck it. There really is only one way they’re going to be capable of feeling about this.
“Any time, Sir,” they respond, forcing a laugh at the use of his former title. He doesn’t respond this time, doesn’t offer his reflexive ‘not your boss’ for once. They’re glad; they didn’t want him to. Instead, he moans again. Despite the coffee he continues sipping, he looks liable to fall asleep at any minute. They want to savor this sight— and this feeling, and those sounds— for as long as possible. They wonder if he’d think it weird or suspicious if they did this for him every day; even if he did catch on, they wonder if he’d care. They don’t think they would.
He probably already knows, in all honesty. They’re sure it’s obvious. They don’t leave a lot of ambiguity in the way they stare at him like they’d follow him to the end of the world— in the way that, when it came down to it that day on New Jupiter, they really did. There’s nothing subtle about the way they hang on his every word and rush to his side the second he needs anything at all.
They don’t care if he knows, as long as it means that none of this has to change. As long as they can keep bringing him coffee and rubbing his neck and calling him sir.
They don’t need a relationship like the one he has with Sana, or like Arkady and Violet’s or Brian and Krejjh’s. They don’t need him to kiss them or hold their hand or marry them, they just need him to love them— in whatever way he can— and to tell them what to do. And at night, alone in their quarters, they can think of all the other things they’d like to do for him, and that will be enough.
“McCabe—” he starts. They can hear him, but they don’t entirely process it. They’re too focused on trying to keep their hands working. They hadn’t noticed they'd started to tremble. “McCabe—” he says again, a little more firmly, his hands coming to rest over theirs. “Hey,” he says, gently. “You can stop. I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“No—” they respond a little too quickly, a little too desperately. “I can still—”
“You don’t have to. You— you must be tired.” He turns to face them, pulling their hands from his shoulders but still holding onto them.
Fuck. They fucked it up. They got too weird, too needy, too—
“Shit— what’s—?” he starts to ask. Their distress must be obvious, just like everything else they feel. “Hey. What do you need?” His eye is looking at theirs, but they can’t meet his gaze, and his hands are holding theirs, but the contact suddenly feels too intimate.
“I don’t know,” they manage.
He stares at them for another few seconds; it feels like an eternity, and they’re worried they may be about to cry. Then, something in his expression changes. “Can you do something for me?” he asks.
Their relief at those words is palpable. They nod quickly and bite back the yes, sir on their tongue. He lets go of their hands and instead reaches for his near-empty coffee mug, downing the rest of it and handing it off to them. “Could you get me some more coffee? And some of that snack mix Sana keeps in the mess. Enough for both of us,” he asks. His voice is kind, but firm. Guiding.
They can do that. They nod, grateful to have been given something to do. They step away, about to turn to leave, when—
“McCabe,” he gets their attention. “Thank you. I really appreciate you being here with me tonight,” he reassures them. “And every other night.” He’s clearly worried about them and they aren’t sure how to feel about that.
“Of course,” they mumble, managing a small smile. He smiles back at them and they can see him trying not to sigh in relief.
They barely process the trip to the mess and back; they try not to focus on anything but the task at hand. When they return, Park is up from the pilot’s seat, waiting for them by the cot— now much closer to the seat than they’d left it. He’s holding their tablet— they don’t mind, the two of them are fairly liberal with things like that; they trust him.
“Hey,” he greets. “I should get back to flying, but… I found this article I’d been meaning to read? About the Regime’s new firearm regulations Do you think you could read it to me?”
They nod. They know exactly which article he’s talking about; Brian sent it to them last week and they’d been telling Park about it just the other day. They’re happy to reread it. They perk up a little, approaching him and handing him his coffee. He trades it for the tablet, and they lie down on the cot.
“Thanks,” he says with a smile.
“Thank you,” they feel the need to emphasize. He’d let them indulge their ridiculous desire to take care of him, and when it freaked them out, he tried to help them level out. He is helping them level out. They feel silly; a part of them just wants to run back to their room and hide for the rest of the night, but they think that doing that might break them. And he’s given them an easy, enjoyable task. Something to focus on.
“Any time,” he echoes their statement from earlier. “I mean it.” He places a hand on their shoulder, keeping it there maybe just a second too long before returning to the pilot’s seat.
They take a second to get comfortable on the cot, doing a quick once over on the beginning of the article before they start reading. “An official notice from the Intergalactic Republic of Free Worlds: New regulations state that civilian firearms must be registered with the local representative…” They break between paragraphs to give him a few cursory glances. He seems perfectly content to sit and listen to them read, though his exhaustion is starting to become contagious. They catch him looking back at them a few times as well, presumably checking in on them too.
There’s a point, once they’ve started on the sixth article, where the screen gets difficult to read. They’re struggling to keep their eyes open and their mouth moving and they’re sure he can notice. He doesn’t say anything though, just offers them a smile as they feel themself starting to finally come down. His shift can’t be much longer and they’re probably going to wake up to someone else flying, but they really can’t bring themself to care. They’re just happy to fall asleep next to him.