#alien 1986

It is what passes for night in the USS Sulaco, speckled starboard glittering onward in halls that illuminate themselves with the stars and low-light fit for a human circadian rhythm. Bishop is passing by a darker hall that connects the sleeping quarters to his broader space, each step swallowed alive by the ship's incessant beep-and-hum, a living organism shielding each little soldier within.

Out pops Hudson, far later than he should be, hardly awake as he stretches and yawns. He hasn't noticed Bishop yet. He's shirtless, too, and when his arms raise Bishop can see every detail of them tighten and release in the beams of pure starlight in perfect silhouette: his hands grab eachother, his biceps flare, his deltoids spring into ungraceful lazing action. It is a beautiful example of something alive and unbothered, an animal innocent for his lack of wakefulness.

He's seen it before, but he hasn't had the opportunity to examine this behavior so closely or without rush in the past. Now he can drink the sight in as it approaches him of its own volition. Bishop pauses, curious of the spectacle, and Hudson continues to trot forward until he bumps into him.

"Sorry," comes Bishop's automatic reply.

Hudson blinks, but he doesn't back up. In his fugue (thinks Bishop), his hand slinks down to Bishop's left shoulder. Clapping it heartily, his dopey smile flares to life, sleep-lined and dream-bitten: "S'alright, Bish."

Before Bishop can process the nickname, Hudson leans forward and smears a chaste kiss on his forehead. Then, he turns towards the direction of the restrooms. Before the marine's hand can fully depart, though, the digits of Bishop's right hand gently make contact with his knuckles, a tap.

"Mmh?"

"Why did you do that?" Bishop's voice is evergreen in how gently it is applied, a balm or a bandaid or a panacea to cure all that ails, and it is gentle now to avoid sounding like unfortunate confrontation. In all respects, the register is deep and curious honey.

A pause. Hudson's smile spreads as he cocks his head a little, and his hand disappears to rub the back of his neck, a pacifying behavior to quell the swell of nerves that tick the firing pin of a mild dose of compensatory epinephrine, the punishment for a potential social malignancy. His voice slurs with the weight of entropy, but his embarrassment is masked by residual melatonin. "Jus' showin' appreciation for my homie…"

"Oh." Bishop blinks.

"Has no-one ever given you a little kiss?" Hudson's brow raises, and, like Bishop has come to know him, he mimes the action with a pucker. He lingers in his personal space, a harmless thing born of the man's natural obliviousness and as much that as it is his natural charm.

"No."

"Mm… that's sad." The corners of his mouth press flat. It isn't mockery – it's thought, or the beginnings of one before it reaches the prefrontal cortex. Aborted, perhaps. That's common for him – Hudson thinks more than he gives himself credit for, though he seems to frequent low probability replies.

"I hadn't considered it until you did it. Is it normal?" Bishop's head tilts slightly, careening naturally to angle. The investment he places into this pries past Hudson's eyes. Sure, he knew that people under pressure developed close social bonds that often violated traditional boundaries in isolation, but… it is a different thing entirely to be part of that social system, accepted as another person to bestow its gifts upon. His face carries that sentiment forward as hopefulness.

"'Tween marines?" Hudson lags into a satisfied huff, incredulous, "'Course." And many other things, thinks Hudson – but to his great and honest credit, he doesn't voice that demon.

"Oh." Bishop blinks again, just as surprised, "Thank you."

"'Course," he repeats.

Before Hudson can back away fully to extract himself to the tending of his needs, Bishop presses a soft, tentative kiss to his forehead. It is over in a second. Internally, he wonders if he's done it right. "Have dreams," he whispers.