#prospect cee

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Even Split

Something special for my fellow prospectors @sotvtaughtmehowtofeel @orangechickenpillow @skoulsons @channelrat 💚💚💚💚

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She was supposed to be on Kamrea, with her parents, living in a cottage and reading in the garden with her mother. Damon was supposed to be there, but as he had been, not what he’d become, the shattered perversion of a decent father warped into a monster by grief and drugs and whatever fatal failing allowed a man to turn on his own child.

Kamrea wasn’t where she was supposed to be.

She was supposed to be in the Pug, living in a rundown apartment building with Damon and scanning boards every few weeks to find the next gutter job to get them through to the next month and the next batch of Damon’s drugs.

The Pug wasn’t where she was supposed to be.

She was supposed to be in the Green, with her father, prospecting, looking for something valuable under a dangerous, inhospitable surface. She was supposed to be his assistant, helping him in his pursuit of wealth.

The Green wasn’t where she was supposed to be.

She was supposed to be somewhere else.

Cee wasn’t supposed to be on a space station between BG and Lao, sitting in a cantina with the man who had murdered her father. She wasn’t supposed to be leaning into him to elbow him playfully, joking about which planet they should visit next. She wasn’t supposed to be resting her chin on his shoulder, double-checking his calculations as he mapped out their course. She wasn’t supposed to be grinning freely in excitement for their next adventure, ready to travel the stars with a violent man who had entered her life with murder and exploitation. She wasn’t supposed to be in a position where she trusted that man with her life. Cee wasn’t supposed to be planning a future with her father’s killer.

She beat his chest and he held her.

Well, as best he could with one arm. As best he could in this newfound partnership with a kid. As best he could not know what plagued her mind so much that she lashed out against him. What thoughts and memories were circulating in her mind to send a strong, wise girl into feeling such a way.

His phantom pain and loss on his right side longed to hold her back. To hold her as she deserved to be held. Had she ever been held before? His left hand only jumped between rubbing small circles down her back, tracing her spine, to threading his fingers through her blonde strands, carding the tangles out as he combed his fingers through. But it wasn’t enough.

His hand, as it was against the crown of her head, left too much empty space across her back. He wasn’t holding her at all that point; she was pushing herself into his chest, her fists balled up against it. And with a hand across her back left out, what he figured, was some degree of comfort and reassurance, purely based on the way her breathing changed every time he did.

He couldn’t give her the best of both.

But he did what he could. What, deep down, he thought was right. He’d never comforted anyone, let alone a young girl, in a long time. He hadn’t been comforted, truly comforted, or held in a long time. Like the pain in his right side, it was a sort of phantom pain. Something there was missing, but he could never get it back.

He didn’t say anything and it caught her, and, funny enough, him by surprise. He never stopped talking, they both knew that. She’d told him as much.

You talk a lot.

That I do, birdie.

Even if it was mindless information; meaningless words that meant no stretch of importance in the Black, he said it anyway. Random stories of his time on the Green, mythical tales, old partners, some phrase he picked up in his time as a scoundrel and it’s history that needed a twenty minute explanation. Everything had a place in the air between him and anyone who would listen. Or wouldn’t.

But now, in a moment of emotional vulnerability that they somehow managed to keep at bay until right now, he had nothing. Not a word to lighten the mood (and he’d thought about it, but decided against it), or a word of comfort. Though, he wasn’t exactly sure what could comfort her through something like this.

Her cries had quieted down, only small hiccups strewn across his chest and following sniffles and gasps for air. She loosened her fists against his chest, very gently fiddling with the slack of his undershirt.

He’s not Damon.

Eventually, she adjusted against him and pulled her arms away from his chest and wrapped them around his middle. She held onto her own hands around his back and settled her face more into his chest.

He’s not Damon.

He continued tracing her spine. Whenever a few more tears fell or she’d sniffle or let out a small whimper, he’d bring his arm as far around her back as he could, squeezing her tightly for a moment, eyes closed as his cheek would graze the side of her head. He’d turn into it, every time, nearly swaying them side to side to hold her as tight as he could.

How much was too much? Could he hold her as tightly as he wanted to, that he believed she deserved for all that she’s gone through?

She was a tough kid, that was for sure. He, honestly, never imagined having to do this. Having to comfort some kid who shouldn’t have been been on the green in the first place. A girl who’s father he killed. He shouldn’t be doing this.

He shouldn’t be caring. Shouldn’t be attached, if he could even call it that. Shouldn’t want to hold her tight enough to squeeze the life out of her. To reassure her and try and understand the thoughts in her head and hold them in his own. For her to lay her grievances on him so he could bare them in her place. He shouldn’t be wanting to take care of her.

Reluctantly, she pulled away slowly, reaching up to wipe at her face with her sleeve before he could see her.

Ezras hand hovered, unsure what exactly to do with it. He let it fall to his own side, hesitant to keep on her if she didn’t still want it.

She let her head hang as she pressed her sleeves to her face, trying to sniffle the congestion away that all her crying had given her.

“I’m not… mad at you,” she started, trying to compose herself in front of him despite having just cried against his chest. “There’s a lot that’s happened. Damon, the Saters, your injury, trying to get off the Green, trying to keep you alive…” she sighed, doubting he understood the weight of last frustrating few cycles and how they’d weighed on her.

She looked up shyly, anticipating a more Damon-esque reaction to her outburst. “It’s been a lot and it caught up with me and I didn’t know what to do with it. I’m sorry,” she said, looking anywhere but his eyes.

Ezra gave her a hesitant, soft smile. “That’s alright, little bird, don’t you worry a thing about it. I’m afraid I can’t be mad at you for feeling such a way after all that has transpired.”

He was not Damon.

Damon would ridicule her for feeling anything that wasn’t related to Aurelac, the Green, or survival. He’d make her push through it, refusing any comfort or reassurance, leaving Cee to fight it all on her own. He didn’t let her enjoy things or have likes. She’d tried to talk about The Streamer Girl to him, and every time he’d managed to brush her off and pay more attention to his syrettes or sleeping. He was barely kind. She was barely a person to him anymore, let alone a daughter. An extra pair of hands just so he could get some points.

But Ezra. Ezra was kind. He was soft. He wore a smile that she hadn’t seen in a long time, especially not on her own father. He indulged her likes and even said he’d like to read Streamer Girl someday. He protected her every way he knew how while also missing a limb. He trusted her. Trusted her words and trusted her capabilities.

“Say, birdie, do you plan to write some of your thoughts into that notebook? You spend quite the time in there as is-“

She laughed wetly and punched his arm, “shut up, Ezra.”

He smiled, raising his only arm surrender. “Afraid I’m not critiquing your avocations. Simply an observation.” He paused, his lips forming a tight line. “Think it’d do you well to write them down, birdie.”

He was right. She did spend a lot with her notebook. Writing, mostly. Her own small stories. Retelling Streamer Girl word for word from reading it so many times. Small sketches of what she saw on the Green or out in the Black. The interior of the ship. Ezra.

She could add journaling to the list.

Cee nodded, her eyes still red and slightly puffy as she looked up at him. “Yeah, maybe so.”

They didn’t talk much more that night, the two of them settling comfortably into the silence. Well, silence for Ezra. It was only slightly uncomfortable to him, but with the light scratch of Cee’s pen against the paper and her humming and the tapping of her foot to the tune coming in through her headphones, he managed.