#sycasta

It only took hearing one story for Sullivan to decide three truths about Captain Vera Blackhound. First; Jaewon loved her. Maybe he wouldn’t choose that word himself; perhaps respect or reverence sounded more palatable, less intimate, but at the time, Sullivan had not yet seen nor heard his captain speak about someone with such affection; understated definitely, but unmistakable under the cool gaze of someone who’d been studying and scrutinizing his every word and gesture since coming into his employ.

Second, she was terrifying and thus, Sullivan was terrified of her. He’d naively believed Jaewon’s calamitous, cataclysmic existence to be unique. There couldn’t be multiple souls that possessed the same force as his. The thought in itself was frightening but at the same time, he was reminded of something he’d learned in his youth. The digital encyclopedia clip resurfaced vividly in his mind’s eye and haunted him again now as it had when he was younger. The clip showed a massive storm; black clouds ominously swirling and roiling, cloud convulsions illuminated by neon forked lightning until a writhing plume of tempest coiled to the ground and gained mass enough to threaten decimating everything unlucky enough to be in its path. As terrifying as the magnitude of that storm had been, Sullivan had watched on with renewed fear as other tornadoes twisted out of its breadth, breaking free of their mother to gain their own mass and speed and force, to leave their own unique wakes of destruction.

Third and most poignant of all, she would not want him on her ship. A bonafide son of the Alliance. A ‘purple belly’ in the flesh; a cowardly spineless weakling, if anyone had opposite beliefs, morals, and values, surely it would be him. This assumption was owed to her based on what the Alliance represented. It was not an association Sullivan could easily shake from himself and it was unlikely he could earn a reassessment from her based on his own dismissable merit. She had every right to distrust him and the reality of this opposition increased Sullivan’s estimation of that second truth.

It was quite early in his employment when he heard of her and quite soon after that they came face to face. He didn’t know what Vera thought of him or if she knew of his existence before waving in that evening for her weekly chat with Jaewon. She undoubtedly knew of Jaewon’s tendency to collect oddities that drifted into his path, objects that contained questionable value; value that perhaps only his hypnotizing golden eyes could estimate. It was the certainty that she would not see the worth that Jaewon seemed certain he possessed that caused him to fear her so greatly. It was the first time he remembered hiding behind Jaewon out of fear and the embarrassment of it still made his knees weak. He could recall her voice as she inquired as to just who that ‘ghost’ peeking out from behind him was and the resulting scuffle as Jaewon tried to pry previously strengthless hands off the back of his coat.

It seemed like ancient history now and he, of course, understood that his initial fear was misplaced. 

She reminded him of a nightmarish woman he’d known shortly before then. A similarly stern and powerful woman who was like Vera in the force she commanded, yet unlike her in the ways that truly mattered; in the ways that separated humans from monsters. He recognized the difference immediately, but he was still afraid. If anyone could convince Jaewon to be rid of him, it was her.

Thankfully, that hadn’t happened and he hoped there had come a turning point in the years since he’d joined the crew where she realized Sullivan posed no threat to Jaewon, his crew or the Serenity herself. What Vera felt for him, if anything, mattered not when compared to what Jaewon felt for her and what they’d meant to each other. If there was ever a time to assume that Sullivan would cry out of empathy or sympathy, it was now but somehow, there were no tears in his eyes when he flung open the door of his quarters and sprang to action.

He was on the cortex immediately, contacting clients and port authorities, seamlessly realigning their obligations to account for the Captain’s detour. He hunkered over his desk, tirelessly assessing the route they’d need to travel to make it there in time, accounting for the resources they’d be burning through and need to replenish and orchestrating precisely timed false leads to keep the more heavily alliance-patrolled thoroughfares clear of obstacles that could possibly detain them.

When they’d landed and the time came, he joined the others in the cargo bay as they waited with heavy hearts. Jaewon emerged from nowhere and Sullivan felt his breath hitch; heart splitting as he beheld him, a white squall. He followed, as he always follows, this time silent and solemn. He watched the ceremony through his lashes, eyes half-lowered, earnestly desiring to support Jaewon in his loss but guilty all the same since he wasn’t sure he was welcome.

If the sun beating down on them was any indication, Sullivan was sure he was unwanted. But stubbornly, he stayed put. And as one might imagine, the climate did not agree with his disposition. Sweat poured off of him, soaking him to the point he was worried the officiator might accuse him of crying for the deceased. The temperature made him nauseous and the sun’s rays ate through the pale linen garments he wore, bringing welts and blisters to the surface of previously pale skin.

By the time Jaewon and Vera started their journey into the sunset, Sullivan was near fainting. Somehow...he didn’t. For someone who was accustomed to operating on borrowed strength, he couldn’t honestly say whose he was syphering now. The idea that it might actually be his own bolstered his resolve. He followed the procession into town, feverish and dazed but unwilling to withdraw himself from the experience if there was a chance it meant dishonoring Vera or her sons.

He joined them in a tavern, many of them strangers yet somehow eerily familiar. He stayed on the outskirts of the room, sipping water, eavesdropping on stories that he honestly couldn’t believe weren’t embellished. He silently paid homage, raising his glass with the others, grateful for the chance to experience their memories; envious that he didn’t have the courage to live life with the same intensity.

The more he listened, the more he understood the legacy Vera had imparted to these men and women and though she was gone, there was no way she’d ever be forgotten. Jaewon had amassed his own ragtag, mismatched family but it was just one branch of a much larger, firmly rooted tree. The more he listened, the closer tears came to his eyes. An older pirate noticed the out of place youth and his glassy eyes. He joined Sullivan on the opposite side of the post he gingerly leaned against, a knowing gleam in his eyes when he warned him not to waste tears on the dead. “They’re...” Sullivan struggled, concentrating on not letting them spill and speaking loud enough to be heard. “They’re not for the dead.”

He’s not sure who carried him back to the Serenity, but he’s grateful he was not conscious during the journey. Apparently touched by his sentiment, the burly old pirate had raised a heavy limb to drape over Sullivan’s shoulder, a gesture of solidarity intended to bolster his spirits. However, feeling that log-like arm and hand clap onto his sun-blistered shoulders felt like nothing less than a lightning bolt, sending Sullivan promptly to the ground in a heap and instantly out of consciousness.

He woke in the medbay, slathered from waist to scalp in a jelly-like goo and wrapped in bandages like a mummy. Knowing his miniscule pain tolerance, Casta had medicated him accordingly but it didn’t do anything to mask the feeling of wanting to die from embarrassment. He spent an entire day in the infirmary with an IV rehydrating him, Cheesestick suspiciously observing the vaguely familiar creature, lingering nearby but out of reach.

They were already back in the Black when he came to and his recovery afforded him a lot of uninterrupted time to think and come to term with things in the well-intentioned but strange way he made deductions. He didn’t believe in Heaven or Hell, but he did believe in ghosts. Vera’s body had died, which meant she was now a spirit; free from pain and worry and the tethers that bound her to their plane of existence. If she could now exist wherever she wanted, surely she would stay close to her treasured children; watch over them, protect them.

Sullivan frequently feared. Big things, small things, unlikely things...he always feared for the Captain, who seemed genetically compelled to flirt with disaster and tempt fate. Yet, Sullivan felt so much less worried now? Perhaps it was completely illogical. It isn’t something he can prove and perhaps Jaewon would allow his loss to swallow him up before he again saw the light, but it didn’t change the newfound peace of mind that washed over his blistered skin and soothed him from the inside out.

If there was anyone who could keep Death from robbing Serenity’s crew of their captain, certainly it was her.

“LOOK AT ME, I’M MUTILATED!!” Sullivan croaked, leaning over the sink in the medbay to look at his newly spotted visage. He furiously rubbed his fist against the mirror, trying to convince himself that it was the reflective surface that was marred; not him. His efforts were to no avail. His eyes scanned his reflection to his outstretched arm and up to his shoulder. He checked the other side to be sure and then looked back to his freckled nose. 

He frowned, imagining he’d be teased for his insurmountable lack of constitution. The Vallurian sun and desert had given birth to Jaewon. He was made of them and sure enough, Sullivan hadn’t lasted a single day in their presence. He’d had a multitude of run-ins with the Captain that left him scorched and flushed and certain if the man had gotten any closer he would’ve combusted but the habitat itself had literally burnt him; leaving a permanent spattering of sun-kissed speckles on ivory cheeks and shoulders.

Secondary to the shock of his appearance was the realization that he had lived through his birthday without sparing a further thought to his own self-pity. It was something small when compared to everything else going on around him, yet, something he wouldn’t have believed he was capable of. He felt different somehow. Not in a way that was obvious. Maybe only because he looked a bit different now. 

Sullivan wants to believe there’s something more and it’s with the hope that there is, that he combs his hair into place and dresses himself up before sitting down in front of his communicator. He punches numbers and letters into the device that he was sure he’d forgotten after five years without use. The face that greets him is different than he remembers; faintly lined, brows heavier, eyes tired and worried until she recognizes the man staring back at her; until she realizes her eyes are not playing tricks on her. “Sully!! Sullivan!”

Floodgates open and a deluge of tears seem to gush from his eyes all at once. “Mom...” he chokes out. “I’m sorry I haven’t called you,” he sobs, shoulders shaking. He wanted to sit in front of her, poised and grown up and strong but of course, that was not the case. It was outrageously presumptuous even for Sullivan, to believe he could change to such an extent after what boiled down to a funeral and a sunburn. Still, somehow he’d managed to face this; a huge fear that could’ve turned into a huge regret. A fear he would not have dared face if it hadn’t been for what his friends had lost.

“It’s all right, darling...don’t cry,” she soothed, reaching up to wipe tears as they slipped down her cheeks. Despite crying herself, she smiled, she smiled so brightly that it just made Sullivan's heart want to burst. He’d spent such a long time letting fear control him, letting doubt and worry restrict his actions. He didn’t want to live like this anymore; didn’t want to waste any more time. “You look well, dearheart. Are you happy? You look stronger,” she gently praised, eyebrows rising when her sensitive boy perked up.

Did he really look stronger? Could she tell?! Sullivan sniffled and straightened up, wiping his tears away but the freckles still would not budge. “Yes, I’m much happier, Mother and...I’m stronger too...probably,” he added although he seemed less certain of the second part. 

“Tell me,” she encouraged. “Tell me where you’ve been...the adventures you’ve had.” 

Sullivan loved to tell stories, but whenever he told one it was about someone else. Someone famous who’d lived and died; someone who had accomplished something, someone who stood for something. He’d never been able to tell a story that he shared a part in and although they were small parts, it was still something he belonged to. Something precious and sacred that shaped him into the person he was now, a person, he was coming to realize, that might not be as worthless as he believed. 

he shifts his arm slightly, and that’s when he realizes it’s not just the hangover that’s bogging him down, it’s also mina, her body draped over him, forehead pressed against his ear, hair spread out across his shoulder. this isn’t the first time he’s woken up with her, both of them clothed of course, friends even though the heartbeats in their chests sync up sometime during the night. they don’t tell you about ptsd when you’re in war, and jaewon hadn’t had much experience with the notion before turning seventeen, so in the years since the independent’s failure, the two of them have really had to rely on each other for comfort against nightmares and waking terrors. he’s used to the warmth of her, the scent of her, their legs tangled slightly in unconsciousness.

but not so tangled enough that he can’t shift and maneuver his way out from under her, and he knows she won’t wake up because he’d smelled the alcohol on her breath as well, remembered her drinking just as deeply as any of them. and he doesn’t want to stay here in her room this morning, doesn’t want to infect her with the scorched disease of him, the one he can feel burning through is veins, thick and unstoppable like lava.

he stands up and shuffles to her door slowly, carefully, as noiseless as he can while still feeling the bloat in his stomach, the ocean swishing in his limbs. he feels stupid, he wants to die, he wants to smash his face against the metal of serenity, or go into his bedroom and never come back out. he’s not wearing his coat and it’s freezing cold out here in the hallway, but instead of going to look for it in the mess hall, he ducks for his own bedroom, praying to high hell no one has tried to usurp it, to be funny.

jaewon would set them on fire if they had.

thankfully, no one managed to get in, so he can dress in peace, every movement a drag with stinging pain, every shift only bringing him more agony. his brow furrows, his eyes darken, his mind works and works and works to try to crack the darkness, the haze he’d draped himself in last night. so little comes back to him; drinks and singing and kafka saying something about mistletoe and?? had he fought with johnny? how had he and mina made it into her room? just how much whiskey had he downed?

he rubs slowly at his forehead, feeling a strange bruise forming there, tenderness in his gums, and the most god-awful taste in his mouth. he goes to brush his teeth, and then does so again, doesn’t bother with his hair, doesn’t bother with more sleep. part of him wants to stay in here, wrap himself up in his blessed blankets, only the dim lighting for company for at least the next two days, but his stomach rolls and he knows he’ll do well to get some food into it. plus, he doesn’t want anyone to think he’s hiding or anything. not that he knows whatever it would be that he might hide from, but knowing him, he did at least one embarrassing thing last night, one thing that everyone else will remember and he cannot.

he shuffles back into the hallway, nothing in his stride speaking of power or purpose, the boots still clomping, but with a messier tread, heading into the kitchen. he keeps his fingers sliding across the wall of serenity, helping him find his way, like how serenity always has, to save his soul. ephy isn’t here, but that’s okay too somehow. again: jaewon doesn’t really want to see anyone, doesn’t want to deal with them right now. he supposes he’ll have to though, so he ought to come up with some kind of battle plan.

but first, food. he makes something quick, something painless and soft, salty enough to encourage the massive glass of water he pours for himself, and then he relocates it all to the head of the table, his usual seat. the room is still a goddamn catastrophe, and he doesn’t know who’s going to clean it up, but it won’t be him. maybe sullivan can round some of this shit up, or get other people who will, if he’s not inebriated as well.

the peace and quiet lasts only a few minutes though, apparently the time being somewhere closer to afternoon, everyone else rising and wandering into the mess hall as well, either to see the damage or get something eat themselves. jaewon doesn’t begrudge them that, won’t bar them from that, but anything else is too much.

true to form, casta walks up, grin on, hair ruffled out, the light of him too bright for jaewon’s mechanically engineered eyesight. “well hello there—”

“shut the fuck up.” jaewon’s voice is loud and clear, despite the wince it urges to pull on him, the look everyone else in the room wears. usually he is all gravity and shine, but right now he is charred, blackened ground, singed and exhausted, gold irises dark and half-lidded, furious. his headache is the size of a planet and his temper is as small as a singularity, neck muscles tensing, teeth bared and clenched in a growl. he doesn’t know what image he portrayed himself as during the night, but here in the normal universe, yang jaewon is still a murderer, still just as quick with a glare as he is with a pistol.

and speaking of pistols, he pulls his out from its holster at his side, tucked familiar in his grip, the weapon held up and aimed at the ceiling for now, his elbow resting on the table. “anyone says one goddamn word to me ever about anything, and i’ll put a bullet in you.”

“oh come on, jaewon—”

he cocks the gun and aims it straight at casta’s left eye, the center of him steady and deadly and threatening in an absolutely serious way. he might not shoot him in the brain, but he could still injure the idiot, somehow someway that all his medicine couldn’t recover him from. they’d have to drag him down to jongsuk, and hope the good doctor is sober enough to operate on him. “try me.” his eyes burn shadowy, already picturing casta’s blood, already coming up with how he’ll explain things to mina later, curt sentences probably, very little sympathy or sorrow. he’s not kidding and he’s not bluffing.

casta, to his credit, lifts his hands up and shuts his mouth, heading away from jaewon again, towards the cabinets. the captain’s eyes watch him only briefly when he walks away but not far enough to turn his head, knowing only pain would be granted to him if he does that. he’s not here for this shit, he’s not interested in making nice with anyone on board this ship today. if they value their kneecaps, they’ll adhere to his silence, doing well to forget everything that had happened, just as much as jaewon has.

he waits for a beat before relaxing his gunhand a bit, sinking down further into his chair, blinking and leveling out. he lets the cold bite of the barrel’s end lean against his temple, letting it ground him, reminding him nothing ever lasts forever.