#thechiyodan

The first months are spent recovering the looted alien tech that H.argrove sold on the black market to fund the genocide and repatriating it back to the C.horusian government, taking down artifact traffickers and helping troubled space colonies along the way however we can. It's a montage of good deeds and growing pains. Sam eventually responded to his given name without prodding. He gained a couple of pounds after years of maintaining himself but not caring. His composure thawed and emotion trickled into our conversations - caution, frustration, grief, and dry wit.

On his (our?) ship, I woke up (early or late? It's impossible to tell in space) to the smell of instant coffee, powdered eggs, and primer. Sam was dressed down in a compression shirt and standard-issue fatigue pants, his preferred casual wear- some things never change. A half-finished plate of eggs sat at the edge of the workbench next to a mug that had long since cooled.

"Sam?" His head turned a fraction towards the direction of his (mine? our?) bunk. I was partially hidden beneath an insulated blanket, determined to steal a few more moments of sleep against the cold interior lights of the cabin. "Did you get any sleep? Like, at all?"

"Enough," he wiped a brush on a paint-streaked shop rag and inspected the chest piece, now sporting sage green and enamel white accents instead of the dour gunmetal and matte forest shades.

Curiosity and hunger are a powerful combination. I stumbled across the chilly floor in stolen sweats and shirt to observe over his shoulder, "Whatcha makin'?"

"It," the words stop just short of his lips, jawline clenched to prevent sentiment from betraying the meticulously rehearsed reasoning he had mentally prepared in the quiet hours of what should have been dawn. He lifted the helmet his face to face him, expression unreadable as his pulse quickened at the uncanny familiarity of the cold, unyielding metal beneath his fingertips. "It - this - I felt like it needed to be done."

A hum of appreciation broke the tension as he finally took notice of the cluttered portion of the workspace previously taken by food and drink now lay conspicuously unoccupied. Frown lines replaced any trace of vulnerability as Sam turned, neglected spine cracking at the sudden movement, to confront the now absent breakfast thief. Bare feet padded behind him as a pleasantly warm weight settled across his back.

"Finally touching up your armor?" I briefly caught his steely eyes between sips of coffee as they flitted between mine and the helmet in his palms. "Good color choice." Sam released a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Suits you." For the first time in ages, he smiled, satisfied in his small, deeply personal act of self-determination. The choice of change - to change, for the better this time - made manifest.

He was far too late in registering the puff of warm air against the shell of his ear: "You gonna model it for me?"

I barely dodged the length of Sam's ponytail as his head whipped around, disapproval etched deep across the brow his primary defense against enabling any further scandalous comment.

He made a stiff swipe for the half-finished plate. "Give me my breakfast," the demand tamed by his inability to hold eye contact, armor, paints, and worries abandoned in the vain pursuit of room-temperature scrambled eggs.