Archive of Our Own

They're a few hours out from making the pickup off Karlor, heading into probably a week's travel to Ashton unless Nick can convince the nav computer to fold space in new and interesting ways. They already have a job lined up after that, which means that the Lovebug needs supplies. Kevin's still checking the list as they make the final approach to Karlor's Alpha Station, less a station than a loose collection of storage containers floating in vacuum, robot tugs scooting between them like dustmotes.

Nick eases the Lovebug into the space they're directed to, and kills the engines to leave them floating dead, another of the bits of flotsam that have collected here. One of the tugs pulls up off the bow and drifts there, waiting.

"Come on, Kevin," Nick prompts.

"Just a second." Kevin double-checks the last few items, adds a request for multivite concentrate if they have the fruity kind that Frankie will actually eat, and squirts the supply list from his tablet to Nick's console. He knows he can, technically, keep adding things to the list — as long as their credit's good — but Nick rolls his eyes so hard if Kevin does that that he'd rather avoid that if he can. Nick taps a few keys, confirming authorization and sending the list to the Station controller, and after a few seconds the tug glides into motion again, turning to fetch the first item.

Nick hits another button to depressurize the cargo hold and open the outer doors for the tug, and turns his chair around to look out the viewscreen. "Do you think they'll have—" he starts, but is cut off by an insistent beep from the console behind him.

He turns back and frowns — Kevin can tell from the line of his shoulders — then hits the button again. The beeping starts up again almost immediately, and Nick cancels the command, then leans a little further to poke the intercom button. "Joe, can you go check out the cargo hold? The manual override's malfunctioning or something, and I can't open the doors."

"Like right now?" Joe's voice almost gets lost under a metallic crash, like someone dropping a box of forks. "I'm kinda busy."

"We need to load the supplies somewhere."

"Can't one of you fix it?"

"I could go, but I'd end up calling for you anyway," Kevin says helpfully. "I'm just skipping a step."

"Fine fine fine." There's another crash. "Hey, is Bonus up there with you guys?"

"Haven't seen him, Joe," Nick says.

"You might want to look for him — he left a few minutes ago and I think he took a prybar with him. Okay, I'm going to the cargo bay but don't try to use corridor B for a while, okay?" Joe's end of the intercom goes dead, and Kevin pushes himself out of his chair.

"I'll go look for Frankie," Kevin offers. "He should be studying right now anyway."

"Thanks." Nick frowns at the console for a second more, then spins his chair around and stands up too. "I'll go organize the food stores so we have room for the new stuff."

Kevin's moseying down A Corridor, paying special attention to crawlspaces and anything that might suggest use of a prybar by a smallish brother, when Joe's voice comes over the intercom again. "Um, guys? Nick, Kevin? I think you might want to look at this."

There's a pause, then Nick's voice sounds a little louder. "Just fix it so we can get on with this, Joe."

"No, I really think you need to come down here."

Kevin short-circuits the inevitable argument by activating the nearest comm-box and saying, "I'll be right there."

*

"This" in the cargo bay isn't so much a thing as it is — a person.

A person who's wedged themselves — himself — in behind one of the stacks of boxes along the wall, right under the manual override. He looks like he's barely holding it together, glaring threats indiscriminately but Kevin doesn't think he'd be able to back them up.

"You just left him there?" he asks Joe.

"I went close, he snarled at me, no kidding," Joe says from a safe distance away. "I'm not getting any closer. He might have rabies."

Kevin glares at his brother, but he actually wouldn't rule that out. The guy behind the crates has a wild edge around his eyes, something reminiscent of the feral animals that lurk around the back tunnels of spaceports hoping for scraps. Still, there's no way he can stay here. They still need to open the cargo bay, which means they all need to get out of there really soon.

"Okay, you stay here a minute," he directs. "I'll be right back."

"What am I supposed to do?" Joe hollers as the inner door starts to close.

"Just watch him, sing to him, I don't care," Kevin calls back, and hangs a right, towards the tiny sick bay.

Joe takes him literally; when the cargo bay doors open again, the strains of a lullaby drift out into the corridor.

"I don't think he likes my singing," Joe says. "I think he wants to kill me."

"Has he said anything?" Kevin asks quietly.

Joe shakes his head.

"All right." Kevin crouches down in front of the narrow space the boy — man? It's hard to tell — has backed himself into. "It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you," he murmurs. "Just, we need to get out of here." He gets his hand on the guy's elbow and is unprepared for how violently he reacts, lurching upright and trying to back away, then, when that doesn't work, clawing at Kevin's arm and trying to shove past. Kevin manages to hold on long enough to slap the sedative patch in his other hand to the side of the guy's neck, and after that it's only a few seconds before the stranger stumbles, his movements losing their force. Kevin catches him before his head smacks into one of the crates.

"Can you get his legs?" he asks Joe.

"We're keeping him?" Joe asks, coming forward from his lurking spot. "Kevin, he's a stowaway."

"He needs medical attention anyway, and it's not like we can leave him here," Kevin declares. "We can figure out the whys and wherefores later. Get his feet."

"Fine," Joe grumbles. He helps Kevin balance the guy's weight and start to carry him towards the infirmary. "You're explaining to Nick, though."

They get the guy into the med bay and onto the narrow cot without banging his head on any corners, which Kevin is willing to count as a win. Kevin's not sure how long the sedative will be effective — not knowing the man's metabolism, or what else it might be interacting with — so he's trying to figure out what he needs to do first, what has to happen before the guy wakes up. As much as he wants something to call the man in his head, rifling his pockets will have to wait — or hey, maybe he'll tell them himself when he wakes up, stranger things have happened. First, though, he wants a blood sample, so he can at least answer one set of questions.

He pushes up the man's long, loose sleeve to get at the vein inside his elbow, and freezes, needle pressed against soft skin but not yet breaking the surface.

"Kevin?" Joe's still on the other side of the cot, puzzled; he doesn't know what he's looking at.

Kevin shakes himself. "Sorry, I just remembered," he lies. "I hadn't found Frankie before you called us. Can you go look for him, make sure he's not building killer robots?"

Joe rubs his chin. "I'm not sure killer robots are really his style," he muses. "Stealth ninja drones, maybe, but — right, sorry. Can I actually go back to doing my job some day in here?" But the protest floats behind him as he's already leaving the med bay. The door shuts behind him.

Kevin looks down and takes a deep breath. He swabs the inside of the man's elbow again, then slides the needle into the vein with steady hands. He takes the sample to the analyzer — it's basic, but it can check for most pathogens and foreign chemicals — and digs a bag of saline solution out of the bottom drawer. He's lucky it's still in date — they don't need this sort of setup often, for which Kevin is very grateful.

First, though. The sheets won't harbor infection, but the man's clothes are filthy and so is he. And if the rest of him looks like his arms — well, Kevin doesn't want to know, but he needs to.

Pulling the loose shirt off over the man's head is going to be too tricky; Kevin gets a pair of surgical shears and cuts it open down the front, and then down the sleeves, so it's just lying open. He can see uneven patches of skin, but it's all indistinct under the layer of grime the man's accumulated — he looks more like he was hiding under crates than behind them. He half-fills a basin with warm water, adds antiseptic cleanser and uses a piece of sterile gauze to swab at the man's skin. A change of water and kind of a lot of gauze later, he can stand back and see what he's uncovered. The man's arms —

There are scars, ring on ring of them overlaid on each other, climbing several inches past his wrists. They must have been treated — he wouldn't be able to use his hands, else — but — there are so many of them. Kevin stretches the man's arm out straight, turning it this way and that under the lights. Now that he's looking he can see more marks — a thin line curving down around the biceps, some short, straight lines fading out at the ends that might have been rope burns, once. The other arm is much the same.

His chest is relatively unmarked. Relatively. There are some of the same old friction burns stretching across the skin, some hair-thin lines of scars, some puckered, white, unevenly circular marks that puzzle Kevin until he figures out they must be burn marks. All of the damage here is old, though, apart from some bruises over his ribs that look only a couple of days old. They look nasty, but the scanner says the man's ribs aren't cracked and there's no internal bleeding.

The analyzer beeps its completion before Kevin can quite get up the courage to move any more of the man's clothing, see what was done to the rest of him. He backs up until he can look at the screen without taking too much of his attention off the cot.

No blood-borne diseases, good; that fits with Kevin's guess of some kind of medical treatment having been available. Slight malnutrition that they can fix easily enough with good meals and some of Frankie's multivites; the dehydration Kevin had already guessed at. Then non-native chemical compounds, and Kevin can feel his eyes widening at the list. There are a lot of them, and even once he picks out the components of the sedative he slapped on the man, the list is still a lot longer than he's comfortable with. He doesn't even recognize what half of them are.

He looks over at the man, at the sedative patch still on the side of his neck, and bites his lip. He isn't keen on adding to this brew when he doesn't know what it is, but — it might be better if the guy stayed out of it for a while yet.

The comm next to him hums into life. "Attention all points," Joe's voice comes out. "Bonus Jonas has been located. Threat is contained. Repeat, threat is contained." Behind him, Kevin can hear the faint edge of Frankie's, "Aw, you're no fun!"

He reaches sideways to press the button without looking up from the list of drugs still scrolling on his tablet. "Thanks, Joe," he says, mind still busy.

He's going to have to look these up. Not right now, though — he needs to finish what he started. He dumps the dirty water into the recycler drain and refills the basin, then eyes the man's loose drawstring pants. Before he can over-think it, he picks up the shears again, snips through the drawstring next to the yanked-tight knot, and repeats what he did with the shirt, cutting down each leg so the pants are reduced to flaps of fabric.

Okay, maybe he should have expected the guy wouldn't be wearing underwear.

He fights down a blush and comes back with the basin of water. He keeps his touch as impersonal as he can; this is nothing like doing first-aid on his brothers, nothing at all like practicing on the dummies during training. He focuses on what's in front of him and tries not to think too much, just catalogue what he sees.

The man's feet aren't hurt, which is some blessing. They're dirty enough that he has to change the water again before he goes any further, but there's nothing under the dirt but calluses. There are marks around his ankles, matching his wrists though less extensive. Like the wrists, there's signs of them having been treated, and everything seems to be healing. A few marks on the muscles of his calves, more on his thighs — some wider and curving around, some thin, a couple of places where healing skin must have pulled apart and left rougher patches. More of the burn marks. The burns are concentrated on the man's thighs and around his groin; Kevin can't help a wince, and he tries to be as gentle as he can, even if the man is still out of it.

The next piece of gauze comes back with flakes of old, dried blood on it, and Kevin had really really hoped he wasn't going to see that. He backs away and turns to face the wall for just a second, leaning his head forward against it. He'd really like this to stop getting worse. He very firmly does not think about how it could get worse, because some things he just doesn't want to know. He takes a deep breath, changes out the water again and gets more gauze, and goes back to the cot.

Rolling the man over while getting the pieces of his clothes out from under him is tricky, but Kevin manages it somehow. Another pair of hands would make it easier, but he's not calling Joe back in — for the sake of everyone involved, including Kevin. He'll just make do.

The man's back has more scars: thick ones, thin ones, some still pink, layer on layer of damage. Some spots are still oozing plasma and blood; the man's shirt is just so filthy that Kevin didn't see it before. When it's clean, it looks worse; several of those slices — and Kevin's not sure they're actually cuts, anymore — look angry and infected. Not so much that he's really worried yet, but they have to hurt. He cleans them out, washes down the man's whole back, and seals the shallow wounds. The ones that were infected, he leaves; he doesn't want to seal contamination in where he can't see it.

He works his way down to the open cut on the man's left hip, cleans it, seals it, then mutters an apology — even if the man can't hear it, he feels he should — and pulls his buttocks apart to see what the damage is there.

There isn't any fresh blood. Something in Kevin's chest loosens when he sees that. Under the dried blood, there are a few tears but they're healing. There's scarring, but it's older. No… foreign objects that Kevin can feel with a careful finger.

"Really sorry about that," he says quietly. "I'm done now." He dumps the last basin of cloudy water, strips off his gloves, and thinks for a second. If he was this guy, he wouldn't want to wake up naked in a strange place; he thinks a pair of sleep pants might have stayed in here after the thing with Joe and the exhaust fan, months ago. He locates them in the bottom of a cupboard, and manages to pull them more or less on. He leaves the stowaway on his stomach, fixes more gauze loosely over the open sores on his back, then settles one of the light but warm blankets over the man, tucking it in at the bottom of the cot. He sets up the saline drip, finally, and adds a T-cell booster to it for good measure. He cleans up the trash and scrubs his hands with the cleaner solution, takes a final look around to make sure he's done everything, then grabs his tablet and all but bolts for the door. He really, really needs some fresh air.

*

Two fast laps around all the common areas and living quarters and Kevin's feeling better, the dry chill of the air helping to settle his nerves — and his stomach. He's still not ready to go back to the medbay, though, so he settles on a seating bag in the common area and calls up the results of the blood analysis on his tablet. It's still way too long and way too incomprehensible.

He picks the first compound he doesn't recognize and queries the system. It takes a few seconds — thirty or more — for an answer to come up, and he wishes they had a better connection to the Net. It's only a few seconds' difference though, and the information comes up on his screen soon enough.

The compound is most commonly found in the bloodstream as a breakdown product of something else.

All right then. Kevin puts in the next compound, and gets the same result. Then the next. The same few names keep coming up, what these could be products of, and finally he queries them all at once to clinch the deal. It's another compound he doesn't recognize, even longer and more complex (of course) than anything it breaks down to. He searches for that one, and finds out it's a tranquilizer of sorts, inducing tractability and a feeling of peace without causing drowsiness. Also used as a hypnotic. Of course it isn't a painkiller; that would be too easy. Physical dependency resulting from long-term use.

This is how the situation gets even worse. Kevin really, really didn't need to know. He rubs his free hand over his face and makes a sound that he'd never admit was a whimper, then goes back to the data. Physical dependency…. Half life of about 28 hours…. That's something. Though it means — oh yes, withdrawal. This is going to be a special kind of fun.

The other chemical that keeps coming up is in much smaller amounts. He queries it anyway, because it's not like he knows what the effective dose is for something he can't even recognize. The first thing his eyes flick to is "only habit-forming with prolonged use" — he really hopes it wasn't, because one withdrawal is going to be more than enough for their stranger to cope with, considering the shape he's in. From the lack of further breakdown products, though, it might have only been one or a few doses. Kevin looks back up for a description; once he's cut through the stuffy scientific words, it sounds like something to boost stamina, keep muscles going long after they would have refused to keep working, otherwise. He can see how that would fit with the rest of what he's learned, and he wishes he couldn't put all the information together in several unpleasant ways. There it is, though.

It looks like at least one other drug was administered, but it wasn't present in enough concentration to even identify with certainty. Kevin's not complaining; two complicated pharmaceuticals are more than enough to deal with, thanks. He scrolls through the rest of the information and saves it to his section of the ship's network, then puts the tablet down. This is nothing like what he expected to be dealing with; he only got the basic medic training because their mom urged him to and he thought it might come in handy. He is way, way over his head — and he has a feeling that whoever the guy in the medbay is, he doesn't have options like going to a hospital.

He shoves himself out of the bag and goes looking for Nick. He needs to break the news of their passenger, and he needs to make it clear that the guy is staying until there's a better option for him. Kevin might not even know his name, and he might have trouble looking him in the face once he wakes up, but he's not sending him back to whoever hurt him like that.

*

"We don't know anything about him!"

Kevin can hear Nick from at least ten feet shy of the doorway to the cargo bay. Metal corridor grating carries indignation really well, and he slows down — just a little, he tells himself. He's going there anyway, it's not really eavesdropping.

"I know, Nicky." Joe's voice is as easy as ever, but it echoes off the walls all right anyway. Kevin's going to have to be more careful about what conversations he has near open doors. "But Kevin was right, he needs help."

"So we're what, a refugee service now? Look pathetic, get a free ride?"

"Nick—"

"Don't Nick me, Joe." The fight has dropped out of Nick's voice and he just sounds tired.

Kevin rounds the edge of the doorway. "Hey, guys."

It looks like they meant to be inventorying the crates, but really they're arguing in a narrow space between them. Joe's standing with his arms folded; Nick's got his hands on his hips, tablet forgotten in one hand. Their heads snap around when they hear Kevin.

Joe says hey back, but Nick just looks at him. "We have a stowaway in the medbay, I hear."

Kevin winces. Yeah, he'd hoped to break the news first. Oh, well. Joe looks a little guilty, at least.

"Do we know who he is?"

"He hasn't woken up yet, really, and he didn't have any papers on him," Kevin says.

"So that's a no," Nick says. "He could be anyone — he could be a criminal — and you brought him onto the ship. Without consulting us. With Frankie here — Kevin, what were you thinking?"

Kevin glances over at Joe, who of course chooses now to keep his mouth shut. "He needed help," he tells Nick. "And we didn't have many options. Even if he is a stowaway, he's still unconscious, and he's sick and hurt. I'm amazed he was able to hit the override button in the cargo bay."

Nick stops cold in his rant. "He was in there?"

"That was the malfunction," Joe says.

"Oh." Nick stands there for a minute, then pushes past Kevin on his way to the door. "Excuse me," he mutters, but Kevin thinks it's engrained habit more than Nick actually knowing what he's doing. He exchanges a look with Joe, and they both follow Nick.

It isn't far — they catch up with him at the med bay, where he's standing by the doorway, curled around the edge of the frame like he's afraid to go in.

"I almost killed him, didn't I?" he says softly, looking at the blanket-covered lump on the cot. "Just by accident."

"I thought you didn't want him on the ship?" Kevin says pointedly.

"Yeah, but not —" Nick shakes his head. "Not that."

"Hey, hey, you had no way of knowing he was there," Joe soothes, stepping forward and putting a hand on Nick's back.

Nick shakes his head. "I should have checked. I should have — Joe, what if it had been Frankie messing around in there?"

Kevin can tell from the way Joe's face goes almost as white as Nick's that he hadn't thought of that before, either. He swallows hard. "That's why the panic button is in there."

"But what if he hadn't been able to get to it? What if —" Nick gestures into the med bay, out to the ship in general. Yeah, Frankie's going to be getting a lecture on staying safe and out of the cargo bay, Kevin can tell.

He'll deliver it himself if he has to. If Frankie had been… Kevin shakes his head sharply to chase off the rest of that thought, and steps forward to join Joe behind Nick. "It all turned out all right, Nick. Everyone's safe, and Joe's going to make sure the override works and is low enough for anyone to reach, right Joe?" Joe nods emphatically. "See?"

Nick rubs at his face with the hand not holding the tablet. "All right. Just—" he shudders and shakes his head much like Kevin just did. "Did he have a chip, even?"

"Not that I found." Nick starts to frown again, and Kevin hastens to add, "You know a lot of people don't have them, especially out here. It doesn't prove anything either way." Not to mention that even if the man had one originally, the damage done to his wrists could easily have rendered a subcutaneous chip nonfunctional.

Nick looks at the man in the bed again for a long moment. "All right," he says. "But when he wakes up — we need to know who he is, Kevin, and if he's dangerous — he can't stay here."

"I'm not going to endanger the rest of you, Nick," Kevin says. "But if he's running from someone — we are not handing him back over." Nick takes a breath like he's going to argue. "No, Nick. I'm not budging on this. I don't care if he's a criminal, no one should be treated like that."

"Kev?" Joe asks, gently.

Kevin just shakes his head, not looking away from Nick. Nick must see something in his face, because after a long moment, he gives in and nods. "Okay. I'll trust you." On this, he doesn't say, and You'd better be right. "I'm going to go finish checking the delivery. Joe, you coming?"

"Sure thing, boss." Joe pushes off the wall and turns to follow Nick, then doubles back. "You okay here, Kevin?"

"I think I've got it covered, thanks."

"Nick's just worried, you know that."

Kevin stops fidgeting at the counter and turns around so he can make a face at Joe. "I've met him before a couple of times, yeah."

"Okay, I know." Joe looks at their stowaway and folds his arms again. "I wonder where he came from."

Kevin follows his gaze. Sedated, the man's face looks almost relaxed, and the blanket covers the damage Kevin knows is there. He could just be asleep. "I don't think it was anywhere good."

"Joe!" Nick's yell echoes down the corridor.

"Coming!" Joe yells back, then winces. "Oops, sorry. Um, I'd better go. Yell if you need us?"

"Don't worry, Joe. Go before Nick decides to let you do the whole thing on your own."

"Right." Joe hesitates one more second, then ducks out. Kevin can hear him calling, "Hold your horses, Nick," as he jogs away down the corridor. Then Kevin slides the door shut and cuts off the sound from outside. He turns back to — his patient, now, he supposes. He may be a little bit out of his depth here. He peels the sedative patch off. Hopefully the most painful part is over, and he'd rather not be adding to that brew in his bloodstream any longer than necessary. Besides, it looks like they won't get to know anything about him unless he's conscious.

"I guess we just wait until you wake up, then," he says to no one in particular, and pulls out the stool so he can see the man's face. He hopes it's not a long wait.

***

Mike swims up from a dark place. The room smells white, sounds cold. They caught him, fuck, they came after him and they caught him and they took him back. He can't focus enough to think, just knows he has to get away. He scrambles himself sideways, falls off of something onto the floor and that's cold and white too, cold like the medical suite where he could never, ever get warm. He can't find the door; maybe there is no door, they stuck him in here to rot, and oh, it's going to hurt, it's going to hurt even more, but then maybe it'll be over. He can find a corner, and he jams himself into it, scrabbles around but there's nothing he can pick up to defend himself or — he can't go through that again, he can't take it.

There is a door. He hears it swish open and he makes himself as small and silent as possible. He can't stop shaking though, tiny tremors that shake up the surface he's wedged against and set something to rattling.

Noises. A voice. Of course they'd see he's gone, they'll find him, stupid to think. Someone comes close, crouches down in front of him. Mike sees dark hair, thinks, Ericks, that bastard, come to tell him he should be grateful, and he lunges forward. He wants — he wants something to connect with, something to tear at, but his legs give out and he falls flat on the floor. He thinks he feels his cheek hit the slick white tile, but he can't be sure.

White. Red on white. His arm hurts.

He surfaces from the black again who knows how long later, but this time he stays still. He's lying on his stomach again; his arm hurts on top of everything else, but that's the only new part. Maybe he can work with this. Ericks said he was adaptable.

There's noise again, background drone of a ship's engines — which, what? — and the same voice as before burbling softly in the background. He waits with his eyes shut so he doesn't have to see the white, and words start to fall out.

"… And it's not not wanting to, but there just isn't room. This is a pretty small hauler, you know? But then Joe came up with the idea of using the hallway, and it works pretty well, except for when you try to get around someone and you end up slamming into the wall. So it's not really basketball, I guess, but it's fun, and it gives us something to do, which was kind of the point."

It doesn't sound like Ericks. Mike lets his eyes open the barest possible amount, but they get gummed up halfway, and he has to blink quickly to free them.

"If we put another basket down by the galley, we could play a sort of three-cornered — hey there." The dark-haired person — not Ericks, Mike can see that now, just a kid with a round face and curly, dark hair who he's never seen before — smiles like he's glad to see Mike or something. Like Mike's a dog maybe, or a kid. Fuck, no, not a kid. He shoves that thought away.

"Let's try this again, huh?" Not-Ericks says. "How are you feeling?"

Mike just stares back at him. He's still breathing; he's not sure whether that's a plus or a minus in the big scheme. It probably depends on what comes next, which he doesn't know either. He shifts his shoulders in what could be a shrug, if you wanted to see it that way, and something pulls at his arm.

"Careful," Not-Ericks says. "You pulled your IV out before, so you've got a bandage on that arm." He's way too cheerful for someone in a hospital, and way too cheerful for someone whose job is patching people back up. Mike's not sure if that means the kid hasn't had the shine knocked off him yet, or if he's just a psychopath. Ericks told Mike he should be grateful, but he never tried to make him be happy. Fuck, maybe there's a reward out for him, and this guy's happy because he gets to collect it. Is Mike worth putting a reward out on? He'd been counting on being less trouble gone than needing disposal.

"I'm Kevin, by the way," Not-Ericks continues. He reaches over to one side — slowly — and comes back with a beaker. "Do you think you could drink some of this? You need to stay hydrated."

Mike eyes the cup suspiciously. The liquid's clear and colorless, but that doesn't really prove anything at all.

Kevin seems to pick up on his distrust. "It's just water, I promise. Here." He holds it so the straw is within Mike's reach.

Mike considers it for a second, but then again, if the guy wanted to drug him, it's not like Mike could stop him anyway. Besides, depending on how this goes, being drugged could be a good thing. He leans his head over enough to get the end of the straw in his mouth, and sucks in a mouthful. It just tastes like water — again, that's no proof of anything, but it tastes good. He swallows a few mouthfuls, then leans back, letting the straw go.

Not-Ericks — Kevin — watches him for a few seconds. "So is there something I can call you other than 'the guy from the cargo bay'? It's not really a convenient name."

Mike — really doesn't want to give them anything, not until he's more certain this isn't going to end with him being dumped back into that pit. He leans forward again, careful, watching the whole time, but Kevin doesn't move the beaker away, doesn't try to taunt him, just holds it steady and lets him take another drink.

"It doesn't have to be your name," Kevin says, watching Mike right back. "Just something we can call you."

Mike closes his eyes to shut out the white and the walls and the kid's hopeful expression. Maybe having a name, being more a person, would help. He'd like to be a person again. He makes a noise and has to stop to clear his throat. He sounds like he's been chewing razorblades. "Card," he tries again, and this time it comes out something like a word. "Can call me Card."

"Card, thanks." Mike hears a soft click, and his eyes start open. "Sorry, just putting the cup down. Did you want more?"

Mike shakes his head and closes his eyes again. He doesn't know what he wants.

"So is there… somewhere you're trying to get to? Where's home?"

There are all sorts of ways Mike could answer that question, and he's not sure if any of them are true. He doesn't respond, doesn't even shake his head this time. He might get punished for not answering, but he can't even make something up right now.

There's a pause, then a sigh. "Okay, you don't want to talk. So like I was saying, I think it could be neat with three baskets, but we already had that time Joe didn't know we were playing and kind of got clobbered when he came around the corner…"

The kid's voice fades back into noise; Mike just can't concentrate any more. He lets it pour through his ears. The dark space behind his eyelids fades over into bland lightness, and he lets himself float, pour away with the words.

***

When it gets close to dinnertime, Kevin weighs his options. Nick and Joe will probably have been busy all afternoon with cargo and navigation and fixing whatever it was Joe was doing. Frankie can sort of put food together, but when he gets a creative streak, he's the only one who likes the results. Kevin studies Card's face, slack again in sleep or unconsciousness, and makes up his mind. If he wakes up again, Kevin hopes it's the disoriented version, not the violent one who ripped his IV out, but it'll happen or not whether Kevin's there or in the galley. He sets up the monitor so he'll know if Card wakes up, double-checks that everything is locked down, and goes to sort out dinner.

"Are Joe and Nick on their way?" he asks Frankie, when he wanders in a few minutes after Kevin. Frankie has a teenager's unerring instinct for food. "Wash your hands," he adds, before Frankie can stick his fingers into the plates for a sample.

Frankie rolls his eyes and sighs longsufferingly, but goes to the cleaning area and starts rubbing gel between his palms. "It's clean dirt," he says.

"I don't go licking engine parts, and I don't want 'em in the food, either," Kevin tells him. "Joe and Nick?"

"They were in the navdeck," Frankie says, scraping under a thumbnail. "Nick looked sad."

"Can you go get them?" Kevin's not normally inclined to bother Nick when he's working through something, but if he doesn't eat he's just going to get worse, and Joe won't remember to eat either, if he has Nick to worry about.

It's only after Frankie clatters off up the steep stairs that Kevin thinks to wonder, if Joe and Nick are both in the navdeck, what Frankie's been doing with himself. Well, they'll find out when it either works better or blows up in their faces, one or the other.

All three of his brothers come back only a few minutes later, looking hungry, pensive, and concerned, in ascending order of age and entry. Frankie's barely cleared the doorway before he's in his seat, looking expectant, but he waits until Joe's snagged the last dish and they're all sitting. Then he chances a reach for the nearest dish, only to have Joe smack the back of his hand. "Wait."

Frankie grumbles, but he bows his head with the rest of them as Nick says a brief grace. Kevin makes sure to pass him the vegetable mash first. Frankie makes a face, but takes a serving and passes it to Nick next along.

Dinner's filled out with chatter about the ship, the route to Ashton and if there's anything interesting there — nothing special. "Where've you been, anyway?" Kevin asks Frankie, when Nick and Joe have exhausted the topic of packing the second cargo bay more effectively.

Frankie shrugs. "Playing with the nanowelder. Kidding!" he adds when all three of them choke. "Grief. I was putting that filter back together."

"Is it fixed yet?" Joe asks.

"Um, it might be," Frankie says. "There's one piece I keep having left over. Sort of an S-shaped tube thing?"

Joe puts his hand over his eyes. "Okay, no one turn on the recycler until we get that sorted out, please."

"What happens if we try?"

Joe peers at Frankie from between his fingers. "I find you and kill you as a warning to others. Then I'll make you fix the whole thing."

Frankie grins and sticks his tongue out, then turns his attention on Kevin. "What were you doing in the medbay all afternoon, anyway?"

Kevin should have been expecting it, but he always forgets Frankie's talent for being everywhere at once, and his amazing capacity for stealth when he genuinely doesn't want to be noticed. He flicks his eyes to Joe and Nick, and figures, well, they're all in this one way or another.

"There was someone hiding in the cargo bay when we stopped at the supply point," he says carefully. "He's sick, so I was treating him."

Frankie's eyes go wide. "Like a stowaway? Is he a fugitive?"

"Of course not." Kevin crosses his fingers and hopes it's the truth. "We'll find out more when he wakes up."

"Can I ask him?"

"Leave him alone," Kevin tells him. "He needs to get better, Frankie — don't go bothering him. I mean it."

Frankie sighs, but says, "Fine. Boring."

"You need to go do your homework," Kevin reminds him. "Whatever you were doing that got grease all over you, it wasn't calculus."

"Ugh, fine." Frankie rolls his eyes, but he puts his plate and beaker in the cleaner and shuffles out of the gallery. One of the conditions of him coming along with them this trip out — on top of making sure he eats right — was making sure he kept up with schoolwork. He's probably better educated — or at least more consistently — than Kevin or Joe at this point, but Kevin's not about to tell him that.

Nick waits until the sound of Frankie's footsteps has faded to ask, "Have you found out any more about our stowaway?"

Kevin puts his own dishes in the cleaner to buy himself some time, because — wow, so much. He sits back down, leans back against the wall, and says, "His name's Card. Or — he said we can call him Card."

Nick's eyes narrow. "He wouldn't give you his name?"

"He might have good reason not to," Joe puts in.

Nick doesn't look convinced. "Reason not to tell us who he is? I can't think of any good ones."

Joe exchanges looks with Kevin across the table. "He didn't look like he was in good shape when we found him. There could be someone he's trying to get away from."

Nick narrows his eyes, but he lets it go. "That's all? Did he say where he's from?"

Kevin shakes his head. "He was barely awake long enough to give me a name." He bites his lip. "There's more."

Neither of them looks like they really want to know, but Nick is the one who says, "What."

"I think he's detoxing from several drugs." There really isn't any good way to say it. He takes another breath to explain, but before he can get another word out, both his brothers are half-shouting across him.

"You left him in the medbay alone?"

"He can't stay, Kevin, he can't!"

"Whoa!" Kevin holds up his hands, and when that doesn't quiet them, he just speaks across them. "All the cabinets in the medbay are locked; he's not going to get at anything in there, even if he could stand up on his own, which I really don't think he can. Second," and he lets his voice drop because Joe has stopped panicking, "the drugs were — from what I found about them, they're not anything you'd take for fun, I don't think. I think they were — given to him, not taken by him." He meets Joe's eyes, and yeah, Joe at least picks up the distinction. "I don't think it changes that he needs our help."

Joe huffs out a deep breath and slouches in his seat. "Still, Kevin. Even if he's not a junkie by choice, it doesn't mean it's okay. He could be dangerous — he's going to be unpredictable if nothing else."

"I know, Joe." Kevin rubs at his face. "The first time he woke up, he — he was trying to dig through the wall, he wanted to get away so bad. I'm pretty sure he was more scared than anything else."

"Kevin." Nick's voice is a warning.

Kevin looks back at him. "I know. I know, okay? But he needs help. I'm willing to take a chance on him, and I swear I will not let him hurt any of you."

"But what about you?"

"I'll be fine." Kevin hopes he sounds more certain than he feels. He's pretty sure, though, that Card isn't a physical threat; sure enough to risk himself, though not the others.

"Just because he needs help doesn't mean we have to give it." Kevin just looks at him, and Nick drops his head into his hands with a sigh. "All right, fine. But it doesn't mean we have to keep giving it to him indefinitely. We can't just pick up strays everywhere."

"He was put in our way for a reason," Kevin argues. "Maybe we're not the only people who could help him, but we're the ones who found him. Should we turn him away just because he's a stranger?"

"Kevin…" Nick trails off despairingly. Kevin just waits; he knows he's right, and he knows Nick knows it too. He just has to wait it out. Finally Nick nods. "Fine, we'll drop him off somewhere along the way once he's better."

"Thank you." Kevin can totally be gracious in victory; it's not like he wants to fight with Nick, just that, well. They disagree sometimes. He checks the time. "I should be getting back to the medbay. I don't want to leave him alone for too long."

"We're going to be covering the night shift for a few days, huh?" Joe asks.

"Sorry." Kevin looks apologetic, but — well, he can't be in two places at once, and he's pretty sure he knows where he's more needed right now.

"It's okay. Better than this guy going into seizures or whatever, right?" Nick drops his head to the table with a thunk and Joe looks alarmed. "I was just kidding, Nick! —He's not going to have seizures, right, Kevin?"

"Course not," Kevin says with a lot more certainty than he feels. He stands up. "You know where I'll be."

He starts out of the galley, but Nick snags his arm on the way.

"I trust you, Kevin," he says. He sounds so much like their dad when he tells one of them to examine their consciences; Kevin almost staggers under the weight of everything that's not being said. Because Nick may be the captain right now, but Kevin's the oldest, and he's — it's his place to look after the rest of them.

He just says, "Thanks," because they know everything he's saying with that, too.

"Yup." Joe's still patting Nick's shoulder. Kevin thinks he hears Nick say, "Why do I let you talk me into these things?" as he leaves, but he's not even going to suggest an answer to that.

*

The next few days are hellish, and Kevin only has to watch. Card doesn't try to hide behind equipment trolleys again, mostly seems to know where he is or at least where he isn't, but in the meantime he has fever and shakes and cramps that leave him vomiting up all the water Kevin manages to get into him, forcing Kevin to put an IV line back into the other arm just to keep him from drying out into a husk. Card has times when he yells at people who aren't there — yells at them for not being there, which is the weird part — and times when he just curls into a ball and shakes, though Kevin knows he's awake.

Kevin is so not trained for this. He can do first aid, and longer-term care for simple things, and figure out the painkiller dosage for a headache. He's a medic, not a doctor, definitely not a care worker, and he is so far out of his depth he'd throw up his hands if there was anyone else who could be doing this.

Finally Card wakes up wary but calm, clear-eyed, and Kevin feels like he can breathe again.

*

Mike wakes up in dim light. The place smells like sour antiseptic, and the wall he's looking at is really boring. He must make a noise, because a kid who looks sort of familiar appears suddenly, bending down into Mike's line of sight.

"Hey. Good to see you awake."

Mike tries to say something, but his mouth feels like someone used it for scrubbing and his throat is so dry it sticks to itself.

"Hang on. I'll get you some water."

The kid holds up a beaker with a straw, and Mike tries to take it. He can't lift his arm, though — it's tied down to the bedframe. Both arms. He tugs at the restraints once, again, and they don't come free. He jerks again, knowing nothing's going to give but unable to stop himself from trying.

The kid's hand comes down over his arm, holding him down, but warm and alive, not like the straps. "It's okay. It's okay, just breathe." It sounds like he's been saying that for a while. "Here you go." The straps loosen and fall away, but the hand stays. "C'mon, Card, just breathe. Easy, there you go."

Mike breathes, and breathes again, and makes his hands unclench. When he relaxes, the kid lets go of his arm and comes back with the water.

"Want to try that again?"

Mike takes the beaker and drinks — which feels really weird, lying on his stomach. When he's done, he hands it back and croaks out, "Thanks."

"Sorry about the straps," the kid says. He even sounds sincere about it. "You were thrashing around, and I didn't want you to pull the IV out again."

IV? Mike flexes the fingers of his other hand, and yeah, he can feel the weird drag of a taped-down needle now. He tries to remember the last few days, and comes up blank. What the fuck?

The kid must be watching his face, because he says, "You've been in and out of it for a while. I don't know if you remember…?" Mike shakes his head as best he can, and the kid continues, "Yeah, I didn't think so. Okay, I'm Kevin, and you said I could call you Card?"

That sounds kind of familiar; Mike nods against the thin pillow as best he can.

"You're on our ship; we found you hiding in the cargo bay. I've been treating you for injuries, but you had several drugs in your system which you've been going through withdrawal from, which is why you feel — actually, how do you feel?"

"Like a drone hit me," Mike says hoarsely. He's sure this cot isn't as comfortable as it feels right now, for instance.

"I'm not surprised." Kevin looks at him with eyes that are sharper than his round face would suggest. "Were any of the drugs prescribed?"

Mike can't stop the harsh bark that sounds nothing like a laugh. He leans over like there's something interesting on the floor he's looking at. "Trying to ask if I'm a junkie?"

There's a click of swallowing, then a level, "Pretty much."

Mike will give the kid points for having guts, anyway. Right after he punches the wall for the kid being too damn observant. "Not the way you're worried about."

"You weren't taking them by choice."

Mike closes his eyes. He almost hates admitting to it; he knows how looks can lie, but with a face like that, this kid should still believe the Comet Fairy comes at night to sprinkle stardust in his eyes and give him sweet dreams. "They wanted us docile."

He can feel Kevin's hand hovering over his shoulder. When he twists his head around to look, the kid is not quite touching the mess of scars Mike has only glimpsed. Ericks was paid to keep them healthy; pristine was nothing anyone was interested in.

"You don't need to explain; it's okay."

Mike feels a twisting jolt in his guts. He's torn between relief that he doesn't have to explain, doesn't have to give anything shape with words, and sickness that he doesn't have to explain because Kevin already knows what trash he is. And okay, yeah, maybe it was obvious that someone cleaned him up and put him back together and tucked him in, but he didn't want that someone to be a real person.

Kevin clears his throat, and there's a feeling of more space at the side of the cot, like he's stepped back. "So, hey. Since you're awake, I'm just going to take the IV out, okay?" Mike can hear him moving around the head of the cot. There's the tug of tape coming off his skin, then the weird slide of a needle pulling free. "Just a second — there." There's some noise off to the side, a clatter, and Kevin comes back around to Mike's line of sight. "Do you think you can sit up?"

"Maybe." Mike's just as glad of the change in subject. He shifts onto his back, ignoring Kevin's "Careful!" and tries for vertical. He makes it most of the way, and by then, Kevin's there to steady him when he wobbles. Just doing that much leaves him feeling winded, and he makes a face. "Man, what's wrong with me?"

"It's been a tough few days," Kevin tells him. "Cut yourself some slack." Mike tries to sort out a way to tell him that a tough few days is no fucking sort of excuse for falling apart, but before he can frame the words, Kevin's holding up a vial.

"Before you go anywhere, I'd like another blood sample."

Mike makes a face — he must be full of holes at this point — but he holds his arm out anyway. It barely stings, and Kevin puts the sample into some sort of machine before turning back around.

"How does a shower sound?"

"Fantastic." No one on a ship worries too much about being daisy-fresh, but Mike feels like he's been marinating in his own skin for days. He's pretty sure the stink under the antiseptic smell is him. Ew.

"This one's only sonics, but it's better than nothing, right?" Kevin smiles at him hopefully. "Can you stand up?"

Mike swings his legs over the side of the cot and slides off. He almost keeps sliding right onto the floor, but after a few tries they get some sort of equilibrium and Mike stays on his feet as Kevin shuffles them over to a tiny fresher attached to the medbay.

"I'm going to find you some clothes. Um, there's a seat in there; please don't try to walk without holding on to something?"

"Sure." Mike sways, but stays standing long enough to shed the sleep pants he's been wearing. He hopes Kevin can find some other clothes, because those things need to be burned. He flops down on the seat and tips his head back against the wall. Showers are the best thing ever.

*

Kevin closes the door on Card and goes to hunt through the clothing bins in the storeroom. One of his own loose shirts will do, but Card is taller than he is — Kevin thinks, at least, given that he hasn't exactly been able to stand up straight — so pants require further searching. Kevin swipes an old pair of Nick's, and will pretend it's a mistake if Nick objects. Shorts and a pair of ship-slippers complete the set. He hustles back to the infirmary before Card tries anything stupid like standing up, and knocks on the fresher door before cracking the door open and putting the bundle of clothing on the shelf just inside.

"Here, it's nothing special but it's clean, anyway. It might even fit."

"Thanks."

Kevin putters around the medbay for a few minutes, straightening things up, putting away bits and pieces that have gotten out of place while he was busy and didn't want to look away from Card for more than a minute or so, in case he went into another of those terrifying fits. While he's keeping himself busy, the analyzer beeps at him, and he goes over to check the results.

The fresher door slides open, and Card says, "Uh, I can stand up but I don't think I want to let go of the wall."

Kevin looks over; he's standing in the doorway, and while he's not staggering like he was when he first tried standing, he doesn't look wholly steady either. His hold on the door frame is less of a death-grip, though, which Kevin takes as a good sign. "It's okay, the wall likes it," he says. "Hang on." He puts the tablet down and goes to help Card back to sit on the edge of the cot.

"What's up, Doc?" Card asks, nodding towards the tablet.

Kevin scrolls through the results again for no particular reason. "It looks like all of the drugs are out of your system," he says. "Congratulations, you're clean."

Card coughs. "Thought that junk getting out of my system was what started this whole thing," he says. "You saying I could have just had beeping noises instead?"

"Sorry, no magic bullet," Kevin says, and winces an instant later at that particular choice of words. But when he looks over, Card's just smiling a little wryly, like he doesn't remember the night he spent begging Kevin or someone to just kill him already. Kevin hopes he doesn't, anyway. "I'd like to take another look at your back," he says, instead of blurting out an equally awkward apology. "You want to do that now, or get some food first?"

Card shrugs. "Might as well get it over with, yeah?"

"Probably," Kevin agrees. He locates the dermal sealer and brings it over to the cot, along with antiseptic and gauze. "I know you just got it on, but can you take your shirt off, please?"

Card complies — he's moving less stiffly than he was before, which is all to the good. He puts it aside and lowers his arms again. Kevin takes a good long look, then starts at the top with the antiseptic, swiping it gently over the wounds that are still open. It still isn't pretty, but as a whole, it looks less angry and sore, and it looks like the infection is gone. Kevin will count that as a win.

"How come you didn't do this before?" Card asks.

"You were thrashing around a lot, and I wanted to make sure they were healing," Kevin says absently, swabbing the last corner of one open slice. "Okay, deep breath."

He seals the skin, and it has to sting, but Card doesn't even twitch.

"Um," Kevin says. "Did that hurt?"

Card conveys a shrug without actually moving anything. "Yeah."

"Okay… okay, good," Kevin says. "Another deep breath."

He seals the next shallow gash, and Card asks, "It's supposed to hurt?"

"Well, if you can't feel it, there's something very wrong." Not that it would surprise Kevin if there was some loss of feeling, considering the layered scar tissue on Card's back. "You know, it's a little creepy how you can just not react like that."

"Practice," Card says, and Kevin's hands freeze just below his shoulderblade, at the bottom edge of one of the nastiest cuts. He makes himself take a deep breath.

"I'm sorry."

"Not your fault," Card says, with another of those not-shrugs.

"Still." Kevin seals the last cut and says, "Okay, you're done. Just don't twist in any weird ways and pull them open again." He rounds the end of the cot and crosses to the counter to strip off his gloves and start putting things away again. While his hands are busy, it's easier to pull a cheerful tone into his voice. "So if you're traveling with us for a while, I'm going to need something from you."

Card says, "Of course," and there's a — flatness — in his voice Kevin wasn't expecting.

He turns around and Card's face has gone flat, too, looking about as expressive as the bulkhead behind him. He continues, "Would you prefer to go somewhere more private?"

Kevin just blinks at him, for an excruciating second actually not understanding what's going on. Then Card slides off the edge of the cot, drops his shirt on the floor and just keeps sliding down to his knees, and Kevin simultaneously gets it and blushes so violently he thinks his ears might catch fire.

"No!" he yelps, and spins back around to face the cupboards. "I've been treating you, and — I'm not a doctor, but it would still be really wrong, and — I — that's really not what I wanted!"

There's a shuffle of movement behind him, and a quiet, "Sorry."

"No, please, don't apologize!" Kevin drags in a deep breath and gets hold of himself. "Um. Please don't do that again. Is it — can I turn around?"

"Yeah."

Kevin squeezes his eyes shut, then opens then and turns back around. Card has his shirt on again, and he's leaning against the cot — but he was able to stand up on his own, that's good! That's really good! Kevin cuts off his own internal babble and says, "So if you're going to be traveling with us for a while, I need you to promise me you're not going to hurt any of us, and you're not going to try to steal from us or anything."

Card looks at him with an expression Kevin can't quite make out. "You'll just take my word for it?"

Kevin shrugs. "Well, it's not like I'm going to actually throw you out of the airlock or something, so I can't exactly back it up with threats even if I wanted to. So yeah, I just want your promise."

Card keeps looking at him for another minute, eyes inscrutable under the washed-out lights of the medbay, then says, "Yeah, okay. I promise."

"Good." Kevin smiles at him, even though he doesn't get a smile in return. "So, I'll show you where you can sleep, but do you want to get something to eat first? It's probably rations, not actual food, but it's not bad."

Card's stomach answers that for both of them by growling loudly, and Kevin bites down on a laugh. "Right, food first."

"Sounds good," Card agrees.

Kevin leads the way out of the medbay and sets the lock behind them — all his brothers know the code anyway — then points down the corridor. "This way." He keeps a careful distance between them as they walk, though he's ready to catch Card in case he stumbles. If he can just pretend nothing happened in the medbay, soon it'll be almost like it's true, and he won't have to deal with it.

*

It takes a ridiculous amount of time for Mike to get from the medbay to the doorway Kevin points out as the galley. Mike would gripe about it, but he's too busy concentrating on A) not falling over, and B) not clutching at the wall too obviously. And there's a good bit of C) in there as well: trying to ignore what a stupid, awkward ass he made of himself a few minutes ago. Of course that wasn't what Kevin meant — even if he's been on a ship for months, why would he want anything to do with Mike, when he's seen just how fucked-up and ugly he is? He'd probably want someone who could appreciate how gentle his hands are, some nice soft-skinned boy — or girl — who doesn't even have bruises. Not — Mike.

He searches for something to say to break what feels like an awkward silence between them, and finally settles on, "What's the date?"

It's a little bit comforting that Kevin has to stop to think about it. "Um, the fifth of Quintus, I think? It might be the sixth."

Mike nods and counts back in his head. It was just the tail-end of Quartus when Shorty skimmed one dose of tranquilizer too many, then more than a few hours but less than a day before the shuttle he'd stowed away on docked at the station. After that, it was probably most of a day before he managed to get onto this ship — and that's all he remembers. Still, it's no wonder he feels like he's been lying down for days.

Calculating that takes them the last few steps to the door of the galley, though Mike doesn't notice until Kevin says, "Don't sit on the counters."

He looks up, into the room. There are two people inside: a man holding a ration container, and a boy — seriously, a kid — who Kevin must have been talking to, because he's the one sitting on the counter. Both of them turn to the doorway when Kevin speaks and zero in on Mike. He's not sure this little outing was a good idea.

"These are my brothers Joe and Frankie," Kevin says, indicating them in turn. "Guys, this is Card."

"Good to see you again," Joe says. He puts down the container he was fiddling with, and comes over to hold out a hand. He's got a sharper face than Kevin, and his eyebrows are drawn even more heavily, but the dark, unruly hair is pretty much the same, though shorter. Mike can definitely see the resemblance. "You're looking better than the last time I saw you."

"Um, thanks," Mike says. He shakes Joe's hand, a little bit bemused. He really doesn't have any recollection of this guy at all, but he's not about to admit it.

"I was the one who found you," Joe explains. "Scared the heck out of me. So hey, this is Frankie, who's been wildly curious."

Frankie stares assessingly from his perch on the counter. "Hello," he says.

"Hi," Card says.

They size each other up for a few seconds. "You don't really look like a fugitive," Frankie says finally.

"Neither do you," Mike says, just ahead of Kevin's scandalized "Frankie!" and Joe's snort of laughter.

Next to him, Kevin drops his face into his hand. "I apologize for my very strange little brother," he says. ("I don't," Joe chimes in.) "He was raised by wolves. Want to sit down?"

That sounds like a really good idea. Mike follows him in; there's a small table set along the wall, with benches alongside. Mike perches on a corner where he can watch the whole room. "Did you say — is there another one of you?" he asks.

"Yeah, Nick." Kevin sounds surprised. "I thought you were asleep when I said that. He comes in between these two." He claps Joe on the shoulder and ruffles Frankie's hair, then sits on the other end of the bench. "So Joe, what's for dinner?"

"I have no idea," Joe mutters, back to frowning at the package he's holding.

"He's trying to think of something interesting to do with spinach," Frankie reports.

"Good luck with that," Kevin tells them. Joe looks over to the table.

"Why do we even have spinach? Why do you keep getting it when we restock?" he asks.

Kevin shrugs. "Mom keeps asking me if I'm making sure everyone eats their vegetables."

"Isn't she joking?"

"I'm pretty sure she checks, dude."

Joe scowls down at the spinach package. "Can you fry spinach?"

"Please don't." Another person, who must be Nick, comes into the room and over to the counter.

Kevin mouths something over at Joe. Mike's not sure, but he thinks it's she checks. Joe grins back.

Must-Be-Nick — he's a slightly taller, paler version of the others, but definitely related — hands the package back to Joe and turns to face Mike. "Card, right?" he says.

Mike's not sure what he's supposed to say, or what will get the best results, so he settles for, "Yes."

"Nick's captain," Joe says. "At least this month." Nick swats at him sideways without looking and Joe dances out of reach, cackling.

Nick studies Mike for a long moment, a grown-up version of Frankie's assessment earlier, and finally says, "Welcome aboard." He looks like he wants to say more, but he glances sideways at Frankie — still sitting on the counter — and stops.

"Thank you," Mike says. That seems safe enough.

Nick nods once, sharply, then turns back to Joe and drops right into the middle of an argument about leafy greens. From the quirked corner of Joe's mouth that Mike can see, he might be prolonging it just to get a rise out of Nick. Mike isn't quite sure yet.

He looks sideways and finds Kevin watching him. "Welcome aboard," he says, and it sounds different enough from Nick's version that Mike even means it when he says, "Glad to be here."

Conversation over dinner is light, general — Frankie's homework (he has homework? Mike thought not having to go to school was part of the point of going out on a ship…), weird noises from some part of the mechanics of the ship, how far it is to their next stop-off point. Mike's happy enough to sit quietly and let it all go past, just sort of watching the stream for anything that might be useful. So Nick is captain and does a lot of the navigation; Joe seems to be the mechanic and the person who keeps the systems running; Frankie puts in hard work being a kid, as far as Mike can tell. Kevin is harder to figure out, though; there aren't any gaps in the conversation where Mike can fit an obviously missing job. No one questions Mike, or talks to him, really; they're clearly used to talking to each other, and the addition of a silent fifth is just — well, it doesn't throw them off at all.

He thinks he's being pretty much ignored, anyway, until he lets loose a yawn that he can't quite stifle, and Kevin says, "Right, you probably want to go to sleep," and Mike finds himself the focus of all four pairs of eyes.

"Um," he says.

"Come on." Kevin's standing up and leaving his plate on the counter. "Joe, I promise I'll be back to help with cleanup." Joe waves him off, and Kevin looks back at Mike. "I'll show you where you can sleep."

Mike follows him, because — well, what else is he going to do? They may all be related, but the only one he can even pretend to know is Kevin. He's sticking close until he has more of a basis for assessing the others than one shared meal.

Kevin points out some things as they pass them: "And we just hang out there, a lot of the time. There are games and stuff," and turns down another stretch of narrow corridor: "the engine room is down there, and the cargo bay. And some stuff Joe won't tell us about," to two doors facing each other at the far end.

"There isn't really room for separate cabins, so we share. Nick and Joe are in that one, and Frankie and I are over here." Kevin slides the door open. "There's a spare bunk you can use."

The room is small, but there's enough space to turn around. One wall has two bunks, one above the other, both of them with sheets and pillows; the other just has one, set high up so it doesn't cramp the floorspace even more. That one's covered in stuff, just the random bits and pieces that collect in any space someone uses habitually. "Spare" is maybe a relative thing.

"Um, sorry." Kevin reaches up and takes down a medium-sized box. "Should have cleaned this up already."

"It's fine." Mike collects a spill of flimsies into a pile that can be picked up, and between them, the single bunk is cleared pretty quickly. Kevin ducks out the door and comes back with another pillow and sheets; it doesn't take long before all three bunks match.

"I'll leave you to it," Kevin says, his arms full of the stuff that came off the bunk. He shrugs awkwardly. "Frankie'll be coming to bed soon; I'll tell him to try and be quiet."

"It's fine," Mike says. "I'll probably sleep through it. Even if I have been in bed for days."

Kevin nods. "Sure," he says inanely. "Well, then, I'll — yeah. Sleep well." He starts out the door, then ducks back in to add, "The fresher's the door just this side of the galley, so — yeah." Then the door finally slides shut behind him.

Mike looks around the cramped cabin — in truth, he was expecting to be back in the medbay, or maybe a pallet in a locked storeroom or something. Letting him run loose like this, letting him sleep in the same room as the little brother — and all Kevin wanted was a promise? They don't any of them seem stupid; Mike's not used to people being trusting.

If he closes his eyes, it's almost right — he can tell the walls are close, and the air has the feel of air that's been lived in and recycled over and over. It isn't lived in by the right people, but — it's not the wrong people. Mike will take what he can get, especially when he's this tired. He kicks off the soft slippers Kevin gave him, and climbs up onto the freshly made bunk. It's too close to the ceiling to sit up on comfortably, but he can lie down all right.

He's not actually expecting to sleep, despite what he said to Kevin, but somewhere in the middle of staring at the ceiling that's so similar and so different from the blank white of the medbay and all the other white ceilings he's lain flat on his back looking at, his eyes slide shut.

He wakes up suddenly in the dark; he must have slept through the other two coming in — no, one, he corrects himself. He can only hear one other person breathing, and it's on the same level as he is, so it must be Frankie. The kid's stealthy, to have climbed up without waking Mike. If it weren't for the faint, irregular snore he has, Mike probably wouldn't have noticed at all.

Now that he's awake, Mike's wide awake, and he stares into the dark like it might do something interesting if he watches long enough. If this were a different ship, a long time ago, Mike would just get up, wander down to the galley or the common area to see if anyone was still awake over a late-night cup of caff, or up to the navdeck to bother whoever's watching the controls. Here, though, now, he just rolls over and listens to his breath bouncing off the wall. Whatever the reaction might be to one of the brothers finding him wandering the ship while everyone's asleep, it couldn't be good.

The sound of the door sliding open is magnified in the darkness, and Kevin's — it must be Kevin's — steps inside sound louder than they could possibly be. Kevin moves confidently in the dark, not bumping into anything. Mike's back prickles — Kevin must be in the tiny open floorspace halfway under the bunk Mike is in. He hears a rustle of cloth, then the soft creak of weight on a mattress. There's a little more shifting, and then the room is quiet, just with three sets of breathing now, instead of two.

"Good night, Frankie," Kevin whispers. It's so soft it barely carries up to where Mike's still lying with his ears stretched for any noise. There's a pause, and then Kevin adds, "Good night, Card."

Mike wants to whisper back, but he's afraid of upsetting the delicate balance of near-silence in the room. Instead he closes his eyes on the darkness and listens to Kevin's voice repeating I just want you to promise until it fades away into the sound of a sleeping ship.

*

Nick's the only one awake when Kevin shuffles into the galley in the morning, heavy-eyed over what's probably not his first cup of decaff. Kevin starts the caff-pot — Nick must be drinking instant — and flops down on the bench opposite him to wait for results.

Nick eyes him over the edge of his mug. "So I guess Card didn't kill you in your sleep last night."

Kevin shakes his head and frowns back as best he can at this hour. "Of course he didn't."

Nick raises an eyebrow. "Just keep an eye on him, please? We still don't know anything about him."

"I know."

"Needing help doesn't automatically make him a good person."

"I know."

"If he won't give us any way to check his story, we don't have anything concrete to go on."

"I know, Nick, okay?" Kevin shoves his hands through his hair and stands up to get a cup of the brewed caff. "I know I'm going on gut feeling here, but he hasn't given us any reason not to trust him, either."

"Apart from stowing away on the ship."

"Okay, fine, apart from that. But he hasn't." Kevin takes a sip of his hot caff and feels more awake immediately. "What have I missed?"

Nick narrows his eyes but lets the subject change go. "Not much. We're a couple of days out from Ashton; I might see if there's anything heading towards Brennant last-minute."

"I thought the fee for what we have lined up was going to cover it."

Nick shrugs. "It never hurts to have a little extra. There was a message from Mom and Dad, too. Dad says he trusts we're not letting too much freedom go to our heads, or losing sight of our path. Mom says she misses us and hopes we're remembering to eat and sleep. Oh, and she finally got that Encholi vine to flower." Knowing Nick, that's exactly what their parents said.

"Did she say how she did it?"

Nick shakes his head. "If you want to ask her, I haven't sent the reply bundle yet."

Kevin takes a longer sip of caff while he thinks. "Did you tell them about Card?"

Nick shakes his head, eyes steady on Kevin's. "Not yet. I figured that was your news to tell." Or not hangs in the air unspoken.

"Thanks."

Nick turns his cup around in his hands. "I do trust you, Kev. Just — I worry."

Kevin doesn't bat an eyelash. "Gosh, really."

Nick finally cracks a reluctant grin. "Dork." He stands up and stretches his arms over his head. "All right, I'm going to got sleep for a few hours. Try not to cause trouble."

"What do you take me for?"

"Right, sorry. Try not to let Joe cause trouble." Nick yawns and slides his mug into the cleaner. "You owe me so many night shifts, I'm not even kidding."

Kevin stands up and catches him in a hug as he comes back past. "Thanks, Nicky."

"Yeah, we got your back. And don't call me Nicky." Nick pats at his shoulder and steps out of the hug. "Good night."

"Sweet dreams," Kevin calls after him.

There's still no one else stirring, so Kevin tops up his mug and wanders down to the medbay. He's been sort of keeping track as he went along, the last four — five? He's genuinely not completely sure — days, but if they're coming up on a station, it's a chance to get a proper inventory of what he used up taking care of Card. He has a new appreciation for emergency stashes of things he's sure they'll never need.

Along with counting bandaids and how much of Nick's medication they have left (lots, always, but again, it never hurts to have extra), he's cleaning up the stuff that he didn't get to before, not wanting to disturb Card if he was actually sleeping. Mostly the bottleneck is that the medbay's incinerator is tiny, so he has to run several cycles to turn all of the used and soiled items into ash that he can empty into the main recycler. Then there's the stuff he couldn't do while the bay was occupied, like sterilizing the counters and the floor and, of course, stripping down the cot. It's mindless work, and he likes keeping his particular corner of the ship in good order, so it's a couple of hours, probably, before he surfaces, and even then it's only because Joe clears his throat from the doorway and startles him.

"Stop laughing at me," he complains, still clutching at his own throat.

"It's not my fault you scream like a girl," Joe says, sauntering further into the room. "You coming out of here any time soon?"

Kevin looks around; apart from putting a clean cover on the cot, he's repaired all the damage done from having the medbay occupied. "I think I'm about done," he says. "Wait, hang on." He pulls the incinerator's little collector bin out and hands it to Joe. "Dump that into the recycler for me, would you?"

Joe mutters something about not being a janitor, but he takes the bin and heads down the corridor. Kevin hears the clang of the recycler's hatch, and Joe comes back with the empty bin.

"You're welcome," he says in a long-suffering voice.

"Thanks," Kevin says, double-checking the restocking list he made up. He slots the bin back under the incinerator with the hand not holding his tablet. "Was there something you needed me for?"

"I can't just want to talk to my brother?" Joe asks. Kevin spares him an eloquent look. "Okay, fine, I was hoping you could give me a hand with adding more override switches in the cargo bays."

"Really?" Kevin asks. "You know you're going to have to tell me exactly what to do, and probably end up fixing it all afterwards."

Joe shrugs. "I'll risk it. I can't be two places at once, and Nick's asleep, so it's you or Frankie. I'll take my chances with you."

Kevin takes a moment to think about trusting an override installed by Frankie, and shudders. Frank's plenty smart, but he's a lot more interested in pulling things apart to see how they work than in putting them together again with everything in the right order.

"Besides, mostly I need you to push buttons," Joe explains. "So are you done yet?"

"Just a minute," Kevin says, continuing to poke at his tablet just to tease Joe. "I'll just be a few more minutes."

Joe looks disturbingly like Nick when he narrows his eyes like that. "You're actually playing Saurian Racing on that thing, aren't you?"

"No!" Kevin protests, and sends the shopping list to the network before Joe can grab the tablet and accidentally delete it or something. "There, I'm done now!" He grins at Joe.

"Uh huh, I just bet you are." Joe leads the way out of the medbay. "Where's our passenger, by the way? Do you know?"

Kevin gets smacked with a momentary panic. "Um, I assumed he was still asleep? Or at least, in our cabin?"

Joe slides him a look he's not quite sure how to interpret, then takes the next turn in the corridor. "How about we check?"

Kevin tries to be quiet sliding the door open, conscious of Joe looming behind him, but everything's quiet in the bunk room. Card is a motionless lump curled up under blankets on the single top bunk, and the bunk over Kevin's is mussed, indicating that Frankie left at his usual speed. (The last time Kevin tried to get him to make his bed, he rebutted with an entire efficiency study, complete with graphs, of how making the bed when you're just going to be using it again is a waste of time, and he'd be better off using that time to play vidgames. It had interactive charts, and probably took more than twenty times as long as making the bed would have, but Kevin supposes it's the principle of the thing. He hasn't managed to locate the obvious flaw in Frankie's logic yet, but he's working on it.)

He closes the door again and looks over his shoulder at Joe. "Happy now?"

"Not really," Joe says. "Now I don't know where Bonus is."

"You can't just listen for the riot like the rest of us?"

"You know I only like the good kind of surprises."

"This is the good kind of surprise." Frankie's voice rattles out of the comm-box ahead of them — the one that no one has turned on at all.

Joe groans. "Please tell me that didn't go to our cabin. If you woke Nick up, I'll — I don't know. Something bad."

"Make Frankie share a room with him instead?" Kevin suggests.

Frankie pshaws over the comm. "Please. I'm better at this than that."

They pass the comm-box, but Kevin doesn't bother activating it, since Frankie can clearly hear them anyway. "Just don't break anything while we're in the cargo bay, okay?"

He can almost hear Frankie's eyes rolling. "Yeah, yeah. Dad." There's a brief but painful shriek of static and the comm goes silent.

"Maybe I should go find him instead," Joe says.

"You'll just get stuck." Frankie prefers to conduct experiments in re-wiring while wedged into the narrower crawlspaces that aren't actually used. Joe can just about get through the straight sections if he has to, but he can't turn the corners and Frankie knows it.

"Yeah." Joe brightens. "I guess we know where he is now, though."

Kevin suspects that was part of the point. "Even he can't take the whole ship apart while we're busy, Joe. It'll be fine."

"That's what you think," the comm-box behind them mutters.

*

It's a good thing that one of the sitting bags in the common area is big enough to lie down on, because Mike's sick of lying in bed, but he feels too tired to sit up. He's bored, but since he still can't walk in a straight line all the time, he's stuck here watching old entertainment broadcasts with the sound low.

There's a scuff of feet in the doorway and he jerks his head over. He's been trying to relax, since he knows everyone who's on this ship and so far they seem sincere about not hurting him, but some reflexes are harder to get rid of.

It's just Joe, though, and he waves at Mike before dropping into a bag of his own. "What are we watching?" he asks.

"I'm not sure." Mike doesn't have a clue, actually; he's been staring at the screen, but he hasn't actually absorbed any of it, apart from everyone wearing green being very excited.

"Oh, hey, it's Planetary Hospital. I think it's the episode with the twins and the thing with the gravskates. See, that guy" (another one of the green-wearing people, though this one has a beard to identify him) "thinks that her and … hang on, there, her" (one very pale woman, with the attenuated bones of a low-gravity dweller, and another one with the deep tan of a binary worlder) "broke up because he accidentally told their boss about the edited files, but actually it's because Toma overheard Jereny talking to someone in the storage space down the hall, and she thought it meant…" Joe rambles on for several more minutes, then looks over at Mike. "And you don't actually care about any of this, do you?"

Mike shrugs. It's usually a pretty safe response.

"Nah, it's okay. Nick makes fun of me too." Joe settles himself more firmly into his bag and watches in silence for a few minutes. Finally he asks, "So what do you like? To do, I mean?"

Mike hesitates. There are several ways he could interpret that, but after his misstep with Kevin— "I like reading," he says finally.

"Yeah?" Joe heaves himself out of his bag and starts rattling around in one of the storage bins on the wall. He gives up on that after just a couple of minutes, though, and with an instruction to Mike to "Stay here," he disappears back out into the corridor.

Mike's not sure he wants to stay put; did he say something wrong? But then, going when he was told to stay — he cuts off that line of thought. The brothers haven't shown any signs of wanting to order him around. Joe probably only tossed it off as a suggestion.

Mike's going to stay where he is anyway. It's safer.

This time he hears Joe's footsteps coming before the man himself appears, holding an older model of tablet and poking at it with one hand.

"Here," he says, and holds it out until Mike kind of has to take it just so he can see what's going on. "It's a little cranky, but the reader should work fine. The network has a bunch of books up. I mean," he winks, "The good stuff's locked so Frankie has to work at least a little to get into it, but you should be able to find something that suits you."

"Thanks," Mike says weakly, turning the tablet over in his hands. He feels clumsy handling it, like his fingers are too big to work it and he'll break something. He simultaneously wants to go check out the entire library, and doesn't want to find out if he still has the muscle memory and control to work one of these the way he used to. He settles for saying "Thanks," again and laying it down on the bag where he can keep a grip on it.

"You're welcome." Joe sits back down in his bag and shoves around until he settles even deeper into it. "Not like it's being used, you might as well." The screen catches his attention again. "Oh, hey, they're about to find out about the twins. Mind if I turn it up?"

Mike passes the remote over and Joe stabs at the buttons, bringing the soundtrack up to audible levels, but not intrusive. He cackles. "Awesome."

"I didn't expect to see you around during the day," Mike says. "You're usually not, I mean." All the brothers seem to have things to keep them busy even on a ship this small, and Joe sitting around watching old suds in the middle of the day is a break in the routine. Mike wants to keep track of those.

Joe yawns. "I had to replace a leaky valve in the middle of the night while the drive was going, like, a meter from my head," he says. "I'm taking a half-day today. I deserve it."

"You were working on the hyperdrive while it was running?" Mike's never been the gearhead that some are, but he's pretty sure that's crazy.

"Ha, no, no, Nick yells at me if I try to get myself killed," Joe says. "There's a coolant water pipe running nearby and it had a valve go bad. I was working on that." He stretches up, to one side, to the other. "Not where I pictured myself a year ago."

Mike's been wondering actually, but — well. He knows about the kind of questions you aren't supposed to ask; this seems like an opening, though. "Where did you picture yourself?" he asks cautiously.

"Oh man." Joe leans back and stares up at the ceiling. "I guess I thought it would be more derring-do, you know? Like in the vids." He laughs quietly at himself. "Have you noticed how the vids never mention how picky the engines are?"

"Yeah." Mike's spent enough time helping to coax them into working smoothly, and hearing about it when he wasn't. "Where are you guys from?" he risks.

"Tarrant," Joe says. "It's on Blackland. Or, well, we're not from there originally. We moved out from Carteret when Frankie was little. Littler."

Core kids, then. Mike got really fucking lucky — from what he's heard, they're a lot less inclined to cut corners in the Core, or be understanding towards those who've had to trim a little. He could just as easily have been dumped out the airlock on suspicion. "What was it like?" he asks, after a few seconds or marvelling.

"Carteret? I don't really know any more." Joe rolls his head around so he can raise an eyebrow at Mike. "You could ask Kevin."

"Just curious," Mike mumbles.

"I dunno," Joe says. "I think it was pretty boring. I mean, nothing really changed; it's no fun being stuck down. Blackland's okay, but I'd rather be out here, even with the screwy engines, you know?"

Mike nods. Yeah, he can get that.

They watch the suds for a little while, or at least Joe does. Mike does some watching the inside of his eyelids, some watching the screen. Some lines of dialogue filter through when he has his eyes shut, and they make for some kind of peculiar half-dreams. Even with that, though, it's somehow easier to sleep out here than it is in the quiet of the bunk room during night shift. Finally the weird dialogue shifts into weird, catchy theme music, and he hears Joe shifting around in his bag. The sound shuts off.

"You awake?" Joe asks.

Mike's eyes snap open. "Yeah." He sits halfway up.

"Dude, I was just asking, you don't have to do anything." Joe's laughing a little. He stands up and stretches. "I think I'm gonna go nap somewhere a little more comfortable. Sorry I woke you up."

"It's fine."

Joe waves a little and wanders away. The area is quiet for a little while, nothing but the muted roar of the engines filtering up through the plates, and the distant noises of people doing people-things: it's a soothing background. Mike picks up the tablet Joe gave him again and figures out how to connect to the library; he's slow but he hasn't forgotten everything he knows. He settles on a book — something Bill would have laughed at him for, back in the day, but Joe's mention of space pirates left him wanting something he doesn't have to think too hard about — and manages to read a few pages, even, before his eyes slide shut.

When he wakes up a little while before dinner, there's no one else in the common area, but the tablet's not in his hand any more. He panics a little bit — how did he lose it? — but then spots it, powered off, lying on the bag above where his head was. It's a momentary jolt of adrenaline, thinking someone was that close while he was sleeping, but he makes himself calm down. It's probably a good thing he can sleep through someone taking the tablet away from him. He almost leaves it there, but he brings it along with him at the last minute, and Joe just smiles and nods a little when he sees it in Mike's hand. He starts a different book before he goes to sleep, just for the novelty of it.

***

The closer they get to Ashton, the less Kevin's been able to concentrate on anything. Now they're only an hour or so from the transfer point, and his brain just keeps wandering off without his say-so; he'll tune back in to find he's either been doing something completely random, or hasn't been doing anything at all. Finally he catches himself in the middle of drifting off, and he goes to do something about it. If nothing else, he can stop screwing up his own system when he loses track of what he's about.

Joe's in the navdeck with Nick; Nick's paying more attention to the consoles than to Joe's teasing, but he's smiling, Kevin can see even from the doorway. Joe, sitting backwards on one of the control chairs so he can razz Nick better, sees him, but Kevin just raises a hand in silent greeting and moves on.

There's no one in the common area when he glances in, and the galley is empty — though the beaker sitting on top of the cleaner indicates that Frankie was here at some point. Kevin keeps going down the corridor to the bunk rooms, hoping he'll find someone there.

Frankie is in their cabin, flipped around to lie wrong-way-round on his bunk. He has his tablet, and he's poking at it with a stylus and a frown.

"Hey," he says, when Kevin comes in the door and stands right under his chin. "What's up?"

"Nothing, just — looking for you," Kevin says.

"Well, you — agh! No!" Frankie makes frantic swipes with the stylus, but fails in whatever he's trying to do. He groans and flops over onto his back. "What do you want?"

"Franklin."

"Sorry, sorry." He wiggles around so he can face Kevin again. "How may I be of assistance to you this fine day?"

"Wiseacre." Kevin pretends to flick his ear. "Nothing, really. I was just checking where people are."

"Nick and Joe are up in the navdeck."

"Thanks. Have you seen Card?"

Frankie shrugs. "Did you check the engine room?"

Of course; he should have looked there first. "No, thanks."

"You're welcome," Frankie carols out, and lifts his tablet again. Kevin can read a dismissal when he sees one; besides, he's done here.

He doubles back towards the engine room, but even when he looks under all the pieces of equipment, it's still empty of any people. He goes back up to the main deck of the ship, and he's starting to worry — should he just use the comm and page Card shipwide? It's not like there are that many places he could have got himself into — when he passes the common area again. He goes in instead of just looking from the door — there's a comm-box in there anyway — and Card's curled up in one of the big bags after all, tucked down so he's all but invisible until you're on top of him.

"Oh. Hey." Kevin flops down in the bag across from him.

Card looks up from his tablet, blinks like his eyes are refocusing. "Something wrong?"

"No, just — finding people." As he says it, Kevin realizes how true it is. He knows no one's unconscious in the cargo bay, he knows he and Joe tested all those extra panic buttons just in case, but all the same, now that he knows where everyone is, he can uncoil whatever tension it was that kept winding tighter and tighter and distracting him. Of course, now he just wants to flop, but that's okay. Reorganization of stores can wait until tomorrow. Or possibly never; he was really just trying to distract himself from his own twitchiness.

"Do you need my help with the cargo?" Card asks.

"Nah." Kevin waves a hand in the general direction of the navdeck. "This station's all automated; we just open the cargo bay and the tugs swap it out. Um, actually." He hesistates, then goes on anyway. "It's pretty neat to watch, if you want to. Like one of those holos where they follow beetles around, or something. Um."

"Tug beetles?" Card sounds like he thinks it's funny, but not like he's laughing at Kevin. Kevin bites his lip anyway. "Sure, sounds interesting. Where do we watch from?"

Kevin knows his grin is goofy, but it's not like he's in control of it. "We can watch from here, actually. There's a camera set in the hull by the cargo doors."

Right on cue, Joe's voice comes over the comm. "We're next in line for transfer. No one better be in the cargo bay this time. Guys?"

Kevin crosses over to the box and leans on the button. "Card and I are clear."

There's something muffled from Nick, then Frankie cuts in. "Yeah, I'm here."

"Awesome. Stay that way." The comm clicks off, and Kevin collects the remote on his way to sit down again — in the bag next to Card, this time.

"Here, it's—" he finds the right combination to enter, and the screen flicks on, showing the robot tugs scuttling past outside.

"They do look like beetles," Card says.

"I know, right?" Kevin grins and hands the remote over, then settles more comfortably into his bag. He might as well make the most of it.

***

Ashton feels like a turning point for Mike; realistically he knows there's no reason for it, but after the cargo is transferred he feels like he's getting better faster. He can stay awake for more than a couple of hours at a time, for one. He can even stand up long enough to help Kevin clean up the galley from breakfast. After that, though, sitting down sounds like an awesome idea. Maybe he has a ways to go yet.

The common space is already occupied by Frankie, sprawled out across two bags with his feet kicked up on a third. He's making a ferocious face at the tablet he's holding, stabbing at it with a stylus like he wishes it would bleed or something. Mike almost sneaks away again and goes to find somewhere else to hang out, but Frankie glances up and sees him in the doorway. "Hey, come on in," he says.

Mike's a little afraid Frankie's going to stab him with that stylus, but that's true whether he stays or goes, so he picks the bag furthest from anything pointy and nestles down into it. He eyes Frankie, but after that invitation, the youngest Jonas seems content to ignore him, which Mike is fine with.

He's a few pages in to the book he's called up — the main character is a starship captain with a dark past and a tortured soul, and Mikes not sure if it's going to be about meaningful insights, or porn — when Frankie makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a scream, and throws his stylus across the room hard enough that it bounces off the wall and lands on Mike's lap. He picks it up and looks over, not quite sure what he's supposed to do with it.

Frankie just sighs and waggles his fingers. "Sorry. Can I have that back?" he asks.

"Are you going to throw it at me again?" Mike asks. He likes to know his options.

"No," Frankie says, then amends it to, "Probably not."

Mike tosses it back underhand and Frankie catches it easily. "Something not going right?" Mike asks.

"Stupid homework." Frankie's back to scowling at his tablet. "I have to do it, Nick says, but these problems are stupid."

"Want to talk about it?" Mike offers. He remembers that helping Bill when he ran into problems with something — just talking it through until the pieces fell into place.

Frankie looks over. "You know about probability theory?"

"Um, some." He knows enough to know that he's really not the person you want piloting if you have another option — realspace is one thing, even if he's not the whiz Chislett was, but when it comes to jumps he can't keep track of all the variables, which is kind of the point of prob theory, that you can double-check the computer and know if something's been entered wrong.

Frankie, it sounds like, will never have to trust the computer, ever. Mike loses him after about five minutes as he explains in more detail than Mike ever worried about because he knew he'd never make it. The problem seems to be that he's bored — the numbers keep changing, but the underlying problems are the same, and Frank's tired of running the same simulations over and over with different shoes on.

"You see?" he finishes up, and looks at Mike expectantly.

Mike nods and tries to look like he has the first clue about any of that. "Sure."

Frankie flops backwards over the side of the back with a dramatic sigh. "No, you don't."

Mike opens his mouth to deny it, maybe, but Frankie swivels one eye to glare at him. "You don't."

Mike shrugs and nods. He'll own it. "You want to be a pilot?"

"Yes!" Frankie rolls upright again with an ease Mike envies. "I'd be good at it, too. Nick—" he breaks off, then sets his jaw and finishes the sentence. "Nick lets me practice sometimes, when no one's around."

"You're not supposed to?" Frank's young, sure, but Mike can't see the control-freak Jonas letting him near the navdeck if he was incompetent.

Frankie spreads his hands like Mike's incredibly dense. "No license."

Mike isn't quite sure what that has to do with the discussion — in the more densely populated areas, in the Core, sure, but that's not the sort of thing that gets regulated too hard out here. Mike remembers Siska docking at stations before he was licensed; under Chizzy's watchful eye, but still. His confusion must show on his face, because Frankie drops his head back and sighs at the ceiling.

"You have to be sixteen."

"I don't think anyone's going to check out here."

Frankie rolls his eyes. "Our parents are big on following the rules, even if no one's watching to make sure. Doing the right thing, and stuff."

Mike makes a face. "Sounds kind of like religion."

"Yeah, Dad's a preacher." Frankie shrugs. "He says it shouldn't matter if you think anyone's watching what you do, because God always is."

"Uh-huh." Mike thinks about that one for a little bit. "Okay, I guess I get that. But still, you — you four — are out here on your own, with no … supervision or whatever?" He didn't think a preacher would turn kids loose in the big bad galaxy like that.

"It's how we roll," Nick says from the doorway. When Mike looks over, he's leaning against the frame of the door, relaxed, but he shoots Mike a moment's hard look before turning to his brother. "I think Joe was looking for you for something, Frank."

Frankie twists around so fast Mike's a little concerned his head's going to come off. "Yeah?"

Nick nods. "He's down in the engine room."

"Cool!" Frankie springs out of the bag and lopes off down the corridor.

There's a pause while the sound of his spaced-out footsteps fades, then Nick speaks again. "I know we might not be what you're used to, but the way we are works for us."

"Okay." Mike's not committing further than that, yet, not until he's more sure of what they're talking about.

"Frankie doesn't need you telling him to doubt things."

"I wasn't," Mike says. "I was just — listening. He wants to be a pilot."

"I know." Nick tips his head a little to the side. "But things are planned out for him right now. For all of us."

"And you're just okay with that?" Mike's still trying to feel out the conversation. "With choices being made for you?" He knows he sounds incredulous, but. Having someone else dictate what you do, even if it's with good intentions — yeah, he can't really see that improving the situation.

Nick studies him for a second. For all they're on the same small ship, Mike hasn't really interacted with him much, and right now, he kind of wishes it had stayed that way.

"I'm not saying no one can think for themselves," Nick says. "I'm just saying timing is important." Mike's still working on that one when Nick comes the rest of the way into the room and shuts the door behind him. Mike hadn't even known there was a door. "But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Okay?"

Nick leans back against the wall. He almost looks relaxed. "We're getting close to Brennant," he says.

It'd be nice if Mike could get a sense of where this was going. "Okay."

"Ashton was one thing," Nick says. "That's just cargo, no question of transferring passengers, so they don't bother asking about them. Brennant's going to be different."

Mike can feel his stomach sink. Nothing good is going to follow that.

"When you came on board," Nick continues, "You didn't have any identification on you, or a chip."

He seems to be waiting for an answer, so Mike shakes his head. "No." His passcard and credit chit might have been somewhere on Karlor, but he wasn't about to stop and look for them. They were probably long since shredded, anyway.

"Are you staying with us?" When Mike doesn't answer, Nick prompts, "Are you planning to leave at Brennant? It's a hub for several systems."

Mike's not sure what the right answer is. He feels like the floor shifted under him — like someone kicked out the back of his knees. He almost wants to beg, but — that never gets a result he wants, anyway. He swallows hard and searches for words, strings them together in the right order. "I'd rather stay on board if — if that's all right. I don't — I'm pretty sure I don't have any credits, but I can work for my passage."

"That's not the issue, though I'm sure Kevin or Joe would be happy to have another pair of hands around." Nick sits down across from him. "Do you have any idea where you're going? Where's home?"

Mike's really not sure any more. Home was a ship, and who knows where it is now. But — "Baptiste?" He knows people there, or knew them — enough, hopefully, to get him an in to the sorts of people who can help him reinvent himself. Maybe even find that ship.

"Fair enough. We can take you that direction." Nick leans back a little bit. "Since we're only passing through, the station authorities probably won't require ID unless something makes them suspicious, but we're required to list all persons on board."

His name, on a list, going into a networked system, searchable by someone who knows what they're doing — Mike freezes up. Fuck. "Oh. Right."

"I take it your real name is too much to ask for?" Nick asks, dry as dust.

Mike shakes his head. "No. I— put me down as Adam Crocker." Borrowed names, but ones he's familiar enough with that he'll react. He hopes. They won't mind.

"Coming from?"

"Karlor, I guess." Mike does his best to shrug nonchalantly. "You know they don't check those things."

"Usually." Nick stands up. "All right. It's enough to sound convincing. Just don't do anything that will make them look harder." He nods at Mike and slides the door open again, disappearing down the corridor.

Mike watches the door for a minute or two. He'd thought Nick didn't like him and wanted to ignore his presence as much as possible, but this — he feels like there's something he missed in the conversation. He hates that feeling.

*

Mike's still working his way through the ship's library, but as he feels better and better — as the drugs finish working their way out, as his muscles finally get time to heal — just reading isn't cutting it any more. He wants to be doing something, not sitting. He's held still enough for a lifetime already. Besides — five people isn't that much more of a burden on a ship's systems than four, but he's still sharply aware, after the conversation with Nick, that he lucked out in finding a ship with an open cargo bay.

Finally he follows the vibrations and noise down and over, and finds the engine room. Joe doesn't notice him in the doorway; he's busy fiddling with the guts of one of the turbines, while the other one spins double-time and makes plenty of noise to cover any Mike might make. Mike watches for a minute, then calls out, "Anything I can help with?"

Joe jerks, and a muffled yelp comes out of the machinery ahead of his shoulders, head, and finally most of his arms.

"Hey, Card," he says. "Yeah, if you grab a wrench, maybe a number three—" he waggles a foot towards the open tool chest— "And come hold this for me." There's a twang and a clunk, and Joe winces. "Please."

"Sure." The tool chest is more organized than Mike would have expected Joe to keep things, and it's easy to find what he's looking for. "Like this?" he asks, and Joe nods before he slides out of sight again.

It's been a while since Mike's held a wrench — a while since he's handled any sort of tool, and the obvious joke can just go unsaid, thanks — but it's not like it's something you can forget how to use. Joe, under the joking exterior, is a surprisingly capable mechanic, and he's not bad at explaining what he wants Mike to do. After a few hours of tightening here, holding there, knocking that loose, it starts to feel familiar again — comfortable, even.

He loses track of time, doesn't realize how long they've spent chasing down the bent fin that was inside a casing, inside another casing, under a whole bunch of pieces that had to be sprung back — one of those is what left the welt on Mike's knuckles — until Frankie comes to the door and yells "Dinner!"

Joe collects all the tools they've been using and closes the chest up. "The rest'll keep for tomorrow. You any good with a capacity sensor, Card?"

He looks way too enthusiastic for a basic question like that. "…Why?"

"There's something I want to try with the venting system. I need another pair of hands, and Kevin always makes noises about it being dangerous."

"Is it?"

"Wouldn't be fun otherwise, would it?" Joe's grin is nova-bright. "So are you?"

Mike can't help returning the grin. "Why not."

"Excellent." Joe claps his hands and rubs them together. "The vents won't know what hit 'em."

Frankie folds his arms and scowls. "I could have helped with it."

"Of course you could." Joe ruffles his hair as he passes him in the doorway. "Soon as I want Nick to kill me dead."

"No fun," Frankie grumbles, and pokes Mike as he goes past. "Kevin was looking for you."

"Well, you found me," he says. His stomach feels hollow; he might actually be hungry.

*

Kevin walks into the engine room, like he has a zillion times looking for Joe, or Frankie, or some bit of metal that's terribly important, and is completely unprepared to almost step on Card where he's lying half-under one of the big turbines.

On the one hand, his brain is cataloguing the lingering signs of malnutrition, and the weight Card lost while he was detoxing. On the other hand, he's paying very specific attention to the line of skin showing above the waist of Card's borrowed pants, and how the way he's reaching for something underneath the turbine makes his waist cut in. Both halves are noticing the shadows of Card's ribs through the old shirt he has on, but there's a dizzying split between wondering about his calorie intake, and wondering if Kevin could fit his fingers over them as perfectly as it looks like he could.

It's probably good that all of this attention makes him lose track of his feet and stumble, clattering on the deck.

"Sorry!" he says on reflex, even though he did manage not to step on Card.

"Hang on," comes muffled from under the turbine, and then Card pushes himself out and sits up, blinking at Kevin. "You need something?" he asks. The shirt he's wearing leaves Card's arms mostly bare, and Kevin can see how the old scars curl around the new muscle Card's rebuilding.

Kevin makes himself look at Card's face instead. "I was just — looking for Joe," he says. "Is he around?"

"He said something about shelving," Card says. "You might try the cargo bay."

"I'll — yeah, thanks," Kevin stammers out, and manages to get back out the door without walking into anything. Behind him he can hear the wheels of Card's dolly squeak as he slides back under the turbine. He gets around the corner, to the foot of the ladder up to the main deck, and stops to lean against the wall.

He's never experienced this before — how would he, when usually the people he treats are his brothers? — but it was touched on in medic training, and he knows what's right to do. Yeah, okay, without the frenetic shine of the drugs and the desperately feral edges, Card's attractive. Kevin lets himself acknowledge that. But he's also Kevin's patient. He's come out of a traumatic situation — the scars Kevin was ogling are proof enough of that — and even if he returned Kevin's interest, there is no telling what the basis of it might be. Kevin may be the first person to treat him nicely in however long it's been. Just attempting to gauge whether he is interested, or even what his preferences are, would invalidate their relationship as patient and caregiver, and jeopardize Card's care.

Kevin repeats it all to himself twice more, takes a deep breath, and locks down everything he just noticed about Card. Then he pushes off the wall and continues towards the primary cargo bay, ignoring the little voice pointing out that the scars are also irrefutable proof that Card survived. He survived, and Kevin can be glad of that and still refuse to speculate further on that point.

He finds Joe in the bay, and manages to reconstruct the question he wanted to ask — and why he didn't just use the comm, Kevin does not know. From there, he somehow finds himself wandering back towards the engine room, but he stops himself when he gets to the ladder and resolutely climbs back up. With every step up, he can hear Nick's voice from days ago, saying, I trust you. Kevin can hold onto that until he can trust himself again. Meanwhile, he has notes on chemical interactions to write up.

*

Mike's not sure what he was expecting in the galley, but he wasn't expecting to find Kevin sitting at the table with his tablet and a box full of small pieces of metal and plasmer next to him and —

"Is that a station?" Mike blurts out, before he can think better of it.

Kevin doesn't react at all, just sets the piece he's holding into place and adds a shred of epoxy sealer. Then he looks up.

"It's Blacklands One, yeah. What do you think?"

Mike sits down across from him and leans closer to the model. It's — well, it's not perfect, because some things just don't replicate well at a tiny scale, but — it's definitely a station, or the structure of one. Kevin turns the tablet around to face Mike, and yeah, the holo on the screen is recognizably the same place, the miniature struts fanning out in the same configuration of docks and quarters.

"Cool," Mike says, and Kevin beams.

"You like it?"

"Yeah, it's —" Mike searches for words. "I've never tried anything like that," he manages finally. "It looks really tricky."

"It's not that hard," Kevin says, and leans in to glue another piece. His hands are completely steady; Mike knew he didn't have the shakes, what with being a medic and all, but seeing him slotting tiny sections together to make a whole new thing, each piece going where it's supposed to, puts a new spin on it. Kevin's confident, in a way he's not when he's goofing around with his brothers or doing random housework or maintenance on the ship. Mike imagines it's the side of him that comes out more when he's in the medbay, helping put someone back together. He kind of likes seeing it.

He just watches for a few more minutes and a few more pieces, and then Kevin looks up again, holding a tiny curved sliver in place with tweezers.

"What?"

Mike shrugs. "I'm just watching." He'd sort of tossed off his judgement before, but this really is cool, watching something that looks like a real thing come together out of — nothing, really. He keeps watching the model, and when Kevin's hands don't move for more than a minute, it's his turn to look up. "What?"

Kevin's just watching him, a look on his face that Mike can't quite describe. "Nothing, I guess."

"Okay?" Mike says.

Kevin shrugs a little and tilts his head, and sets another piece of the model in place, and that's that.

Mike sits and watches for another while — he's not sure how long. The station takes shape under Kevin's hands, going from a skeletal framework to being partly filled in with the outer skin of the station. Kevin's not putting in all of the individual compartments inside, but it looks like they could be there, just underneath the containing curves of plassteel. Eventually Mike shifts on the bench and realises he can't feel his ass, really, and he's been staring like a creeper for the last — he doesn't really want to know. Kevin doesn't seem to mind him being there, but still — he's not necessary to proceedings.

He breaks the comfortable silence by saying, "I should go find Joe, check on that — thing." Kevin mm-hmms like he wants to give the impression he's listening, but not enough to do it convincingly. Mike stands up as carefully as he can, so he doesn't bump the table; he looks back from the doorway and Kevin hasn't even reacted to his departure. He's still completely absorbed in the work in front of him, using the tiniest laser-drill Mike's ever seen to bore a hole in the end of a smooth strut. Part of him wants to make noise or something, demand attention; the other part is just watching Kevin's frown of concentration and the minute flex of one finger controlling the drill. The second part wins out, and Mike watches for another long moment before he steps quietly away from the door and goes to find Joe and check — anything that needs checking, honestly.

He can't get it out of his head while he's poking around in the pipes and valves — the memory of Kevin's hands sure and steady on the model, and then the idea of Kevin's hands sure and steady on him. He knows they're gentle, knows they don't have calluses at the tips from prying at machinery, knows they put him back together from however many pieces were hiding behind that plasmer box. Trying to imagine it wouldn't hurt — that's more of a leap. It's been a while since he's been touched with anything like care. Even Ericks — that was different. He just didn't care.

Mike's thumb slips and scrapes against the lock-ring of a valve, and he bites back a curse. There's no point dwelling on might-bes; Kevin made himself perfectly clear when he turned down Mike's offer — and all right, maybe at the time Mike thought it was what was expected, but that doesn't change Kevin's reaction. He sucks on the sore knuckle and examines it; no blood, just another weird bruise, probably.

It's all right, really. Mike's gotten used to wanting things he can't have. Just because he has some of them now doesn't mean he thinks he's going to get the rest of them, or even some. He fits a wrench into the narrow space by the valve and tightens it a fraction.

"Everything look all right in there?" Joe's voice is unexpectedly close, but Mike manages not to let the wrench slip again.

"Yeah, it's fine." He wriggles out backwards and sits up. Joe's crouched nearby, looking quizzical.

"Spent an awful lot of time under there," he says. Mike shrugs uncomfortably.

"Just making sure," he says.

Joe nods agreeably. "Good to be sure." He stands up and offers Mike a hand. "Dinner?"

"Sure." Mike pulls himself up and drops the wrench back into the toolbox.

"Everything all right?" Joe asks, after he locks the toolbox into a cupboard.

"Fine, why?" Mike concentrates on scraping the sealant gunk out from under his fingernails.

"You just seem a little preoccupied."

"It's nothing." Man, there's a lot of junk under his nails.

"Okay."

Mike looks sideways at Joe as they walk towards the galley, but he seems to have let the inquiry go as easily as he picked it up and has moved on to talking about the idea he had for an engine system that uses its own momentum to provide power, if he can just figure out how to get it going.

When they get to the galley, there's no sign of Kevin's construction project, just most of dinner. Mike and Joe scrub their hands and then get out of Nick's way before he runs them over for being disorganized. Mike can't help watching Kevin's hands as he juggles dishes and utensils onto the table; when he looks away, Joe's watching him with bright, shrewd eyes, but he doesn't say anything, just leans back against the wall and looks away to where Nick is trying to convince Frankie that what's in the bowl isn't vegetables.

***

The screen in the corner of the lounge is on, showing a news broadcast from whatever station is in range. Nick's the only one paying attention — Joe and Frankie are sprawled on the floor, engaged in building some fantastic construct out of bits of shaped scrap, and Card is reading on the tablet Joe found for him. Kevin has a book open on his tablet, but he's really dividing his time between watching all the others.

"You can't put that there, it's gonna fall over!" Frankie waves a curled piece of metal. "You need to — see?"

"Hey, where's the fun if it stays together all the time?"

"What about the green one?" Kevin suggests.

There's a blare of music from the screen, and Nick tells them all to shush. Premier Incio Sarab of Karlor took office this morning as president of the Council of Worlds. Newly made President Sarab said in his inauguration speech that he hopes his term of office will usher in an era of understanding and compromise among the worlds.

A man's voice takes over: My fellow citizens, we stand on the threshold of an ever brighter future. I hope that together, we can forge a new balance, in which every planet, and every citizen, has a voice.

The news announcer comes back on. The introductory convention of the Council is in session on Castel, and will stay in session for the next five days to outline an agenda for the year. It is expected that matters to be discussed will include interplanetary trade, freedom of movement, and citizenship regulations.

There's a clunk, and at first Kevin thinks it's another piece of Frank and Joe's thing that fell off and he just didn't notice. Then he looks over at Card. Card's sitting rigidly, and the thunk was the tablet falling onto the floor.

"Card?" There's no response, and Kevin leans over to the other end of the couch. "Card, you okay?"

Card jerks when Kevin touches his shoulder, one arm lifting halfway before he freezes. "Um. Sorry. Yeah, yeah, I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" The lights are pretty dim, but Kevin's sure Card's paler than usual, and he's staring at the screen like he's expecting it to bite him.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Card bends and picks up the tablet. "Must have just fallen asleep or something sitting up, you know how it is."

"Sure." Kevin goes back to his book, but he sneaks peeks over the top of it. Card reactivates his tablet, and he stares at it, but Kevin's sure he's not reading — he doesn't page on, just holds it up in front of him like he can hide from the newscast behind it.

*

Mike holds himself carefully steady for the rest of the evening, responds when someone says something to him, even manages to make a comment or two about the tower Frankie and Joe have started building after their previous attempt fell apart. He holds the tablet up in front of his face, flips a few pages, and sees absolutely none of the words on the page.

He thinks he might have gotten away with it — Kevin was watching him closely for a while, but he's either satisfied or accepts that Mike's not going to talk about it — but when he starts to leave at the end of the night, Nick slides in between him and the door.

Mike rears back. He doesn't really want to be close to people right now, and he really wants to be out of this room. Failing that, he'll settle for being on the other side of it. He starts to back away, but Nick acts as if he hasn't moved. "You going to explain that?"

"What?" When in doubt, act dumb while you gather information. He learned that one from — never mind.

"You know what. You recognized Sarab. How?"

Mike shrugs nonchalantly. "Hey, he's a politician. I must have seen his face before somewhere."

Nick squints at him suspiciously. "No. You knew him. How?" It's almost not a question at all.

"I told you, maybe I just saw his picture somewhere. Or maybe it was just someone who looked like him." Mike can't help conjuring up the face as he's speaking. The vidcast didn't do it any great favours, but it was never a very handsome face to start with.

Nick doesn't cut his glare. "It was more than that. You didn't just see him on a vidcast somewhere."

Mike glares right back. "No." There's no good answer to the question; he might as well burn his bridges.

"How do you know him?"

Mike just wrenches his arm free of Nick's grip and stalks past him. He'd spit something back over his shoulder, but he can't pick one thing out of all the noise in his head. Instead he just goes down to the cargo bay and paces, around and around, until he can't keep track of which way he's going and it's getting close to ship's morning. Then he climbs up on top of one of the secured stacks and stretches out on his back, out of casual sight.

He glares up at the ceiling and breathes, concentrating on the in and out the way he used to when he didn't want to have to pay attention to anything else. It's none of Nick's business, and Mike doesn't have to tell him. He shouldn't have to tell him. It's — what's past is past, and Mike'd really rather leave it all the way back there, as far back as possible, and not have to tangle with it anymore.

And yet. He breathes out hard through his teeth. He wishes he couldn't see the situation from Jonas' perspective, but there it is. Nick's brothers are on this boat, and Nick may be almost the youngest but that doesn't mean he can't be protective of his kin. Hell, that doesn't require blood ties at all. And Mike hasn't given any reasons why he's so quiet about anywhere he was before they found him in the cargo bay, or why he hasn't even given them his right name.

He can't stand the thought of saying it out loud. He's never been good with words, and they'll all be looking at him, and pitying him, and — he can't do that. He'd tell them over the comm, but he doesn't want Frankie to have to hear it. Kid may be out in the wild, but he's still worried about his homework. He should get to be worried about that, not about the shit people can do to each other.

The ceiling doesn't have any answers. Mike closes his eyes and keeps thinking about how he's breathing, all that air just going in and out, over and over. There's a tail of a thought that if they vented the bay, he's too far from the panic buttons to stop it in time, but maybe that'd be easier all around. Then he goes back to thinking about air and somewhere in there he falls asleep.

*

Joe doesn't say anything when Mike shuffles into the engine room some time well after breakfast and before lunch, just waves at him and says, "Something making a funny rattle. Wanna help me find it?" Mike picks up a light and a driver and joins Joe in peering into various bits of piping, and they don't really talk for the rest of the day. It's a relief.

It can't last forever, though. Mike pretends he has to wash up and doesn't slide into the galley until after the brothers are done eating. Nick follows him back in, though, and stands against the wall with his arms folded, just watching. It puts Mike off, and finally he snaps out, "Will you stop that?"

Nick, little fucker, just raises an eyebrow. "Does this have to do with why you won't use your real name?"

Mike sets his mouth and refuses to answer.

"Does it have to do with how we found you?"

Mike just glares harder.

Nick sighs and uncrosses his arms so he can rub at his face. "I'm willing to help you," he grits out, "But I want to know if this is going to blow back on my family."

"No." Mike can say that, at least, with some certainty.

"All right." Nick looks a little less stressed. "So what made you react the way you did to seeing him?"

He's not going to let this go until he gets an answer that satisfies him. Mike weighs his options. He's been accused of many things, including being stupid, but even he can see which way the moon's turning. He's been on shaky ground from the start, stowing away like that and giving no explanation, and with this added on — he's going to have to come clean, or Nick's just as likely to put him off the ship at Brennant, and he'd be within his rights. Joe might find another helper useful, and Kevin might worry about him eating, and Frankie might think he's all right, but if it came down to it — Mike wouldn't bet on any of them to out-stubborn Nick, even in combination. And Mike himself, in this, doesn't get a vote.

Finally he gets up and crosses the small galley. He stops a little more than arms' reach from Nick and pushes up the sleeves of the shirt Kevin gave him. He holds his arms out so Nick can see the marks around his wrists, turns them over so he can see the burn scars near the crease of his elbow. "I was one of his favorites." Sarab isn't responsible for all of the marks, by a long shot, but he left enough of them that Mike doesn't mind dumping them all on him.

He's watching Nick's face, so he sees when Nick gets it — his eyes go a little wide, and he sucks in a deep breath. "I see. How — you should report it."

"He didn't do anything that's illegal." Mike shakes his sleeves back down and turns away to get his plate off the table. He's not really hungry any more.

"But—"

"Not in that system." Mike scrapes what's left of his food into the recycler. "Happy now?"

"Not — no. Do you know any other names?"

"I didn't even know his until I saw him on that newscast." Mike scrapes a little more viciously.

"All right," Nick says. "I — thank you for explaining."

Mike fakes a shrug he doesn't really feel. "I get why you needed to ask," he starts, but when he turns back around, Nick's gone from the doorway, as silently as an air leak.

The ship feels strangely empty, when Mike follow. He knows the brothers are here somewhere — they kind of have to be — but he doesn't run across anyone on the way back to the engine room. Not that he's looking very hard. He ends up with Joe's biggest tool chest spread out around him on the floor, organizing everything in precise order of size and clearing out the random junk and wire-ends that always accumulate in the bottom of any mechanic's box, until it's nearly morning again and he feels like yeah, maybe he could sleep.

The idea of going back to the shared cabin makes his skin prickle, though. He ends up back in the cargo bay, up on top of the crates again, though this time he snagged a blanket from the common area on the way. It's not all that comfortable, but there's no one else in the room, and that's it's own kind of comfort right now.

*

Joe comes and finds him eventually. Or rather, Joe's the one who sticks his head in the door and calls "Card?"

Mike considers not answering, since it's going to give away his hiding place, but what the hell; it's not like there are many places you can hide even on a fairly nice ship, and on top of some crates is hardly stealthy. "Yeah?"

"There you are!" Joe grins up. "Dude, did you climb up there? Hey, I came to ask if you wanted something to eat."

That doesn't make sense all the way. "What time is it?"

Joe shrugs, loose and easy. "Something like midwatch. Nick's all busy on the deck, and Kevin's counting bandaids or something, so I figured you and me and Frankie could call it lunch."

What the hell. "Why not." Mike slides down the stack and comes to a decent landing in front of Joe. "Lead on."

"Excellent. There's a sandwich calling my name, I just know it."

Joe chatters on the way to the galley, talking about that weird rattle and what else it could be, and the upgrades he'd like to make to the ventilation, and streamlining they might be able to put in place on the propulsion system but of course there's no way to test that, not unless Nick agrees to let them hang dead for a while, which he won't. Mike nods at appropriate points, glad for the normalcy. When they get to the galley, he helps pull lunch together, still not saying much but surprised at his own ease in the space, getting dishes, finding the flatbread and thawing it, all of that. Frankie's in his usual spot on the counter, and he offers enough counterpoint to Joe's ramblings that Mike doesn't have to worry about being too quiet; he tunes out for a minute or two while the bread thaws and when he gets back to the conversation they're discussing growing bees or something, he's really not sure.

The conversation just gets wilder over food, and by the time the dishes go in the cleaner Frankie's wondering if they could herd some of those miniature saurians in the cargo bay for pets.

"We could, it'd be perfect! Card, tell him I'm right!"

"I've — never met a saurian. I'm not sure."

"Awww!" Frankie's groan of frustration must echo all the way to the navdeck. Mike can't completely stifle his smile.

"I'm telling you, bees are where it's at, Bonus." Joe ruffles his little brother's hair. "The engines'll make them feel right at home."

Frankie makes a face. "You don't even make sense."

Joe grins. "But I'm the engineer. Go ask Kevin what he thinks."

Frankie rolls his eyes so hard Mike can almost hear it. "You know what he's going to say. He'll say we should get one of those miniature tree-bears."

"Go ask anyway."

"Subtle, Joe." Frankie drags off with an exaggerated shuffle, and Joe pins Mike in place with a sharp eye.

"You all right?"

Mike blinks at him. "I'm fine."

"You sure? You just seemed — kind of off, yesterday. Everything all right?"

"I'm fine. It was just — yeah, I'm fine."

"Okay." Joe doesn't sound like he's doubting Mike, for which Mike is thankful. "But if you need someone to talk to — okay, actually, Kevin's probably a better bet."

Mike looks up at that. Joe's smiling kind of wryly. "But I figured I'd offer. Wanna go help me find that stupid rattling noise?"

Mike opens and closes his mouth a couple of times. "Sure." It's surprisingly easy to smile back.

*

By the middle of the next day-cycle, they're in hailing distance of Brennant's main station, and Nick gets them a docking slot. There's not much to do until it's open and they can unload the cargo, and no one can settle to anything with the prospect of getting off the ship and a new environment making them twitchy. Frankie pulls out a deck of cards, and they end up in a five-sided game of I Doubt It in the lounge.

Joe has just put down what he says are five ambassadors when a chime sounds, letting them know station customs and security is ready for them. Nick stands up and takes Joe with him, which is all that saves Joe from Frankie pouncing on him for outrageous lies. Kevin helps Frankie collect the cards together and puts them on the table. "I should go check there's nothing we need badly," he says.

Frankie groans out loud. "You're boring."

"I'll play cards with you," Card says. "We still have a while, right?"

Frankie makes a face. "Two-person games are boring."

"You just don't know the right ones. Here." Card picks the deck up and starts shuffling it, the lightweight plastic falling into a stack between his hands like gears fitting together. Kevin looks away and goes to check their stores. It hasn't been that long since they stocked up at Karlor, but you never know.

*

Mike looks around the docking area and rolls up and down on his feet a few times, getting used to the slightly heavier gravity of the station. He won't even notice in an hour, but for now it feels strange, like his joints are thicker and he's got a weight on his head pressing him down. A few feet away, Frankie's stomping up and down, enjoying the feeling.

Kevin and his brothers are having some discussion; Mike doesn't need to be here, but he hasn't quite brought himself to head off on his own yet. He tells himself he's not used to the gravity yet; he doesn't want to stumble like a total newb. He'll go in just a minute.

The other three break apart, Nick and Joe heading off in one direction while Kevin comes back over to Mike. "Frankie and I are going to go get some things, wander around. You want to come?"

Mike shrugs, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease out. "Why not."

"Bonus!" Kevin calls over. Frankie spins around and clomps back to them. "C'mon, we've got errands. Might be some cool stuff, too?"

Frankie looks dubious. "Your idea of cool stuff, or a normal person's?"

Mike can't stifle a laugh. "He's got you there," he tells Kevin. "Given I've seen you get excited about spinach."

Kevin makes a face. "That was only a little excited," he protests. "And I never said it was cool."

"Whatever." Frankie rolls his eyes and clomps off in a different direction to the one Joe and Nick took.

"Don't wander off!" Kevin yells after him. Frankie ignores him, but moves slower, though no less clompily.

Mike grins and tags along behind, not letting either of them out of his sight. His shoulders itch, but when he looks around, there doesn't seem to be anyone paying them any particular attention, just the usual mishmash of people with places to be, or just strolling and looking at what's going on. It's strange, being around this many people again, but it's kind of nice to get out of the ship. He's fine with any of the brothers, even Nick, but a change of scenery is nice. And air — he takes a deep breath. It smells different from the air on the Lovebug — still scrubbed, but with bigger scrubbers to make up for having more people to serve, and it just — it's different, is all.

He realizes he's dropped behind the other two and hustles a little through the crowd.

"So what's the plan?" he asks Kevin, when he's caught up.

Kevin waves the flimsy he's holding. "Some things I want to get that we couldn't pick up last time. Mostly medical stuff I don't want to be out of. Clothes for Frankie would be good, if we can find some that are all right." He eyes Mike sideways. "Clothes for you."

"For me?" He wasn't expecting that one.

"What, you don't want a shirt that actually fits?"

Mike can't truthfully say no to that, and Kevin can clearly tell, because he knocks his shoulder against Mike's — unless that's just the press of the crowd — and says, "It'll be awesome. If you really don't want it, we can pretend it's for me."

That fit isn't going to look any more comfortable than Kevin's shirts on Mike, but he'll play along. "Your wardrobe needs some expanding," he says.

"See? You're doing me a favor. Frank!" Kevin yells, and the youngest Jonas bobs back to them after a second, working against the crowd. "I said not to wander off," Kevin says. "I'll lock you back on the ship if I have to."

"I'd just pick the lock," Frankie says, walking backwards in front of them.

"Fine, then I'll put a giant flag on top of your head. I'm serious, you're shorter than almost everyone else here, and I don't want to have to spend hours tracking you down."

"Okay, fine," Frankie mutters, but he turns around and walks more sedately for a while. There's plenty to distract him, anyway — they're moving away from the docking area and into the more settled trading sections of the station. Temporary booths elbow for room with established storefronts, with occasional hawkers wandering up and down and trying to make themselves heard over the general hubbub.

"Here," Kevin says, and taps Frankie on the shoulder to get his attention. "Clothes."

While Kevin's trying to get Frankie to hold still long enough to check if a pair of pants would be long enough, Mike gets that neck-prickling feeling again. He wanders over towards one of the cheap mirrors scattered through the tables of folded second-hand clothing, and angles himself so he can see out into the stream of foot traffic. Two people are standing across the way, apparently having an argument about something. The man's even taller than Bill, Mike thinks, and wearing a painfully bright orange jacket; the woman has dark hair and sharp eyes that are looking straight at Mike. She sees Mike watching as soon as Mike makes eye contact in the mirror, and studies him for a second before she nudges at the man's arm. Both of them melt back into the crowd — as much as they can, with that jacket — and slide out of sight.

"Did you find anything?" Kevin asks, appearing at Mike's elbow out of nowhere. "Card?"

"Huh?" Mike's still trying to spot anyone else who might be looking at them.

"You're worse than Frankie." Kevin rummages for a minute or so, then comes back with some folded cloth that he slaps against Mike's chest. "Go see if these fit."

"Huh? Right, sorry." Mike takes the clothes and does as he's told, then follows along behind Kevin when they move on to the next stop, but he can't relax for the rest of their tour. A couple of times he thinks he catches a glimpse of someone ducking out of sight when he turns around, but — there's nothing there but a feeling.

*

They don't have that much when they come back to the Lovebug — some fresh foods and the basics of the medical restock, because Brennant prices are inflated beyond what Kevin wants to believe possible — but Card's dragging a little, and even Frankie has slowed down, worn out by the higher gravity. Okay, if Kevin admits it, he's feeling it too. Putting this stuff away and then not moving for a few hours sounds really appealing.

He turns to share his great idea with Card, but he's got his head down and his shoulders hunched in, like he's trying to be invisible. "Card?" Kevin asks quietly, but Card just shakes his head once, tightly. He wasn't like this a few minutes ago — Kevin looks around to see what might have changed. There's nothing he can see; the usual flow of people around the docking areas, with the odd Station Security uniform mixed in to make sure people are behaving. Nick's talking to a couple of people to the side of their lock, probably trying to organize some sort of cargo and thereby find out where they're headed next. Kevin hopes they get a little bit of a break after that; he thinks they could all do with some time on a nice moon somewhere, feel real ground under their feet.

Actually, that's not true — Nick's talking to one of the people, a woman in seriously awesome boots that Kevin kind of wants to steal, except for how she also looks like she could beat him up. The man next to her is really watching Kevin, or — past Kevin. Kevin looks, but all that's there is Frankie and Card stepping into the lock, Card with his shoulders still up around his ears. Kevin looks back and now the guy's looking at Kevin, like if he stares hard enough, he can see what Kevin's thinking. It's more than a little creepy, and when Kevin manages to look away, he hurries into the lock after Frankie and Card.

Joe's inside, hanging out in the empty cargo bay and waving his hands around like he's planning something.

"Who are the people Nick's talking to?" Kevin asks him.

"The two—" Joe waves a hand a good half-meter above his head. Kevin nods. "I don't know, they came along just before you got back and asked where we were heading. Nick said we were open, and they said they might have a cargo for us."

"That's all?"

"Yeah." Joe shrugs. "What, did you talk to them or something?"

"No, I just," Kevin shrugs back. "Just wondered, is all. So what are you doing?"

"Enh. Just thinking out loud. With my hands."

Fair enough. "Come up when you're done thinking?"

"Or when Nick's done, yeah."

Kevin nods and continues into the ship proper. When he's done stowing most of what he's carrying in the medbay, Frankie's still in the galley getting a snack, but there's no sign of Card.

Frankie just pokes at his noodles when Kevin asks. "I dunno. He went somewhere."

"Great, thanks." Kevin messes up his hair and Frankie stabs at him with a spork. Then Kevin has to retaliate, of course, and then Joe comes back, and they almost break one of the beakers when it bounces off the cabinet, the floor, Joe's foot, the cabinet again, and then hits the wall, so by the time Kevin remembers that Card's vanished, it's nearly dinnertime. By then, it seems to make more sense to just do a shipwide page than to try looking for him — and besides, he probably just went to lie down. He was walking like it hurt some, by the time they picked up the last of what Kevin wanted to get.

Nick comes in looking satisfied, and a little while later — long enough that Kevin's wondering if they're going to have to just start without him — Card appears, still looking tense but not like he's trying to fade into the background any more. Kevin lets Frankie bring the last dish over, they all sit down, and there's the usual pause before they all attack.

"So where are we going next?" Kevin asks, when the clatter of flatware has slowed down a little.

"Marquette," Nick says, after he swallows. "At least, we might be. The woman I was talking to said they have a cargo going out there, if we can wait until tomorrow."

"Do we know what the cargo is?"

Nick scowls at him. "No, I'm just going to agree to carry mysterious boxes around, because I love doing stuff like that. It's irrigation parts or something. They're going to a new agricultural area on Marquette."

"Marquette was terraformed way back when," Frankie pipes up.

"Maybe they want to grow something else," Joe offers. "Look, we'll check the cargo is what they say it is, the nice farmers get their pipes or whatever, it'll be fine. All right?"

"Right."

Card stays quiet through all of this; Kevin tries to catch his eye, but he just looks down at his plate and keeps shoveling food in.

*

"Isn't Marquette near Baptiste?" Kevin asks, when Card's helping him clean up after dinner.

"Pretty close." Card slides the last plate into the cleaner and closes it.

"That's where you wanted to go, right?" Kevin's not exactly thrilled about it, but he's trying to figure out what made Card clam up like that earlier.

"Yeah, I'll be out of your hair soon enough."

"That's not what I meant. You know you can stay if you want to, right?"

Card's shoulder twitches, like he's shaking off something annoying. "I should get on with things, you know? I know people on Baptiste. Or I used to."

"Okay," Kevin says. He can't exactly argue with Card wanting to have things like his own life again, after all.

*

Card pulls his disappearing trick again the next morning, when the guys Nick was talking to come back to sign contracts before loading their cargo. Kevin's not even sure when he disappeared, but he's very much not in the cargo bay right now. He shrugs to himself. Maybe he's keeping Frankie out of trouble, that'd be good.

Nick and the woman with the boots — who is still wearing them, and they are still totally covetable — stamp thumbprints and exchange tablets back and forth, while the guy with the mindreader eyes stands back and looks around like he's searching for something and trying not to get caught.

"Something wrong?" Kevin asks, after the third time he catches him shuffling off to the side and craning his neck like he can see around corners or maybe through walls.

"No, nothing. Nothing at all!" The man smiles wide and bright. "Didn't I see you coming back here yesterday?"

"Yeah," Kevin says. It seems pointless to try to argue that one.

"The guy who was with you — not the little one, the other one — what was his name? He looked like someone I used to know."

Kevin can't remember what name Nick put down for Card, but that doesn't matter. "I'm pretty sure he's a different guy."

"You sure?" the man presses. Kevin nods. "Huh. I was sure he looked familiar."

"Sorry he's not who you were looking for," Kevin says. He's pretty sure the man can hear how much he doesn't mean it, because he just raises his eyebrows and smirks. Still, he doesn't call Kevin on it, and Kevin doesn't ask him why he's so interested in Card, and they can all be friendly.

"Gabe!" the woman calls, and the man — Gabe, Kevin supposes — turns back towards the other two.

"We done?"

"We're done," she confirms. "Let's get it loaded so these good people can be on their way."

"We are going to check that the crate contents match the manifesto, Sera Asher," Nick points out.

"Of course you are," she says, with an understanding smile. "But the sooner they're loaded, the sooner you can do that, right?" She strides back to the cargo lock. "Let's do this."

The cargo bay isn't really large enough to let one of the drones maneuver in it, so they have to move the crates on skid-pads and use the small hoist Joe put on runners so it can reach almost all of the bay. Another pair of hands would be helpful, but Card still doesn't show up. Kevin doesn't blame him; Gabe is still looking around like he's trying to catch something at the corner of his eye, and while the woman — Asher — looks more relaxed on the surface, her eyes are unnervingly sharp, following what seems like every last thing going on. If Kevin was nervous, he'd stay out of their way, too.

She's right next to Nick when Nick pulls a random crate open and just stops.

"They must really need pipes on Marquette, huh?" he asks.

Asher nods. "So I hear."

"And… there's nowhere closer that they could get them?"

"I guess they need a particular kind, or something," Gabe says smoothly. "They're paying for it, who cares?"

Nick narrows his eyes and peers down into the crate like he's waiting for the pipes to turn into something else. "I suppose you're right," he says, and closes the crate again. "Fifteen crates of this?"

Gabe holds up a finger. "Fourteen. The last crate is full of connector pieces."

"Of course." Nick opens the crate he's pointing at. Kevin stretches his neck to check. Yup, those look like connector-y bits.

"Well, if you're satisfied that the cargo matches the manifesto, we'll be on our way." Asher take the conversation back. "Gentlemen, it's been a pleasure doing business." Both of them smile and saunter out of the cargo bay; Gabe turns back to give a little wave just before they go through the lock. Nick reaches out like he's on autopilot and hits the bay-close button.

"That was very strange," Joe says.

"Uh-huh." Nick keeps watching the closing door, like he's waiting for some kind of explanation to appear on it.

"I think we should check all the crates before we leave the station."

"I think that's a very good idea."

Kevin groans to himself. Station gravity isn't full gee, but still — they just got all those crates wrangled. He scrubs a hand through his hair and rolls his sleeves up.

***

Kevin's watching the consoles by himself in the middle of the night-watch, a couple of days out from Brennant, when the comm chimes with an incoming message. It's not a code he recognizes — meaning it isn't their parents — but he accepts it anyway.

A thin, sharp-featured man's face comes up on the screen. "This is Captain William Beckett. This message is for one of my crew who was seen in your company, a man called Adam Crocker."

Kevin pauses the message there. He considers using the comm to page Card, but it's a horrible way to wake up, and he doesn't actually want everyone up on the navdeck. Instead he pads down the corridors to the bunk rooms, and reaches up to shake Card's shoulder.

"Card?"

Card comes awake silently; the only indication is how he suddenly goes stiff under Kevin's hand. "It's me," Kevin whispers. "Kevin. A message just came in for you — or, well, Adam Crocker. It's from a Captain Beckett?"

"Okay," Card says, like he's not all that sure that it is. He rolls over and slides down to the floor. "Just let me — yeah."

Frankie makes a soft noise from the other top bunk. "Zup?"

"It's okay, Frank," Kevin tells him. "Go back to sleep."

He seems to, or at least he's quiet. Card touches Kevin's shoulder. "Okay, let's go."

Kevin leads the way to the navdeck, and he's all the way over to the consoles before he realizes Card's paused in the doorway. He turns back. "Card?"

Card's looking at the paused image on the screen. He shakes himself and comes the rest of the way into the room. "Sorry." He points at the screen. "It's just a message, right?"

"Prerecorded, not live," Kevin assures him. "Controls are there." He waves a hand at them and turns to go.

"You can stay," Card says. "I mean. Stay?"

"You sure?"

Card just leans forward and starts the message again.

There are a few seconds of silence; Beckett must have anticipated someone having to go get Card. Then he licks his lips and starts talking again.

"Adam," he says, then stops. "It's too weird to call you that. Mike, if it's you — send us a message? Please. It's the same code. We miss you." His mouth twists in a complicated smile. "Even Sisky." He hesitates, like he's about to add something else, then leans closer to the screen and the message cuts out.

Card sits and stares at the screen for a few seconds, then starts the message again. This time, Kevin finds himself noticing small details — the way Beckett's eyes flick to something on the other side of whatever console he's sitting in front of, the murmur of a voice too low for the recorder to pick up. The edge in Beckett's voice when he says "Please."

When it's played all the way through, Card leans forward and turns it off. He stays there for a long moment.

The air on the navdeck feels heavy. Kevin clears his throat. "Who was that?"

"He's — someone I used to know."

"It sounded like you used to be on pretty good terms," Kevin offers.

Card snorts. "Yeah, you could say that."

"Are you going to call him back?"

"I don't know." Card slouches back in the chair, still staring at the blank screen. Then he leans forward again. "Can you — you can find out the origin point of a message, right?" He pokes at the control buttons.

"I think so. It should be — yeah." Card seems to know what he's doing, and pulls a set of coordinates out of the meta-data of the message. He looks at it with his head a little on one side.

"So where's that?"

This part Kevin can do. He pulls up a starmap and enters the location. The console chirps.

"It looks like it's in the Alpharee system, right near to one of the moons of the second planet." Kevin overlays their plotted course on the map and raises his eyebrows at how close the red line comes to the blinking dot. "It's pretty much on our way to Marquette — do you want to stop there?"

Card swings the console chair back and forth a little bit. "I think maybe I should. And, yeah, I want to."

"It's close enough, I don't think even Nick will complain. Are you going to send a message first?" Kevin asks, then realizes how that sounded "Sorry, it's not my business. I didn't mean to pry."

Card glowers at the console. Finally he mutters, "I can't remember the contact code."

Kevin bites his lip. "Isn't it in the message data?"

"It's scrambled." He glances over at Kevin and scowls harder. "Quit laughing at me. Do you know the code for this ship?"

"Uh." Card raises an eyebrow. "No, I know it! It's juliet-delta-three-niner-four… um." Kevin trails off. It's a good thing Nick isn't hearing this; he'd never let Kevin rest until he could recite it in his sleep.

"See?" Now Card's the one covering a laugh.

"Okay, okay," Kevin mock-grumbles. He rolls his chair sideways and adds the detour through Alpharee into the planned route. It's not even that much longer than the route Nick set, just a shallow vee off to one side. "I'll tell Nick when he wakes up. It'll be fine."

"Okay." Card stands up and stretches, then hangs awkwardly by the console for a few seconds. "I guess — I'm going to go back to bed. Thanks for coming to get me."

"Sure." Kevin waits until Card's footsteps are almost to the door, then says, "Mike?"

There's complete silence behind him. Finally, Card says, "Yeah."

"Goodnight, Mike."

"… Goodnight."

Kevin smiles at the consoles, which don't care anyway.

***

The Alpharee system is about as unpromising as any Kevin has seen — small, rocky planetoids huddled in close to the star like they're afraid of the dark. None of them is terraformed — they're big enough to hold on to atmosphere, of a sort, but the closest world is searingly hot all the time, and the next one out is far enough away that the temperature plummets below zero in the middle of what ought to be summer.

"So now what?" Nick asks the navdeck in general, as the console helpfully informs them that the second planet has three moons of varying sizes, and the third planet only one orbiting near-asteroid. They're all squashed in to the small space, and it's more than a little crowded, but Kevin wasn't ready to cede his place, and he guesses everyone else as just as interested.

"Um," Kevin says. He hadn't really thought it through beyond getting to the system. Maybe they could send out a general hail, and hope that Beckett will respond? He glances back at Card — Mike — hovering in the doorway, but he doesn't look any more certain than Kevin feels.

Before he has to suggest anything, though, the comm lights up with an incoming hail. A man Kevin doesn't recognize comes on the screen. "Approaching ship, please identify yourselves," he says formally, the effect only spoiled by the fact he's not wearing a shirt. Kevin hopes he's wearing pants, but thankfully the view doesn't extend that far.

"This is the Lovebug, captain Nick Jonas, approaching on Captain Beckett's invitation," Nick returns.

There's a slight lag, then the man on screen raises his eyebrows almost to his hairline. "Invitation?"

Mike steps away from the door and into pickup range. "Butcher. Nice ink."

The man on screen — what sort of a name is Butcher? — freezes, then grins. "Well, look what the cat dragged in. Carden, good to see you breathing."

Mike doesn't uncross his arms. "Nice to be that way. You going to let us get closer?"

Butcher shrugs. "Well, seeing as it's you… Not all that much we could do to stop you, to be honest." He focuses on Nick again. "I'm activating a beacon for you. Just follow it in."

Nick checks the console and nods. "Thank you. We'll be there shortly." He enters a new heading into the console, and Kevin can feel the Lovebug's engine kicking up a little.

What comes into sight around the curve of the planetoid is — well, it's unlikely. It's not even really a ship; Kevin can see propulsion jets, but they look like an afterthought. It's halfway to being a miniature space station, and he supposes that's what it is, really; in orbit around a planetoid instead of an inhabited planet, scaled down in all ways. It has "LOT 45" painted across the broad side facing them.

"Look familiar?" Joe asks Mike.

"Not exactly," Mike says. He's frowning when Kevin looks over, but he doesn't offer any more explanation.

"Nick, you sure you followed the right beacon?"

"Joe." Nick pulls his attention away from the console for long enough to glare. "Where would another signal be coming from, anyway?"

"Sorry, sorry, of course you're right." Joe holds his hands up and grins.

"It doesn't look like it could fly," Frankie observes from his corner.

Nick taps buttons to send a new message. "Are we in the right place?" he asks Butcher, when he appears on screen again.

"Sure are." Butcher grins. "Clear to dock, Captain."

Mike steps back, out of the way, and Nick and Joe busy themselves with the fine maneuvering needed to bring one moving object alongside another one in precisely the right place.

The airlock is barely clear when a tall, skinny someone with wild hair hurtles through and jumps at Mike. He takes a half step back, then stands still; Kevin can see how stiff his back is.

"Mike!" the tall, skinny assailant is saying. "It's good to see you again. There was no one to hit me with bottles when you were gone, it was sad."

"Siska, let him breathe." That's the guy who hailed them — Butcher, Kevin remembers — and he really is as colorful as he looked on the screen. He is wearing pants, though, Kevin notes gratefully.

"He's Mike Carden, he doesn't need to breathe," Siska declares, and thumps Card twice soundly on the back before letting go.

"Welcome to our humble abode," and this even taller, skinnier guy must be Captain Beckett. He nods at Nick. "Captain Jonas, I presume?"

"For now," Joe mutters under his breath, right next to Kevin.

"Captain Beckett," Nick nods back. "We're glad we found you."

"Likewise." Beckett looks over at Mike, being held in place by Siska. "It's good to see you, Mike."

Mike just nods back, a little wary. "Bill."

Beckett watches him for another few seconds, then shakes off whatever mood settled over him and waves an arm towards the lock. "Shall we adjourn elsewhere? There are more people who want to see you, Mike, and the crew would like to offer all you gentlemen dinner."

*

Dinner is a confusing experience. Well, no, that's not true. Dinner itself (it's more like lunchtime on the Lovebug, but Kevin's not splitting hairs) isn't anything particularly off the wall; it's the station and its crew who are the confusing part. Captain Beckett is sometimes Bill and sometimes William — that's not too hard — but he is also sometimes Bilvy, which is when he throws things at whoever called him that. Butcher isn't Butcher's real name, but Siska — whose name is actually Adam — didn't fill in what his real name is, so Kevin's stuck with Butcher, and he's still a little worried where the nickname comes from. Card is Carden or Mike, which Kevin had gotten from the call with Beckett, and sometimes Michael, though Kevin's not sure how anyone knows when William means Card and when he means Chiz, who it turns out is also a Michael or sometimes Chislett. After all of that it's a relief that the other people on the ship, Naomi and Christine and a little girl named Evie, seem to only have the one name each. Christine and Evie aren't even there — "Visiting her parents," Beckett said breezily — so Kevin doesn't have to keep straight which name goes with whom there.

Once Kevin convinces himself to stop worrying about who's who at any given moment, though, it's good. Once he concentrates on the food, it's even better. There must be a hydroponic garden set up somewhere in the jumbled-together frame of the station, because they have carrots that Frankie is crunching on like they're chocolate-covered, fresh tomatoes, smelling sharp and green, and even a bowl of sliced plucots. Kevin takes some and just leans over his bowl breathing them in — soft fruits don't travel well, and it's been ages since he saw any fresh.

"Yeah, we do all right," Butcher says with a grin, when he sees Kevin's expression. It turns out he's the one in charge of the hydroponics, and they grow a lot of their own food. When Kevin asks, he goes into a long explanation of nutrient mixes and sunshine, and how using pulverized rock from the moon they orbit helps make the tanks more — Kevin loses him about there, but he's really enthusiastic about the whole thing.

After a little while, though, Siska distracts Butcher onto some tangent or another, and Kevin has some space to look around. Beckett's holding forth to Joe about something or other that involves a lot of handwaving, and Nick's looking on like he doesn't quite approve, but he's not upset, so that's a win. Kevin can't see Frankie straight away, and for a moment he panics, but then he spots him over to one side with the other Michael, and it looks like they're deep in some discussion, so Kevin doesn't worry. He just wishes he could puzzle out how all of these people are connected — he's pretty sure that Michael — other Michael — and Naomi are married or something like it, but then again, right now she's leaning into Mike with her head on his shoulder. Siska concludes whatever he was talking to Butcher about with a smacking kiss on the cheek, then goes and joins Joe's conversation with Beckett by dropping into Beckett's lap.

Kevin is very confused. It's okay, though; everyone seems to be happy, so it must make sense to them.

*

The fresher is just down the passageway from the big, friendly eating area. Kevin comes out and starts to head back to the party, but stops when he sees Mike — their Mike, as he can't help referencing him — leaning against the wall of the corridor on the far side of the doorway.

"You all right?" Kevin asks quietly.

Mike nods. "Yeah, just — a lot of people, you know?"

Kevin does know; it's nice to talk to new people, but he's glad that it doesn't take many people to keep a small ship running, even a clunky one like the Lovebug. He glances through the doorway, then back to Mike. "Would you mind company?"

"Sure." It's not exactly a warm welcome, but Kevin will take it. He slips past the door and leans against the wall opposite Mike.

"It must be nice to be home," he says.

Mike snorts out a small laugh. "I've never seen this place before," he says.

"But I thought—"

Mike shakes his head without lifting it away from the wall. "When I was with them, we had a little Venus-class boat, Mamba, bigger than your Lovebug, but not by all that much. I guess they decided it was time to settle down." There's a twist to his mouth that Kevin can't quite interpret. "It's good to see them, though," he adds. "It's… been a while."

"Are you going to stay with them?" Kevin asks.

Mike considers a minute. "I think so. It's as good a place as any to stop." There's a burst of laughter from inside the room, and Kevin watches Mike almost smile in agreement with it. "Better than a lot of places," he adds.

There's no logical reason why Kevin should be disappointed by that. The whole idea was to let Card — Mike — get back to his own life, right? It's good that he found his people, that he has a place of his own. Still, Kevin can't help feeling a little pang.

"Is Mike Carden your real name?" he hears himself ask. "I mean, just—"

"It's the fourth one since you met me, or whatever?" Mike tips his head back against the wall. "Sorry about that. It's not that I didn't trust you, just — I didn't trust anyone."

"It's okay." Kevin does, actually, kind of, get it.

"But yeah. Realest name I've got, anyway."

"It's—" nice to meet you sounds really dumb at this point, Kevin realizes. He switches to, "I'm glad we met you."

"Me too, kid." Mike looks at Kevin like he's waiting for something, or maybe about to say something, but he doesn't, and Kevin gets fidgety after a few seconds of being — looked at.

"Yeah. So, um, I should probably get back."

"Yeah," Mike agrees, but he doesn't push away from the wall. Kevin's not quite sure what to do; he dithers a second, then leaves him there.

*

The next morning, it's remarkably easy to get Mike packed up and moved. Of course it is — it's not like he had many belongings to pack, and most of what he had accumulated — mostly loaned clothes from one or another of them — he leaves behind, saying it's hardly fair to take them. It just seems like — it should be more work to rub out the traces of him on the ship, more than just stuffing a few old clothes in a bag and stripping his bunk. Kevin feels vaguely grumpy about it, but he goes down to say goodbye at the airlock.

Mike nods to them all, shakes Nick's hand in a weirdly formal way, fist-bumps with Frankie, pulls Joe into a half-hug complete with backslapping. Then he stops in front of Kevin and just — stands there. Kevin looks back, because — well, lots of reasons. He doesn't know what Mike wants him to do, and he's even less sure of what he'll let himself do, and it's all — yeah. And Mike keeps looking at him, and it's making him squirm. Finally Mike just nods again, and says, "Thanks."

"You're welcome?" Kevin chokes out, and immediately wants to slap himself for being a total dork. But the corner of Mike's mouth quirks up, so maybe it's not all bad.

Mike takes a step back, takes all of them in and says, "Thanks," again. "Maybe I'll see you again some time. Be good." Then he turns around and steps through the airlock onto the mini-station, whatever it's called; they never did get that sorted out. Kevin thinks he can see one of the others waiting by the inner door, but he's not sure.

"All right." Nick claps his hands together. "We'd better be heading for Marquette. Let's get this bug unmoored." He leaves the lock and Frankie follows him.

Joe lingers a minute, looking at Kevin like he was tragically hit on the head or something. "What?" Kevin asks.

Joe just shakes his head. "Nothing, nothing," he says. "Don't mind me."

The automated warning comes over the comm, telling them that the inner airlock is sealing, stand clear. Kevin takes advantage of the distraction to beat a retreat. He has — things to do. Yes.

***

If anyone asked him, Mike would say that home is the people, not the place — it has to be, when the place keeps changing — but as the airlock seals behind him, it doesn't quite feel like home. Home, but not. It makes him twitchy.

"So!" Bill claps his hands. "Good to have you back, Mike." He hesitates a second, then steps in and kisses Mike, quick and light. Mike holds still for it, but after a second he steps back.

"I gotta ask, Bill. Why now?"

"Why — what?"

Mike guesses he should have pressed this point before his escape route closed the airlock and left, but still. He needs to know, and better sooner than later. "Why did you call looking for me now? Why not look before?"

"We did," Butcher says. "That's how we heard — there's still a notice up on the Net. Someone on Brennant station recognized you from it."

"So you were just waiting to see if I could break out on my own? Did you have a bet running or something?"

"Break out — Mike, we didn't know where you were."

"Oh, like hell," Mike snarls. "They said they contacted you — said you blew off the ransom demand."

"Ransom — no." Bill shakes his head. "We didn't hear anything."

"But Shorty told me —" the obvious realization hits Mike like a cross to the side of his head and it feels like the deck shifts under his feet.

"Mike?" Bill again, and he's close, too close. Mike steps back and holds up a hand when Bill tries to follow. He can't believe he was so stupid, believing what they told him. Wasn't that what got him in trouble in the first place, trusting the guy who said he looked like he could use a drink when he walked into that damn bar after the screaming match with Bill? They took him and — and drugged him, and he still believed what they said? Fuck.

"We went looking for you." Butcher's holding his hands wide and open, where Mike can see them. "No one would say anything, just that you'd left with someone. After that — it went dead. But we looked. We did."

"It's why we bought this hulk," Bill says, from a little farther back. "We wanted — we needed some place to stay close, just in case you came back."

"I wouldn't have just left like that," Mike says. "You shoulda known that."

Butcher shrugs. "Tom just had, remember? We were — maybe expecting the next piece to break."

Yeah, Mike remembers. That was what he and Bill had been screaming at each other about, after all. "Yeah. Okay."

"I'm sorry we didn't find you sooner, but it wasn't because we weren't trying, okay?" Bill's chin twitches up and he backs away a couple of meters before he turns to leave. Mike watches him go and takes a deep breath.

"Okay." Butcher reaches out and snags his small duffel. "C'mon, this way. We got a room all set up for you."

The room's — Mike stops in the doorway. "You kept my stuff?" he asks. That's not his voice cracking.

He can hear Butcher's shrug. "Like we said, man. We hoped you'd come back."

Mike takes a step inside and looks around. It's a new space, but it has his collection of old books on holodisk, and the getar he picked up in a pawnshop near Tremolos. The bunk is even covered with the ratty old quilt that Bill always swore was sentient and trying to strangle him.

"Now will you believe us?" Butcher asks quietly.

Mike nods mutely, still looking at the things he hasn't seen in years and didn't think he'd ever see again. He turns around and Butcher's waiting for him, steps forward and wraps him up in a loose hug. It feels like a better fit than it did before.

"I was an asshole," Mike mumbles.

Butcher snorts. "Yeah, well. You're our asshole." He lets Mike go and steps back. "And I know you might not want to right now, but — anytime you do want to, you're welcome to join me and Adam. I mean, goes without saying, but we thought we'd make the offer clear."

And that's — "Things have changed?" Because they didn't used to operate in pairs.

Butcher nods, shakes his head, finally settles on a weird sideways waggle. "Yes and no. Company's still welcome, and people move around, but Bill and Christine stay together a lot of the time these days. Chiz and Naomi actually got hitched, went off to some place with bells everywhere and came back with some very strange stories."

"And you and Sisky?"

Butcher grins. "Well, I wasn't about to let him get away. Figured I'd better keep him too busy to notice there are better deals out there."

Mike can't help smiling back. "And — it works?"

"Much as anything ever did, yeah."

Mike nods, considering. It's not — maybe it's not the warm flush of new desire, but it's comfortably familiar, and he could do with some familiarity. "I think I'd like that, then."

"Yeah?" Butcher's grin grows a notch.

"Yeah."

"Awesome. Let me give you the rest of the tour, then. I know things got a little… whatever… last night."

Mike puts his small pack down on the old blue quilt and takes one last look around before following Butcher out the door. He was already pretty sure this was the right decision, but it might turn out to be a good decision too.

*

Butcher's tour of the miniature station — which, Mike finally finds out, is called Lot 45 for no reason other than that's what it was at the auction — helps; dinner helps more. There are rhythms to eating, talking, cleaning up, that haven't changed — probably can't. Mike helps with cleanup, stows dishes in strange cupboards, and finds himself being tugged down a corridor by Sisky before he expects it, Butcher coming along behind and yelling, "Night, losers!" back over his shoulder. Mike can hear catcalls; he's pretty sure that's Naomi.

"So," Butcher says, shutting the door behind them and blocking out all but the echo of the most raucous suggestions, "How do you want to do this?"

Mike's not sure. This is a new shape, a Butcher-and-Sisky shape, and he's not exactly sure how he fits into it now. He shakes his head.

"Hmmm." Butcher comes up behind him and props his chin on Mike's shoulder, slings his arms around Mike's waist. "I think maybe shirts off. Sisky?" Sisky grins and strips his shirt over his head; Butcher, of course, was never wearing a shirt in the first place. Butcher turns so it's clear he's talking to Mike. "Is that okay?"

"Yeah." Mike goes to take off his shirt, but Butcher's there before him, sliding his hands underneath the fabric — his own, not borrowed, but old and hanging loosely on him now — and pulling it up and off. Mike tenses for a second, but — fuck, this is Butcher and Sisky, they're not exactly threatening. He pulls the sleeves off his hands and drops the shirt on the floor.

He's not expecting the silence from both of them. "Fuck, Mike, what did they do to you?" Butcher asks, and oh yeah, he's in prime viewing spot for the mess of Mike's back. Mike crosses his arms over his chest, but that just draws Sisky's attention to the mess on his wrists. He drops his hands again and half-shrugs.

"Long story."

He can tell the other two are having one of those annoying mindmeld conversations over his shoulder, then Sisky steps forward and kisses him lightly on the cheek (what the hell). "I think maybe we should move this to the bed, yeah?"

The bed's big for a ship cabin, and it's soft under Mike's knees when Sisky urges him onto it. Sisky lies back near the far edge, and tugs at Mike until he lies down, too, facing him. He can feel the bed dip under Butcher's weight, and then there's warm skin behind him and Sisky looking at him way too sharply in front of him.

"Anything we should know?" he asks.

Mike searches for what he wants to say, how to say it without turning this into a confessional he doesn't want to be any part of right now or ever. He finally settles on, "Don't hold me down."

"We can do that," Butcher promises, and licks the back of Mike's shoulder. It's so random, Mike has to cough out a laugh, and Sisky grins back before leaning in and kissing him again, properly this time.

"You really missed me hitting you with bottles, huh?" Mike says when Sisky backs off for a second, but it's a weak joke.

"No one else has quite the same panache in personal injury," Sisky says.

"You've been listening to Bill's big words again."

"I have lots of 'em." Sisky grins. "Wanna hear?"

"Not really," Butcher says, and leans forwards over Mike's shoulder. "Shush and kiss me."

Mike watches. It's hardly the first time, but this — it's clearer than it was in his memory, of course it is, and it doesn't have the sharp edges that his tainted recollections had. It's different, too — nothing he can put his finger on, but it's there. There's something sweet in the kiss, and something hot, like the spicy pepper jam that got passed around with dinner. Possessive is a word that would fit, but they're sharing with him anyway.

They break apart and Butcher makes a happy humming noise before he dips his head to kiss Mike. Like watching them, it's familiar and new all at once, and Mike can't quite relax into it.

"You're thinking too much," Butcher murmurs. "Sisky, do something about that, willya?"

"I can't work under these conditions," Sisky complains a little breathlessly, but Mike can feel him moving on the bed, even if his eyes are shut. A second later he feels hands at his fly, and he jerks and sits up so fast that Sisky yelps and tumbles back against the wall.

"What the hell?"

"Carden?" Butcher sits up too, his hand hovering over Mike's shoulder, not quite touching. It pisses Mike off, but that barely registers over the sudden choking feeling in his chest. Sisky scoots back up the bed so he's sitting crosslegged, and rubs the back of his head with a frown. "Mike."

"I'm fine," Mike manages to say.

"That looked complicated," Butcher observes.

"Yeah." Mike drags in a deep breath and lets it out again.

"Wanna try that again while you can see what he's doing?"

"Am I gonna get kicked in the head?" Sisky asks.

"Well, I'll do it if you think I can do as good a job."

"Fuck you, I'm the blowjob champion here. I just want to know if I should get a crash helmet first."

"I'll try not to kick you," Mike offers.

"Golly, you sure know how to reassure a guy." Sisky smiles to take the sting away and wriggles back down the bed. He stays kneeling, this time, and pauses with his fingers just grazing the waist of Mike's pants. "Okay?"

"Yeah." Butcher moves around so he's propping Mike up. It makes him a little twitchy, but he knows it's Butcher — from his smell if nothing else, and his voice where he's humming nonsense under his breath again — and he leans back into the contact. Sisky waits until they've both settled before flipping open Mike's buttons, leaning back showily. He tugs Mike's pants down and pauses again.

"Still okay?"

Mike nods. Butcher hums in his ear and says something about suck him so good, c'mon, wanna see, and Mike can see Sisky's eyes flick to him for a second before he licks his hand and wraps it around Mike's cock. It feels good, of course it does, but it feels at a remove, like Mike's imagining it happen to someone else. He's turned on, he wants this, but his cock is barely interested at all.

Sisky jerks him a few more times, then leans down and suck's Mike's cock into his mouth. With Mike mostly soft, he can go down all the way, until all Mike can feel is hot, wet suction — still at that maddening remove. All the right signals are going in, but nothing is damn well happening. Finally Siska backs up and asks, "Am I doing something wrong?"

Mike clenches his jaw and shakes his head. "No, it's just — I should go." He pushes himself away from both of them and manages to get his feet on the floor. He wants his shirt back.

"Hey." It's Siska, but Mike can't look at him, is just glad he doesn't try to touch. "You don't have to."

"Yeah, no." Mike fights with his shirt; it's all inside-out. "What would you need me for?"

"Shit happens." Butcher's still on the bed where Mike left him, but he holds out a hand. "Keep us company anyway." Mike hesitates and Butcher adds, "Not like you've never done that before."

And — that's true too. Mike thinks about it another second, then drops his shirt back onto the floor. If he goes back out there now, he's going to have to deal with questions, and he's — he doesn't want to do that right now.

Butcher pats the bed next to him. "C'mon, you can help me put Sisky out of his misery. Just look at him, all revved up and no one to blow."

Mike snorts. "Just for that, I think he should make you wait."

"No, no, I take it back, Siska, don't listen to him, he's a bad man." Sisky's not wasting time pulling Butcher's shorts down anyway; Butcher watches him, bright-eyed, and rubs a hand through his hair when he comes back in range. Sisky makes a happy little purring sound, and bites Butcher's hip.

Mike just watches them: Sisky's mouth stretched and wet, Butcher's hands flexing on his shoulder and the cover of the bunk. It's been a long time since he got to watch this, but Sisky still loves playing to an audience, always comfortable but still conscious there's someone watching.

"Yeah, like that, just like that," Butcher croons. "Fuck, so good for me. Let Mike see you, honey."

Sisky's only response is to scratch his nails, hard, down Butcher's thigh. Butcher yelps, and there's a stifled chuckle, which makes Butcher grunt and twist his hips, which just makes Sisky suck harder. Butcher's hand — the one not twisted up in Sisky's hair — flails out and catches Mike's arm, tugging him in close.

Butcher bites when he's this close to coming, all teeth scraping at Mike's lower lip and desperate noises, opening wide under Mike and falling backwards like he just can't hold his head up anymore. His fingers on Mike's arm clench to the biting point, then go slack, and he groans like someone let all the air out of him.

Mike lets him breathe, and kisses his neck while he comes down, rubbing his nose against stubble. In a few seconds Sisky squirms back up the bed, horny and hopeful with his jeans still on. Butcher collects himself enough to get one button open, and then Mike steps in, opens the rest of the fastenings and slides his hand in. It only takes a few strokes before Sisky's coming hot over his fist and collapsing, half on Butcher and partly on top of Mike.

"Fuck, your hands," he mutters, and drags Mike's hand up from where he was trying to wipe the mess off on the covers. He rubs his thumb in circles over Mike's palm and says, "Your calluses are gone."

Mike shrugs as best he can from half-under him. "Didn't get to use my hands much for a while, there." Something about Siska's hand catches his eye, though, and he switches his grip around so he's holding Siska's hand. "What happened to you?"

There's a thick white scar winding its way across Sisky's palm and the whole length of his middle finger. "Broken glass." Sisky doesn't elaborate, and Mike can feel Butcher twitch next to him, so fine. Both of them have stories they don't really want to tell right now. It's a relief, in a way, that he's not the only one.

After a few more seconds, Butcher grunts and shoves at Sisky, and he rolls off to the far side. Mike lies there, not thinking about anything in particular, until their breathing evens out, and then a little bit more, and then he slides his hand out from under Sisky's and eases himself off the bed. He turns out the dim light and carries his shoes until he's outside the door. He can still hear low voices in the common area, but he just goes back to the room Butcher showed him first, crawls under his old blue quilt and stares into the dark until his eyes are too heavy to stay open.

***

"You're moping," Joe announces when he finds Kevin in the galley. He swings down onto the bench across from Kevin and stares at him — it's really kind of creepy. "Stop it."

Kevin blinks. He was kind of into the book he was reading, and it takes a little time to haul his brain back onto the right track, is all. "Huh?"

Joe's eyebrows get more intense. "You. Are moping." He laces his fingers on the table in front of him. "You should stop it."

"I'm not moping," Kevin protests. He's not, he's just — reading. It's — "Seriously, Joe, what?"

Joe stops making faces. Kevin's glad about that, because some of them were kind of freaky, but he doesn't do anything like go away or anything. Instead he just looks at Kevin — not with any weird expressions, not like he's trying to creep Kevin out, just — looking.

"You can still hang out with us, you know," he says.

"I do!" Kevin protests. "You're sitting here right now!"

"Because I came and found you," Joe tells him. "Remember when you used to hang out with Frankie? Or when you'd distract Nick so I could tie knots in all his socks?"

"I'm just reading right now!" Kevin might be less defensive if he knew what he was being defensive about. He waves the tablet in illustration.

"And I'll bet it's one of those cheesy romances where the mysterious hero sweeps you off your feet," Joe returns. "I'd bet credit."

"You're — you shouldn't gamble?" Kevin says, feeling half a step out of kilter with the rest of the conversation but unable to stop himself.

"It's not a gamble if it's a sure thing," Joe says. "I'm right, right?"

Kevin slumps, and he slides the tablet across the table to Joe. Joe tips his head to read it and sits back, smug.

"If I ever paid out on my own bets, I'd be rich."

"That doesn't even make sense, Joe."

He shrugs and grins. "It's still true, though." He drums quickly on the edge of the table. "So what are you going to do instead of reading books with dashing heroes?"

Kevin checks his chron. "I could start dinner, actually," he says. "Want to help?"

"Wrong answer!" Joe sings out joyfully. "You're going to come help me and Bonus rig the door of Nick's cabin to open and shut at random intervals all night."

"Joe, you sleep in there too," Kevin says. "You do remember that, right?"

"I'm willing to suffer for my art," Joe tells him. "C'mon, busy busy. He's only going to be distracted by transmissions for so long."

"Fine, fine." Kevin brings the tablet with him, because the last thing he needs is anyone else seeing it and deciding they can mock his taste in reading material.

The escapade gets derailed only a few meters down the corridor, though, when Nick comes down the steps from the navdeck. "Hey, guys," he says, but there's something a little off about his voice.

"You okay?" Joe lets go of Kevin's arm and steps forward until he's right next to Nick, shielding him in a corner.

"I'm fine," Nick says, patting Joe's arm out of the way. "Is Frank around?"

"Haven't seen him," Joe says easily. "Kev?"

"He was here a while ago," Kevin says.

Nick rolls his eyes at both of them and reaches back to smack the comm panel at the corner of the wall. "Frankie?"

There's a crackle and the comm comes on. "Busy!"

"I need to talk to you." Nick lets go of the button before Frank can say anything else, and leans back against the wall.

"What's up?"

Nick takes a deep breath. "We got a message from home."

"Yeah?" Kevin waits for the rest of it.

"They want us to come home," Nick says, and yeah, that's the other shoe hitting the ground.

"What?" Joe's disbelief is sharp, but he doesn't say anything ridiculous like 'That's impossible,' or 'You can't be right.' If Nick says that was the message — well.

"Dad says he thinks we've seen enough, and it's time for us to take up our responsibilities again."

"But we've barely been out here any time at all!"

Kevin counts in his head. "Actually, it's been more than a year, I think."

"Seriously?" Joe looks up and counts in his head. "Oh." He rallies. "I still don't want to go back, though."

Nick doesn't shrug, but he eyes Joe like he wants to. "We always knew this wasn't going to be forever."

"Yeah, I just —" Joe shrugs. "Why now?"

"They're worried about us," Nick says. "They want to make sure we remember our guiding values." He doesn't look at Kevin — or anyone — but Kevin can feel a sick blush working its way up his face. He's pretty sure they all know what Nick's not saying.

"You told them Card's not on board any more, right?" Joe asks. "I mean, if he was going to influence us, it's already done."

Now Nick looks at him, a wry, sideways look. "I think that's the part they're worried about."

"Who's worried?" Frank comes around the corner at speed and nearly cannons into Kevin. "Why are you all standing around here?"

"But I never told them about M—Card," Kevin says. "Did you?"

Nick shakes his head; Joe says, "What, and deprive you of the lecture?"

Frankie says, "Um."

"Franklin?" Nick almost has their mom's tone of voice down. "Something you want to share?"

"I think I might have told Mom and Dad about Card. Not details or anything!" Frankie adds. "Just that he was in the cargo bay and he was sick and he was kind of like a pirate." He deflates under their combined stares. "That was a bad idea, huh."

"Well—" Nick starts, but Kevin cuts him off.

"It's okay," he says. "I should have told them anyway."

Frankie makes a face like he's not sure he believes him, then shrugs. "Okay. So why did you want me?"

"Mom and Dad want us back," Nick tells him. "We're going to complete the shipment we're carrying, and then start heading for home."

Frankie makes a face. "Oh."

"I'm not thrilled either, little brother," Joe says.

Frankie scuffs one foot against the decking plates. "Yeah, well. Not like we're going to say no, right?" He looks up. "Was that it? Because I was running simulations on the heat shielding."

"That was the important part, yeah," Nick says.

"Okay." Frankie scoots off again. There's a clang in the distance.

The three of them look at each other.

"I'm sorry," Kevin says. He's not sure exactly what he's apologizing for — they did know that their term of freedom had a fixed end to it — but he's pretty sure that his actions are the precipitating factor in their parents recalling them now.

Joe bumps his shoulder companionably. "Not your fault. What were we supposed to do, throw him out?"

Kevin thinks Nick maybe would have preferred that, but he doesn't say it, just tells them, "The message is on the network if you want to see it for yourselves. We should be passing a relay point early tomorrow if you want to reply."

"Sure," Joe nods. "We should be getting back to that project now, right Kevin?" He waggles his eyebrows outrageously.

"Joe," Nick says. "What are you doing?"

"Important engineer stuff," Joe tells him. "Strictly need-to-know."

"Uh-huh. Right." Nick eyes Joe another second, then claps Kevin on the shoulder. "I'll be — well, you know." He gives Joe another wary look, but turns back towards the navdeck.

Kevin watches him go — he's not sure if that was approval, but — it didn't seem to be blame, anyway. He's not entirely sure what to do with it, but he'll certainly accept it.

"Are you coming?" Joe calls back to him. Kevin pulls his attention away from the empty corridor and follows him.

***

It's not as weird as Mike's expecting the next morning, but it's not exactly easy, either. He keeps being surprised by people, or not knowing who's behind him, and it doesn't help that he got lost looking for the fresher before he was even awake, despite Butcher's tour of the place. He finally ends up on the floor of the common area, stacking up a bunch of cling-blocks that must belong to Evie. He's kind of glad she and Christine aren't here right now; the last time Evie saw him, she didn't even have teeth, and he's not sure he could take being a stranger to her right now.

He can't put off interacting with the rest of them indefinitely, though, and finally Siska comes and flops down crosslegged next to him.

"Was it that bad, last night?" he asks quietly, turning a block over in his fingers.

Mike shakes his head and adds a green hemisphere to the top of his pile.

"Just, we were sort of surprised you were gone this morning."

"Couldn't sleep."

"Yeah, I get that. I just wanted to check we hadn't, like, traumatized you for life or anything." Siska leans back until his top half is flat on the floor, his legs still pretzelled up underneath him. "I know our combined powers are pretty awesome." He grins up at Mike.

Mike musters a grin back. "Nah. It'd take a lot more than you and Butcher double-teaming to do that."

"I just wanted to check," Sisky says again. "Because — I dunno." He waves a hand in the air. "It's gotta be weird for you too, being back, right?" He sits back up and offers Mike the block. "This one next."

Mike takes it and starts an extension off one side of his stack. "It's different," he allows.

Sisky studies the palm of his hand — the one with the scar, Mike realizes. "It's weird when things change, I mean, and sometimes they don't go back the way they were all the way." He wiggles his fingers at himself, then tips his head at Mike. "And I'm having a heart-to-heart with Mike Carden. Fucking unbelievable."

"Language," Bill chides from the doorway, and Mike turns around to look. He narrows his eyes How long have you been standing there?, and Bill shakes his head slightly: Just got here, or maybe Not telling, Mike can't tell for sure any more.

Sisky snorts. "I am not adding to the swear jar. Evie's not even on board."

"Still." Bill comes closer and assesses their — really pretty awesomely lopsided — tower. "I like the green bit," he declares. "Either of you gentlemen interested in lunch?"

"Food? Sure." Sisky pulls himself up off the floor like it's easy, and holds a hand down to Mike. "You?"

"All right." Mike lets himself be pulled up. Damn, Sisky didn't used to be able to do that. "Lead on."

Sisky bounds off ahead — in the direction of the food, Mike can only assume. Bill waits until Mike catches up, then bumps him gently with one hip. "You okay?"

"Fine," Mike says on reflex, and catches Bill's frown. He thinks about it. "Okay, I don't know. But I'm all right."

Bill gives him the searching look for another few seconds, then nods and motions for Mike to go ahead of him. "That's okay," he says. "No one's looking for perfect."

*

Mike keeps being caught by things that are different, but some things stay the same. Chiz with a getar is one of the things that's the same, and Mike's really glad about that, because he's not sure what he'd do if Chiz didn't pick up stringed instruments and noodle at any excuse.

Chiz pauses in what he's doing and look up. "Join me?"

"Yeah, just let me get mine." Mike backtracks to his cabin for his own getar. He folds down across from Chiz and settles it in his lap. He's not expecting anything good when he tries a chord, but all the strings are there, and even in tune.

"Figured I could take care of it for you," Chiz says, and Mike ducks his head, because — well.

"Thanks." Mike still spends a few seconds fiddling with the pegs, trying to decide if he's really up for this. It's been a long time since he got to make music, and for a second his head reels; it's like another life overlaying his own, or what his own is now.

But then Chiz brushes his hand down over the strings, and Mike settles back with the guitar, bends his head over it and follows along where Chiz is going, wherever that might be. It's not a tune, and definitely not a song — it's nothing so structured. But it's music, notes and chords twisting around each other, folding back and forth and making something bigger.

Mike has to pay too much attention at first, concentrating on what to do and how to move his fingers. But as they keep going — as his fingers start to get sore in old remembered spots — it comes easier, and he can look over and see what Michael's doing as well as hearing it.

They drift into a simple melody, just lightly strummed chords that fit together in some places and sometimes don't, but it all works out. Mike finally feels like he has a handle on this again, and it's nice — he and Chiz still click that way, even if times have changed. They can still make music, even in a place Mike doesn't know.

He glances around the room, filled with a mix of things he recognizes and ones he never saw before, and at Chiz, still curled around his guitar across from him. "How did you guys end up here?" he asks.

"Hmm?" Mike can see Chiz shake the music off and tune back into the place where conversation happens. He lays his hand over the strings to silence them; Mike keeps strumming, giving himself a little background noise to hide behind. "Oh, the station? We just — it was a few months, I guess, after — you know." He fidgets with a string. "And we'd been drifting around the area for a while, not wanting to leave just in case, but — well, ship's not meant to stay in one place, you know?"

"Must have made everyone twitchy."

"That's the word. It was a strange old in-between for a while. But then Butcher got word of this place — well, the core of this place — someone wanted to get rid of, and he told Bill, and he told the rest of us, and it turned out — we were all ready for something maybe a bit more settled." Chiz stops to snort. "Good thing it was cheap, because the place was a wreck. We had to keep living on the Mamba until we got the recyclers working and more than one airtight room built."

Mike stops playing; he needs more concentration than he has spare. "You built it?"

"Butcher didn't say?" Chiz sounds surprised. "Yeah, it was just —" He looks around. "I s'pose it was the turbines and the recyclers, and this space, but it was smaller. And then a cabin, I think, and that was it. It was a weird in-between itself. Butcher and Sisky must have spent weeks outside when we were fixing it up, and the rest of us were just trying not to kill each other."

"Sorry I missed it," Mike says. He is, really. He can only imagine the closeness and the chaos, and with a little nostalgia added in, it sounds pretty good.

"Nah, you'd have gone mental and thrown us all out after two weeks," Chiz says. "But we got through it all right."

"How long did it take?"

Chiz shrugs. "You ask Butcher, he says it's never finished. He just added more storage space, and I think he's been confabbing with Bill over blueprints again. Soon's we have the parts or the credits for 'em."

Which was the next thing Mike was wondering. "So if you"— he's not sure he can say 'we,' not yet — "stay put, how do you pay for things?"

Chiz shrugs again. "Don't need all that much. Butcher grows a lot of the food now, and what we need to buy in, we can trade produce for. We kept the shuttle; we pick up short-range cargo if we need credits, or to pay for reactor mass. Or strings." He twangs one of his in illustration. "Christine's moving some crystal electronics, I think, to cover the trip to her parents'. It all works."

Mike nods slowly. "You have it all figured out."

"It figured itself out," Chis says. "Really. Once we made the decision, it was easy, like — this is where we're meant to be."

"Yeah," Mike says, and lets his fingers sweep across the strings again. "You seem happy."

Michael doesn't pick up playing again yet, just sits in his bag and watches Mike. "We are," he says. "And, y'know, there's room. Can always add more space if we need to."

"You asked the rest of them if they agree?" Mike challenges him.

"Not saying the subject hasn't come up, but I don't need to ask," Chiz says equably. "We're all family. You didn't fall out of that just because you were gone."

Mike nods slowly, processing. He believes Chislett, is the thing, but he's still not sure it's true. He's pretty sure it can be real and not, at the same time. "Okay," he says finally, and shifts to a D-chord. This time, Chiz follows along, and they just sit there making music for a while.

***

"I still can't believe that they couldn't get pipes anywhere else," Nick gripes as the last crate gets trundled off. "I mean, pipes. What's so special about them?"

Kevin just sighs inwardly; Nick has been shades of incredulous ever since they checked all the crates and discovered that sure enough, all of them were full of lengths of pipe. Apart from the one with the connector-y bits, of course. Kevin will admit he's more than a little suspicious himself, but like the man said — they're getting paid for it. All the same, he's just as glad to see those crates gone off the Lovebug.

"Got another job lined up for us?" Joe asks.

Nick stops watching the crates leaving and turns to face them. "We have to head back towards Blackland anyway. Should I look for another cargo, or will we just fly empty?"

Joe purses his lips. "Makes better business sense to have a payload."

"But you have to balance payoff with efficiency," Nick counters. "What do you think, Kevin?"

"I — either way, I guess." Kevin's been trying to forget their recall notice, and he's avoided thinking about any of the practicalities along with that.

"That's helpful." Joe turns to Frankie. "Bonus, what say you?"

Frankie shrugs. "You won't let me open the boxes anyway."

Kevin bites down on a laugh; he's not sure Nick thinks it's funny, after the third time he had to chase Bonus off a cargo they were carrying. Frankie's (totally understandable) point was that he wanted to make sure the flux capacitor worked before they delivered it.

"How about we see if anyone wants stuff taken back towards Blackland, and if we don't turn anything up in a day, we start back empty?" he suggests. "Nothing says we can't keep checking on the way."

Nick nods. "That sounds all right to me. Guys?"

Joe nods, Frankie just rolls his eyes.

"So can we get out of here already?" he asks. "I want to see if anyone here has the new Galactica disk."

"As long as you stick close to — Joe, it's your turn, right?" Joe nods. "Do not wander off."

"Yes, Mom."

Kevin swats him lightly on the back of the head. "Behave."

All he gets in return is another "Yes, Mom," tossed over Frankie's shoulder as he runs to get his real shoes. Kevin just shakes his head at Nick's snicker.

"Anything on the shopping list I should look for?"

"I — don't know. Um. I haven't checked."

"You feeling all right, Kevin?"

Kevin waves a hand. "Yeah, fine, I just got distracted, I guess. Um, I'll check to see if there's anything we really need, but if we're heading back home, it's not like we need to stock up, right?"

"Sure." Nick studies him for a few seconds. "I'm going to head out, then. See you back here in a bit."

"Sure." It's not like all of them don't have the code to the hatches.

Kevin checks the food supplies, the med bay — they could use more skin sealant, after Frankie's skid down the ladder to the engine room a few days ago, and with the way Joe keeps taking skin off his knuckles on machinery — makes a short list, then makes sure the ship's locked down before he wanders off into the commercial area of the station. He picks up the sealant and a few other things first, then wanders the stores and the less formal stalls, just looking at what's spread out, idly considering getting something for their mom. A Souvenir from the Rim! He snorts. She probably already has the complete set.

A screen is running a newscast, and he stops to watch; no harm in knowing what's going on. He thinks the broadcast's done, but then another set of glyphs flashes on the screen, angry red, and he stops, transfixed.

*

"Everything all right, bro?"

"Fine." Kevin keeps slicing protein cake into even pieces, laying them flat to squeeze the extra moisture out.

"Just, you seem a little edgy."

"I'm fine."

"You know if anything's up, you can tell me, right?"

"It's fine." Kevin spins around and snaps at Joe.

Joe raises his hands, open and empty. "Okay."

"So you don't need to ask, okay?"

"Okay. Um. Can you put the knife down?"

Kevin looks down. He's got the knife maybe a centimeter from slicing the front of Joe's shirt. "Oh. Sorry." He goes to put the knife on the counter, fumbles it, manages to catch it without slicing any of his fingers off, and finally gets it to stay in place. "Sorry."

"It's okay." Joe's voice is calm and even. "Wanna tell me what that was about?"

Kevin holds himself up for another couple of breaths, then slumps. "You didn't see any news broadcasts on the station?"

Joe shrugs. "I saw a couple, sure, but I was too busy riding herd on Frankie. Something bad happen?" He reaches out to swipe a piece of protein.

"There's an arrest notice out on Mike. Card."

Joe stops with his mouth full of protein cake. He finishes chewing, swallows, and says, "That doesn't make sense. Are you sure it was him?"

Kevin nods. "They had an old picture of him."

"Still doesn't make sense. He hasn't had time since he left to get in trouble, right?"

"No." Kevin finishes laying the slices of protein out and drops a cutting board on top.

"Nick's going to have fits."

"And kittens," Kevin agrees.

"Maybe even canaries. Hey, there's a thought."

"Canaries?" Kevin thinks he must have missed something.

"Yeah, they used to use them on Old Earth, they'd — sing if there was danger, or something."

"Um. Yes?"

"Was the arrest notice a local broadcast?"

"I have no idea. Why?"

"There might be a lag before the news gets off-planet. You could call him, and make sure he knows about it."

Kevin ducks his head. "I didn't get a call code for their station, and when they called us, it was scrambled."

Joe gapes a little. "You're hopeless. Here I come up with a perfect excuse for you to call him, and you don't have his code?"

Kevin frowns. "Why would I need an excuse to call him?"

Joe smacks a hand over his face and drags it down. "Kevin. Kev. Please tell me you're kidding."

"About what?" Kevin is very confused.

"You can't think why you'd want to call Card? You know, the guy you've spent the past two weeks pining over?"

"I have not been pining!" Joe just looks at him flatly and after two whole seconds, Kevin caves. "Okay, maybe there was a little pining."

"A little, he says." Joe shakes his head sadly. "Kevin, who was the last person — not related to you — who you deliberately spent time with for fun?"

"Uh." Kevin can answer this one, he knows he can. He just — needs a little time to think, is all. "Zac?"

"Yeah, Zac. And that was more than a year ago, before we came out here, and he never made you smile the way Card did."

"That was—"

"And I'm pretty sure you didn't make him smile the way you did Card."

"Joe." Kevin rubs at his face. This conversation is making him feel tired.

Joe shrugs. "I'm just saying. But — actually, I don't know if Nick will get bent out of shape about it. He can put things together as well as you can, and he can figure out that even if Card did do it, that can't be the whole story, with the shape he was in when he turned up."

"You think?"

"Yeah." Joe sounds pretty cheerful about it, so Kevin decides to believe him for now. "So if you can't call him, how about we make a little detour on the way home?"

Kevin hadn't even thought of that. "To… their station?"

"Sure. We're heading back, we can do a little sightseeing on the way."

"Nick'll never go for it."

"So we set the course before he gets a chance to object." Joe thinks for a second or two. "Actually, I don't think it's even that much of a detour, since we're heading home, not back to Brennant the way we came. It's more like us taking two sides of a triangle instead of one."

"Yeah?"

Joe nods more certainly. "It'll be longer, but not, like, twice as long or anything. And besides, if Nick kicks and screams too much, we can mutiny and take his vote away."

Kevin grins. "I always forget that option."

"That's why I am here to remind you. And Kevin? This time, get his number."

Kevin shakes his head and agrees. It won't make any difference in the long run, but it'll make Joe happy — and if he admits it, it'll make him happy too.

***

Mike knows, if he makes himself meet his own eyes in the mirror he knows that it's not all on Bill that he can treat Mike just like he used to right up until he claps him on the shoulder and Mike almost hits him because he didn't know Bill was there, or on Michael that they can be fiddling around with the turbines until Chiz asks him to shift that block and Mike can't, again, because despite him trying and everyone else feeding him he still hasn't gained back the muscle mass, and he's really, really over having to ask for help.

He hasn't even — he let Butcher and Sisky drag him off to their cabin one more time, but if all he's there for is as an audience, well — there are three other people on the station right now who'll at least get something out of it. He didn't even bother waiting until they were asleep before ducking out, and neither of them tried too hard to stop him.

So he knows it's not just everyone else treating him like they never know how he'll react, or it's not just that they're making it up. He just — he can't help the hot, frustrated feeling banging around under his skin, and he has a feeling he's even crankier than usual, these days. It's probably just a matter of time before someone breaks it to him that hey, great to know you're alive, now please fuck off again so all of us can settle down and stop jumping at shadows.

This is one of those times when living in a closed space gets on his nerves; he wants to move. Walking around the station means probably running into someone, though, and the last thing he needs is someone reminding him of his own skin. Swimming in one of the water tanks is kind of a gross idea, even if it was possible. There is the small cargo bay, though; he remembers seeing it on Butcher's short tour, though he hasn't been back since.

He goes to investigate and yeah, it's still there, about one-third full, with crates scattered around the place pretty haphazardly. He checks the labels, and they all seem to be various food staples, none so heavy or large as to need a drone to move them — and lookie, there's a handtruck tied up against the wall.

He starts by just hauling boxes around for the hell of it, but then he sees that there are two crates of rice at opposite ends of the room, and the open box of quinoa has a more recent date-stamp than the one that's still closed, and there's a small, heavy crate of something that looks like it's meant for plants, and he starts moving them back, with purpose this time.

It takes maneuvering, but finally he has things arranged so all the labels are visible, and they're stacked in the order they were stamped in (apart from the one that was already open), and there's a lot more open space in the bay. If he screwed up someone's system, he might apologize, but from the way they were — he's pretty sure no one had gotten around to it.

The physical effort makes him feel better, like something's not wound so tightly anymore. It feels good to have solved a problem, too, even if it wasn't a problem for anyone else. He suspects he's swaggering a little as he goes over to the comm-box to call the hydroponics space.

"Hey Butcher, got a plant question for you."

There's a pause, then Butcher's voice comes back to him "Yeah?"

"I'm in the cargo bay. Is this box of… 'Optimal Nutrient Additive' for you?"

"Oh, hey!" Butcher sounds pleased. "I was wondering where I'd put that. Yeah, bring it down."

"Sure." Mike releases the button. He'd roll his eyes, but Butcher's hardly the only one capable of losing his own supplies. He wangles the crate onto the handtruck and hauls it over the sill of the pressure-tight door. After that it's easy; the corners are a little tight, but the crate is small enough to fit. He feels like he ought to be whistling or something, it's weird.

He's most of the way to the room with the hydroponic setup when Butcher's voice booms out over the comm in a shipwide PA.

"Lazy asses, get 'em down here. I need everyone to help change tanks."

There's a rattle, and Sisky's voice takes over.

"Persons choosing not to participate won't get strawberries. That means you, Bill."

Naomi's voice follows the next click. "I'm busy."

"You are graciously excused," Sisky tells her. "I'll even save you a strawberry. The rest of you get down here."

He's just turning away from the comm when Mike pulls the loaded handtruck through the doors.

"Delivery for the strawberry dictators."

"My box! Excellent." Butcher points at a dry corner. "Put it over there, then come help with this."

This time Mike does roll his eyes, but he leaves the box and then joins Butcher and Sisky by the tanks.

"So what's going on?"

Mike doesn't understand more than about half of Butcher's explanation — there's stuff about flushing lines, and nutrient mixes, and UV exposure in there — but the upshot of it is, they're moving stuff. Old plants coming out, new plants going in, tanks being drained and refilled, with a lot of water sloshing around in between. It doesn't take long for Mike to get spattered with water, same as Michael — and probably Butcher, though since he's wandering around in those damn pink short-shorts that still haven't fallen apart (unless it's another pair just like the ones Mike remembers), he's just dripping a little. Bill somehow got the job that keeps him mostly dry — he's out of the way, referring to a chart Butcher handed him and lining up trays of tiny plants nestled in foam blocks.

It's probably more complicated to anyone who knows what they're doing, but Butcher's already done the planning; all Mike needs to be is another pair of hands to help string hoses, tilt tanks, haul another armful of exhausted vines to the recycler. Once one end of the big room is cleared, the work switches over to adjusting racks, setting up rows of deep troughs, and hauling buckets of what looks like sand to spread in the bottom of the containers. Sisky's stirring a giant vat of water-plus-something, soaked to the armpits, and he's grinning like a kid at the playcenter.

"Can someone get the other end of this?" Chiz asks, from halfway up a ladder.

Mike's closest and his hands are empty, so he climbs up at the other end of the trough Michael Guy is holding on to. "What are we doing?"

"We need to move it — Butcher, you want this up one notch?" Chiz calls down. Butcher looks at the setup they're in front of, over to another one, and nods.

"Just one. Careful, it's already full."

"Okay, so on three. One, two—" They lift the trough out of its supports, and Mike reaches up with it to settle it in the next rack up. Chiz takes a step up his ladder instead, the trough wobbles, Mike's grip slips, and he ends up with a wave of gritty water right in his face.

"Ack!"

"Sorry!"

Mike guides his end of the trough into its supports and climbs down the wet ladder carefully. "Come down from there, I'll sorry you," he tells Chiz.

"Nah, I'm good." Chiz grins down at him.

"You should rinse off," Butcher says. "Don't want that stuff on your skin for too long, or your eyes." He waves at a pipe that comes down right over a drain that Mike thinks leads back into the recycling tanks. He'd assumed it was somehow part of the filtration.

"Did I just poison myself or something?" The little bit of water that did get into his mouth didn't taste all that great.

"Uh. Probably not? Better rinse your mouth out, too." Butcher nudges him towards the pipe. "Go on."

"You just want to see me in a wet t-shirt," Mike grumbles, but he goes. The water that comes out of the pipe is cold enough that he gasps and gets water in his mouth again, but he stays under the stream long enough to rinse off.

"Okay?" He can feel his arms and legs wanting to shake when he cuts the water flow. Around his feet, the runoff swirls out of sight almost immediately, and he thinks he can hear a pump chugging into life.

"Yeah, you're probably good," Butcher says. "Now go get some dry clothes. We're almost done anyway."

"First I need to hug my buddy Michael," Mike says, advancing to the ladder. Chiz tries to climb out of reach, but he's most of the way up the ladder already, and short of climbing onto the hydro tubing, he's trapped. Mike wraps his arms around one knee and squeezes, trying to get as much of the water as he can out of his clothing and into Michael's.

"Get off me!" Chiz flails but there's only so much he can do without toppling both of them off the steps. Mike rubs his cheek — and his soaked hair — against his side, then figures he's done enough damage and goes to change.

He's got dry pants and is looking for a thicker shirt when there's a rap on his door and Bill slides it open.

"Hey, recovered from…" Bill sort of trails off at the end, and Mike turns around to see what's up.

"Yeah?"

Of course Bill's staring at the fucking scars. Doesn't everyone? Mike just stands there and lets him stare, holds his arms out to the sides and turns back around so Bill can get a better look. Bills' eyes snap up to his when they're facing again, guilty.

"What happened?"

Mike shrugs and yanks the shirt on. "It's been a long few years, is all. You know, wear and tear. Scuffmarks in the paint. I'm fine." He starts for the door, but Bill won't move aside to let him out.

"No, what happened, Mike? I knew — we knew you went missing, but — what happened to you?"

Mike grits his teeth. He knows — he thinks he knows — why Bill's doing it, but saying he went missing, like Mike fucking wandered off and forgot to come back, brings back all the frustrated twitchiness of that morning. He wants to throw something. "I didn't go missing, Bill, I got snatched. You think they did it so they could teach me awesome new dance moves?"

"But — you said you hadn't been working—"

"Not with my hands."

He sticks his jaw out, glares at Bill, daring him to put two and two together.

"Oh, Mike."

"Can we skip the 'oh how dreadfuls'?" His voice scratches in his own ears.

"I thought—" Bill tries to say it, can't. "I thought …they… were treated well?"

Mike tries for a smirk but he feels it probably comes off more like a sneer. "Someone like you, maybe." His handwave takes in Bill's clean lines, his still-pretty face. "But you think this is worth treating well?" He gestures at himself with one hand. "Why bother being careful?"

"I'm so sorry."

"Fuck that."

"I didn't know."

"I didn't want you to!"

"But—"

Mike bowls right over him. "It happened, okay? It was utter shit, and thinking you guys knew and didn't care was just a topper. But it's over, and I'm fine, and I don't need your fucking pity!"

"Mike—" Bill reaches out with one hand, but Mike shoves past him and out the door. He doesn't really want witnesses to this, but he doesn't want to be trapped in his room, either.

"Leave it." He storms down the hallway, but Bill refuses to give up.

"I just want to help, Mike—"

Mike wheels around. "Then don't treat me like I'm fucking broken! Don't act like I'm something pathetic and damaged, and don't fucking tell me you're sorry!" His voice cracks on the last word. He's right up in Bill's face, but at least Bill's not acting like Mike's a wounded baby deer anymore.

Someone clears their throat behind him. "Um. Guys?" Sisky says.

Mike closes his eyes and wishes, briefly but desperately, for some of whatever Ericks had that made you not care that people were watching. He feels like his skin's peeled off him, all the scars opened back up and leaving his insides hanging out for anyone to gawk at, and he really can't stand it right now. He shakes his head fast and slides past Bill without touching him, looking at his feet all the way back to his room.

*

Michael's the one who comes and finds him, lets the door slide shut behind him while Mike sits curled up at the head of his bunk.

"I should go," Mike says finally.

"Aw, c'mon," Michael says. "Give it some time. You've got a lot to get used to."

"No, it's—" Mike shakes his head. "I don't fit here any more, Chizzy. You all remember who I used to be, and I'm not — I don't think I'm him anymore."

Chiz comes and sits on the very end of the bed. "Give us a chance to get to know you, Mike. We've missed you."

Mike barks out a laugh. "Yeah, I can tell, all you happy two by twos." He waves a hand to indicate the entirety of their happy little biome, then immediately shakes his head. "Fuck, no, I don't mean that. I don't. I just—" He scrubs the back of his hand over his mouth. "Fuck."

"We missed you," Chiz repeats quietly. "I know it must look like — we couldn't hold together the way we were, Mike. We're lucky we stayed together as much as we have, but things had to shift."

Mike shrugs awkwardly. "You and Naomi were most of the way there already," he says, thumbing through old, worn-thin memories. "Butcher and Sisky, too."

"That doesn't mean you going missing didn't shake us," Chiz says. He turns to face Mike a little better. "I can't speak for everyone, but I'd like to get a chance to know you again. I mean," he shrugs. "I know I liked you before, and some things have to stay constant, right?"

Mike blows out a breath. "Do they?" he says. "I'm not sure I know who I am now. I think — maybe if I get a grip on myself first, then I can come back."

"Get to know yourself first, then you can introduce yourself to the rest of us?"

"Something like that."

There's silence for a minute or so, then Michael speaks up again. "Take what you need. You're still family." He reaches over and taps the top of Mike's foot gently. "Let us know what you decide."

He's almost to the door when Mike says, "This is kind of fucked up, huh?" He gestures to indicate his head, the room, whatever, he's not sure. "The whole time, I — some days all I could think about was getting out. And now I'm here, I want to leave."

Michael considers him for a minute, then shakes his head. "You'll work it out. You just have to figure out where you fit. C'mon out, Butcher's doing something in the kitchen and it smells fantastic."

"Yeah, just — give me a minute," Mike says, and Michael nods, loose and easy as always, and lets the door close behind him.

***

"Approaching vessel, identify your — oh, it's you!" Kevin has no problem remembering the woman on the screen is Naomi, given she was the only woman on the station when they were there. She's smiling wide; Kevin hopes the rest of the crew is as pleased to see them. It's not like they were invited, after all.

Still, they're here now, and telling Joe what a terrible plan this is will have to wait. "Um, hi," he says.

Naomi actually waves at them. "Hi! Jonas, right? Let me just…" she trails off, turning to one side. Kevin can hear rapid clicking noises. "Right," Naomi comes back. "Just follow the beacon."

"Why yes, we are requesting permission to dock," Nick breaks in.

The corners of her mouth clamp down like she's trying not to laugh where he'll see her. "Glad to hear it. Follow the beacon," she repeats. "See you in a few minutes." The screen winks to blackness.

They go through the same procedure as before, and it's just as easy. The airlock confirms no contaminants on either side, then cycles open. The man with amazingly curly hair — Siska, Kevin's brain coughs up after a second or so — is waiting on the station side, bouncing up and down on his toes a little.

"Hey, I'm the welcoming committee this time," he says, as soon as the door opens fully. "Come on over."

Frankie shouts and dashes through the airlock immediately; he's been getting more and more bored in the limited space of the Lovebug. Joe follows him, pausing to shake Siska's hand and say hi before continuing past him. Kevin starts forward, but pulls up when he realizes Nick isn't following. "Nick?"

"I'll stay with the ship," Nick says. "Good to see you again." He nods at Siska and turns to go — back to the navdeck, Kevin assumes, or who knows.

"C'mon, Nick, the ship's not going to go anywhere," Kevin says. He's not sure what's gotten into Nick: he didn't raise any objections to the detour when Joe told him about it, and he still hasn't; he just started acting weird.

"You're very welcome on board," Siska adds in. Nick wavers for a moment, then turns back around. He's not smiling, but Kevin will take his concession without that.

"All right," he says. "The computers are running diagnostics anyway."

Kevin loops an arm around his shoulders as he comes to the airlock, and they go through onto the station together.

"Would you like some tea?" Siska asks. He shrugs a little at the confused look Kevin gives him. "Bill's declared that civilized people have afternoon tea, and it's not like any of us turn down food, so we all generally stop for something around this time. The rest of them will be along."

Nick doesn't say anything, so Kevin fills in. "That sounds good to me."

Siska smiles. "This way, then."

He leads them down a corridor to an open area — it's more or less familiar from the last time they were here, though all of that was so much new that Kevin got muddled. "Have a seat," he adds, waving a hand at the various options — the tabe has actual chairs, and the open space beyond has seating bags in it. Kevin picks a red bag and settles into it.

"Were we expecting you?" Siska's voice drifts out of the small enclosed galley. "I'm just asking because it's the sort of thing someone might have forgotten to mention." He sticks his head back around the doorway. "Really, I mean it."

"No, we didn't send a message ahead or anything," Kevin says. "Um, we didn't know your code."

"You didn't — oh. That explains some things," Siska says. "Well, hey, glad to see you anyway." He comes out of the galley with an honest-to-gosh teapot and a few cups. He puts them down on the table and goes back into the galley. "Help yourselves," he calls out. "I just need to finish getting these together."

Kevin's closer, so he stands up and pours a cup of tea for himself — it smells like summer in a way he can't explain, sweet and grassy, like the park on Carteret when they went for picnics before Frankie was born. "Nick, you want some?"

"Yes, please."

Kevin pours another and brings them both over to where Nick's hunched uneasily on a chair. "Are you okay?" he whispers when he's close. "You're being really weird."

Nick nods. "I'm okay," he says. "Just — thinking." He takes the cup that Kevin holds out.

"Maybe you should stop," Kevin jokes. "It doesn't seem to be very nice."

Nick manages a pale curl of a smile, but before he can say anything else, Frankie bursts into the room. "I found the Butcher!" he announces, and sure enough, the guy from before with all of the tattoos is trailing behind him. He waves at them.

"Hey, Sisky said we had guests, but he didn't say who. Good to see you all again."

Siska pokes his head out of the galley again. "I didn't say it was the Jonases? Jonai? What's more than one Jonas?"

"Probably two of them," Butcher says, and leans around into the galley. Kevin can hear a low murmur of conversation, but he can't make out the words over Nick asking Frankie, "Where's Joe?"

Frankie looks around. "Uh. He was right behind me."

"What's up?" Butcher asks, coming out of the galley with a large plate of sandwiches. "Oh, your brother?" Just like Frankie, he looks around the room like he's surprised Joe isn't hiding against the wall. "We might have lost him when we went past Chiz."

Voices and a burst of laughter echo down the corridor into the room. Butcher cranes his neck to see around the edge of the door, then nods, satisfied, and flops into a bag. "It's okay, we didn't lose him permanently."

"You'd better not, it'd be tricky to find a replacement," Siska says, coming out with another handful of cups. He unhooks them from his fingers and onto the table, then leans over to hit the comm button. "People, get up here or Butcher's going to eat all the sandwiches."

A woman's voice — it must be Naomi's — crackles back out of the speaker. "I'm staying up here, but tell the Jonases hi for me."

Siska holds the button down and gestures towards the comm with the other hand. "Naomi says hi," he parrots.

"Hi, Naomi," Kevin calls over to the commbox. "Thanks for the beacon."

"Hello," Nick adds.

"No problem," she replies. "Good to have you on board. Sisky, let me go; I need the channel open for Christine."

"I'll send someone up with tea," Siska promises, and releases the comm. "Help yourselves, seriously; if you wait it'll all vanish." He fills a cup and goes to sit mostly on Butcher.

Kevin takes a sandwich mostly because they're there, but it turns out to be pretty tasty — protein cake, pressed with some sort of spices, he thinks, and there are some crunchy leaves in there, real fresh vegetable whatevers. "Thanks."

"So what brings you back this way?" Butcher asks. "Sisky, I hate to tell you this but you're heavy," he adds in an aside. Siska just wiggles off to one side slightly.

"We were coming back from Marquette, and we just — thought we'd say hi," Nick says. Kevin would believe him if he didn't know what really happened, and if he didn't know that Nick's using his teacup to hide behind.

"I wanted to see the station again," Frankie volunteers. "Hey, Nick, could we put a hydro garden on the Lovebug?"

"I'm not sure where we'd put it," Nick says. "Kev?"

Kevin thinks about it. "If we turned over the second cargo bay? It… maybe? Don't plants need light, though?"

Frankie says something else, but Kevin doesn't follow it, because Mike comes in just then.

He's not alone — he's with the other Michael, and Joe, who's still laughing as they come in — but he's the only one Kevin's paying attention to. He's been looking at Joe's face for days, after all.

Mike's got a crooked grin on his face, and it's still there when he looks over and his eyes lock on Kevin. He stills for a minute, not like he's surprised but more like he's checking it's real. He gives Kevin a tiny nod, and then he turns back to the others, crossing to the table and grabbing himself a mug.

"What Chiz isn't telling you is how he found the box," he says to Joe over his shoulder. "What was it you were doing again, Chiz?"

Whatever the other man says is lost in the general laughter — this is clearly a story that the rest of the crew know. Mike pours himself some of the tea and leans against the wall, out of the way. Kevin ignores the ruckus in the middle of the room in favor of studying him unobserved. He's not as gaunt as he was when they found him, and it looks like he's put more muscle on just since he left the Lovebug. He's keeping his shoulders up and his elbows tucked in, though; Kevin doesn't know if that's because he's holding the cup or something, but — well, it's there. He looks away before anyone can catch him staring.

"I am sticking to my story!" Chislett yells, grinning. "You're all delusional!" He waves at them with the teapot, then pours out two cups. "I am going to go talk to Naomi, who is the only other sane person on this floating bucket. She believes me!" There's another wave of catcalls, and Chislett shakes his head. He says something to Frankie that's lost in the noise, and Frankie nods vigorously. Joe looks over at Nick and they do one of their nonverbal-communication things, and then Joe snags another sandwich off a plate and follows Chislett and Frankie out of the galley.

Mike crosses the room again, settling next to Kevin while the others are still laughing and fighting over what really happened. Kevin looks sideways at him, not sure what he's allowed to do. What he wants to do.

"Hey," Mike says quietly. Kevin reads his lips as much as anything under the noise in the rest of the room.

"Um, hi."

"Didn't think we'd be seeing you again." It's almost a question, but not quite.

Kevin fidgets with his mug. "Is it okay?"

Mike smirks at him. "Not sure why you came back, kid, but yeah, it's okay."

"Um." Kevin bites his lip. "Have you been watching the news broadcasts?"

"Naw, Chiz took the receiver apart for something and I don't think it's back together again yet. Anyway —" Mike shrugs. "Nothing all that important on them anyway, usually." He eyes Kevin. "Except there is now, isn't there?"

"Well—" Kevin starts, but he's interrupted by Captain Beckett striding into the room. He holds his arms out and says, "Guests! Why didn't anyone tell me?"

"We thought we'd surprise you, Bill," Siska calls over. "Thrill of discovery, let you find out for yourself and all that."

"You're so good to me." Beckett pours himself tea and looks around at them all. "So, Jonasen, what brings you back this way?"

"Well, we were at Marquette, and — you haven't been getting news transmissions?" Kevin interrupts himself.

"It's been some days since we had that pleasure," Beckett agrees lazily, but his eyes have gone sharp. "I take it we missed something of importance?"

"They—" Kevin flails around a little trying to find a good way of putting the next bit, but really, there isn't one. "There's an arrest order out for you," he says, turning to Mike.

Beckett's "Oh my," sort of sums it up, really.

"That's— huh," Mike says. "Does it say why?"

Kevin starts to shake his head, but Nick breaks in.

"The notice on Marquette didn't, but the warrant on the Net says assault."

Mike's eyes bug a little bit. "Um," he says.

"Carden, have you been getting in fights and not inviting us?" Butcher asks.

Mike almost laughs. "I wouldn't leave you out like that I promise," he says. "That's — that's really strange."

"The record of charges is public," Nick continues, watching Mike closely. "I did some digging, and it looks like the order was issued by Sarab."

Next to Kevin, Mike goes very still. "That makes a little more sense," he says after a moment. "Don't suppose the circumstances of the assault were mentioned."

Nick shakes his head. "It's true then?"

"Technically." Mike levels a look at him. "He was the one I knocked unconscious on my way out the door."

"You do like to complicate things," Beckett murmurs. "Were you trying to bring down the government single-handed?"

Mike shakes his head. "You know I'd invite you along for that," he says, but the joke falls flat. "It's — I ran into him while I was gone." He says it carefully, like he's picking his words, and he slants a look over at Beckett.

Beckett's the only one who looks spooked, though Kevin thinks Butcher and Siska look a little more alert. "He was one of them?" Beckett asks.

Mike just nods.

"He probably wants to keep it from getting out that you were… acquainted," Nick picks up. "Given that he's President of the Council now, it could really hurt him if you talked to the media."

"Like anyone would believe me," Mike mutters.

"Just the allegations could be very damaging, and might prompt an investigation," Nick says. "Unless he keeps the story from ever getting out."

Mike stands up abruptly and takes his cup into the galley; there's a lot of clanking, like either he's emptying the cleaner or making a lot of noise about putting his cup in there. "What can we do about it?" Beckett asks under cover of the noise. "Would beating him to the punch keep Mike safe?"

Nick nods. "It might. If—"

"If we spread it as widely as possible so Sarab can't squash the story," Beckett finishes. "Yes."

"I'm not your fucking poster child," Mike snarls from the door of the galley. "I'm not selling some stupid sob-story to the networks. I'll stay out of the way until it blows over."

Beckett twists around to look at him straight on. "You want to just sit here for months, Mike? Years? Because there aren't that many people out there we can trust not to sell you out. Even out on the edges, it's worth staying on the good side of the law."

Mike stares back at him, then turns and kicks the edge of the door, hard. His foot bounces off and he kicks it again, then slams the side of his fist into the wall. Kevin tenses, wanting to stop him from hurting himself, but after that Mike stops, and Kevin eases back down again.

"I just want to be done with this," Mike says. He tips his head forward to lean against the doorway. "I'm really, really over it."

Beckett makes a snorting noise, like he can't quite keep himself from laughing. Mike eyes him sideways. "Shut up," he says. "Kidnapping is so last year and you know it."

Beckett gives up on stifling his laugh then and it cracks out, a little ragged around the edges but genuine. Mike stares at him for a second, his mouth twitching, then joins in, even more ragged-sounding. He stops abruptly and slams his hand into the wall again. "Fuck."

Kevin's up before he can think better of it, uncurling Mike's hand and checking for damage. Mike watches him curiously. "I'm fine," he says.

"You say that a lot," Kevin tells him, and flexes each finger, then all of them together. They all work fine, and Mike doesn't indicate that anything in particular hurts — not that that is as reassuring as it might be — so Kevin just points back at the bag where he was sitting. "Go sit down."

"No." Mike takes his hand back and folds his arms.

"Please."

"No."

"Fine, then I'm staying here." Kevin leans against the other side of the doorway. It's cramped, but at least he'll have prior warning if Mike's going to try to hurt himself again.

"Much as I hate to interrupt you two," Nick says drily, "I had an idea about how it might work." When he sees he's reclaimed their attention, he continues. "Just the threat of it might be enough. If we tell Sarab that we will make sure the news agencies hear the story if you are arrested, it might be enough to get him to back down."

"Or it might not," Mike says flatly.

"Or it might not," Nick agrees. "So we have a recording in storage, ready to go in case he refuses to drop the charges."

"A recording could be anyone, though," Siska points out. Kevin jumps — he'd almost forgotten that he and Butcher were still crammed into the bag in the corner.

Nick looks over. "We get his identity verified, and verification that he's the one who made the recording." He shrugs. "He could still be making it up, but there's not much we can do about that accusation."

"I have a basic gene scan, we could get a more thorough one," Kevin says. "But we'd need someone with authority to make the official verification, and if there's an arrest order out —" He breaks off and thinks about it for a second. "You mean Dad?"

"I think he's the best chance we have of getting someone to listen long enough to hear the story," Nick answers.

"It's still risky."

"Hey, do I get any say in this?" Mike asks.

Kevin looks around at him. "Oh! Right, sorry. Um. What do you think?"

Mike stares down at the floorplates for a few seconds, scuffing one foot back and forth. Then he looks up. "You're right, Bill," he says softly. "I can't just wait it out, not when we don't know if he'll ever let it go. You've got a great place here, but there's a lot more of the galaxy I'd like to see."

"You're sure?" Beckett asks, just as softly.

Mike nods. "I'll take the risk," he says. "If I don't, he'll still have me just as trapped as before."

There's a moment of silence, broken by Siska's loud and dramatic sniff. "A moment of personal growth," he says, and claps a hand to his chest. "Gets me right here."

"Our boy's growing up," Butcher chimes in, but his smile is a little bit wry. "Leaving the nest, and all that shit."

"I am not a baby bird, you fuckers," Mike tells them.

"We know, Mike." Siska levers himself out of Butcher's lap and comes over, wrapping an arm around Mike's shoulders and leaning in to whisper something so quietly Kevin can't make it out. Then he leans back and announces, "I'm going to go see how the Chisletts are doing," and saunters out of the room. Butcher follows him, pausing briefly to squeeze Mike's shoulder and give him a meaningful look.

"And no running off without telling us," he says, and slides the door shut behind them.

There's another one of those complicated pauses. Then Beckett says, "You are sure, Mike?" When Mike nods, he turns to Nick and asks, "So what would be involved?"

*

Nick rubs his hands over his face, then holds them out in front of himself, ticking points off on his fingers. "First we have to confirm Card — Carden's — identity, and have that witnessed by an official representative." He looks up. "Our father is a minister, and he's also a notary. I think we can make it stick, even with him being related to us."

"Wait, how are you going to confirm my identity?" Mike breaks in. "I'm not one of you nanochipped Core kids, remember?"

"There'd be a genome profile on record?" Kevin says. "…And that might alert anyone watching that we had a cell sample, and probably you, too. That's not gonna work."

"Not necessarily," Bill says. "I think we can get the information for you."

"Siska?" Mike asks.

"He'll be delighted to hear he gets to wear his other hat," Bill says, and smiles beatifically. "He so rarely gets to, these days.

"I don't want to know, do I," Nick says.

"Nothing strictly illegal," Bill assures him. "Just lying to the Net about where the query came from."

"Then I can correlate that with one done now, and Dad can confirm the match," Kevin says. "Okay. And I have the scanner records from when we found you."

Nick clears his throat pointedly and takes control of the conversation again. "So we have Carden and his genome; we can get a recording of the order just in case we get home before that news packet." He ticks off the next finger. "Identity established, we get a witnessed recording of his story." Another finger. "Then we have to make sure we have enough copies in enough places that Sarab can't control all of them." He looks at his hands for another second. "I think that's it. And the recording can just be voice, or even written and witnessed. You don't have to be on camera."

"President of the Council can put a gag order on the news feeds, though," Mike points out.

"Distribute it through the church," Kevin says quietly. Bill's face probably matches Mike's own for confusion, but Nick looks like a light just went on. "They're not official news outlets, so they'd be exempt from a silencing order on those," Kevin continues. "And if it went to enough branches — it would be spread too widely to keep track of. They can't silence all of the branches."

"Churches tend to be big on telling people to be good little sheep," Bill points out. He doesn't look at all happy with this idea, and Mike can't really blame him. "Not so much on overthrowing the government."

"It's also about doing the right thing," Kevin says. He's a little wide-eyed, but resolute. "Some actions are not righteous, no matter who does them."

"It's our best chance of getting a hearing," Nick adds. "If we go to a regular Justice, they might decide they have to turn Carden in, or at least put him in custody until it can be straightened out."

"No!" Mike says, and bites down hard enough he can hear his teeth click. The others all turn to look at him. Mike struggles to put his thoughts into order and unclenches his jaw. "I'm not getting locked up," he says. And in the end, it's as simple as that. He takes a deep breath and lays it out before anyone else can start talking. "I'm not — I can't get locked up again, even if they think it's for my own good. And I can't — I don't want to always be looking over my shoulder waiting for someone to catch me. I want to do — more than that. I can't —" The words just run out at that point and he shakes his head, looking down at the floor.

There's a warm pressure along his arm and he glances that way. Kevin smiles encouragingly and bumps his shoulder against Mike's. Mike unsnarls his lungs enough to get a proper breath in, and nods back. He's all right.

"Then it sounds like the best course of action is for Mike to go talk to your father," Bill says after a short pause that Mike tries to ignore. "Should he make his own way there? Christine isn't back with the shuttle yet."

"I thought he could come with us; we're headed home anyway," Nick says. "Right, Kev?"

"Um." Kevin looks like he wasn't expecting that. "Yeah, of course. If you want to?"

Mike nods, glad to have a question he can give a simple answer to. "It worked all right before, right?"

Kevin smiles at him, and all of a sudden Mike can remember all the pauses in conversation where he had to force his mind down other tracks than the one it was so set on. Maybe going with Kevin and his brothers isn't the greatest idea after all.

"It's probably better anyway," Kevin adds. "If you're on your own, you'd have to talk to anyone official if you got stopped. With us, you can just — stay out of sight if they want to check things." He sounds a little awkward towards the end, and Mike wonders why, but then realizes Nick probably isn't the biggest fan of breaking rules, even if it is for a good cause.

"Then if that's settled—" Nick says. He looks around at the rest of them, like he's checking that it really is settled, and goes on, "I'm going to go back to the ship and start getting approval for our flight plans for the various systems we'll be crossing. Kevin?"

"I'll be along in a minute," Kevin says, and turns to Mike.

Bill clears his throat. "I am sure I have something very important to be getting on with," he says. "Somewhere a long way away." His cup clinks onto the table, and he vanishes out the door after Nick. Knowing him, he's probably eavesdropping right outside, but at least he's being subtle about it. Well. Subtle for Bill.

Mike watches him go, then looks at Kevin. "What?"

Kevin's mouth works, like he's chewing something he's not sure he likes the taste of. "I just wanted to be sure — you don't have to agree just because Nick is telling you what's best," he says. "I know he can be — forceful."

Mike raises an eyebrow. "Think I can't have my own ideas, kid?"

Kevin stutters. "That's not what I meant."

Mike takes a little bit of mercy on him. "How long do you think he'd been working on that, anyway?"

Kevin twists around to look after his brother. "Probably at least since Joe and I told him we were coming back this way."

Huh. "It was your idea?"

Kevin ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck. "Well, I wanted to tell you about—" he waves a hand, "—that, but Joe's the one who said we should come tell you in person. So, um. Nick's had a week to convince himself he's thought of everything, but it doesn't actually mean you can't say no."

"No." Mike doesn't even have to think about it. "I'm not just going along with it. I — what I said, that's true."

"If you're sure."

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?" Mike glares at Kevin. "I'm sure, okay?"

Kevin seems happy enough with that. "All right. I'll go help Nick, then. We probably don't want to stop anywhere unnecessary."

Mike watches him go and scrubs a hand through his hair — ew, gross, he forget he'd been under ventilation piping for hours. He makes a face and wipes his hand off on his pants, then cleans up the mess that got left behind when everyone blew out of there for ridiculous 'reasons.' If he doesn't have a designated job, he can still be a kick-ass scullery boy.

Bill snags him just as he leaves — of course he was lurking in an alcove right outside. "Everything all right?" he asks.

"It's fine," Mike tells him. Bill raises his eyebrows and purses his mouth. "No, really," Mike insists. "Look, my ability to tell people to fuck off was not surgically removed. I'm not just doing what people tell me to do."

"As long as you're sure you want to go with them."

"Yes, Bill." The more Mike thinks about it, the more it makes sense. "I can't just hide — for one thing, if they track me down here, it gets the rest of you in trouble. Christine. Evie."

"You know we'd take the chance for you."

"I'm not going to ask you to. And that's my choice, okay?"

Bill studies him for another minute. "Okay." He leans forward and wraps Mike up in one of his freaky gentle-octopus hugs. "Be careful out there, all right? And if something goes wrong, call us. Call us, I mean it."

Mike can feel the last of the weirdness between them unspooling, and he hugs Bill back without reservation. "Galaxy better watch out," he declares.

Bill leans back to grin. "Excellent," he declares. "Know there's always room for you here, okay? No matter what."

"Stop being so damn sappy," Mike says, but that just makes Bill reel him back in for another hug before he can get away. It feels kind of nice, though.

***

"I never asked," Kevin says. It's late in ship's night, the others long since gone to bed and only Kevin up watching the autopilot to make sure nothing unexpected jumps out at them. And Mike, occasionally watching Kevin.

"Huh?" Mike looks up from the tablet he's reading, looks over at Kevin. There's just enough light from the instrument panels to outline his profile; he's looking away, straight out into the darkness out here away from everything. It's the sort of darkness that makes you lower your voice even if no one's going to hear you. "Asked what?"

"What you're planning on doing after this. After we get this whole thing sorted out and you're not — being looked for," Kevin says. Mike wonders if he imagined the hitch in his voice when he could have said 'wanted.'

Mike thumbs off the tablet's backlight and stares out into the dark as well. There are only a few distant spots of light out there, stars too far away for parallax. "I don't know," he says.

"You don't even — are you going to go back to the station?"

"Probably not." Mike swallows. "I love them, but — things are different now."

"What, then? You must have some idea."

Mike lets the silence stretch for a minute or so, weighing his words. "It's not really a plan. More a — just an idea I had."

"Yeah?"

Mike shrugs even though Kevin probably can't see him. "Sort of." It's nothing like a plan, more a daydream — what else is there to do when you're trapped by one circumstance or another, staring up at bars or pipework or another blank infirmary ceiling, but try and get out of your head? The thing is, no one expects those dreams to come true, so it's not a big disappointment if they're impossible. "Doesn't matter, though."

"Sure it does." Mike hears the rustle of Kevin turning to face him. "Tell me."

Mike tips his head back and stares up through the canopy. "I'd sort of like to look for people like me," he says. "Runaways. Help them out."

"You mean — like you?"

Mike tips his head back down so he can glare more effectively because wow, dumb question. "Yeah," he says. What, is it so unbelievable that he might have some actual human feeling, and what's more, sympathy for the poor fucks who get out, but can't find a ship with the cargo bay left conveniently open? It's impossible right now anyway, so he might as well go the whole way and surprise them all.

Kevin doesn't look all that surprised though; he looks — well, kind of charmed, if Mike had to put a name to what's on his face. "That's good," he says. "That's really good. I mean — you probably know what sort of things they need, how to — is there any way of contacting someone, um, inside?"

Mike shrugs. "I got away because one of the guards was selling the tranquilizers under the table. Pretending to be a buyer might be a thing, but it's just an idea so far. Some things need working out. Besides—" he goes back to staring straight forward, "It's not going to happen right now anyway."

Kevin sits up straight and twists around to face him. "Wait, what? Why's it not going to happen?"

Why does he think? "It's not like I can just snap my fingers and take off," Mike tells him. "I'd need transport, for one thing. No good making myself a sitting duck."

Kevin makes a thinking noise, like he's ahead of Mike on something. "You know," he says, "The Lovebug doesn't need much crew. If you were really careful with repairs and stuff and kept everything serviced."

"So?" Last Mike checked, he didn't have an invisible clone following him around, and besides, "Not like I can afford to buy a ship anyway. For a while, even if I'm not walking around with a warrant."

"No, I'm just saying." Now Kevin's got a tiny gotcha sort of smile to go with the tone. "You'll need a medic, too. I mean, anyone you find is probably going to be in about the same shape you were in when you got away."

"I'll manage."

"You might not remember, but you weren't doing too well," Kevin's voice is even quieter than before. "You need someone who has an idea of what they're doing, and besides, you can't be the getaway driver and nurse someone through withdrawal at the same time."

"Okay, I said it wasn't going to happen now," Mike says, tired. There really isn't any need for Kevin to rub it in like this. "Just a stupid idea I had."

"Mike. That's not what I meant," Kevin says. "I am a medic. I have a ship."

"You have—" Mike breaks off and points at the deck. "This one? I thought it belonged to your family," he says. "Or — maybe Nick, I don't know."

Kevin shrugs. "We took turns being captain — well, except for Frankie — and when it got to Nick's turn we all sort of agreed he was better at it. He likes it, anyway."

Mike snorts. "I can tell."

"The Lovebug is mine," Kevin says. "My grandmother gave it to me, said I should — said it was good to have your own way to get where you're going."

"Where are you going?" Mike can barely hear himself.

"You really haven't been listening." There's a smile in Kevin's voice. "With you, if you'll let me."

"Wait, what? No."

"Don't deny you could use the help. And the transport."

"Yeah, but — it's not going to be some pretty historical vidshow, defying authority and, whatever, upholding the right. It's not—" Mike gropes for what he's trying to say. "It's not going to be fun."

"I like helping people."

"Yeah, but — I'm pretty sure you're supposed to do that by donating money or something, not running around with criminals."

"Yeah," Kevin says. "Guess I am." He smiles at Mike.

Mike feels like he's maybe missing something here.

*

Kevin chews it over, works all the pieces around in his head for a while — he knows he's not the fastest thinker, but he tries to make up for it by being thorough, having all the angles already considered before someone like Nick can come along and point out why it won't work. He thinks about it for so long, in fact, that he ends up blurting it out without meaning to, right there on the navdeck.

"I don't want to go back," he says, and bites his own tongue. Where did — okay, no, he knows where that came from. He just wasn't expecting it to come now.

At the main console, Nick pauses, and looks over at him. "Kevin?" he asks.

"I, um." Oh no, now he has to follow it up. Kevin's brain really didn't plan this well. "Crew meeting?" he suggests. Maybe the delay will give him enough time to get his thoughts together again.

Nick doesn't take his eyes off Kevin, just reaches over to the comm and pokes it until it works. "Hey, Joe? Could you come up to the navdeck for a minute?"

"Is it urgent?" Joe wants to know. "I'm kind of in the middle of something here." There's a clang on his end, and a very soft "Ow."

"No rush, when you're done with that is fine," Nick says. "Oh, and if you see Frankie on your way up, bring him along too." He releases the button and the comm shuts off again.

Kevin waits for Nick to say something, but he just sits there looking at Kevin, like he's trying to figure something out in his own head. He's probably waiting for Kevin to crack and explain himself, but that's not going to happen. Kevin is completely immune to Nick's stares, and he can — oh, who is he kidding. He'll fold like a shirt. But he swears he'll hold out as long as possible. He turns to stare out the front viewscreen to help that happen.

"Okay, I think that'll hold for long enough," Joe says, clattering up onto the navdeck. "It's not — guys?"

"Jonas Brothers meeting," Nick tells him calmly. "Did you see Frankie?"

"Yeah, he's right behind me." Joe jerks a thumb, then turns around to check. "Huh. Well, he was."

"It's okay, this is really more about the three of us," Nick says. "Kevin?"

He rehearses the words in his head, then he says them out loud as confidently as he can. "I don't want to go back," he says. "Home. I mean, I want to go home, but I don't want to go back to the whole—" He waves a hand. So much for that confidence, then.

Joe and Nick have one of their mindmeld exchanges, and Kevin bites his lip. He shouldn't have said anything, should have waited until they were home or something. Joe raises his eyebrows and Nick twitches his mouth to one side, and then they both turn back to look at Kevin.

"Neither do we," Joe says.

Kevin blinks. "What?"

"We—" Joe hesitates and looks over at Nick. "Preaching isn't what I want to do with my life."

"But you—" Kevin has to wrap his head around this. "I always thought you wanted—" he holds his hands out to Nick, what is this?

Nick shrugs back at him. "Yeah, but I think — I think I could maybe be more use on the ground. Air. You know. Or maybe just stay out here and see what's real, not get caught up in — ideals are great, and I'm not saying I'm compromising any. Just that I don't want to lose sight of the things that aren't ideal."

"So that means — what? What are you going to stay out here doing?"

Nick makes the face that means he's biting at the inside of his lower lip, secret and almost hidden. "I don't know. But I want to see more, and I want to do something about the parts that don't work. Telling people to be good is fine, but you have to make it work, because some people aren't going to listen to that, or they can't. You have to fix the system where it's broken."

"That sounds like you're talking about the Administration," Kevin says slowly. He cuts his eyes sideways to Joe; he's already heard about this, because he doesn't look surprised at all.

Nick nods. "Eventually."

Kevin thinks about it. "Well, if anyone can do it, you can."

"Of course he can. He'll be running the Council before he's twenty-five," Joe says.

"No, Joe," Nick says patiently. "You have to be at least thirty to be elected President."

"Didn't say President, I said running the Council." Joe grins, the genuine one that crinkles his eyes up almost out of sight. "And you know I'm no good at that counting thing anyway."

Nick's in the middle of rolling his eyes, mouth open for a comeback, when Frankie chimes in from the doorway. "If I say I don't want to go back to school, do I get a pass?"

"No!" all three of them say, and Kevin adds, "Mom would kill us."

"You all suck." Frankie drags onto the navdeck and slouches against the wall. "I'd be cooler than any of you. I could be a space pirate."

Kevin can picture it — Frankie with a blaster and an eyepatch, scourge of the systems — but he drags his mind back to the topic at hand. "What about you, Joe?"

Joe studies his thumbnail. "I actually really like making things work. Not — like that." He jerks a thumb at Nick in the main chair. "But, well, I know it was a joke to start with, but maybe I can learn more about the engines, and — I think there are some changes I could make that would make it work better. I think."

"What about you?" Nick asks. He's got a suspicious light in his eyes. Kevin hunches his shoulders a little, tries to remember that he has nothing to be ashamed of.

"I like helping people."

"Okay." Nick nods. "And..?"

"Well, like you said. There are ideals, and then there are parts that need help, and —" Kevin scrubs a hand over his hair. "The laws being changed to fix what doesn't work is good. But that's not going to help people straight away."

Nick squints at him. "Would this have anything to do with Carden's plans to do something about slavers?"

"Um," Kevin says. "Bonus, stop laughing."

Frankie just shakes his head and keeps snickering.

Nick rubs at his forehead like he's got a headache. "I'm going to have to disown you or something," he says. "Seriously, Kevin. I know it's complicated, but that's not legal."

Kevin hunches his shoulders and tries to hold on to the certainty he reached when he was talking to Mike. "I know."

"Hey, no." Nick drops his hand. "It's not legal, but that doesn't mean it's not right." He drums his fingers on the edge of the console for a second. "Just — could you change your name or something?"

Joe chokes on a laugh. "Kevin Carden," he sputters out. "It has a nice ring to it."

Frankie hoots and Kevin claps his hands over his face. "I hate you all," he says, muffled.

"Will you two get a grip?" There's a smile lurking in the edges of Nick's voice. "So you're going to need the Lovebug."

"Maybe." Kevin looks up. "Probably. Yes."

"Glad we got that sorted out," Nick says, dry as dust. "And Carden?"

"Um," Kevin says again. "I'll explain to Mom and Dad."

"Oh yes, you will," Nick promises. "But is he — you're sure about this?"

"I'm sure."

Nick holds his eyes for another minute, then nods like he's totaled an invoice and gotten the right answer. "Okay then."

"You think they're going to be mad? Our parents?"

He can almost hear Joe's shrug. "Hey, they sent us off to go see the galaxy and find our vocations. I don't think they get to be upset that we did."

"I hope they'll be proud," Nick says.

*

Nick goes back to whatever it was he was doing before Kevin had his revelation — probably trying to figure out a way to plot a course around Marilee and its nosy customs division that won't cost them an extra week or look suspicious — and Joe goes back to whatever he was doing that made clanging noises. Frankie, though, just keeps leaning against the wall and looking at Kevin. It's completely unfair.

"What?" Kevin asks finally.

Frankie just tips his head a little to the side. "Nothing."

"You've got that smile," Kevin accuses him.

"What smile?" Frankie grins a little wider, then drops the pretense. "You got a minute?"

"Sure."

"No, I mean," he jerks his head towards the door just as Nick says, "Can you chitchat somewhere else? This is complicated."

"Sure," Kevin says again, and follows Frankie off the navdeck and to the common area.

"What's up?" he asks, when they get there.

Frankie stops in the middle of the room and folds his arms. "Are you staying out here because of him?"

Kevin has to think about it for a moment, sort out all of his motivations and reasoning. When he's pretty sure he's got it, he says, "Not really."

Frankie looks dubious.

"No, really," Kevin says. "It's — what he wants to do is giving me a reason. But — I think I would have gotten to this decision anyway. This is just letting it happen sooner."

"Okay," Frankie says. "Just. You like him, right? And he's sort of your patient."

Kevin can't help cooing a little. Frankie scowls at him.

"Sorry." Kevin sniffs dramatically. "Just — our little Bonus, barely fourteen and he's considering ethical implications! I'm so proud!" He clutches at his chest and fans himself with his other hand.

Frankie scowls harder. "You're a jerk."

Kevin keeps up the theatrics for another few seconds, then drops the act. "You're right to be worried, though. I know it's complicated."

"So?" Frankie asks.

"I'll just have to be careful," Kevin says honestly. "He's not a patient now, no more than you or Nick or Joe is, and it's not like I'm going to refuse to treat any of you because I'm too close. And," he shrugs self-consciously. "It's not like I've said any of this to him yet."

Frankie loses his scowl and his face lights up. "Oh really?" he says, looking over Kevin's shoulder towards the door.

Kevin spins around and oh gosh, there's Mike, leaning in the doorway.

"Um," Kevin says.

"So, I'll leave you two crazy kids to it," Frankie says, and claps Kevin on the shoulder as he leaves. Next time he skins his knee, Kevin is using the peroxide, just watch him.

"Um," he says again.

"Something you want to tell me?" Mike asks. There's a hint of a smile lurking around the corners of his mouth, but Kevin's not sure if it's laughing with him or at him.

"I'm coming with you," he says, to head off the possibility of that discussion. "After we sort things out at home. You need me along, or you at least need someone."

Mike shrugs. "All right."

"Because — wait, all right?" Kevin has to back up his automatic rebuttal. "After all that before?"

"Yeah." Mike rubs his fingers along the edge of the doorframe. "Sorry about that. You're — well, I don't have the right to make decisions for you."

"Oh. I mean, no, you don't." Kevin looks at him suspiciously.

"So — yeah, if this is what you want to do, I'd be glad of the backup and the transport."

"I am sure," Kevin says firmly.

"Okay." Mike looks down at where he's trying to peel a chip off the doorframe with his thumbnail. "What you said to Frankie just before I came in."

"Um. Yes?"

Mike looks back up and pins him in place with a level stare. "Did that mean what it sounded like?" he asks. "You said before that I shouldn't do that again. When I first came on board."

Kevin remembers. "That. That was different."

"Mind telling me how?"

Kevin waves his hands in the air — he doesn't even know where to start. "You'd been drugged! And you were my patient, and I can't just do that! And — I didn't know if you thought you had to," he finishes in a small voice.

"I don't think I have to now," Mike says.

"Okay." Kevin still doesn't want to say more than that.

"So I think we can work together."

"Good?" Kevin has a sneaking suspicion that the conversation has gotten away from him.

"All right then." Mike pushes off the doorframe and turns to go, tossing a "Looking forward to it," over his shoulder.

Kevin is sure his day made sense before he started talking to Frankie. Clearly, it is all Frankie's fault.

He dithers for a few minutes, then figures he might as well put the nervous energy to good use and go catalogue the supplies in the medbay. He hasn't kept up some of the odder things — knowing they were heading home meant they weren't exactly likely to need that analgesic, and even Frankie can only skin his knees so often in a couple of weeks — but if Mike's scheme works out, well. It might be good to have some odder supplies on hand, and a lot more basic first-aid stuff.

He's halfway across the room to the latched cabinets when he hears, "I thought you were never going to get here," and he has to stifle a shriek.

"Don't do that!" He whirls on Mike, who's leaning against the wall next to the door, watching Kevin and grinning. "You scared me!"

Mike spreads his hands in a who, me? gesture. "I was just standing here." He slides the door shut and saunters across the medbay. "But I did want to talk to you."

"Yes?"

"It sounded like you think things have changed from before."

"I hope so?" Mike being this close makes it a little hard to concentrate.

"Oh good." Mike's fingers nudge Kevin's chin upwards. "I'd hate to get the wrong idea."

Mike's lips are cool and a little dry from the recycled ship's air, but his tongue's warm when he tilts his head and nudges Kevin's mouth open just a fraction. It's shallow, just a little bit of a nibble at Kevin's lower lip and a slow slide that promises more, but then Mike steps back. Kevin makes an annoyed little sound before he can stop himself, and knows he's blushing even harder.

"Is this okay?"

Kevin starts to answer, but has to stop to clear his throat and make himself let go of the handful of Mike's shirt that his fingers got from somewhere. He takes a deep breath and makes himself step back as well, putting another few centimeters of space between them.

"I need to be … careful," he says finally. "Not that I'm going to freak out and be unable to treat you if something happens, but — I have to be sure I'm making the best medical decisions, for you and anyone else, not just doing something because. Well."

Mike nods slowly. "So you're saying this isn't something to do unless we're both serious."

"That's about it, yeah."

Mike takes a deep breath and steps back in. "Good thing I'm serious, then."

"Oh, thank goodness," Kevin says, and is reaching out to tangle his fingers in Mike's shirt even as he closes the space between them.

*

Mike's not in danger of his knees buckling or anything, but he's glad to have Kevin to lean against while they kiss. Partly just because it's nice to have someone that close that he wants that close, partly because Kevin's warm and solid and smells kind of nice, and partly because it's more of a relief than Mike wants to admit that he's enjoying this.

He shifts his stance wider, giving himself a little more stability and letting himself rock his hips up against Kevin. Kevin's getting hard, and it feels good to Mike too; he couldn't stifle the low groan he makes, even if he wanted to. But pretty much as soon as he's noticed, it's like his dick notices he's paying attention and gets shy again. Mike breaks the kiss and lets out a very different kind of groan.

"Are you okay?" Kevin's flushed and dark-eyed, and he still has fingers hooked in the bottom of Mike's shirt. He looks pretty delicious; Mike just wishes it was more than his brain that thought so.

He lets go of Kevin's shoulder and hip and takes half a step back so he has room to scrub his hands over his face. Fuck, he wants a do-over on his life. Or at least a take-back of most of the last three years.

"I just — look," he says, at a loss for words. He seems to spend a lot of time that way, these days. "I — things don't work. I tried." He figures he'll leave the details of those particular embarrassing episodes out. "Just." He spreads his hands in a vague but (he hopes) explanatory way.

Kevin tips his head to one side a little. "Yeah, okay," he says. He lets go of Mike and crosses over to the terminal in the corner.

Mike gapes a little. Okay? That was… not any of the reactions he was expecting. Still, what the hell. He wanders after Kevin and leans against the counter next to the terminal.

Kevin pokes at the interface a few times, makes some hmm noises, then turns to lean his hip against the counter. "Part of it's probably what they were dosing you with," he says, and makes a face. Mike can't blame him — he feels a bit like making one himself. "It's — basically, it screwed up some reactions," Kevin says, waving one hand. "It'll get better as you get used to normal stimuli again."

That sounds a little too easy to Mike. "Really?" he asks suspiciously.

Kevin nods. "That part, anyway. Trust me," he says. He bites his lip, then breaks out in giggles, like he can't help it. Mike stares at him for a second, disbelieving, then turns around and starts for the door. He's glad someone thinks it's fucking funny, anyway. Great joke.

"No, no, wait," Kevin says behind him. "Mike wait, I'm sorry."

Mike turns back partway. "What?"

Kevin flaps a hand at him, but he has himself under a little bit of control, at least. "It's just — trust me," he says. "I'm a doctor."

Mike stares at him for a second with his mouth hanging open. "You're — that's terrible," he says, and then he can't help joining in, the corners of his mouth twitching and laughter spilling out until they're both howling and clutching onto counters to stay upright.

"You're not even, you're a medic," Mike says, when he can breathe mostly reliably again.

Kevin tips his head back against a cupboard door with a thunk. "I just wanted to say that," he says. "Years I've been wanting to say that."

Mike rolls his head around so he can see him. "Seriously?" he asks. "What is wrong with you?"

That sets Kevin off into another fit of giggling. This time Mike just watches him, because seriously. What's wrong with him.

Finally Kevin trails off again, wiping at his eyes. "Sorry," he says again, though he doesn't sound a bit of it, really. He pulls himself all the way upright and holds a hand out to Mike. "Want to continue this somewhere a little less — clinical?"

Mike takes his hand and lets Kevin help balance him up. He looks around the medbay, still holding Kevin's hand. "I don't know," he says. "It's almost homey in here."

"Ew." Kevin makes a face. "I know you've spent as much time in here as about anywhere else on the ship, but the smell of disinfectant is not a turn-on." He tugs at Mike's hand. "I have a bunk."

"I've seen that bunk," Mike says, but he follows. "It's tiny. And you share the room with your little brother, remember?"

"Frankie can sleep in Nick and Joe's room," Kevin tells him. "And we'll fit all right. We'll just have to be friendly." He flashes a sweet grin back over his shoulder and suddenly it's a lot easier to go where he's leading.

"Aren't they going to be looking for you?" Mike asks, when they're most of the way to Kevin and Frankie's (and Mike's, he forgets that) room.

"It's the middle of the day," Kevin says easily. "They're all awake, and if there's a real emergency, they can always use the comm." He locks the door behind them. "And I think Frankie will have enough sense to go do homework or whatever somewhere else." He turns back to Mike. "So."

"So," Mike echoes. Now that they're here, he's uncertain about this again.

Kevin studies him for a moment, then nudges him out of the way slightly and goes to sit on his bunk, back against the wall. He pats the cover next to him. "Come here?"

That, Mike can do. He ends up half-facing Kevin, with one leg curled up underneath him and the other hanging over the edge of the bunk.

"This is still okay?" Kevin asks.

"Yeah, it's good." Mike reaches out again and catches the back of Kevin's neck, urging him into kissing range again.

It's quiet in the cabin, with distance and closed doors between them and the uproar of Kevin's brothers. The only sounds are what they make, clothes shifting and the wet, physical sounds of their mouths sliding together, and appreciative hums and moans from one or the other of them.

Kevin starts squirming around, and Mike stops licking along his collarbone to ask, "What?"

"You should — here," Kevin says, kicking his ship-shoes off and scrambling around until he's kneeling, pretty much straddling Mike's legs instead of twisting sideways awkwardly. He has to duck because there isn't that much headroom, but that's okay. Mike kind of wants him down here anyway. He goes back to seeing if he can make Kevin make more of those noises — he can — and Kevin ducks even further and goes to town seeing if he can make Mike make those sorts of noises. He can, he really really can, but then he stops and gasps out, "Hang on."

Mike freezes in place. Shit, is there something about no making out before marriage or something? Only having sex for procreation — there are still some sects out on the Rim that teach that, aren't there? If Kevin's part of one of those, they might need to talk.

But Kevin just slides sideways, back off Mike's lap, and rubs at the back of his neck. "I can't bend that way," he says. "C'mere." He tugs Mike around and arranges them until they're facing each other but both sitting on the mattress, their legs tangled up together. Kevin's knees are spread out to either side of Mike; he's got to be even more flexible than Siska. Mike runs his hands up the outside of Kevin's thighs to curl around his hips, and when Kevin leans back in for another kiss, Mike can't help digging his fingers in.

Something about it — Kevin in his lap, the way he just goes with Mike's hands, the way he's so clearly eager and happy to be here — sets off sparks in Mike's brain. He feels like something is about to fall into place, something he's been missing for the past — he doesn't even know how long. He shoves forward to try and grab it, pushing deeper into Kevin's mouth, sliding a hand up his back so he can lean him backwards onto the bunk. It's awkward — Mike doesn't bend that way — but he wants. It's right there just out of reach and he wants.

Kevin's hand stops just holding on to his shoulder and pushes instead. Mike pushes back against it at first, letting Kevin's mouth go so he can lick at his throat where it's tipped back, but then what Kevin's saying filters through the hot rush in his ears.

"Mike. Mike, slow down."

He digs his teeth in one more time, just a little, he can't help it, then struggles upright. Kevin's still spread out in front of him, but he at least pushes himself up onto his elbows.

"You okay?" Kevin asks him.

Mike jerks a nod. Kevin scootches back a little bit and sits up. "Breathe," he says. "No, seriously, take a deep breath."

It's harder than it ought to be; Mike feels like something's knotted up in his chest and he realizes he's shaking all over.

"That's good." Kevin curls one hand around the side of Mike's neck. "C'mon, another deep breath, with me." He breathes in, and it's easier to follow him, take a deep lungful of the canned-tasting air.

Kevin leaves his hand where it is, just watches Mike. "Now are you okay?" he asks again.

"Yeah." Mike clears his throat and says it again. "Yeah, I'm okay."

Kevin pets at the side of his neck with his thumb. "Maybe we should slow things down a little, huh?"

Mike scowls and glares at the wall next to him. "I hate this," he mutters.

"What?"

Mike switches his glare to Kevin. "I said I hate this," he repeats, louder. "You're just — and I can't —" he gestures at Kevin and then himself. "If I can't give you this, what use am I?"

"Oh! Oh, I thought you meant — never mind." Kevin uses his free hand to rub at his face, then peeks over the edge of it at Mike. "This— um. This is kind of all I've done before, so. I'm okay with slowing down some."

Mike stares at him for a few seconds, then his brain translates what Kevin just said, and it feels like someone smacked him over the back of the head. "Oh, fuck. No, bad word. Um."

"Mike?"

Mike coughs out a laugh and shakes his head. "Just — my sense of timing is kind of screwed. You might have noticed."

"It's all right, we'll work it out. I trust you." Kevin squeezes the side of Mike's neck gently one more time, then drops his hand. "Okay?"

Mike just shakes his head. "How are you real?"

Kevin just blinks at him. "I… came this way?"

"Of course you did." Mike pulls in another deep breath; the room smells like them, or maybe it's just that he has Kevin worked into his own skin. "Should we go back? I think I've freaked both of us out enough for now?"

"Nah. There isn't going to be an emergency, and if there is — they still know where we are." Kevin shifts around and pulls Mike with him until they're lying side by side facing each other. There's space between them, but they're knocking together at knees and elbows. Kevin loops his arm loosely over Mike's side and leans forward for a light kiss. "Okay?"

"Yeah." More than, actually. This way, no one's being held down, and there's not as much — well, pressure, Mike supposes. It's just — friendly, in a weird way. Or maybe not that weird — Mike used to be kind of used to having friends he kissed, after all.

Kevin settles in a little closer. "This still all right?"

"Yeah. Or, actually — yeah." Mike moves his arm so it's not folded up between them, and uses it to settle Kevin a little more securely. He rubs down the warm length of his back. "You're not going to traumatize me with cuddles, Jonas."

"I'm told my hugs are pretty fearsome," Kevin jokes, but he relaxes under Mike's hand, leaning in until his shoulder is kind of tucked against Mike's. "You're comfy."

"I'm too skinny to be comfy."

"Lies." Kevin snuggles closer like he's making a point. "Nick's too bony, but you're just right."

Mike can't think of a response to that, so he just keeps petting Kevin's back. It's nice, a little hypnotic, and Kevin must like it too, because he makes a happy noise and pulls Mike closer. "Keep doing that."

"As you command," Mike says, and keeps going. It isn't that long before Kevin's breathing starts to lengthen and slow, and Mike lets his hand slow with it, until he's just petting whatever's under his fingertips, not moving his hand. Somewhere in there he must fall asleep, but it's not like he notices that until he opens his eyes and Kevin's looking at him, propped up on one elbow and smiling.

"What?" Mike asks.

"You have pretty eyelashes," Kevin tells him, and clambers over him to get out of the bunk. Mike moves into the warm space and watches Kevin straighten up and wince. "Ouch."

"I told you your bunk was too small," Mike tries.

"Cozy," Kevin says. "The word is cozy."

"The word is tiny," Mike corrects him. He tries to stretch out his arms, but hits the top bunk. "See?" When he rolls out and stands up, he's right in Kevin's space — there's not really anywhere else to stand.

"This is me, ignoring you," Kevin says. He hesitates for a minute, then leans forward and slides his arms around Mike. Mike freezes for a second, but — it's a hug. Just a hug. He raises his own arms and tentatively wraps them around Kevin in return.

"We're okay," Kevin tells him. "It'll all work out."

"Trust you?"

Kevin laughs and ducks his head against Mike's shoulder. "Exactly. And — vice versa, you know?" He sighs — Mike feels it gust against his shirt — then pats Mike's back and steps away. "It's got to be near dinnertime. I guess we should go look useful."

Mike's feeling together enough to say, "I think you're pretty decorative," as he follows Kevin out into the corridor. If he's trying not to grin, well, no one can tell.

***

Sarab's resignation from the Council of Worlds on the eve of a major vote has thrown legislators into chaos. While those who opposed his Tolerance Bill, which would have changed the legal status of grey-area customs from different worlds in the name of galactic harmony, speculate on the possible fate of the Bill without his backing, Sarab's supporters are forced to question if this means Sarab himself does not believe in the Bill's aims. Sarab himself did not comment on the situation, beyond the statement he released immediately following his resignation.

"My fellow citizens: It is with sorrow that I must announce my resignation from the Council of Worlds and from political life. It has been brought home to me that I cannot continue as I have, and I am forced to withdraw at this time."

Speculation as to the reasons for Sarab's resignation is rampant, but most focus is on Sarab's successor. The hot tip is for Arry Morden, who has come to the fore as an outspoken leader of the opposition to many of the acts supported explicity by Sarab. However, some say that so much of a change in the tenor of the Council is impossible, and the next President is more likely to be someone closer to the middle of the road.

"Anything interesting?"

Mike mutes the broadcast and looks over at Kevin in the doorway of the common area. "I think your brother is even more devious than you thought." He gestures with the remote. "Sarab is suddenly resigning."

"Isn't that interesting?" Kevin says. "They didn't happen to mention if it had anything to do with his main business concerns disappearing in a cloud of smoke?"

"Not a word." Mike pats the bag next to him. "Is there anything out about them looking for us?"

Kevin yawns, shakes his head, and crosses over to flop into the bag. "Nothing. Just a message from Joe that he knows we had absolutely nothing to do with the explosion, but he hopes no one caught our registration." He yawns again. "Frankie still wants to come out with us when he's done with schooling."

"Sounds good." Another person to share work might get the smudges under Kevin's eyes to fade some.

"Oh, and Gabe says we should stop by next time we're near Brennant. He's got something for us."

"Should I be worried?" Mike's hand falls on Kevin's far shoulder and starts to work at the tension that always gathers there during long shifts of navigation.

Kevin hums and curls further into Mike's side. "Everyone else should be more worried. Down a little? — Yeah, that's it."

Mike scoots around so he can dig his thumb in properly. "I take it we're out of the asteroids?"

"For a little while." Kevin lets his head drop forward. "I took us out the far side so we can coast for a while. I'll duck back in in just a few, take us a little further under cover."

"I could pilot," Mike offers.

Kevin peeks back at him. "Think you're up for it?"

"We're not running for our lives, I can handle it." Mike pokes Kevin just under his shoulderblade, then shifts around in the bag until his legs are bracketing Kevin. "Besides, I'm not letting you go anywhere."

"Could get awkward." Kevin leans back against Mike's chest. "Like I'm pretty sure we have places to be."

"Mm." Mike has to stop rubbing Kevin's shoulder, but that just frees up his arms to wrap around his chest and pull him a little closer. "I hear Orkund is nice this time of year. There's a 'comfort station' in the settlement near the mining camp I think we should check out."

"Ooh, mining planets, my favourites."

"Don't say I'm never good to you." Mike kisses the part of Kevin's cheek he can reach. "Wanna come annoy me while I fly?"

"I offer suggestions," Kevin protests, but he's laughing at the same time, and pushing himself to his feet.

Mike watches him go for a second, then catches up so he can tuck one hand into Kevin's back pocket. "Tell you what," he says, "You can back-seat navigate if you sit in my lap to do it."

Kevin's ears go pink. "Deal." He casts a look back. "Though I'm wondering what you get out of it."

"You're pretty smart, I'm sure you'll figure it out." Mike smacks Kevin's ass and dodges past him. Kevin yelps and chases after him, laughing all the way to the navdeck.