(no subject)
Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate! I hope you're all having fabulous days.
Alternately, this is a thing I wrote for sinuous_curve. It didn't come out the way I thought I would, but I hope it's still enjoyable.
♥ ♥
so many different places to call home
ray person/doc bryan, g (minus the swearing)
2346 words
a generation lost in space
Ray had terrible allergies on Earth, and they’re even worse in space. He’s a helmsman, technically, but he’s in sickbay more often than he is anywhere else. Sometimes Brad doesn’t even let him on the bridge if he doesn’t have a mask on. First mate or not, sometimes Brad is an asshole.
“Hey buddy,” Doc says, turning to face him when Ray’s paperwork spits out from the computer. Ray winces. Doc’s ‘hey buddy’s are usually only reserved for the dead or dying. Ray gets sick sometimes, but it’s usually not that bad.
He swings his legs on the metal bench, the fabric of his paper gown crinkling, and says, “Uh oh. That’s not a good face.”
Doc smiles at him tightly, palming his bandanna. “I have to ground you,” he says. His voice is gentle, like Ray is a scared animal, or one likely to lash out and attack. He stops swinging his legs and clears his throat.
“Like,” he starts, turning his head away. The sickbay doesn’t have windows, but Ray knows what’s beyond the walls. Can imagine the dark emptiness of space and the stars stretched out all around them like fires, nearly close enough to touch if you’re skilled enough. “Like, permanently, or?” he asks, because maybe if he faces the possibility head-on, it’ll become less scary.
Doc chews on his bottom lip for so long that the skin starts to go white. They’re staring at each other head on, but Ray’s fidgeting; can’t keep still. He’s edgy at the best of times and this is nowhere close.
“Yeah,” Doc says, barely making a noise at all. Ray sucks in a breath through his teeth. It reverberates through the room like a shot.
Ray swallows and ducks his head, squeezing his eyes shut to stop the sudden stinging in them.
He’s trying for calm, but his voice still sounds heavy when he says, “How long do I have?”
Doc’s still looking at him, Ray can feel it, but he doesn’t look up again. “There are spores in your lungs, Ray,” he says, voice still gentle, but with a hard edge beneath it. However bad this is, it’s out of his hands.
Ray starts laughing. He tips his head far back enough that their eyes meet again, sees alarm in Doc’s eyes, but doesn’t bother stopping.
“Well, that’s fucking peachy,” he says, and Doc has the sense to look amused again. He’s being humored, and Ray knows it, but fuck it if it’s not better than pity right now.
“I’m sorry, Ray,” Doc says, sliding his hand up to fiddle with his bandanna again.
Ray’s not listening, though. Ray’s not even in the fucking room anymore, no way. He’s out in the depths of space somewhere, maybe, making acquaintance with planets he’ll never get a chance to see.
Eventually, Doc says, “You can get dressed, Ensign Person. The scan is over,” and Ray collects his uniform and boots.
There’s a privacy screen a few feet over, but Ray ignores it in favor of stripping off his paper gown, balling it small and shoving it into the compactor. The air in the infirmary is chilly verging on cold, always is, but Ray doesn’t even feel it. It takes him less than thirty seconds to tug on the nylon and lace up his boots.
“Thanks,” Ray says, without even bothering to turn around.
From behind him, he hears the doc say, “I’m sorry,” but Ray doesn’t stop or acknowledge it.
*
Everybody is cramped on a space ship, but Ray’s room is squeezed right next to Brad’s, and no matter how much he keeps his head down, they can’t avoid each other forever. Especially considering Ray’ll be training his replacement soon.
He’s throwing stuff around his quarters under the pretense of packing, but Ray wants to take less than half of this stuff with him when he makes the trip back to Earth. It’s not like he’ll ever need another uniform, where he’s going.
Brad doesn’t bother knocking before using Ray’s passcode to enter the room, and when Ray turns to face him, he looks smug.
“What part of ‘only for emergencies’ do you not understand, homes?” Ray asks, circumventing Brad’s obnoxious Viking form to grab an ancient band t-shirt from the hover stand. He tosses it toward his duffel bag and misses, of course. It’s been that kind of fucking day.
“I don’t know, Ray,” Brad says, arms crossed like he means business. He’s affecting a casual slouch, leaning against the entrance wall, but Ray calls bullshit. He can always tell when Brad’s mad. “Why don’t you tell me?”
“Why don’t you fuck off?” Ray asks. “I would like that so much better.”
Brad looks like he’s going to step further into the room, like he’s ready to start a fight, and shit, Ray’s ready for it. His palms are stinging in anticipation of broken bones.
“Why was Tim Bryan the one to tell me of your illness, Ensign Person?” Brad asks, voice all ice.
Ray shrugs. “I don’t know, Iceman. He’s a fucking doctor, right? Isn’t that his job?” He stuffs his t-shirt into the duffel bag and doesn’t feel better for it. Maybe he can leave all this shit here. It’s not like his commission won’t be big enough to buy a whole new wardrobe.
Brad works his jaw, and Ray stares in his general direction, eyes focused on the door behind his head. The paint is peeling. Of course it is. The Matilda isn’t much to look at from any direction.
“Why weren’t you the one to tell me?” he asks.
“Didn’t think it was important.”
“You didn’t think it was important?”
Ray shrugs. “You’ll find somebody else,” he says. “I’ve been showing Walt how to read coordinates. He’s getting better.” He shrugs. “You’ll be fine with him until you can interview more qualified people.”
“Ray.”
Ray stiffens, shaking his fingers out before he starts to cough. It’s just a tickle at first, but it gets worse quickly. He can feel the phlegm coating his throat and tries to spit, but he’s coughing too hard to succeed.
“Ray,” Brad says, voice harsh, insistent, but he sounds far away, and Ray has to close his eyes, because he can’t calculate the distance.
*
When Ray comes to, he’s in the sickbay. He’s slow to open his eyes, but he can always tell because of the chill, and also because he can’t move his arm without tugging at the wires he’s attached to.
Something beeps, somewhere, Ray wakes up to Doc’s crowding close with concern in his eyes and gentle pressure on his throat.
“Are you trying to prove me right?” he asks, but there’s no hint of a smile at his mouth, no amusement in his eyes. He looks old, and he looks tired. Ray doesn’t even want to think of what image he’s mirroring.
He opens his mouth to speak, but coughs out something instead. He’s dizzy, those spores must be pretty attached to his lungs, and he closes his eyes again because it’s easier.
“I didn’t know your prognosis was up for debate,” he croaks. He was a smoker, back on Earth, but even after twenty cigarettes, he never sounded quite this bad.
“Everything is up for debate, Ray,” Doc says. The pressure on Ray’s throat gets sharper for a second and he winces, but grits his teeth through it. The pain ebbs away after a second, but when he opens his eyes again, the world is swimming. “I have to check your insides,” Doc says, as if that’s any explanation for why everything is tinted yellow.
“My insides?” Ray asks. Or at least he thinks he asks. His voice sounds weird; disjointed and far away.
Doc smiles. His mouth looks huge on his face, teeth gleaming white in the bright lights, and Ray blinks, trying to snap himself focused because he’s looked at Tim Bryan upwards of a million times since the Academy and his teeth have never looked that big before.
“There’s a hallucinogen in the serum,” Doc says, apologetic. “I’m pretty sure my teeth don’t usually look like they’re trying to eat my face.”
Ray doesn’t remember saying it, but that doesn’t stop it from probably being true. He closes his eyes again to spare himself delusions.
Doc’s hands are gentle but firm, pressing on different parts of Ray’s anatomy when he wants to peer more closely at them and Ray drifts in and out of consciousness. Every time he opens his eyes, the room is a different color.
*
The fact that his throat doesn’t hurt is the first thing that registers when Ray wakes up again. The second thing he recognizes is that the doc is slumped in a chair across from his cot, still wearing his scrubs and bandanna.
“Hey,” Ray croaks out, testing his voice.
Doc wakes up almost instantly, staring across at Ray with unblinking eyes. “Hey,” he parrots.
Ray thinks about sitting up, tests the wires at his wrists, and decides against it. “So,” he starts. “That happened.”
Doc laughs, rubbing his hands against his face. He looks exhausted. Falling asleep while dealing with a patient probably isn’t very restful.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, Ray. That happened.”
Ray breathes in, feeling the air pool in his throat, his lungs. It feels amazing.
“So I can breathe again,” he says. He quirks a brow, but in the low light, he’s not even sure Doc can see him. “That’s new.”
“How long were you experiencing respiratory issues?” Doc asks, leaning forward, palms on his knees.
Ray shrugs. “There was a storm HyperionII or something? Right?” He almost looks to the place Brad’s usually in, but catches himself at the last minute and shrugs. “I think. Rescue mission. We were picking up what was left of the crew of Bravo-1.”
“You should have been examined,” Doc says.
“It’s not like I have to worry about it anymore, right?” Ray asks. “I’m getting sent home when we get to the next weigh station, homes. Your orders.”
It takes longer for Doc to speak than Ray is really comfortable with, especially with all the staring. “I was able to remove all the spores,” he says. Someone else might make a joke to ease the mood, but Doc has lost enough of them. “You’ll have to see me twice a week for the next six months, but you can stay.” He exhales slowly. “You should stay.”
“How about-”
Doc rolls his eyes. “No.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“Off world missions, Ensign Person?” Doc asks, because apparently mind-reading is another skill for medical professionals. “No way. We nearly lost you once. I’m not willing to take the risk.”
*
Ray’s stuck in the sickbay for four days, during which most of the crew stops by to see him. It’s sweet and endearing, but also annoying as fuck, because his voice gives out after a few minutes of strenuous use, and there’s only so much incorrect yammering he can take.
Doc sticks pretty close, even though he must have other patients. Ray’s sequestered away, though. He hasn’t seen anybody but himself, and his barrage of visitors, all probably sent from Brad to annoy the shit out of him, because he can’t.
Ray uses the sickbay comms to call Brad, because the thought of rifling through his stuff for his own is exhausting. Brad answers on the first ring and says, “You’re alive,” with a smirk. He’s laughing about it, but he still looks worried. Ray can relate.
“Yeah,” he says in response. “Doc fixed me right up.”
“There’s a reason we keep him around.”
Ray nods, and they both fall silent for a minute. Ray chews on his fingernails, and then blurts, “He says I can stay.”
Brad raises a brow and says, “I never doubted it.”
*
Doc lets him go back to his quarters the next day. Ray feels weird standing after so long strapped to a cot, but he doesn’t say so. It’s not a bad weird, his legs just feel like jelly. It takes him three times longer to get to his room than usual, but at least he makes it. That’s the important part.
He gets a VidCall halfway through his shower, and lets it ring. His muscles are coiled tight, sore, and all Ray wants is to fall on his bed and sleep for the next twelve years, but there’s a message blinking on his machine when he gets out, and he listens to it as he wipes down his hair.
“It’s Tim,” Doc says over the line. Ray casts his eyes toward the view screen, and laughs at the high color on Doc’s cheeks. “Just,” he starts, and then he smiles too, surprising and bright. “Call me back, Ensign Person.”
Ray pulls on some sweatpants, marveling at the fact that he can bend over and still manage to breathe, and makes the call to the infirmary while he’s pulling on his shirt.
“Hi,” Doc says, when he answers, and Ray nods his response. “Why didn’t you tell me about your legs?”
Ray rolls his eyes. “Since when are you a fucking telepath, Doc? Stay the fuck out of my head.”
“Empath, actually,” he says, and Ray appreciates that even through the digitized screen, he keeps his gaze level.
“Bullshit,” Ray says, even though it would make sense.
“I could feel it,” Doc says, like this is the kind of conversation he has every day. Maybe it is. Ray hasn’t been spending the right kind of time in the sickbay.
“I’m gonna start calling you Trombley in a minute,” Ray says, and Doc doesn’t laugh like Brad would, but at least he cracks a smile.
“Come back tomorrow, 0930. I only gave you leave to go to your quarters because the mattress is better for your back.”
“I look great on my back,” Ray says, another joke, maybe.
Doc just smiles and says, “I’m sure you do.”
Alternately, this is a thing I wrote for sinuous_curve. It didn't come out the way I thought I would, but I hope it's still enjoyable.
♥ ♥
so many different places to call home
ray person/doc bryan, g (minus the swearing)
2346 words
a generation lost in space
Ray had terrible allergies on Earth, and they’re even worse in space. He’s a helmsman, technically, but he’s in sickbay more often than he is anywhere else. Sometimes Brad doesn’t even let him on the bridge if he doesn’t have a mask on. First mate or not, sometimes Brad is an asshole.
“Hey buddy,” Doc says, turning to face him when Ray’s paperwork spits out from the computer. Ray winces. Doc’s ‘hey buddy’s are usually only reserved for the dead or dying. Ray gets sick sometimes, but it’s usually not that bad.
He swings his legs on the metal bench, the fabric of his paper gown crinkling, and says, “Uh oh. That’s not a good face.”
Doc smiles at him tightly, palming his bandanna. “I have to ground you,” he says. His voice is gentle, like Ray is a scared animal, or one likely to lash out and attack. He stops swinging his legs and clears his throat.
“Like,” he starts, turning his head away. The sickbay doesn’t have windows, but Ray knows what’s beyond the walls. Can imagine the dark emptiness of space and the stars stretched out all around them like fires, nearly close enough to touch if you’re skilled enough. “Like, permanently, or?” he asks, because maybe if he faces the possibility head-on, it’ll become less scary.
Doc chews on his bottom lip for so long that the skin starts to go white. They’re staring at each other head on, but Ray’s fidgeting; can’t keep still. He’s edgy at the best of times and this is nowhere close.
“Yeah,” Doc says, barely making a noise at all. Ray sucks in a breath through his teeth. It reverberates through the room like a shot.
Ray swallows and ducks his head, squeezing his eyes shut to stop the sudden stinging in them.
He’s trying for calm, but his voice still sounds heavy when he says, “How long do I have?”
Doc’s still looking at him, Ray can feel it, but he doesn’t look up again. “There are spores in your lungs, Ray,” he says, voice still gentle, but with a hard edge beneath it. However bad this is, it’s out of his hands.
Ray starts laughing. He tips his head far back enough that their eyes meet again, sees alarm in Doc’s eyes, but doesn’t bother stopping.
“Well, that’s fucking peachy,” he says, and Doc has the sense to look amused again. He’s being humored, and Ray knows it, but fuck it if it’s not better than pity right now.
“I’m sorry, Ray,” Doc says, sliding his hand up to fiddle with his bandanna again.
Ray’s not listening, though. Ray’s not even in the fucking room anymore, no way. He’s out in the depths of space somewhere, maybe, making acquaintance with planets he’ll never get a chance to see.
Eventually, Doc says, “You can get dressed, Ensign Person. The scan is over,” and Ray collects his uniform and boots.
There’s a privacy screen a few feet over, but Ray ignores it in favor of stripping off his paper gown, balling it small and shoving it into the compactor. The air in the infirmary is chilly verging on cold, always is, but Ray doesn’t even feel it. It takes him less than thirty seconds to tug on the nylon and lace up his boots.
“Thanks,” Ray says, without even bothering to turn around.
From behind him, he hears the doc say, “I’m sorry,” but Ray doesn’t stop or acknowledge it.
*
Everybody is cramped on a space ship, but Ray’s room is squeezed right next to Brad’s, and no matter how much he keeps his head down, they can’t avoid each other forever. Especially considering Ray’ll be training his replacement soon.
He’s throwing stuff around his quarters under the pretense of packing, but Ray wants to take less than half of this stuff with him when he makes the trip back to Earth. It’s not like he’ll ever need another uniform, where he’s going.
Brad doesn’t bother knocking before using Ray’s passcode to enter the room, and when Ray turns to face him, he looks smug.
“What part of ‘only for emergencies’ do you not understand, homes?” Ray asks, circumventing Brad’s obnoxious Viking form to grab an ancient band t-shirt from the hover stand. He tosses it toward his duffel bag and misses, of course. It’s been that kind of fucking day.
“I don’t know, Ray,” Brad says, arms crossed like he means business. He’s affecting a casual slouch, leaning against the entrance wall, but Ray calls bullshit. He can always tell when Brad’s mad. “Why don’t you tell me?”
“Why don’t you fuck off?” Ray asks. “I would like that so much better.”
Brad looks like he’s going to step further into the room, like he’s ready to start a fight, and shit, Ray’s ready for it. His palms are stinging in anticipation of broken bones.
“Why was Tim Bryan the one to tell me of your illness, Ensign Person?” Brad asks, voice all ice.
Ray shrugs. “I don’t know, Iceman. He’s a fucking doctor, right? Isn’t that his job?” He stuffs his t-shirt into the duffel bag and doesn’t feel better for it. Maybe he can leave all this shit here. It’s not like his commission won’t be big enough to buy a whole new wardrobe.
Brad works his jaw, and Ray stares in his general direction, eyes focused on the door behind his head. The paint is peeling. Of course it is. The Matilda isn’t much to look at from any direction.
“Why weren’t you the one to tell me?” he asks.
“Didn’t think it was important.”
“You didn’t think it was important?”
Ray shrugs. “You’ll find somebody else,” he says. “I’ve been showing Walt how to read coordinates. He’s getting better.” He shrugs. “You’ll be fine with him until you can interview more qualified people.”
“Ray.”
Ray stiffens, shaking his fingers out before he starts to cough. It’s just a tickle at first, but it gets worse quickly. He can feel the phlegm coating his throat and tries to spit, but he’s coughing too hard to succeed.
“Ray,” Brad says, voice harsh, insistent, but he sounds far away, and Ray has to close his eyes, because he can’t calculate the distance.
*
When Ray comes to, he’s in the sickbay. He’s slow to open his eyes, but he can always tell because of the chill, and also because he can’t move his arm without tugging at the wires he’s attached to.
Something beeps, somewhere, Ray wakes up to Doc’s crowding close with concern in his eyes and gentle pressure on his throat.
“Are you trying to prove me right?” he asks, but there’s no hint of a smile at his mouth, no amusement in his eyes. He looks old, and he looks tired. Ray doesn’t even want to think of what image he’s mirroring.
He opens his mouth to speak, but coughs out something instead. He’s dizzy, those spores must be pretty attached to his lungs, and he closes his eyes again because it’s easier.
“I didn’t know your prognosis was up for debate,” he croaks. He was a smoker, back on Earth, but even after twenty cigarettes, he never sounded quite this bad.
“Everything is up for debate, Ray,” Doc says. The pressure on Ray’s throat gets sharper for a second and he winces, but grits his teeth through it. The pain ebbs away after a second, but when he opens his eyes again, the world is swimming. “I have to check your insides,” Doc says, as if that’s any explanation for why everything is tinted yellow.
“My insides?” Ray asks. Or at least he thinks he asks. His voice sounds weird; disjointed and far away.
Doc smiles. His mouth looks huge on his face, teeth gleaming white in the bright lights, and Ray blinks, trying to snap himself focused because he’s looked at Tim Bryan upwards of a million times since the Academy and his teeth have never looked that big before.
“There’s a hallucinogen in the serum,” Doc says, apologetic. “I’m pretty sure my teeth don’t usually look like they’re trying to eat my face.”
Ray doesn’t remember saying it, but that doesn’t stop it from probably being true. He closes his eyes again to spare himself delusions.
Doc’s hands are gentle but firm, pressing on different parts of Ray’s anatomy when he wants to peer more closely at them and Ray drifts in and out of consciousness. Every time he opens his eyes, the room is a different color.
*
The fact that his throat doesn’t hurt is the first thing that registers when Ray wakes up again. The second thing he recognizes is that the doc is slumped in a chair across from his cot, still wearing his scrubs and bandanna.
“Hey,” Ray croaks out, testing his voice.
Doc wakes up almost instantly, staring across at Ray with unblinking eyes. “Hey,” he parrots.
Ray thinks about sitting up, tests the wires at his wrists, and decides against it. “So,” he starts. “That happened.”
Doc laughs, rubbing his hands against his face. He looks exhausted. Falling asleep while dealing with a patient probably isn’t very restful.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, Ray. That happened.”
Ray breathes in, feeling the air pool in his throat, his lungs. It feels amazing.
“So I can breathe again,” he says. He quirks a brow, but in the low light, he’s not even sure Doc can see him. “That’s new.”
“How long were you experiencing respiratory issues?” Doc asks, leaning forward, palms on his knees.
Ray shrugs. “There was a storm HyperionII or something? Right?” He almost looks to the place Brad’s usually in, but catches himself at the last minute and shrugs. “I think. Rescue mission. We were picking up what was left of the crew of Bravo-1.”
“You should have been examined,” Doc says.
“It’s not like I have to worry about it anymore, right?” Ray asks. “I’m getting sent home when we get to the next weigh station, homes. Your orders.”
It takes longer for Doc to speak than Ray is really comfortable with, especially with all the staring. “I was able to remove all the spores,” he says. Someone else might make a joke to ease the mood, but Doc has lost enough of them. “You’ll have to see me twice a week for the next six months, but you can stay.” He exhales slowly. “You should stay.”
“How about-”
Doc rolls his eyes. “No.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“Off world missions, Ensign Person?” Doc asks, because apparently mind-reading is another skill for medical professionals. “No way. We nearly lost you once. I’m not willing to take the risk.”
*
Ray’s stuck in the sickbay for four days, during which most of the crew stops by to see him. It’s sweet and endearing, but also annoying as fuck, because his voice gives out after a few minutes of strenuous use, and there’s only so much incorrect yammering he can take.
Doc sticks pretty close, even though he must have other patients. Ray’s sequestered away, though. He hasn’t seen anybody but himself, and his barrage of visitors, all probably sent from Brad to annoy the shit out of him, because he can’t.
Ray uses the sickbay comms to call Brad, because the thought of rifling through his stuff for his own is exhausting. Brad answers on the first ring and says, “You’re alive,” with a smirk. He’s laughing about it, but he still looks worried. Ray can relate.
“Yeah,” he says in response. “Doc fixed me right up.”
“There’s a reason we keep him around.”
Ray nods, and they both fall silent for a minute. Ray chews on his fingernails, and then blurts, “He says I can stay.”
Brad raises a brow and says, “I never doubted it.”
*
Doc lets him go back to his quarters the next day. Ray feels weird standing after so long strapped to a cot, but he doesn’t say so. It’s not a bad weird, his legs just feel like jelly. It takes him three times longer to get to his room than usual, but at least he makes it. That’s the important part.
He gets a VidCall halfway through his shower, and lets it ring. His muscles are coiled tight, sore, and all Ray wants is to fall on his bed and sleep for the next twelve years, but there’s a message blinking on his machine when he gets out, and he listens to it as he wipes down his hair.
“It’s Tim,” Doc says over the line. Ray casts his eyes toward the view screen, and laughs at the high color on Doc’s cheeks. “Just,” he starts, and then he smiles too, surprising and bright. “Call me back, Ensign Person.”
Ray pulls on some sweatpants, marveling at the fact that he can bend over and still manage to breathe, and makes the call to the infirmary while he’s pulling on his shirt.
“Hi,” Doc says, when he answers, and Ray nods his response. “Why didn’t you tell me about your legs?”
Ray rolls his eyes. “Since when are you a fucking telepath, Doc? Stay the fuck out of my head.”
“Empath, actually,” he says, and Ray appreciates that even through the digitized screen, he keeps his gaze level.
“Bullshit,” Ray says, even though it would make sense.
“I could feel it,” Doc says, like this is the kind of conversation he has every day. Maybe it is. Ray hasn’t been spending the right kind of time in the sickbay.
“I’m gonna start calling you Trombley in a minute,” Ray says, and Doc doesn’t laugh like Brad would, but at least he cracks a smile.
“Come back tomorrow, 0930. I only gave you leave to go to your quarters because the mattress is better for your back.”
“I look great on my back,” Ray says, another joke, maybe.
Doc just smiles and says, “I’m sure you do.”