#bloodnik.

[frcmblood]

cont.

exhaustion runs through his sigh as simon scrubs a hand down his face. " yeah, i know, that's- that's what i said, there's- there's a . . . a leak, or . . . " he pauses, blinking once. then twice.

he hadn't mentioned– had he?

" how- how do you know the porthole's cracked? " he asks quietly, turning to stare at the speaker.

. . . that wasn't the captain's voice, either. immediately, hackles raise, exhaustion hardening into tension ; shoulders tightening back as he tries to keep them neutral. " . . . who are you? "

. . . @bloodnik

[frcmblood]

"I care about you."

first, he scoffs. rolls his eyes. " right. sure. " it's the same reaction he's always gotten. oh, i care about you; i know you. they never fucking did. he doesn't expect anything different, here. but the silence after the words is enough time to let the circumstances run, brain turning the situation over in his head, weaving the words into his mind. he does know. because he's also simon. he knows every dark deed he's performed, every piece of guilt that still rests on his shoulders, every pinprick of loneliness settling against his skin. he knows what eden was like ; probably also remembers many of their . . . brothers friends acquaintances fellow colonists. he knows what their job was.

he's seen the darkest corners of simon, because he's lived them. there's nowhere for him to hide because a mirror reflects whatever is in front of it, dark or light.

he shifts his weight, suddenly uncomfortable. " . . . thanks, " he murmurs in response, ducking his head. he doesn't offer up anything else after that.

. . . @bloodnik.

[frcmblood]

--- he's copying everything simon is saying over the speaker just to be annoying. 🫶

once was funny ; even he can admit that. thrice was irritating, but he got over it.

seven was really pushing the limit.

" would you knock it off?! " he snaps, shooting a glare towards the speaker, one with so much vitriol that it could have curdled milk. " i– just – stop! fucking hell– " one hand slams into the console to punctuate his point – which he immediately regrets as the metal bites back.

. . . metaphorically. this time.

he sucks in a hiss of breath, cursing again – louder this time. then, after a moment of silence, he sighs, leaning back against the broken back of the pilot's chair. " . . . sorry, " he mutters, though unclear who he's talking to. " just– a little too much. "