Just an unfinished Captain Black (CSatM) I'd intended to do for Halloween. I got distracted watching a marathon of the Treehouse of Horror episodes of The Simpsons. Finished a NCS Captain Blue, though! 🙂
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Cloudbase is too quiet.
Not silent, never silent, with the low electrical hum in the walls and the distant whir of launch gantries, but quiet in the way that leaves too much echoing room inside Conrad Turner’s head.
Captain Black stands alone in the observation corridor, gloved hands clasped behind his back. The glass shows only darkness and the faint reflection of his own uniform: black cap, black tunic, the crisp circle of the Spectrum insignia.
He rarely removes his gloves since he’s added them.
It started as a practicality. Field work. Contamination risks. Discipline. He always has a reason ready if anyone asked. No one has, lately. They simply accept it, the way people accept the rest of him, with polite distance, professional respect, and a subtle unease they can never quite name.
He insists to himself he prefers it.
The distance is safer.
Still, he notices things.
Blue’s hand on Scarlet’s shoulder in the corridor. Laughter and a quick shove between the off-duty Magenta and Ochre. Gray draping an arm over the back of a couch beside Harmony in the lounge. Casual touches that happen without thought.
He notices every one of them.
Once, long ago—before Mars, before the Mysterons, before the feeling that something inside him had been hollowed out and carefully, deliberately put back wrong—Conrad used to be more like that too. Easy with contact. A clasped hand, a quick clap on the back, a reassuring grip during tense briefings. Always careful, but there.
Now he keeps still.
Even alone, he rarely removes his gloves.
He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t want to remember the sensation of skin against skin.
Because if he remembers it too clearly, he might start wanting it again.
And he’s found wanting things is always dangerous.
The corridor door slides open behind him.
“Captain Black.”
He straightens, “Colonel White, sir.”
Spectrum’s Commanding Officer pauses beside him, looking out at the dark sky. Neither of them speaks.
Then the Colonel chuckles softly. “Long day.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Another awkward pause.
Then, absentmindedly, the Colonel claps him on the shoulder.
It’s brief. Casual. Gone almost immediately.
But for one suspended moment Conrad feels the weight of it through the uniform fabric—the warmth, the pressure, the unmistakable reality of another human being choosing to touch him.
Then the Colonel is walking away, unaware.
Captain Black remains frozen.
Inside the gloves, his fingers curl slightly, as though trying to hold on to a sensation that has already vanished.
He does not call the Colonel, a former friend, back.
He does not remove the gloves.
But he stays in the corridor long after Cloudbase has gone quiet again, staring at his reflection in the glass and wondering, not for the first time and probably not the last, whether he’s still human enough for touch.
