Crewmate Grey, aka Skyler, is the Skeld’s Security and weapons officer.
A longtime friend and partner of Purple, he served alongside him in Mira Corps, retiring when both suffered serious injuries on the field.
Despite intimidating appearances, he is actually a chill guy, often seen enjoying a cup of coffee as he patrols the ship to see how things are going.
Always watchful, he takes his job seriously and generally knows where the crew is at any given time, enforcing the captains orders where applicable, earning him the nickname “Big Brother” amongst most of the crew.
Though calm, he is not above physical force and can and will assert himself where necessary, but he does so sparingly.
He acted as the main recruiter for the Skeld, and although he proved of many of the crew, there are some he is weary of and prone to keep and eye on- much to varying levels of annoyance.
For a second, he can do nothing but stare. It feels like he’s been turned to stone -- his boyfriend has revealed himself as Medusa, paralyzing him without even bothering to look away from the TV. Stretches out in bed, legs spread in front of him as he lounges back against the pillows, there’s no reason George should look seductive. He’s just... lying there.
In Ron’s shirt.
George is wearing Ron’s shirt, and it’s at least a size too big for him, and he’s wearing underwear. That’s it.
“George,” Ron says, and then finds himself speechless.
George looks up and flashes him a grin -- not seductive or teasing, just a normal grin after Ron has returned from a normal day at work. “Hey. The Real Housewives are on, and I know you hate this shit to death, but I’m just watching this one about Lisa’s shoes -- how was your day?”
“It was.” Ron takes a step into the room, swallows hard, and freezes up again. “Fine.”
“Uh-oh.” George’s tone is light; he must take Ron’s shortness to mean he’s had a bad day. He shifts over on the bed, causing Ron’s shirt to ride up and expose his abdomen. Ron feels his pulse pound in his ears. “Wanna talk about it? Or we could just sit -- I’ll even turn this show off before my brain starts leaking outta my ears.”
“I --” Ron can’t. If he goes near George, he doesn’t know what he’ll do, but he won’t be able to control himself. “Sorry. I have to... take a shower.”
“Ooh.” George’s eyes light up. “Want me to join you?”
The notion is so tempting, but Ron can’t right now. He needs time to process what he’s just seen, because his world feels like it’s been flipped on it’s axis. It’s so stupid -- it’s only a shirt. (A shirt that hangs off of George in the bed way, and hugs him in all the right places, and is just long enough on him that Ron can just see the tops of his thighs -- oh, he’s going to have an aneurysm.)
“That’s okay.” He makes an about face, ready to beeline for the bathroom as fast as possible -- it takes all his willpower not to run. On a masochistic whim, he glances back, and sees George’s face has fallen.
“Later, though,” he promises, and sees a smile pull at George’s lips once more. “Once I don’t smell like grease and motor fuel.”
He knows that George is into the whole “grungy mechanic” thing, but right now Ron needs to put as much distance between them as possible. George’s eyes are warm and his smile lights a fire in Ron’s chest that he needs to calm before he can get anywhere near him. He’s halfway through the doorway when he stops again.
“George, is that my shirt?”
“Is it?” George looks down at himself in surprise, pulling at the worn fabric, and his eyebrows creep up. “Oh! Yeah, I guess it is. Didn’t even notice.”
He didn’t even notice.
Ron power-walks to the shower, and wonders if death would be a sweeter agony than this.
dek-says-so said: I TRIED. I would have thrown the Sam confrontation scene from Timelines in there but it hurts too much and I tear up each time I read it so … *flees again*
