Chapter Text
Now on the street tonight the lights grow dim,
The walls of my room are closin' in;
There's a war outside still raging,
You say it ain't ours anymore to win;
I want to sleep beneath peaceful skies
In my lover's bed,
With a wide open country in my eyes,
And these romantic dreams in my head...
'Cause we made a promise,
We swore we'd always remember:
No retreat, baby, no surrender;
Blood brothers in the stormy night with a vow to defend:
No retreat, baby, no surrender...
No retreat, baby, no surrender.
-Bruce Springsteen, No Surrender
I miss him into my soul.
Eventually, though, Starfleet took his shackles off, and he was assigned to space, away from the Theories and Design Division in Belfast. But I don't think that he felt any comfort at being back out there with the stars he'd been born under and died under, and I know I didn't take any comfort in it. I can't tell you how badly I bled for that loss. Even if he couldn't, I think I might have enough for both of us.
I at least knew he was going to go. Not from him, naturally, but I think that my contacts in the rebellion, who had to make arrangements for information transfers with him when he wasn't earthbound anymore, knew how attached I had gotten. They just casually told me that he was gonna be leaving with the Enterprise in a month. Maybe pity. I don't know.
We'd been at this-- whatever it was for years by then. He was thirty-one, I was almost thirty-three, and I could easily picture us spending the rest of our lives in this strange balance we finally got to. Even his silence, even my chatter. I was a pretty successful small-time businessman by then on top of my side-job, and he had enough freedom that I could drag him all over the planet.
God, I loved those days. I still laugh when I think about them, even though it hurts.
I dragged him everywhere. Seriously. I took him with me to all the places you're supposed to see on Earth. Like a silly tourist. And after pulling him to all these places, I'd keep him for a night or a weekend and lay in bed laughing over the day, and he'd never smile, but I think that it meant something to him somewhere. I think that because later--
Well, I'll get there eventually.
But yeah, I pulled him all over kingdom and creation. I think one of my favorites was probably Hawaii, if only because the poor guy couldn't get away with wearing that damn black sweater and had to settle for a t-shirt, had to keep his dagger in hand, and got a bit of a tan. And he just sat there in the evening while I was swimming, probably keeping silent guard, and I can still see him sitting in the really pale sand, painted in the sunset, hair all ruffled up in the sea breeze, and I carry that one in my head.
There were probably a hundred little cafés and diners, and late nights where I talked his ears off. Careful about how I’d steal into his space, but trying really damn hard to get to his heart, and I know now that there maybe was something warm under the ash. Like, for as long as I'd known him, he only drank water, but one night he ordered tea with dinner, then kept doing that. I didn't point it out, but it was something that I was just happy about, y'know?
Years. I mean, it wasn't constant over the years, but it was years. Really, I only managed to snag his time away from him once or twice a month, at best once a week, depending on how much stuff he had to transfer to the rebellion. But I took all I could get and I got so good at seeing him that he had stopped being a shadow to me a long time ago. How he moved, where there were warning signs, where I could get him mellow enough that I could put my weight on him for a couple minutes before he'd get up and move.
I even got him talking once in a rare while. Never like conversation. Always something engineering related; a theory I was curious about, or a practice. And he'd explain it, rather patiently. And I knew that he kept his words cut down to next to nothing, but when he spoke enough, I could hear the cadences he once had so long ago, not quite gone. Enough of what his voice would have been that it was nice listening. It's funny, it took me years to even realize that he had an accent. But it was a great accent. Kinda rising and falling, not exactly music, but the hints of music.
I loved those days so much. I was perfectly happy even when we just stayed in one place in silence. But it was fun to run around, too. I had a whole lot of life to make up for missing, and another life I wanted to try to give a chance to.
I was reeling when I found out he'd be gone. Desperate. Wondered what it would take for me to keep him. I woulda done anything, y'know? I woulda begged.
I eventually did.
I think there was something warm under the ash, because I asked for a whole week. And I got it. He gave me one week. Took leave, not long before he was due to ship off, in exchange for a toothpick.
I took him sailing.
Before it all went wrong, my Dad was a good sailor, and he taught me. I was amazed at how much I remembered. I rented a really good sized schooner, probably big enough she really needed four people to handle her, but it was just me and him. Beautiful boat named the Bearclaw. Cost me a whole lot, but it was something that I needed to do. We put out from the Maine coastline I hadn't seen in years; I couldn't make myself go back to South Bristol, but we left from Maine and I think Dad woulda smiled at that.
Even raw with the knowledge that I'd be losing him soon, it still had its really good moments. Like-- he was seasick. Can you believe that? Scott's the last person I'd ever expect to be seasick, but damned if he wasn't. He had his hands on the bulwark, and he was breathing through his mouth, something he only did when he was sick or messed up somehow, and looking a bit greenish.
I really had a hard time not laughing at him, because he's-- well, he's him, so here he is seasick and that's so utterly normal. So damn mundane. I stood next to him and kept a straight face. "Look at the horizon, not the waves," I said, and he flicked me a sidelong glance, then did as I said. And then I went and rummaged around until I found some crackers and brought those back.
He was working on those for the rest of the day.
Other than that, though, he was a pretty damn good deckhand. Very quick to pick up everything I showed him. And after the first day or so, he got a lot better about the seasickness, and was generally able to move around pretty well. Though, it was wild to me that here, on the deck of a schooner, I was the one who was all sure-footed and he was the one who was a step slower.
I knew I was on borrowed, stolen time. It was still good time, though; I put the bow of the Bearclaw to the horizon and we just sailed. The first two days were sunny skies and good wind, though not perfect; the third day, we hit a patch of dead air and lolled for half of it, but that was okay. Did some deck work, in the sun. Then the wind came up, and I spun the schooner to run ahead of it, danced her bows into the waves and watched the shiver of the sails. She handled beautifully, and there were long periods where I grinned just because.
I don't know if he did or not, but I caught him in a moment that had to be something other than cold; his head back, eyes closed, just aft the staysails, in the sun. I don't know what he was thinking. I don't know if he was thinking at all, but I do know he was feeling the wind and sun. I was really glad of that, too. And that's another picture I have in my head, that I hang onto, that hurts, that I love.
"I'd do this forever," I'd said, and we were sitting on deck with the wheel lashed, with dinner and tea. It was evening, and the air was starting to get chilly, and night was falling with a sunset that I knew meant we were gonna be heading back to Maine in some rough weather. "What a world that would be."
Oh, god, what a world that would have been.
We did get rough weather, a nor'easter that came down on us, but we handled it. It raged, then settled into rain and still breaking waves, and we ran ourselves ragged, but I thought it was exhilarating. Like being alive. Really alive, and I howled back at the thunder, and laughed back at it, and it didn't matter that I was on borrowed time.
Do you see?
I was so happy there.
Scott never seemed worn out, but he must have been, because he turned in before I did when the weather calmed down and was half-dozing when I came in. Not like I couldn't sleep somewhere else, but I wanted company, specific company, his company. And I flopped down next to him, still all hyped up on the storm. Of course, the second he'd heard me, he was wide awake. I still wonder how he was able to do that; sleep that light and not die of exhaustion eventually.
I chatted at him, all exhilarated still; propped my head on one hand and combed at his hair with the other. I couldn't really help it. I was happy, and under that I knew that once we got back to land, this was it. This whatever it was would be gone.
He always just tolerated that kind of thing, even back when I was a fuckup trying to toy with him, even now when I meant it. It probably felt a lot more comforting to me than it did to him. I found a few strands of silver-white in his otherwise still black hair, and it was the only sign I ever saw that he wasn't somehow eternal. I knew I was in some danger of developing laugh lines at this point. He had none. Just a few strands of white hair, buried in the black, and it was while I was mapping those with gentle fingertips that it hit me all over again.
I struggled with it, too. Not to beg. Not to really give away just how-- just how desperately I loved him, just how scared I was of losing him. I put up the best fight I could, but he must've known something wasn't right; he went from looking at the ceiling to looking at me, and I couldn't take it.
"We can run," I said, and I'm just-- I don't know. Really fucking desperate. "I can sell off everything, and I'll bet we could get somewhere." And I felt a little like I couldn't breathe. "Y'know, someplace better. Some better world than this one."
It had been the only time, in all these years, that he'd actually said anything to me without some kind of-- prompting or whatever. And I could hear a flicker of something there, something that I couldn't identify, but it hit me right in the chest. And he said, "It's too late."
It broke me all to bits. I buried my face in his shoulder and cried my heart out. I didn't even care if it seemed weak or desperate or heartbroken, because that's exactly what it was. I don't know, still don't know, how anything that could have been-- been so much happiness, as brutally as it all started, could hurt so much to lose.
The funny thing is, though, that the same thing I think I fell in love with him for, that hope he made me feel, was the same thing that hopeless statement gave me. Because the simple fact that he said it at all meant something.
If I carry a lot of pictures of him in my head, it's that I held onto him the rest of that night that I carry in my soul. And miss into my soul. That he let me, really. He didn't hang on back. I didn't ever expect him to. But he let me hold onto him; my arm draped over his side, my nose to the back of his neck, all the way until sunrise. I probably woke him up a hundred times, just because I'd tighten my grip to make sure he was there, but he endured it and I like to think, pretend even, that it was something warm.
He's been gone a year now, and I still look for him. Still ache for him. I did end up selling my business. I got full-time into the rebellion, and I like to think that I'm making a difference. I've managed to get a few people hidden. I know that I'm doing it for him. I also know that I'm doing it to keep busy, so I don't try to suicidally chase after him.
And I started searching for Jenna Richmond, even though I know that if I ever find her, I'll lose even the hope I hang onto. If she's still alive, she's buried somewhere; a different name, a different life, but if she's out there, I know that once she meant so much to Scotty that he died with her name, and maybe her name could give that kid a chance to crawl out of the ashes.
And the shadow, no longer a shadow, that I fell in love with-- I'd lose him, but I think that would be worth it.
But was he worth all of this?
I find my answer.
He looks across at me, and it's been almost a year and a half, and it's--
There's no cold light in those eyes now. When he looks at me, there's sorrow there. But what really gets me is that there's warmth there, too, and I know what that means.
I know already.
I could kill him, logically, and put up a fight and die. And logically, I could ask him to let me live, and then I could be tortured to death by the Empire for whatever information. Maybe they'd even know that I love him, and hurt him to break me. I know, though, that none of those are an option for us and so does he. We don't have much time; the ship's overrun, and they just sent him down here to clear out engineering and make sure the damage the Enterprise did doesn't make her blow up before they can take prisoners.
I know. So does he.
"Care about nothin' they can use against you," he says. Then he closes his eyes for a moment, and I hear and see that sad certainty and it hurts so bad. Then he looks at me again, and quieter says, "Love nothin'--" his voice cracks, but he finishes, "-- no one that they can take from you."
And I know he's explaining why. And my eyes are burning, and I'm scared, I'm terrified, but I cling to that, just like I clung to him that last night on the Bearclaw, and even though I have to swallow before I can reply, I still raise my chin to answer, "They can't take me from you now."
He tips his head to the side, regards me, and that grief is for me. That warmth is for me.
He nods once. "I know."
The tears are burning my face now, and I make it easy on him. I put myself right there in his space. No deals, no bargains, no safety margins.
And he gets an arm around me, the left, I know the dagger's in his right hand, and I put my chin over his shoulder, and he rests his head over tight against mine, and I know those white strands I found are still in his hair.
I'm so scared. But he's giving me one minute. One minute I don't have to steal. One minute I don't have to bribe or bargain for. One minute where he's mine, the warmth in the ash. And I think about hope. And I think about love. And I think about whether he was worth this. I think a million maybes. Maybe we coulda gotten out. Maybe I coulda found Jenna. Maybe if we just had a little more time. Maybe-- just maybe.
Maybe there's some better world than this.
I don't want that warmth to die here with me. I do know that.
The minute's almost up, and he says, quietly, "I'm sorry, Andy."
I know he means it, and I know this hurts, and god, I want him to know all about the maybes and believe in them, and I want him to know that he saved my soul, even if my life ends now, and I want him to know that I love him down to my last cell.
But my time's up. I give him two words, my last two, and I mean them with everything I've ever been, and ever could have been.
Yes, he was worth it.
"I'm not."