January Writing Challenge: teh fanfix

((OOC: Warnings: There are references to torture in this story, as well as death, kidnapping, slavery; other inferences may also be made but nothing is explicit and everything is within the confines of the TOS. It's full of heavy aftermath and some references to now retired character.))





Loving someone for three decades – even with frequent months-long absences – imbued one with all manner of intimate knowledge that nobody else possessed.

For instance, holding Josh in his arms, letting the other man rest his head against his chest, and humming the Siren’s Song was a surefire way to make him fall asleep. An unfair advantage, perhaps, since the trick didn’t work in reverse; but Captain Neville was judicious in its use, as he was in all areas of life. He only did this when the other man was so keyed up that sleep became impossible for either of them otherwise.

Of course, sleep was impossible for him regardless of Josh’s behavior, but there was no reason for the other man to suffer the insomnia along with him. At least one of them deserved a good night’s rest.

Once the younger man was out like a light, Sean carefully untangled their limbs, moved slowly to prevent rousing his partner. Then he silently donned his boots and left their quarters, stepping into the corridor and Gamma Shift’s domain. Or what would be Gamma Shift’s domain if this had been a real ship’s crew.

Not that he was ungrateful for the rescue; he was more grateful than words could express. But he was long familiar with Cobalt Weaver’s methods of operation.

He was also familiar with the layout of the Pilot Ridge, which allowed him to find the lift easily. Although the ship was old, it had the same layout as a ship that Sean had once served on, a lifetime ago. He didn’t allow his memories to drift to that time, because there were more than enough memories filling his mind already, and he didn’t want to mingle the bad with the good.

He punched in the call for the observation deck and leaned wearily against the wall. He was tired: physically and emotionally spent, but the exhaustion still couldn’t combat the pressure he felt every time he shut his eyes. No rest for the weary.

The lift came to a halt, the doors opened, and Sean stepped onto the observation deck. The port window was large, showing off the infinity of space surrounding them, the bright lights in the distance and the darkness of never-ending nightfall.

It used to be beautiful. Seven weeks ago it had been beautiful.

Now...

There was a movement in the shadows, one that he caught from the corner of his eye. He turned, eyes adjusting to the shadows to make out a familiar silhouette. “Shouldn’t you be in your quarters?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

The figure moved closer to him, and he opened his arm; she settled against him, leaned her head on his shoulder. Her voice was softer, more serious as she admitted, “I can’t sleep. Whenever I close my eyes, I see it all again and I-”

“I know.” Sean turned his head to rest his chin in her hair. His arm tightened around her when he felt her tremble. “I desperately wish they had spared you.”

That was the problem with pirates and slavers; his willingness to exchange his life or freedom for that of his crew’s had been rendered meaningless. Why settle for one when she could have all of them?

“You did everything you could.” She tilted her head upward, dislodging his chin in the process. “You had it worse than all of us.”

Because, as he had told Josh hours ago, he was the captain.

He moved his head, although his arm remained around her shoulders. “For what little that accomplished.”

“Don’t speak that way,” she chided. “She’s a Hellish woman, and he’s a mechanized monster. They will pay for their crimes.”

“Yes,” he conceded blandly. They had murdered countless people, enslaved more than that; had stolen and sabotaged, defrauded and robbed, violated and assaulted, kidnapped and brainwashed, and had made their money on the backs and minds of good people. They had made the mistake of capturing the flag ship and its personnel, and for all of that they would face trial.

That did nothing to dull the memories; it didn’t begin to undo the damage already wrought.

But Captain Neville was in no position to take that small comfort of justice from this woman who had served faithfully by his side all these years. “Do you want to raid the galley for a bottle of vodka?”

That earned him a small smile, one that almost reached her eyes. “I hope they have some.”

“So do I.” His arm remained around her shoulders as they turned their backs on the darkness of space and walked to the lift.

************************************************

“It’s a simple request; I know for a fact that a ship of this size should have at least eighty doses standard.”

“Captain Neville, I appreciate the trauma you’ve experienced and admire your reputation; but with all due respect, you aren’t a medical doctor.”

A frown flickered across the taller man’s features before disappearing. “Doctor Jones, I’m asking you as one man to another to please grant me this kindness.”

“Captain, I can’t do that. Mioxinol is too strong a narcotic; we haven’t been able to test you for lingering effects from that device. Brain damage is a strong risk, one I’m not willing to take. Even if you’re willing to risk yourself.”

Sean pushed back the chair and rose to his feet. “Then we have five and a half days until my nervous breakdown.” His voice was soft and his shoulders slumped, but he gave the other man no opportunity to reply; instead he strolled out of sickbay.

He was familiar enough with the medical science to know that the human mind couldn’t survive for more than a week and a half without any sleep whatsoever. Not in one piece.

***********************************************

The crew members of the Vermont were to share in no shifts, were to take on no duties, weren’t so much as to plug in a single coordinate during the return to Earth. Regulations dictated that, following capture by the enemy, officers and crew required extended planet-debriefing, as well as psychological and physical clearance, before returning to active duty. While Captain Weaver disagreed with many Hammel policies, this was one which he abided with no argument. The rescued crewmembers were in no condition to work, and he made no fuss about them not “doing their fair share” the way he had with James Campbell.

First of all, they were cargo, not stowaways. Second, he looked in Ben’s eyes, saw the hollowness of his cheeks and imagined the mental scars; how could anyone expect anyone who lived through that nightmare to work in the immediate aftermath? They’d worked enough already, had worked for nearly two months at Van Drakke’s command.

They deserved a break.

The result was thirty people shuffling around the ship, attempting to stay out of everyone else’s way. They all kept strange hours, attempting to readjust their inner clocks to real time. Some holed up in their guest quarters until meal times; others spent time in the galley and mess hall because there were no recreational facilities, not like they had on the Vermont. Still others spent time on the observation deck, watching the stars and reminding themselves that there was a reason they sailed through space and that they would be fine after medical leave back home.

Captain Neville pretended that everything was fine.

Except he used less than half of his rationed water when grooming and would pass it on to others of his crew. And his diet consisted primarily of coffee and oatmeal. And he still didn’t sleep.

And even when lying on Josh’s bunk beside the other man, he never fully undressed.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Josh asked, each time his eyes glazed over, each time he trembled in the younger man’s arms, each time he passed on a meal while professing not to be hungry.

But after that first night, the answer was always “no.”

**************************************

Doctor Clarisse Prideaux was one of the most well-respected medics in the Fleet, which was why she had been assigned to the Vermont and why Sean counted her as a close friend and a trusted advisor.

Less stern than Anya, she was proper but warm and friendly. It particularly pained Sean to see no hint of a smile on the French woman’s too-thin face.

He tried to share his meals with his crew, even though that put Josh in the awkward position of staying with him and interloping – and simultaneously snubbing the rest of his friends – or not eating with Sean at all. Being separated from Sean for even a second longer than his required by his duty shifts (and even those were from obligation and a sense of fairness, since Cobalt still had bridge duty despite Ben’s return) was intolerable, and thus the navigator made the decision easily. Still, it remained somewhat of an uncomfortable position in which to find himself.

When the bespectacled man rose to refill coffee mugs, Sean leaned in closer to Clarisse. “Tell me what I can do to make you feel better.”

“What I want goes against every oath I took as a doctor.”

“I want to help you,” he assured her, as he slid his hand across the table, palm upward.

“Captain,” she emphasized his title because they had all been robbed of their ranks for the past two months. Robbed of any dignity, respect, or individuality. “I know you want to help but I have to work this out for myself.”

She then shook her head and added softly, “I mean...you’ve never even fired your pistol.”

Josh had returned with the refilled mugs of coffee just in time to hear that last remark. On cup slipped from his hand, clattered to the floor, shattered on the hard metal deck, and coffee spilled everywhere.

Sean said nothing. He merely made eye contact with the cabin boy, who brought over his mop and began to clean up the mess.

************************************************

Exhaustion overtook him during Alpha shift. Josh was on the bridge, and Sean had the quarters to himself. There was nowhere to go, nothing to do, and he was so tired, so heavy; he could barely focus, and alone, now, he actually felt worse than when on Van Drakke’s ship. There, at least, his brain had been cloudy because of her influence. Now he had no excuse; he was just unraveling at the seams. It was disgraceful, because he was Captain Neville; he was responsible to his crew, to the Hammel Institute of Research and Discovery, to Captain Weaver and his crew - as his rescuers, to Josh as his céadsearc, to everyone. He should be better than this.

But he wasn’t. That had become abundantly clear.

The burden was heavy, weighing him down. There was so much to make up for, to all of his crew for not keeping them safe, and to Josh for putting him at risk. Even the knowledge of Van Drakke’s capture and impending court-martial did nothing to ease the burden. He could confide in nobody about that, since his crew used that as their light at the end of the trouble, as did their loved ones, including his loved one. He wasn’t entitled to take that away from them by casting doubt.

The confinement was difficult. No longer at home on ships, he wanted to enjoy fresh hair, see the sky instead of the stars; to go to the house he and Josh shared even when they weren’t there together. Others dreamed of that freedom now; Clarisse assured him of that. But he was a Captain and he shouldn’t. He should long for his ship. Part of him did; part of him yearned for everything to return to how it was. Part of him wanted to testify at her trial. Part of him wanted to sleep because he was so tired and thinking was increasingly difficult and frustrating; he felt enfeebled.

He was weighed down. With nowhere to go, he all but collapsed into bed. Eventually his eyes closed, and it was too much.

The smoke is suffocating. Whether by skill or by good fortune, Sean Neville’s experiences with explosions on his ship have been relatively few. Small scrapes here and there, but casualties are essentially unheard of, crew cohesion is high, and repairs after each mission are minimal. The Captain has strong intuition which has helped in both tactical situations and when judging the intentions of allies and foes alike. He is personable, as is his crew, which has made diplomatic missions both exhilarating and wildly successful.

He is Hammel’s golden boy, his ship the pride and joy of the fleet; he and the crew decorated many times over for their missions. Anytime an opening appears on the roster, it is filled with the best and the brightest.

But between the sparks and the fires, the explosions and the holes in the walls and ceilings, the smell of singed clothing and the smoke that burns his eyes and fills his lungs, he knows that his run of good fortune has come to an end.

Still, he is Sean Neville, and he can’t accept defeat so easily, not without making one last attempt. So he opens a private scrambled channel and records one final message. Just in case. By the books.

Mere moments after the transmission is sent, the doors to the bridge open, and a woman dressed in black, beside a tall man who doesn’t look quite right, and flanked by several men and women (he can’t get a good look at them with the smoke but he gets the impression that something is wrong with them) step out.

There’s a piercing noise in the background followed by a dull throbbing hum, and he can’t focus. Then someone comes behind him and handcuffs his arms behind his back, shackles his legs just enough to prevent kicking, and then shoves something – he doesn’t know what, everything hurts too much – and just like that, his focus is back.

Of course, he still can’t see through the smoke. But he hears a feminine voice say, “Follow me,” and the sound of footsteps and the movement of legs and bodies through the smoke. Not just of the people who boarded with her, but of his crew. He sees Ben and Chase and Anya all shuffle slowly out, as though entranced. Like this woman is the Pied Piper of Hamelin and his crew mere children.

He doesn’t follow, but the man behind him forces him forward. The pace is slow since everyone but the woman, and the man behind him, and Sean himself shuffle rather than walk with purpose. But they arrive at the flight deck, approach her docked dinghy, and he and several bridge crew are marched aboard with her and the man whose fists are dug into his back and neck, with superhuman strength.

The people she brought with her are divided onto the fleet standard dinghies the Vermont possessed, each leading a contingent of crewmembers. Through the smoke, Sean sees that everyone, even Clarisse and...poor innocent Ann are there. And just like that, they launch.

“Who are you?” Nobody else speaks up, and he realizes, now clear of the smoke, that his instincts were correct, and there is something wrong with her crewmembers. Their eyes are glazed, their bodies slack. And now, as he looks around, he realizes that the paltry crew aboard this dinghy are the same.

Horrifying.

More horrifying still, the woman in black smiles at him, a cruel, wicked smile. “Come now, Captain. Use that famous head of yours. I’m sure my reputation has preceded me; I am, after all, the very best.”

“Anastasia Van Drakke.” He frowns, because his luck truly has run out.

“Very good, Neville. You got it in one.” Her smile widens, as they cross space towards her ship. Widens because she can see the realization that accompanied her name on his lips, can see the concern in his eyes. “I assure you all of the rumors are true.”

“Then I won’t ask what you want with me, or with my crew.” That was obvious; she wants them to be her new crew. “I will, however, barter for their freedom.”

That offer results in a laugh, a deceptively sweet sound that nonetheless rings hollow and chills him. “And what can you offer me, Neville? I already have your harem.”

That nickname usually earned a frown from Anya, coupled with a reprimand and, on more than one occasion, a slap. Her face remains blank, her eyes glassy, as though she doesn’t hear; and if she does hear, then she doesn’t mind at all.

“My willing servitude.” It sounds lackluster to him, and he knows it’s a paltry offering. However, it’s all he has to bargain with, because truly, she has everything else. His ship is disabled, his crew already under her control, and he in handcuffs, unable to fight back. His willing servitude is also something she can’t have otherwise, can’t be taken by force.

But that results only in another laugh, just as they dock on her ship. “What makes you think I’d want that?”

“It’s what you don’t have,” he informs her. He gestures awkwardly with his shoulder at the husks of people in the dinghy. “Why else would you spare me?” He has no delusions that he’s somehow resistant to her device; he knows she chose to spare him with whatever was forced in his ear or an injection in his neck.

He’s forced to his feet after Van Drakke steps off the dinghy onto the ship proper, and marched off. “Attention,” she commands, and behind them, his crew and hers all rise and, one by one, step onto her ship proper to form a line. Military training runs to the bone.

She faces him, that sickeningly sweet smile on her lips. “I’m not sparing you, Neville. I just want to make sure you appreciate the severity of your situation.”

He’s turned around, forced to face the line of crewmembers, Anya and Clarisse and Ben and Chase and Charlie and Midori...all interspersed with her crewmembers, who had been someone else’s crew before she got her hands on them. All blank-eyed, although hers look to be at death’s door. He’s confronted with the realization that all of his crew, who’ve served so well, will share this same fate.

And so will he.

His expression hardens, and he stares into her eyes. “To the last, I grapple with thee.”

“I see we have an understanding,” she said, eyes bright with delight. Then she touches her ear. “Ivan, now.”

He turns his head, cocking the ear with the device towards his chest, but that does nothing. His head is grabbed violently back, then the device is yanked out, and the hum is back and he can’t focus...

“Fall in, pet.”

His feet betray him as he shuffles into line, standing beside Anya and staring out at Van Drakke. Awaiting orders.

******************************************

There are only two blessings: First, Van Drakke needs them to run her ship and thus working them completely to death isn’t an option; food and rest periods are minimal, but they do have them. Second, Ivan the strong, terrifying, borderline sociopathic cyborg is completely impotent. Whatever accident that necessitated his transformation into a partially mechanical monstrosity robbed him of his ability to perform as a man. While Sean isn’t the type of person to delight in the limitations of others, he is grateful that the cyborg is so incapable. Ivan takes out his frustrations with his fists against the male “crew” but at least the women are safe.

The walls bleed. Bright and red and shiny, the blood leaks from the hinges and stains the floor. He kneels and begins to scrub. The blood covers his hands and knees but still he scrubs, has to scrub, until the floor sparkles clean. Reflected in the shiny metal floor are his shiny, blank eyes and mindless expression.

Van Drakke assigns his crew to their equivalent positions aboard her ship. Clarisse takes over the sickbay, Lenore and Moira man the weapons consuls (and there are many, many more weapons to manage), Ben navigates…

But the ship already has a Captain. It also has a First Mate, and thus Anya is assigned duties as a yeoman. Sean Neville, like all of the captured captains before him, becomes a cabin boy. He follows orders without hesitation, and he cleans up other people’s messes. In an existential way, it isn’t that different from being a diplomat or a strategist. But he uses a mop and floor brush now, and neither peace nor commendation awaits him when he finishes a task.

He eats one meal every thirty-six hours, only because Van Drakke allows it. Only because she commands it. The rest of the crew fares slightly better, with one meal each day. Enough to keep them alive, enough to ensure that they can work without collapsing.

Robert Hopkins’s face appears in his soup. “I expect more of you,” he says. But Sean says nothing back because his vocal chords don’t work unless dictated.

“You disgust me,” Van Drakke tells him from her Captain’s chair, watching as he kneels on the floor of the bridge and scrubs the deck. “The best that Hammel has to offer is a ship full of women and fairies.”

She has taken time to speak with each crewman, asking questions enough for a five or ten minute backstory; she seemingly takes delight in knowing the details of those she captures. Unlike with most other people, the knowledge doesn’t cause her to humanize her victims; instead, hearing about the human needs of her captives legitimizes her contempt for them, viewing them as weak. No mercy for the captured.

She inexplicably has contempt for other women. She also holds strong ideas of what a “real man” is, and he and several of his crew come up eternally lacking. For loving the wrong people: him, and Ben, and the researcher Chase who joined them for this mission.

He can’t correct her impressions and tell her that Mason is married to a woman, or even that he himself isn’t a fairy; that he’s attracted to women also. Not that it matters since he’s been in a relationship with another man for longer than many of his crew have been alive.

He can’t correct her at all. He can only scrub as he’s been ordered. He can’t even react when she spits on the floor, just missing his neck and says “You missed a spot.”

Ivan slaps him for being the object of Van Drakke’s contempt, because he is still an object of her attention. The cyborg is a couple of inches shorter than Sean, because the good Captain Neville has always been absurdly tall. Yet Ivan can beat him like a punching bag and throw him around like a rag doll.

Blood pours from the walls. “Clean this up,” Ivan orders him. But he doesn’t because Ivan isn’t Van Drakke, and he has no power over him. The cyborg pushes him into the red puddle and he remains there. Without the wherewithal to move himself, his coat becomes stained. It seeps into his body, into his veins, and still he doesn’t move.

The muzzle of a pistol is at his temple, cold and heavy. The trigger is pulled and-

He rolls over and opens his eyes, breathing shakily. He’s glad to be rid of that dream, to instead find himself beside Josh on the navigator’s bunk. The younger man reaches out to stroke his hair, offering comfort. “It’s just a dream.”

“I know,” Sean whispers, and he rolls over, curling up against the other man. His warmth and presence soothe him, and he rests his head on Josh’s chest. Time passes in silence, before he murmurs into the other man’s neck, “Thank you for rescuing me. I wish I could thank you properly.”

“I can think of a few ways.”

Sean lifts his head, and Josh is smiling mischievously. He shakes his head because he doesn’t want this, can’t do this, but then there’s a low hum, and he can’t focus.

“That’s a good pet. Now unfasten my britches and get to work.”

He obeys. Unable to help himself, he reaches to unbuckle the other man’s belt, then to unbutton his trousers and pull them down. Then slowly, mechanically, he...

He trembled and woke with a start. Beside him, Josh stirred slowly, rousing awake. “Sean?” his voice was heavy with sleep, but the concern was evident.

“It’s nothing.” He was almost convincing, since Josh asked no more questions. He did, however, wrap his arms around the older man and pull him to his chest. Neither man acknowledged the tremors which wracked Sean, and by extension Josh, every few minutes.

Neither man fell back asleep.

***************************************

A week and a half into the return voyage, Josh followed Sean to the washroom during his scheduled bath time. Sean didn’t undress, and Josh made no attempt to force him to do so. Instead, he leaned against the door with a hopeful expression on his face. “I thought I could wash you,” he explained, gesturing at the small wash basin.

Bathing together, as they would at home, was impossible. This was the second best option.

But the older man shook his head, refusing the offer. “I can do this myself.”

“I know you can,” Josh replied automatically. He didn’t intend to call the other man’s ability into question with his suggestion. “But you’ve done nothing enjoyable at all.” It went unspoken how he ate little and only the blandest of food, save coffee; how he barely slept and what sleep he gained was plagued with nightmares and tremors; how everything he did was efficient and for other people, taking as little space as possible, using as few resources as possible.

All but shutting down.

Josh didn’t ask what Van Drakke had made him do, or had done to him, when she had controlled him, but he worried that she had treated Sean like he was a waste of space and supplies, and that he had bafflingly internalized it.

The navigator didn’t know how to say any of that without upsetting Sean, or causing him to build further walls which he didn’t think was good for him. So he’d said nothing.

“We’re on the oldest ship in the fleet with no recreational facilities; I’m twenty-three pounds underweight and so I can’t exercise to pass the time. I’m not allowed on the bridge. There’s nothing enjoyable to do.” Sean crossed his arms over his chest and glanced down at the wash basin near his feet.

Those were valid points, but Josh felt that Sean had ignored the point he had been trying to make. “Then at least use all of your rations this time? You deserve a real bath.”

“I can make do with less. The others need it more.” Ben immediately came to mind; if the tortured navigator could benefit from a small sacrifice like half of his water rations, then Sean wouldn’t hesitate to make that sacrifice. It was what little he could do for his crew, after he had failed them.

Josh frowned to himself, not wanting to hear that. “If this was anyone else, you would be the first one to tell them to take the time they needed for themselves. If this was Anya, you’d order her to enjoy a bath.”

It was the wrong word choice; Sean frowned, and Josh inwardly kicked himself. He didn’t have the opportunity to offer a correction, because the older man replied, “Anya has been through a traumatic experience, and she’s entitled to heal in her own way. I would not dream of overbearing her will.”

Josh winced. This was a problem for a military man. That the word order was now so tainted that it couldn’t be taken in proper context. “I’m sorry.” The apology was automatic but no less genuine. “I just want to help you, but I don’t know how. Whatever Ben told Cobalt seems to be helping him a little and so-”

Sean’s frown deepened. He didn’t address that Josh cared and wanted to help him; he didn’t address the other man’s feelings of helplessness; he didn’t address or acknowledge the apology. Instead, he latched onto the last, unfinished statement. “Ben spoke to Captain Weaver about this?”

“I think so. From what Cobalt has said it sounded like he did.”

The older man absorbed that silently. After a long moment, he said, “I would like to wash now. Alone, please.”

Josh didn’t put up a fuss. He merely left the washroom, dejected, and went to wait in their quarters.

********************************

It took another couple of days, so that it was two and a half weeks from rescue before Sean made a decision. When Josh returned to his quarters (Sean couldn’t think of it as theirs because he hadn’t been assigned quarters on this ship, and his quarters were back on the Vermont), he found the older man propped upright in bed, staring blankly ahead at the wall.

However, when he entered, Sean blinked; he didn’t turn around, but he said, “I trust you with my life.”

“Pardon?” It was Josh’s turn to blink in surprise. He sat on the edge of the bed to remove his boots, before scooting up to sit beside the older man.

“I trust you with my life. I have since the Academy, and you saved me.” He folded his hands in his lap, and then finally turned to face the other man. “I should be able to trust you with secrets. You’ve earned that right.”

Josh did want to know the secrets that the older man had kept from him, but not this way. Not if Sean felt it was an obligation, something which he was owed. That only made him feel worse and fit this distressing pattern of putting everyone else’s needs and desires before his own. “You don’t have to,” he assured the other man, before wrapping his arms around him as had become routine. “Not for me.”

Sean moved forward, escaping his embrace; that most certainly was not routine. The behavior caused the navigator to frown, but he didn’t attempt another embrace. “Sean?”

“This is between us,” the older man said. He sought the navigator’s gaze, his held only earnest determination and trust. “Only us.”

“Well, of course.” The younger man had no intention of betraying whatever confidence Sean intended to share with him; that didn’t change the fact that he wanted the older man to do this for the right reasons. “But-”

“I know. I choose to do this.” Sean emphasized choose because it was now the single most important word in his vocabulary. Then perplexingly no words came. Instead he reached up and removed his waistcoat, unbuttoned his shirt, pulled off the undershirt and turned to face the other man.

The breath caught in Josh’s throat, and then he sobbed. “Oh...Sean...”

The raised marks covering his left pectoral were still red, still healing. They formed a pattern, linking into one another like a chain or an artichoke.

Sean knew what he was thinking in that peculiar Sean-like way of his, because he spoke quietly. “It’s a lotus flower.”

Josh fought the urge to vomit, fought the bile which rose in his throat as his stomach flipped over. He couldn’t imagine doing this to another person, even though he couldn’t imagine doing anything that Anastasia Van Drakke had done to another person. “Why would she...?”

“To lord her power over me,” Sean replied. “I was little more than property, and she marked me so that I wouldn’t forget. And because she could.”

Her motivations hadn’t been a mystery; she would often talk to him because she knew that he was aware deep within himself. She would taunt him as she humiliated and abused him.

She had made him watch this in the mirror, had ordered him to keep his eyes open the entire time.

Sean had thought Josh would be repulsed, but the other man leaned in and wrapped his arms around his shoulders, careful not to touch the mark. “You aren’t property; you’re the strongest man I know.”

“I know.” Truly, he was aware of that, despite his behavior the past two weeks and the treatment he’d received for the seven weeks prior to that. Whether he agreed with the second part of the statement was a matter for another day.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Despite uttering those words many times the past two weeks, they still sounded foreign to Sean’s ears and equally so on Josh’s tongue.

“No,” Sean whispered, as he leaned against the other man. He rested his head in the crook between the navigator’s neck and shoulder and simply lay there.

Josh didn’t press the issue; Sean had shared more than enough.