Rich...floats.

Sometimes he drifts close to consciousness for a moment before he goes back under. Trimmer's usually there, curled up on top of him, steady and protective. Sometimes someone else is around, too: he hears different voices arguing, low and quiet and vicious, and is soothed back to sleep with Trimmer's hands knotted possessively in his shirtfront, reassuring him that whatever the hell the problem is, he doesn't have to care about it just yet. Once he hears a weird noise and squints sleepily over to see Mitch in the desk chair playing a screen game. Something between perplexed and touched, Rich closes his eyes and drops back asleep.

Finally he wakes up all the way, and feels real again. Properly in his body, mind functioning as normal, no lingering feeling of disconnect…man, how long was he allowed to sleep?

Must've been a long time, because he's parched and starving and when he pushes himself up he gets a whiff of his own smell that suggests it's been something like a month or so of lying in a garbage heap. His head is pounding. From the rocking of the ship, the storm is in full force outside, but the gnawing ache of his stomach is a much more pressing concern right now. Drinks first, then shower, then the first edible thing he can get his hands on, holy shit.

Trimmer's not in evidence, though there's a cold thermos of sweet green tea on his desk. Rich drains the whole thing and then checks his message queue to find a priority alert from him, a little odd-looking with Trimmer's new ABC Designation. MRO, that's…Materials Recycling Operative, probably? Which is a big step down from Electrical Systems Technician, since anyone can shovel lake garbage into an enzyme tank, but considering that Rich doesn't remember Trimmer saying a word of complaint about it, he's probably been having a great time.

Rich squints through the headache to read:

Joseph Trimmer, MRO: if you're reading this don't freak out, i'll be back soon. you stopped humping my leg long enough for me to escape, so i'm taking all that artsy shit you had lying around back to my place. you don't even deserve it all you do is lie around all fucking day and crush me in your goddamn sleep.

Joseph Trimmer, MRO: BY THE WAY YOU'RE FUCKING WELCOME FOR ME SAVING YOUR HUGE FUCKING ASS YET ANOTHER FUCKING TIME!!!

Well, that's just adorable—for Trimmer, anyway. Rich is so glad the little asshole's okay, and hasn't gotten get himself in trouble with Security yet. And Trimmer bothering to inform Rich that he took the journals is basically a heartfelt thank you note with roses and perfume. Rich's reply message goes,

Richard Merrill, ???: monkey, i wouldnt hump your leg if it paid me, there isnt a single part of you worth getting off with. dont get how youre twice as bad at handjobs as anyone else ever when you have so many extra hands

Richard Merrill, ???: thanks for watching my back. im gonna go get clean, youre off duty until further notice

Richard Merrill, ???: well catch up later

The lack of proper designation in Rich's handle catches him by surprise. He forgot he took himself off the Reliant's crew. That's…something. Something he can't deal with without a drink, right now.

Rich gets his vodka out of his locker and takes a morning shot, and then another really big one as a reward for keeping the Sympatico afloat for the very last time, then a third one because that was the last time, he gets to celebrate. As the alcohol hits his system, his headache eases back and everything settles into place. God, that's so much better. He feels practically cheerful now.

The Sympatico doesn't need him anymore, she's let him go. She told him to rest. He could go anywhere, do anything. He could just jump on a deck-hopper and take off, leave the Reliant, go live at the Mall and eat bacon every day...except he doesn't actually want to leave.

It's weird to realize that Rich is happy on the Reliant. He's got friends, the work is always interesting, and it feels like he's starting to belong here.

...And of course he'd figure that out right when his position on the Reliant is in question. Ben is pissed at him; Rich ignored a lot of direct orders and then removed himself from the Reliant crew roster without authorization. He's not entirely sure how long he's been out in total, but it's definitely been more than a day and he's missed at least one shift. Not to mention he dropped out completely in the middle of storm docking, when all crew need to be available at a moment's notice.

Ben isn't Hendricks, he's actually professional. He's not going to try to lock Rich into taking on all his work by giving him demerits for anything he can even halfway justify. He's got plenty of crew on hand to follow his reasonable rules and work his reasonable assignments…and Rich isn't one of them. Even after a month, Rich is still a newcomer here, freshly off a boat full of delinquents and on probation in the first place. Ben would be completely within his rights to boot Rich out for disobeying direct orders, ditching out on his shifts, screwing with his own crew assignment, and blocking his department head. It'd only make sense for the guy to send him back to be reevaluated and assigned somewhere else.

Filled with foreboding, Rich scrolls through the other messages in his inbox, waiting for one saying 'Good riddance and fuck off forever, you delinquent asshole.' Admittedly, Ben would probably phrase it more formally than that, but the gist would be the same.

There's the storm note from Thena, checking in, because Rich let slip at some point that storms are rough on him. This time, there's a note from Angie, too. Rich scrolls past both of them, not having the emotional fortitude to read or respond yet, and finds that Ben has left him a number of messages over the last—wow, two days, okay. He opens the most recent one.

Benedict Jones, IST Head: GOD DAMN IT, MERRILL, STOP BEING A HERO, IT'S TOO STRESSFUL. I DON'T NEED THE PAPERWORK.

...Huh. That's really not much like 'Get the fuck off this ship ASAP' at all. Rich opens the message before that, and finds that his off-ship privileges have been suspended for a week, which is basically a stern slap on the wrist, especially since no one's going anywhere for a couple days until the storm rolls on…and also Ben went and signed off on a merit commendation for valorous service that the Sympatico's new captain submitted on Rich's behalf.

Slack-jawed, Rich stares at his screen for ages, reading it all over and over. He can't quite get his head around the idea of a commendation for him, for doing what he's been doing for years without anyone caring. To give himself time to mull that over, he gets up and moves around for a few minutes, getting used to the long, slow pitch and roll of a 200 cruiser riding through the depths of a superstorm. One hand braced against a bulkhead, Rich goes about stripping the sheets off the bed for a load of laundry and tidying the stuff Trimmer left scattered around. He must have been playing with Rich's stress toys, because they're tucked into odd locations, and Rich puts them neatly back in their places.

The shelf the art supplies and journals were on is thoroughly ransacked, but there's a torn-out journal page left lying on Rich's desk. It's a drawing of a very small knight sitting on top of the curled up mound of a very big red dragon that's blowing out smoky z's from its nose. The knight's got a second set of gauntlets for boots, Rich can't help but notice. Feeling ridiculously warm and fuzzy, Rich carefully props the drawing up against one of his tea tins, so he'll be able to see it from his bed.

Trimmer's gone and sent him another priority alert, because apparently just texting isn't good enough for him.

Joseph Trimmer, MRO: you sure you're good? because if you go toddle the fuck off on your own and need me to come bail you out again right when i've just settled in for some Me Time im gonna be pissed.

Rolling his eyes, Rich texts back:

Rich Merrill, ???: im fine, asshole, fuck off

Joseph Trimmer, MRO: you fuck off!!!

Rich Merrill, ???: im fucking!

Joseph Trimmer, MRO: ok no

Rich could stand around bickering with Trimmer all day, it feels like, except his stomach gives another urgent ache and his berth's all fixed up and he can smell himself, and it's pretty bad. It's time for that shower, already.

Getting a fresh change of clothes, he heads out, still moving carefully, getting his balance. As soon as his door opens, though, Basil comes hurrying out of his berth across the passage, like he's set an alert or something on Rich's door.

"Rich! How are you feeling, are you okay?"

"Yeah, baby boy," Rich says with a playful tug at Basil's ponytail. "I'm fine, except for how I smell like something died in my clothes."

"Hah!" Basil says, glaring up at him. "What a coincidence! That thing was almost you!"

"Well, it wasn't," Rich says, and taps the side of his forehead with the heel of his hand—gently, so as not to reignite the headache. "I know my limits, man, I've been doing this for years, get over it already." He turns and shambles down the passage, trailing one hand absently along the bulkhead's grab-bar. He's not at all unhappy when Basil chooses to tag along after him, looking as cute as ever in his casual black wrap and a purple t-shirt that says Catch Of The Day in big yellow letters. He doesn't look like he's prepared to get over it, though.

"You're in so much trouble," Basil tells him. "I haven't seen Ben so mad at anyone in—ever! And I'm mad at you too!"

Rich just shrugs, and goes into the washroom. It's empty, which is great, and Rich strips his clothes off deliberately in front of Basil, whose glare goes confused and flustered the more naked Rich gets. Braced against the nearest shower stall, Rich does a series of big, showy stretches, yawning and cracking out all his sore limbs and his cramped spine, and Basil starts to blush.

"If you stopped being mad at me I'd blow you," Rich offers, scratching sleepily at his chest.

"It doesn't work like that!" Basil snaps, and crosses his arms firmly over his own chest. But he looks right at Rich's dick, which is pretty nice.

Rich just grins at him, and scratches his dick too, then goes and treats himself to the best shower he's had all month. Basil stays out in the main area of the washroom, riding out the ship's pitching and rolling with the unconscious ease of long practice. Instead of sitting down somewhere or even grabbing onto anything he's pacing back and forth, grumbling to himself, and it's really cute. It's sweet that he cared enough to be this worried.

Though now that Rich is thinking of people who might be worried…

Rich leans against the shower stall for balance, luxuriating in the hot spray, and pulls up his comms, scrolling down through the stack of angry messages from Ben to the ones from his sisters. He hesitates over the two of them, and then taps on Thena's first.

Athena Merrill, FDO: hey skinny did u get blown overboard???

Athena Merrill, FDO: hey!! rich!! pick up already yor gorgeous sister's are getting worried about you!!

Rich sighs at the screen and then braces himself to scroll down to the next set of messages.

Angela Merrill, FSO: Rich, are you weathering the storm all right?

Angela Merrill, FSO: We're all present and correct, but it would make Thena feel better if you responded.

And then, below that one,

Angela Merrill, FSO: Please answer your messages, Rich, you're making Thena very nervous. You haven't told her what a storm on the Reliant entails for you, and she of course suspects the worst.

Rich stamps down on the vague, blurry warmth rising up in him, and composes a return message to both of them.

Richard Merrill, ???: Had a technical error with the piloting system between here and my old digs, made it kind of rough for a day or so but it wont happen again and im fine, glad you guys are doing well.

There. That's honest, so Thena can't get mad at him about hiding things, but it also hopefully won't freak them out. Rich closes the screen, feeling sleepily proud of himself, and idly checks through the rest of the stack. Mostly it's just a lot of urgent notes from Ben and the rest of his department that he can delete unread, since it's over now and he's fine...But he's brought up short seeing a message from Katrina, and for a moment he's too scared to read it.

He never even thought about her, once the storm hit. Hoverboarding was the last thing on his mind, and then he was offline for days and it's been practically a week since he last saw her, and she told him she expected him to work hard and be dedicated and take his training seriously. What if she got fed up, waiting on him? What if she tried to message him to see where he'd fucked off to and got nothing, and now she's done with him? Heart in his throat, he opens the message.

Katrina Chau, Visitor: Got locked up on the Elysium for this crazy storm and no one will let me go surfing. Totally lame. The minute we're cleared to get back on the water, you better be ready to work your butt off, dude.

Rich reads it four times, grinning wider and wider as a rush of disbelieving glee overcomes the dread. She's not mad at him, she's not cutting him loose, she's already looking forward to their next session. There's going to be a next session. Everything's fine, everything's great, everything's amazing. He shoots back a quick reply saying he can't wait, and goes back to cleaning out his inbox to keep from wondering if that was too enthusiastic or not enough.

When he and his inbox are both clean enough to squeak, he comes out of the shower stall to find Basil with his shoulders leaned back against a bulkhead and texting intently. Fuck but he's cute, all rumpled and scruffy in his black wrap and bare feet…Rich leans right through Basil's screen, cages him in against the tile with both forearms, and kisses him thoroughly. God, it feels so good to be alive and free. Basil squirms in his arms, making cranky noises, then finally sighs and lets Rich have his mouth, melting into it.

"Can I blow you yet," Rich murmurs, finally pulling back, and Basil makes a soft little hitching noise, his hips shoving up against Rich's bare thigh.

"Not—I don't, uh," he goes faintly, then, "No, no, man, I—gotta, no. I gotta take you to Liam's, I got, orders, uh. Liam wants to see you before Ben cuts you into blocks and throws you in the, uh, the lake, he said. Nnh. Fuck, c'mon, back off."

Rich sighs and lets Basil go, stepping back and holding his hands up.

"Okay, okay," he agrees sourly. "Let's go get yelled at by Liam, that's definitely going to be more fun, you're the boss."

"Why the fuck do you taste like vodka, anyway?" Basil says belatedly, making a face. "You only just woke up!"

"Yeah, so?" Shoving his dick back into his jeans when he's got more than half an erection going on isn't at all fun, but thinking about Liam just getting more angry and disappointed with him the longer he's kept waiting subdues it somewhat.

"Why are you drinking so early, do you—is this—should you really be pouring alcohol on top of whatever brain damage you got from piloting solo—"

"What, am I gonna get yelled at by you first, are we pre-gaming?" Rich snaps, cranky now. "This isn't a storm thing, this is a life thing, okay? My brain's already all fucked up because I got all fucked up and I'm a fuckup, that's why I have something to drink first thing in the morning. It's even worse if I don't have something to handle how—how everything is for me, what a huge fucking mess I am. It's not great and I'm not proud of it and you better not try it yourself, okay? Fuck."

"Rich, holy shit," Basil says, sounding horrified. "No, hey—I didn't mean—" He lunges forward and kisses Rich weirdly: his lips pressed against Rich's way too firmly, his hands tight on either side of Rich's jaw, like he's trying to shove something into Rich's mouth.

He breaks off after a few confusing seconds of this, and says, "I hate how you talk about yourself."

"Oh," Rich says, and feels his face heat. "Uh. Sorry."

Basil just sighs, and drops his head to Rich's shoulder. "We'll work on it," he says quietly. "It's just, you can't just—you're not a fuckup. You're great and you're alive and we'll work on the rest. Okay?"

"Okay," Rich agrees hastily, and Basil finally lets him go. Rich shaves and brushes his teeth and finishes his morning routine without any further commentary. Finally he's more or less good to go.

"I don't suppose I get to stop for breakfast," he says wistfully as Basil leads him through the passageways.

"Nope, Liam was very clear," Basil says.

"Great," Rich mutters. "So I guess you two made up, then?"

Basil gives him a puzzled look, like he doesn't remember what Rich is talking about.

"You and Liam were like—fighting, on the Arcadia, it looked like."

"Oh!" Basil actually looks embarrassed about that. "Yeah, I uh, shit, I forgot about that, that was a while ago! But I was worried about you, and, uh. Kinda jealous. So I blew up at Liam about it, but—I mean, we kept talking, since then, we talked it out, he knows I'm sorry for being a jerk that one time. He's not mad about it."

"Oh, well, cool," Rich says, because it is. Apparently other people can maturely resolve interpersonal disputes all on their own! Good to know.

Rich adds, "Maintaining a healthy community is everyone's responsibility, I've been told!" in that chirpy, sing-song Family Fleet tone, and Basil snickers and shoves at him until Rich, gently and tenderly, bounces him off a bulkhead. They continue off to where the Genesis is berthed in much better spirits from there.

Basil must have let Liam know they were coming at some point, because he's out on the top deck, pacing along the railing in tiny, hurried circles when Rich and Basil pull up to the Genesis's cradle. Liam looks over, sees them climbing up the docking ladder to the aft landing, and immediately disappears from the railing. He comes sprinting down the narrow entry passage before they're more than a step or two inside and skids to a halt in front of Rich, clutching at the strap of his equipment bag and looking him over like he's afraid Rich is going to collapse in the next breeze.

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Instead of doing that, Rich appreciates the stunningly appealing sight of Liam dressed up: he's not in sturdy ag-worker olive drab, or in childishly bright rain gear, but instead is looking more beautiful than ever in close-fit, flattering casual wear, barefoot and clean and gorgeous. He's got a tight midnight-blue t-shirt that does amazing things for his narrow waist, and a dozen brass bangles around his fine wrists, and a sarong patterned with soft, smudgy lily pads in a dozen lush blue and green and red-violet shades. Rich's mouth goes dry and his dick registers emphatic approval of what he's looking at and—if he's really lucky—about to get his hands on.

"You're okay?!" Liam says urgently. "Are you okay, are you hurt? Do you remember everything, can you tell me where we are? Basil, do his pupils still react alright, can he still talk, the implant overload—"

"Fuck, man, take it easy," says Rich, reaching out and resting a hand carefully on one slim little shoulder, squeezing gently. "Yeah, I can talk, Liam, I'm not fried or anything. It was just the Sympatico, I've been handling her fine for years."

"Oh thank god," says Liam, sagging all over in relief, and then he immediately bridles and draws himself back up again, looming up to Rich's chest and glowering at him. "And it was 'just' fucking nothing! You need to eat, and then you need a full diagnostic work-up, and then you need a medical exam! I don't care how tough you think you are, I'm not okay with losing you for a stupid reason like your stupid hell-ship not knowing how to ask for help any better than you do!"

He drags Rich down by a fistful of his shirtfront and flashes a penlight in Rich's eyes, craning up to watch his pupils, then grabs Rich's hand and sticks a monitoring tab on the inside of his wrist, still talking in one long, frantic, unbroken stream. "What you did was incredibly impressive, but if you ever put your neck on the line like that again, it won't matter if you live through it or not, because I'll fucking murder you!"

He stops, panting, cheeks flushed, studying the readouts of the monitoring tab on a personal screen as it presumably tells him what Rich could have himself, which is that Rich isn't at all dead or brain-damaged or anything. Then he huffs, closes it, and crosses his arms, fussing with his wrist bangles like a cranky cat grooming his paws.

"...So," he says, less high and strained, and looks away, swallowing roughly. "Galley, boys. Both of you need to eat."

Rich brightens. Liam glares at him.

"That doesn't mean I'm done yelling at you," he says. "It means you need to eat, your body's back in starvation mode because as previously mentioned you did something incredibly dangerous and brave and stupid and haven't eaten in two days! I'm still mad at you!"

"I got that," Rich says, but he can't help smiling, because Liam said 'I'm not okay with losing you,' and that's, just, wow. He's still not used to people caring about him like this. He catches one of Liam's delicate hands between his own and squeezes gently. "It's okay, man, it's not gonna happen again. She let me go, this time. She told me to rest." He's doing his best to sound matter of fact, reassuring, but some of his awe comes through anyway. The Sympatico has never done that before, she always needed him for something else, he was never finished. Now it feels like he's been released. His ship is done with him, she's okay with her new techs, and Rich is free for real, finally.

"Well, good," Basil says. He glances at Liam like he's trying to share a look with him, but Liam just makes some more huffy grumbling noises and stomps off in the direction of his galley, and there's nothing for Rich and Basil to do but obediently follow.

Liam chivies Rich onto one of the stools at the central counter and storms around the galley, presenting him with an amazing amount of salmon fillets on rice and reheated vegetable soup, and a whole carton of fresh blackberries.

"Holy shit," Rich says, staring at Liam adoringly, and starts inhaling the soup and fish, saving the blackberries.

"—Literally cooked your own neurons if this had been anything but a category one, and the load had been higher," Liam is ranting, bustling around the galley and tugging things out of cabinets and drawers. "Most of the stories about solo pilots are urban legends, but the one about the lady who tried to pilot the Dare Greatly through a category five isn't, the proteins inside her skull had fucking cooked from the heat strain and the ship just kept using her implants while she boiled her own brain—are you listening, Rich?! Because I'm not giving you seconds until you do!" He raps his knuckles sharply against the countertop in front of Rich, startling him.

"Yes! I'm listening, man, I hear you!" Rich protests, a little annoyed now with the fussing. "I've never done a category five, okay, even 50's dry-dock at the Washington for those, my brain is fine! There was that category three back in the spring, that wasn't much fun—but I'm fine, okay, I keep saying! It was a category one, that's as easy as it gets!"

"Rich, you're not listening to us," Basil says, and there's something weirdly serious about his tone. When Rich looks over, Basil is just…standing there frowning at him, that same frustrated set to his jaw as he had earlier in the washroom. "You don't get it. I don't know how you don't get it, but you're just—missing something, here. When we say 'you should have died' we're not saying it because we like being dramatic and saying awful stuff for no good reason. What you did should have killed you."

Basil takes a couple steps closer to Rich, eyes fixed on him. "Ben was going nuts trying to stop you—fuck, he was ready to break down your door until Trimmer swore you'd done this shit all the time and you were fine and sent us a screen relay. You know how illegal it is to force entry into someone's berth. Ben had Raoul all ready to sign off on a suicide override to get in there and cut your connection manually, he was saying he would have taken a knife to your implants. What you've been through should have killed you and I'm so—" his voice cracks and he swallows roughly, but he still sounds painfully unsteady when he pushes on, "—I'm so glad it didn't. But I don't even know how you fucking survived, let alone—shrugged it off, called it easy, Rich, you should be dead, fuck—" he breaks off again, blinking hard, rubbing at his mouth like he's scared of saying anything else.

"Oh," Rich says. "Oh, I, uh. Fuck, I'm sorry. I didn't—I'm sorry I scared you guys." He reaches out, tentatively, and touches Basil's shoulder. Basil gives a long, shuddering sigh, and just…looks at him, mouth tight, eyes glittering and wet.

"Okay," he says quietly. "Okay, so, you get it now, right."

Rich nods meekly, and then leans forward slowly, giving Basil time to pull away, and kisses him. Basil sighs, kisses him back and squeezes the back of his neck once, gently, before pulling away again.

"Well, okay then," Liam says from over by the stove, still sounding deeply pissed off, and Rich glances over just in time to see Liam tear his eyes away and go back to angrily cooking, cheeks gone faintly rosy. "It's your mods, is what it is. Extended malnutrition? That's fine! Physical abuse, repeated trauma, stab wounds? No fucking problem! Enough waste heat to denature a baseline guy's neurons? Oh, no big deal, why is everybody worrying about me so much?!" He makes a cranky little noise, sniffs and scrubs angrily at his face with one arm, then stomps over to the fridge and back again. "I don't care how much your body can tolerate, you shouldn't have to go through any of that! No one should! And when you do, you shouldn't just go and assume everyone who actually cares about you is overreacting!"

Rich keeps a wary eye on Liam as he finishes off the soup, trying to remember to chew instead of just knocking everything back in a couple gulps. Then, when Liam finally takes a breath and looks back over his shoulder to see if Rich is paying attention to his grousing, Rich holds the bowl out to Liam for refilling with a hopeful smile.

"I'm really, really sorry?" he says, as carefully as he can.

"You'd better be," Liam says, taking it. "Now, stop making that face. Looking cute is not going to get you off the hook!"

"I'm not!" Rich says, startled. "I mean, I'm not...trying to?"

"I know, I know, that's just how your face looks," Liam huffs, like he finds this personally offensive. He turns sharply to Basil, who straightens up like he's afraid Liam's going to lay into him next. "Do you want some too?"

"Uh!" says Basil. "Yes?"

"Good. Now sit down already, you're going to give me neck strain," says Liam, and goes stalking back to the stove to start up more fish and stir the rice. "I'm going to have to have a word with Ben after this, Rich—you shouldn't even be on the rota for the next few storms. Your implants need a thorough reset, and while I'm talking about adjustments, why is your Sympatico friend such an absolute shithead?" He huffs, shakes his head. "I'm sorry, I know you seem to like him but isn't he supposed to be going through Behavioral Adjustment like the rest of your old crew? Because it's not taking! He called you all sorts of awful things and pulled a knife on Basil, he was so—" he waves a soup ladle in the air in apparent distress. "He wouldn't even let us get near you, completely flipped out when I tried to do a medical check-up on you, he was just—he was the most—unreasonable—ugh!"

Apparently at a loss for further complaint, he ladles more soup into Rich's bowl and serves it to him, then stalks back to the frying pan full of salmon cuts and pokes at them savagely.

Rich blinks at him, torn between eating and laughing. He suspects if he laughs at Liam he won't get thirds.

"He must have been on his best behavior if he only threatened to stab anyone," he says warmly, and takes a careful sip of soup. "I mean, c'mon, look at it from his perspective! I'm dead meat when I'm piloting, and I'm not really at the top of my game for awhile afterwards: he was just watching my back until he could tell if he could trust you guys not to fuck with me while I was out." He glances over at Basil. "You okay? He didn't scare you too much, did he?"

"I mean…" Basil says, with an uneasy shrug that probably means Trimmer scared the hell out of him but he doesn't want to admit it. He says carefully, "I wasn't…I didn't like him, uh. I guess I can kinda see how he thought he was protecting you...?" He grimaces. "He called you a bunch of names though, he called everybody a bunch of names, he was just an asshole. How are you even friends, if you're so—Vince said he was attacking you himself! And he was such a jerk the whole time. He didn't even act like he liked you or cared about you at all, just that he was ready to kill anyone who tried to take you away from him. That's not right!"

By the way his hand traces the join of his prosthetic arm, he might be thinking about Mitch, which isn't a fair comparison to any kind of friendship as far as Rich is concerned. Especially not what Rich has with Trimmer.

"We're not friends like how friends are on Family Fleet, Basil," Rich says, and frowns to himself while he works on the second bowl of soup, thinking about how to explain this. "We...we couldn't be, we never got the chance. We were what you got instead of friends, on the Sympatico, just, someone to watch your back. Someone you could trust not to go and actually hurt you. So even if we—y'know, fight a little, call each other names, talk tough, it's just for fun, it's fun because we both know we don't really mean it. Okay? Trimmer's never actually hurt me and I'd never actually hurt him and we'd go end anyone who actually tried to fuck with either of us for real."

Basil looks extremely doubtful of this.

"Friendship should be more than a nonaggression pact," Liam says acidly.

"He's saved my fucking life more times than you have, Liam!" Rich snaps back, and then feels like a huge jerk at the look on Liam's face. "No, fuck, sorry—I'm sorry. That was shitty of me. I know what you mean. But he has, okay? Maybe we never got to be all sweet and tender and healthy with each other but I was eighteen and starving and fourhands have hyper-efficient metabolisms. He came in from somewhere just as shitty but he saw how it was for me and set me up with his lunch, every day, and all he wanted was for no one to ever touch him again. So I made that happen. When he'd get someone coming after him he'd call me and I'd come chase them off. We were good, we took care of each other."

"Okay, but if he wasn't such a nasty little jerk maybe he wouldn't have gotten in so many fights," Basil says. "And then he wouldn't have needed you to chase people off!"

Rich raises his eyebrows, surprised that Basil's still not getting it. "They weren't trying to fight him, to start out with. Baby boy, how did the two of you not notice that Trimmer is really fucking pretty?"

"I noticed he was pretty, alright," Liam says, like the concept of not noticing someone's prettiness is somehow offensive to him. "He could have been a very attractive man, if he didn't threaten to gut me for trying to make sure your brain wasn't cooking itself!" He goes and drops several big strips of pan-fried fish on a plate with a big scoop of rice in front of Basil, who is immediately and thankfully distracted from frowning at Rich. Liam takes up the frowning at Rich instead.

Rich frowns back at him. Basil is understandably focused on the fish, but Rich had expected Liam to get it by now.

"Yeah," Rich says, carefully calm, "Liam, that's the whole fucking point—he'd be a real sweet little fuck, if not for the entire rest of his personality. He's mean as hell and never goes anywhere without that sharpened straightedge of his, and all the guys who just want easy prey will maybe think twice about it. And if they don't—well, he used to have me for back-up, but I guess now he's transferred to a single-residency, thank fuck. He's probably safe, now."

"But—" Liam starts, and then falters, anger guttering as he finally gets it. He's silent, hands working at his sides, something uncomfortably like devastation flickering over his face, and then he turns sharply back to the stove and lays into the pan full of fish, shoulders tight.

"We're not something he's got to defend himself from," he says, voice low and tight. "He wasn't in danger, neither of you were, I wasn't—Basil wouldn't—I'd never—" He resettles the pan roughly on the stove, a nasty clattering noise. "Fuck."

"Man, just ease up, okay?" Rich sighs, and finishes off his second bowl of soup. "He doesn't know the Reliant, he didn't know you guys, this is our first storm since we all got reassigned and he was just—trying to be safe. Look, now I'm awake and he doesn't have to watch out for me, I can introduce everyone around properly. He won't have to go waving his straightedge around anymore and scaring anyone." He crams a fillet of fried fish in his mouth and makes a savoring, appreciative noise.

"He better not," Liam mutters, but now he just sounds tired, and a little sad.

"We'll be fine," Rich says, as reassuringly as he can. He's tired of people being sad over Sympatico stuff. "And hey, next storm we'll keep everything Family Fleet, start to finish, I promise."

"...Well, good," Liam says, and picks Rich's bowl up, re-fills it, piles some more fish on his plate. When he sets the plate back down, he lingers at Rich's side; he lays a small hand very gently on Rich's back, like Rich is breakable.

"...I was really scared for you, hon," he says, and his hand shifts on Rich's back, briefly clenches in the fabric of his shirt. "We all were. That's why I'm mad, it's not—we like you, Rich, you're so good and..." he loosens his grip again. "...You get that, right?"

Rich can't deal with whatever's happening in his chest right now, soft and startled and thrilled. "I—yeah," he says. "Yeah, and I—I really like you too." He leans hopefully in for a kiss, and is granted one. The guy's so little he still has to tip his chin up when Rich is sitting, but he kisses with thrilling authority, one of those small, pretty hands cupping the side of Rich's jaw and taking immediate command.

"Oh, uh," says Basil, and when Rich manages to pull away enough from Liam to glance over, Basil is watching them, eyes wide and cheeks reddening. "Uh. I'll. Sorry, do you wanna—I'll just go, uh, thanks for the food—"

Liam sighs softly, half a laugh, and lets Rich go. Basil freezes up when Liam steps over to him, putting a hand on the younger man's thigh to keep him pinned to his stool, as if anyone with any sense would leave with Liam approaching them like that. And Basil is a genius, so of course he stays put, staring down at Liam with a rising blush drowning out his freckles.

"Uh," he says, weakly, and swallows hard. "Liam?"

"Do you want to leave, hon?" Liam says.

Rich smirks at Basil before picking up his soup again and taking a cheerful sip. Basil gives him a brief, slightly frantic glare, and then looks back down at Liam. Specifically where Liam's hand is touching his leg, one thumb petting back and forth.

"I mean…" he manages, and glances from Rich to Liam and back. "I mean. It looked like, uh. You guys were…?" Liam steps in closer, and Basil swallows convulsively and finishes, "...I mean if you don't. Want me to, uh."

"You're not answering the question," Liam says sweetly. "Do you want to leave? Or do you want to stay?"

"You don't—you don't mind?" Basil asks, darting another frantic glance between Liam and Rich. "You're not just, uh, you're not...joking?"

"Why would we be joking, hon?" Liam asks, losing his playful edge.

Rich frowns, too. "I like having sex with you, baby boy," he says. "Like, a lot. I thought I said so last time? If Liam's fine with it then we could all have a great time, I think?" It's hard to be confident when Basil still seems so lost.

"I think so too," Liam says. "So what's the problem?"

"The problem is you said I was too young and you laughed when I asked you before," Basil says to Liam, all in a rush. "And I'm—I don't know if I'm—if you're gonna say I'm too young again you shouldn't tease me like this, it's not fair."

"Oh, sweetheart, I'm sorry," Liam sighs, and goes up on his toes to kiss Basil's jaw, both hands braced on his thighs. "But you were a week out from eighteen and I don't think anyone had so much as kissed you on the cheek, I wasn't going to be your first. I'm never anyone's first if I can help it. And now you've gotten some experience in, and you're—hmm. What, twenty now?"

"Yeah, and Rich said I was grown up enough now!" Basil blurts out eagerly, pointing at Rich. Rich blinks and puts his hands up, gesturing whole-hearted agreement. Basil goes on, "We've had sex like twice and it was great and he said I did fine!"

"You did!" Rich says. "He did," he adds to Liam.

Basil looks back at Liam, blatantly hopeful. "So I can stay?" he says. "I mean, you'll give me a shot now, I'm old enough?"

"You are a very handsome young man and I would love to see for myself how great sex with you is, yes," Liam says, looking terrifically amused.

"Okay," Basil says, "okay, wow, cool," and bends down a little on his seat to kiss Liam. He misses Liam's mouth entirely, then pulls back up, flustered and ruddy-cheeked and regretful—and Liam, still giggling, pulls him right back down, and lays what looks like a really good one on him. While he's at it, he goes and starts working his palms slowly up and down Basil's wrap, rucking it up bit by bit. Basil makes a familiar startled, squeaky little noise, and then raises a hand tentatively and lays it on the back of Liam's neck, scooting forward almost off the edge of his seat to get closer as they kiss.

Rich nearly spills soup down his chin watching them instead of keeping his eye on his bowl. That's such a nice view, they're so hot together, both so sweet and cute and—and this is happening, Liam's not just teasing, Basil's down, there's a threesome in Rich's near future.

He finishes his soup fast, inhales the rest of his fish and rice and then forces himself to slow down long enough to savor the blackberries, even while he can't take his eyes off the way Liam's guiding Basil through one long, lingering kiss after the next.

Basil's starting to get noisy with it, moaning softly as he pants for breath—Liam pulls back a moment, smiles triumphantly, and goes after Basil's neck. Basil gives a shuddery little whimpering noise and squirms, and god, that's so sexy, Rich is so into this, everything is amazing right now. Rich has had enough to eat, he's got two hot guys putting on a hell of a show for him, there are blackberries, and he's not even going to get kicked off the Reliant. This is a wonderful moment.

Rich watches Liam and Basil work each other up while he carefully and deliberately enjoys each one of his blackberries. When he's eaten the last one he gets up, still savoring the lingering taste of them on his lips, gathers all the dishes, and takes them over to the sink. Then he washes his hands and reassures himself that the dishes will get done, he doesn't have to wash them himself this minute. Liam might be offended if Rich acts like washing dishes is more of a draw than he is, after all. Decisively, he turns his back on the sink and goes over to set a hand on Basil's shoulder and one on Liam's back.

"So!" he says brightly. "I know you guys were getting ready to play some Spellcraft, but I think maybe we should fuck instead."

Liam bursts out laughing again. Basil starts, "No, I thought we were—" and then sputters and growls at Rich instead, not very convincingly.

"Well, unfortunately my beautiful sexual garden paradise is now inside the Reliant's holding bay, which is neither beautiful, nor sexual—and also we'd be directly on an eye-level with the boat docked next to us, which isn't ideal." Liam untangles himself from Basil's legs to finger-comb his hair into some sort of order, cheeks and lips flushed pink, eyes bright. "And your berth smells like somebody curled up and died there, which they almost did. And the day I have sex in Basil's…lair? I'd call it a lair—is the day I retire my dick forever."

"I cleaned," Basil says, indignant. "I did! Fucking—Rich made me do it, okay, it's clean. It wasn't that bad!"

Rich snorts.

"Even assuming I believe that," Liam says, "it's small for three people, and with you, me and Rich there we average out to slightly more than three people. So I guess it's time to head downstairs. The storeroom should have enough space." He takes Basil's hand and pulls at him. Basil stumbles up, curling awkwardly in on himself like he can hide his obvious boner, and Liam gives him a wicked, brilliant grin. "As long as you boys don't mind a negligible amount of ambiance and the way it smells like chemicals down there, we can be warm and uninterrupted for as long as we want."

"Oh I don't know," Rich says, shaking his head. "I'm very attached to my ambiance. I just can't get it up unless I'm being fed fresh fruits in the middle of a beautiful garden. Sunshine, a nice breeze, maybe some silk pillows? Maybe some drinks?"

"That's an excellent standard for a sexual scenario and I respect you for it," Liam says approvingly. "But here's my counter offer: you help me wring Basil dry, and then I get on your dick and ride you senseless?"

Basil makes a strangled squawking noise that breaks into a slightly nervous giggle. "That, ha," he says. "Uh. You've seen his dick, right?"

"Oh, I'm very familiar," Liam says gleefully.

"Yeah," Rich says, not nearly as casually as he means to. "Y'know, just this once I think I can, uh, settle, yeah."

"Excellent," Liam says. "Would you grab the mattress from upstairs on the deck? The code is 1111, we're not very creative around here, except about sex and plants. I'm going to have a word or two with Basil, catch him up, but I won't do anything too exciting while you're gone, I promise."

"Got it," Rich says, and wheels to head up to the top deck's garden. It looks completely different in the comparatively dim light in the Reliant's docking bay, even with grow lights set up to keep the trees and vines happy: only vaguely reminiscent of that afternoon with Liam. He's not too upset at the prospect of making new memories in another part of the boat, especially with the way the garage around him thrums with the busy noise of dozens of strange boats and citizens all packed in together.

When Rich gets back downstairs the voices are still coming from the galley, so he pokes his head in with the futon tucked under one arm. "Where'd you want this?"

Liam is sitting on the edge of the counter now, on a level with Basil, leaning into his space and talking quietly. Rich catches the words "—hold you there, keep you right where—" before Liam notices him in the doorway and pulls his hands out of Basil's shirt and half-ruined ponytail.

"Oh!" he says brightly. "That was quick. Good job, hon." He looks back at Basil, who's standing there looking dazed. "...Does all of that sound fun?"

"Uh, ha," says Basil, who looks like he's been knocked on the head with something heavy. "Y...yeah? Fuck."

"Nice," says Liam, and hops down off the counter, patting Rich's butt on the way past and then leading the way deeper into the ship. "Well, this threesome's not gonna fuck itself! Let's get a move on, boys!"

Basil looks so good all worked up like this, kissed breathless and left panting and flushed and dazed: Rich can't resist tucking an arm around his narrow shoulders to give him a quick kiss of his own. Basil kisses back immediately, both arms thrown around Rich's neck, and Rich nearly staggers back at the enthusiasm. One kiss turns into two, which turns into several more, before Rich can manage to collect himself, laughing in delight, and pull Basil along after Liam into the warm, waiting dark.

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