Chapter Text
The first thing Goody’s aware of is an intense and overwhelming gratitude that at least the senior personnel quarters have attached private toilets.
Fortunately in the time it takes that groggy thought to form, his body has already carried him across the room on stumbling autopilot and dropped him on his knees in front of said toilet. His head swims as he retches weakly, clinging to the bowl, head fuzzy and pounding and stomach in a state of all-out rebellion.
He rests his cheek against the blessedly cool plastic of the seat and regards the pitiful former contents of his stomach glumly, what little brainpower he presently has at his disposal largely devoted to wondering foggily if it’s worth making the slow trek back to bed, or if he might be better served by staying right where he is. He doesn’t feel in immediate danger of retching again, but the headrush which is likely to ensue if he tries to stand may well change that.
After a prudent pause Goody, veteran of many a crippling hangover, manages to gather the necessary physical and mental resources to drag himself to what might loosely be described as a standing position. He grips the rim of the sink for support and leans down to drink straight from the tap. Even the faintly metallic taste of the shatterdome’s pipework is an improvement when his mouth tastes like something died in it: probably whatever remains of his dignity, though he doesn’t remember enough of the end of the night to vouch for that one way or the other. He swills, spits, and then drinks until he feels slightly less like he’s going to fall over if he tries to straighten up.
He reaches for the glass that usually sits on the counter, only to come up empty. It's then, peering at the absence of glass in bleary accusation, that it finally registers that these aren't his quarters.
Suddenly he feels a lot more sober than he had a second ago.
In his defence, it’s not a difficult mistake to make. Some of the quarters are mirrored depending on which way they face onto the corridor, but they’re all built to the same basic layout. And what personal touches the inhabitant might give their quarters are likely to be reserved for the bunk itself, rather than the bathroom. The standard-issue toiletries they pick up from stores are all the same. But now that he comes to look around, that’s very definitely a toothbrush that isn’t his sitting beside the sink, and a hairbrush he has no reason to own on the counter.
The door is standing ajar behind him, the dim sliver of room visible beyond yielding little further information. Try as he might to recall anything further, the end of the night remains hazy. He doesn’t remember leaving the bar. He’s not sure whether or not he should take it as a reassurance that he’s still mostly clothed.
Tempting as it presently is, he’s aware that hiding in the bathroom will only work as a solution for so long; possibly not for very long, if whoever these quarters belong to is in a state anything like he is. He takes a few moments to compose himself as best he can, availing himself of his host’s mouthwash - under the circumstances he imagines they won’t begrudge him it - and splashing cool water over his face. And then he straightens, takes a moment to remind himself once more that hiding is not a feasible long-term solution, and opens the door.
The quarters beyond are much like any in the shatterdome, compact and spartan but comfortable enough, the bare concrete walls largely devoid of any personal touches. It’s also starkly devoid of another living soul.
He squints dubiously around, but the occupant fails to appear. For a moment he considers the thought that perhaps these are his quarters and he’s simply lacking the mental faculties to recognise them, but...no. There aren’t many personal touches to the room, but the few he can see certainly aren’t his. And the only items present he can identify as his own are the shoes by the door and the jacket draped over the back of the desk chair.
He should probably be making a tactical withdrawal while he has the chance. But the thought of taking a walk of shame through the halls of the shatterdome right now is not an appealing one. He makes his graceless way across the room to sag onto the bed and buries his face in the pillow with a groan of relief. Safely cocooned in bed - even if it isn’t his bed - this feels almost survivable. And while hangovers are never pleasant, they have their upsides. At least the grey fuzz stuffing his skull leaves little room for any other thoughts to creep in.
While going back to sleep hadn’t really been his intention, he manages to drift off nonetheless, floating in a hazy space between wakefulness and true sleep. The practicalities of what he’s going to do if and when the rightful owner of the bed returns seem a distant problem when he’s focused mainly on surviving his hangover.
He’s still alone when he wakes again. He’s not sure what time it is, but enough has passed for the extra sleep to do him some good; he feels slightly more capable of playing the part of a functioning adult. After an intense staring contest with the ceiling above him, he grudgingly starts the laborious process of crawling out of bed.
His phone, when he encounters it in a jacket pocket, is on three percent battery. A single text notification is blinking on the screen.
He stares at it for a long moment before the sharp buzz of the low battery warning reminds him that if he doesn’t look now, he’s going to be left in suspense until he gets back to his own quarters and the charger therein. Billy’s contact details flash up on screen when he hits the notification.
Had to go take care of some things. Don’t throw up on anything I’m going to need later. Good luck.
Goody snorts. Well, at least that explains why it had taken him so long to realise that he wasn’t in his own quarters. Not much detail remains after leaving the drift, not unless it’d been consciously sought out, but apparently he’d picked up enough of a rough sense-impression for Billy’s quarters to feel familiar. Hopefully he’s also retained enough of a sense of their location in the shatterdome to be able to navigate back to his own without expending too much brainpower.
The corridors remain mercifully quiet as he makes his bleary-eyed way through them, trusting the echoes to guide him. This is far from the most pathetic state in which he’s had to drag himself back to his own quarters over the past few years, but even so, he’d rather avoid having to speak to anyone until he’s at least showered and had a coffee.
When the door clangs shut behind him, the familiar sight and scent of the quarters he’s called home for more years than he cares to specify wrapping in around him, he can’t help but feel a little foolish for not realising right away that he wasn’t here. Under the circumstances, he’s willing to chalk it up to not exactly being at his best when he first woke up. At least there was no-one present to play audience to that less than stellar moment, although it’s no stretch to picture the amusement that’s going to follow when Billy comes across that particular moment in their next drift.
It’s strange to think that once he’d taken it for granted, having someone else sharing his thoughts and memories. Of course, back then he hadn’t been carrying quite so much baggage into the drift with him; in that first handshake with Sam he’d had nothing more to hide than the same embarrassing fantasies everyone has, and a few less than charitable thoughts about certain of their coworkers. It’s a much harder road to walk now than it was.
But even with that thought in mind, as he sheds his wrinkled clothes and steps into the shower to wash away the faint but persistent smell of stale alcohol and sweat, he finds that there’s no apprehension in the thought of facing the drift again. Even in the handful of times they’ve put their connection through its paces so far, he’s already come to trust in Billy’s steady calm to keep him on the level. It stings what’s left of his pride a touch to know that he’s the weak link, the one who needs to be steadied and supported, but he knows that the only judgement he has to bear for that is his own.
There’s something soothing in the ritual of showering, the white-noise rush of the hot water and the billow of steam turning the rest of the world into something safely distant as he goes through the familiar routine of washing and shaving and rinsing off on mindless autopilot. By the time he shuts the water off and steps out he feels almost human again.
Coffee is definitely the next order of business. Coffee, and - if his still-tender stomach will allow it - hopefully something greasy and filling for breakfast. He dresses with less care than he normally would, more invested in working toward feeling like some kind of functional person than donning the appearance of one. He adjusts his collar, gives the pale face in the mirror a tired smile, and turns to leave.
The breakfast rush is long since over by the time he washes up in the mess hall. It’s a mixed blessing of sorts. The relative quiet is a relief when he’s still feeling more than a little fragile, but it does mean that he’s left with whatever remnants have been slowly drying out under the heat lamps to be picked over by the stragglers. Fortunately he’s too hungry to be picky. Food is more of a medical need than a passing want at the moment.
Whoever coined the adage that hunger is the best sauce clearly never had to contend with a hangover. No other meal he’s had has ever been quite so satisfying as the plate of wizened sausages and rubbery, overdone eggs he manages to scrape together from the dregs of the communal breakfast. Washed down with coffee, it’s almost enough to have him feeling capable of facing the day.
Maybe it’s just him, but even with the lingering tendrils of hangover weighing him down, the atmosphere seems a little lighter than it has been these past few months as he makes his way through the halls of the shatterdome. There are more smiles flashed in passing, the tone of conversations a touch livelier. It’s amazing what it does for morale, having a pilot pair ready to fill the newly-named Viper Angel’s conn pod.
His feet carry him on autopilot to the stairs that crawl up the side of the loading bay, and out to the familiar old gantry overlooking the water, the salt tang of the sea almost disguising the lingering hints of smoke clinging to the rust-pitted metal walls of their sheltered little overhang. The sun is high in the sky somewhere above, the vault of clouds glowing with a diffuse ambient light bright enough to squint against. Rain is drizzling halfheartedly down from them in a fine, soaking mist. It’s a chill kind of damp that seeps into the bones.
He sets his back against the wall and absently pats his pockets, fumbling out cigarette pack and lighter. No matter what else may change, this at least is a constant: a few moments of stolen peace in the steady rhythm of inhale and exhale, and the familiar acrid taste of smoke.
He’s halfway down his second cigarette when Billy steps out onto the gantry.
He barely looks hungover at all, the bastard, wearing his usual air of inscrutable calm with an ease which Goody is presently too annoyed by to envy. He’d dearly love to know what it would take to put a dent in Billy’s composure.
Still, he at least has the common courtesy to offer his copilot a light; the wind whips loose strands of Billy’s hair around his face as he leans in, cupping a hand around the flickering flame. The cigarette catches, and he inhales, the distinctive tang of the smoke filling the air as he leans back against the wall and nudges their shoulders gently together.
“You look better than I was expecting,” Billy says, casting him a sideways hint of a grin.
Goody snorts, pocketing the lighter. “Be glad you weren’t there when I woke up.”
Which, of course, brings up the elephant in the room of the fact that he woke up in Billy’s quarters. He takes a contemplative drag on his cigarette and gives Billy as assessing a look as he can without being too unsubtle about it.
He knows from showering earlier that he’s not carrying any marks. There are none visible on Billy either, not that it necessarily means anything; clothes hide a lot of sins, and in any case, he knows with the utter certainty of the drift that Billy viscerally dislikes being marked. But given that he’d woken up still wearing last night’s clothes, and lacking any telltale tenderness, he’s not hugely concerned about anything he’d much rather remember having taken place. After the amount he must have had to drink last night, it’d be a little absurdly optimistic to imagine that he would have been remotely capable, even if the spirit had been willing.
He’s not sure how to admit that he doesn’t remember leaving the bar last night, much less anything that happened after that. But even if he weren’t too pitifully hungover to put together a convincing attempt at a lie, it’s hard to summon the motivation to try when he knows perfectly well that Billy will see the truth of it for himself the next time they enter the drift. So instead he gives a sheepish apology of a grin and admits, “I don’t remember a lot of last night.”
Billy huffs a laugh. “Somehow I’m not surprised.”
“Ignorance is bliss,” Goody says, giving a small shrug. “So long as I didn’t do anything I need to apologise for, I’m happy for it to remain a mystery.”
“You can judge for yourself in the next drift,” Billy says. Someone who doesn’t know him as well as Goody does might have missed the glimmer of amusement in his eyes.
The rain is getting heavier, the dark water below rolling and heaving as the wind picks up. They lean in a little closer, pressed together in a warm line from shoulder to hip, collars turned up against the all-pervading damp chill as the wind snatches their intermingled smoke away. It’s a sobering reminder that there’s nothing out there for five thousand miles but open water, and the breach.
They’re standing at the edge of the world; the last outpost before no-man’s-land. Come hell or high water, they’ll stand here for as long as it takes to make sure the edges of their world don’t crumble any further.
Billy inspects the end of his cigarette critically before pinching it out and tucking the remainder back into his pocket. He’s still for a long moment, apparently coming to a decision of some sort. Eventually he gives a low breath of a sigh. “So you don’t remember us talking last night,” he says, eyes on the horizon. It isn’t phrased as a question.
“No,” Goody concedes. When he chances another glance over, Billy is watching him with a thoughtful, considering gaze.
He can’t read what’s in those dark eyes any more than he can see whatever may be waiting beneath the white-capped waves breaking below. But unlike the monsters lurking beyond the breach, he isn’t afraid of whatever decision Billy is coming to. He trusts Billy. He may not have much solid ground to stand on left, but with everything he has left in him, he trusts Billy.
“I asked if now seemed like a good time,” Billy says eventually, calm and deliberate.
Goody’s breath catches. Of course he recognises the echo in what might seem like an odd non sequitur to outside ears. Lord knows he’s spent time enough dwelling on it, even if he hadn’t expected to do any more than that. He hasn’t had the nerve to bring it up again himself since the moment they’d shared in the drivesuit room after their first handshake, and Billy had seemed quite content to let lie. Until now.
“...what did I say?” Goody asks eventually. It’s a little disconcerting to be lagging half a step behind, especially when just over the past few weeks he’s grown so used to the periodic drop sims keeping them in sync. He doesn’t know what he would have said.
Billy looks away, giving a small shrug. “You were drunk,” he says. “I’m more interested in what you say now.”
Well, isn’t that the question.
Perhaps it shouldn’t be a hard answer to give. It’s no secret that he’s been nursing an interest in Billy for some time, and he’s felt for himself that Billy’s hardly opposed to the idea. Surely when he’s being offered what sounds very much like a chance at something he’s wanted for so long, he shouldn’t even hesitate.
But while he no longer has to be uncertain of how his attentions would be received, he knows that wasn’t the only reason he’d hesitated to pursue something. He’s been rejected before; he can take it in good grace. No, if anything he’d been afraid of the possibility of a yes. Of having the chance and squandering it. Of falling short, as he has in so much since his heyday as a pilot. He knows what he is. Billy deserves better than that. Even if Billy apparently thinks otherwise, he still can’t quite shake the thought.
In the middle of a losing battle for the survival of their species is no place for anyone to be trying to build a relationship. They all, pilots especially, live with the knowledge that any seven-minute countdown might be the last they hear. But perhaps that only makes what time they do have all the more precious. Why fight to survive at all if they let fear rob them of the things which make life worth living?
Perhaps it’s better to make good use of whatever time they do have, than to wait for a good time that may never come.
“It doesn’t really,” he says eventually. “But it’s never going to, is it?” He casts Billy a soft, wry smile. “One could grow old, waiting for it to be a good time.”
Billy smiles back. He’s warm even through the heavy fabric of their jackets as he tucks himself in a little closer, turning in towards Goody. Huddled in against the damp chill of the wind, the shelter of their bodies creates a pocket of warmth, lit by the embers of the cigarette and threaded through with the lingering scent of smoke.
“At a bad time is better than never,” he says. He’s really quite stunning all windswept hair and the elegant curl of his fingers, fond warmth in his dark eyes and a smile curving his lips, and for an endless perfect moment Goody can’t imagine himself anywhere other than where he is.
He stubs his spent cigarette out against the wall and flicks it away, freeing his hands to settle with a self-assurance he’s not quite sure he really feels at Billy’s waist. The crinkle at the corner of Billy’s eyes deepens as they lean in a little more familiarly against each other, fitting like they were made for it. If they weren’t before, they are now. It’s no coincidence that there are so many couples among those copilots who aren’t related by blood. No pilot pair makes it as far as the conn pod without a solid foundation of compatibility and mutual trust beneath them, and once there, the raw honesty of the drift makes any latent attraction impossible to hide. He knows from experience that after enough time, the thought of sharing intimacy with anyone other than your copilot starts to feel strange and alien. There’s almost an inevitability about it.
They’re going to die in that jaeger. He can see it in his mind’s eye as clear as day, the blare of the alarms and the flashing red emergency lights and the last few moments of screaming chaos before it’s all torn into darkness and silence. It could be years from now, or it could be tomorrow. They won’t know which drop will be their last until it happens.
Whenever it comes, he knows in his bones that he doesn’t want to waste the time between then and now.
“I can’t imagine any time we had together wouldn’t be good,” he murmurs. Highs and lows will come regardless, but with everything in him, he believes that the highs will be sweeter and the lows easier to bear if he gets to share them with Billy.
The rain is growing heavier still, shrouding the open ocean in a haze of grey as it drums steadily off of the overhang sheltering them. Goody curls a little closer into their pocket of shared warmth, something light and breathless fluttering in his stomach for the way Billy mirrors the motion.
Sooner or later their cliff face will crumble, taking the ground out from beneath their lighthouse on the edge of the world. They all know it’s coming. But here and now they have a moment of peace and shared warmth against the howling cold, and the chance, however fleeting, at something good.
It’s enough.