a fallen satellite (that keeps me awake at night)

by ch1maera

Summary:

“Do you remember,” says Kurt, in the tone bound to make Hammond raise an eyebrow before he raises his head, the tone previously reserved for overly optimistic promises and feigned degrees of energy, “the first fruit we got our hands on coming home?”

Notes:

sometimes you eat a piece of fruit so good it makes you write fanfic . also, i cant believe i'm the first fic in this tag! what an honour! enjoy!!

The South feels as though it were a lifetime ago. It might as well have been, for all that’s changed since then. Now, in the summer (a normal summer, where the sun sets late, but sets, and the temperatures reach well above single digits), there’s luck enough to avoid feeling the cold at all, to relish in the relief of a cool breeze, rather than flinching away from it. The integration has not quite been to normalcy, but something close enough to it for comfort. 

 

That afternoon summer sun shines through the gilded windows of the theatre, painting the inside in radiance. It illuminates the actors perched side by side on the edge of the stage, clad in lightweight linens, sharing a pitcher of water between them. The light catches the droplets and shines through them, outlining them in gold, lending the scene a glow that flickers on the mens’ worn hands. 

 

“Do you remember,” says Kurt, in the tone bound to make Hammond raise an eyebrow before he raises his head, the tone previously reserved for overly optimistic promises and feigned degrees of energy, “the first fruit we got our hands on coming home?” And then, before he can be interrupted, “The first real fruit, that is.”

 

“Feeling sentimental, old man?” The response is as dry as it ever might have been, but Kurt doesn’t have to look to know the wry smile he’s being met with. 

 

“Hrm.”

He feels eyes on him, now.

“Oh, go on.” Hammond nudges Kurt’s ankle with the toe of his boot. “Ye’ll just get all…” He waves his hands in an erratic grabbing motion.

“All what?” A smile creeps in at the edges of his voice, and earns him an attempted kick in the shin. The dull thud of a boot heel against wood echoes through the large hall. 

 

“Missed,” says Kurt with only slightly reserved glee. 

 

“Shut up. Now spill yer guts.”

“Which one is it?” Kurt asks, raising his hands in surrender before another blow can come his way. 

 

“Alright, alright.” He sighs, and all the air seems to go out of him, shoulders slumping over. “I don’t know. I can’t stop thinking about how it felt. It was like… there was nothing better, in the entire world.”

“We were starved for it, aye.” Hammond agrees.

“Mmm. I…” Another sigh. “I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever feel that again. And isn’t it awful? The things we had to go through, to get that feeling? But-” The old navigator runs a hand over his face, the pads of his fingers pressed hard into the lines of his brow, and for a moment, in the golden sunlight, he looks his age. Aged and worn from a life exposed to the elements, looking for all the world like a battered journal. “All I can think about is how tearing into those first bites felt. We were like animals,” he laughs, a little dry. “But we were so happy. Nothing could have made that moment better. I feel… I feel like we touched perfection, then. And we’ll never get it back.” 

 

The monologue ends unceremoniously, the words floating like dust motes in the space of the theatre, suspended for examination. In his own mind, their speaker wonders how scripted he might sound to other ears, how the cadence of his voice might denote a low point in their narrative, a scene shot through filters to give the audience the right emphasis, to tell them what to feel. He feels very much like a man, not a character, in this moment, incapable of corralling the events of his life to their correct stories. 

 

The silence lingers.

“Junior made that cobbler,” says Hammond at last. “With the apples, an’ peaches, and rhubarb. Reckon it was the best thing I’ve ever eaten, even from him.” 

 

“And Grips made himself sick on it,” Kurt chuckles. Hammond puts his head in his hands and groans.

“God, why remind me? I swear I’ll never forgive that man as long as I live,” his nose wrinkling at the memory while his companion laughs at him. Instead of elbowing him in the ribs, like he deserves, he goes on, “And Nutlee wouldn’t eat a bite of it, ye remember?”

“Ah, I do, of course.”

“What on Earth was that about?” 

 

Kurt stifles a laugh. “He was afraid all the spices would hurt coming back up, I believe,” shaking his head while the man beside him dissolves into laughter. “That poor lad had some of the most persistent seasickness I’ve ever seen.”

 

“Terrible,” Hammond agrees, clearing his throat.

“A good doctor, though, to be sure.” 

 

“I wouldn’t know. Take ye on yer word, though.”

Kurt squints at him. “What do you mean?” 

 

“I wouldn’t know,” he repeats. “I never saw him.”

“You never-” He shifts to face his friend, and is met with an expectant eyebrow raise. “Every day I wonder how you’ve survived this long, you know.” 

 

“‘Cause if I die, everything goes to shit. Obviously.” While Kurt snorts, he goes on, “It’s kept me alive this long. Besides, pot kettle black, I watched ye pull a couple of stunts in yer time.” 

“You watched me pull exactly one stunt.”

“Bullshit.” 

 

“Hell do you mean ‘bullshit’?” A pause that seems to drag for an age, as he registers the only way he might be seen doing stunts without his own knowledge of it. “Wait. Wait, wait wait wait-” Kurt, in his best moments, has a tendency to resemble an overexcited sled dog, pressing: “Did you-”

“Yer going to be late to that dinner,” Hammond swiftly cuts him off, biting back a smile. His companion’s eyes widen as he fumbles for his pocket watch, and upon realising the time, scrambles to his feet, nearly slipping off the stage as he does so, his copious energy swiftly redirected.

“This conversation isn’t over!” Kurt declares as he hurries to collect his things and be on his way. “You have some explaining to do.”

Hammond, watching him from his comfortable perch on the stage, says “What conversation?” and folds his arms.

“I can't believe you. How could you do this to me? You - oh, and you didn’t even let me tell my stories!”

“Ye watch yer own films to tell stories?”

“Yes! And I’ll have you know it’s a delightful experience, and Kasha thoroughly enjoyed it, so there.”

“I’ve no doubt she did. Now get out of here, ‘fore ye never hear the end of being late.”  

 

Kurt swings his coat over his shoulders with a flourish, shaking his head. He looks every bit the film star in the orange light filtering through the large windows, but moreso, he looks like a man of shared experience and companionship for the one looking on. Were the engineer a different man, he might stop to wonder at it, at how much had to slip from each of them, shifts in cracks and tiny increments that drew them both to this unimaginable moment. But he’s never been one for reminiscing.

“Learn your blocking!” Hammond shouts after him.

“Learn your lines!” The response barely makes its way through the closing door. 

 

God, Hammond thinks to himself, with a degree of fondness that is surprising only for its familiarity, what a prick.  

Notes:

i love these two so much ;-; i hope you enjoyed reading, and thank you for doing so! please chat to me about polar expeditions on tumblr @deep-sea-gigantism and have a great day, and a big thank you to my buddy cosmo for beta-ing!! <3

(title from All These Things by Darren Hanlon)