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The storm wasn't the worst they'd seen—not by a long shot—but it was enough to toss the Zephyr around, all wind and lurching weight. It was enough to leave Van gritting her teeth while leveraging her entire body to tie lines, yelling out orders all the while. The fall comes fast—one particularly nasty listing of the ship knocks her off balance as she's scaling the rigging, slamming her metal shoulder into a crossbeam. She lands hard, grunts once, and keeps going. But after that, she can't quite catch her footing. Everything feels half a step off, like her left arm is pulling her just slightly out of alignment with gravity itself and slowing her down at every turn. She doesn't say anything, of course—they have things to be tending to. She's a Chapman. Putting her body on the line for a ship and its crew is written into her blood, ancestral and cursed all the same.
By the time the clouds have parted and the rain has slowed to a light sprinkle, Van's grip on the rigging is tighter than necessary, and her whole body is shaking from a mix of adrenaline and bone-deep exhaustion. She's stubbornly still in motion, barking orders at every turn, her voice rough with use. The ache begins at the base of her neck and burns down the line where steel meets skin. It ripples through her spine with every clack of her teeth and every curl of her fingers. But they've got too much to handle. The rigging on the main balloon needs to be restrung and the tether lines are tangled. Someone nearly went overboard, someone else managed to give themself a concussion. Van's sole duty is to keep this crew together and goddamn is she going to do it.
Finally, near sunset, the Zephyr quiets. The rush of emergency fades into routine and the crew scatters to lick their wounds and prepare for the next day. Van stays behind in the galley after dinner under the pretense of cleaning up and giving Bert, who's a bit shaken, some extra time to rest. She scrubs the grit from under her nails in silence, her left arm trembling and catching as she works it harder than she really should be, all things considered. Her sleeve is rolled up off the heated skin of her stump—it's the only kindness she'll allow herself. She tells herself she'll fix it soon, she just needs a second to think.
The captain has other plans. Van has long since memorized the sound of Marya's walk. Her footsteps, light enough not to be much of a signal, are always accompanied by the tinny sound of metal clanking together. It's always something—the trinkets she keeps in her bag, the gadgets she slings across her belt. She feels her presence stop at the galley entrance, solid and steady in the doorway. Marya doesn't say anything, instead opting to simply lean against the doorway with a quiet creak of its wooden frame.
After a long moment, a standoff of wills, Van signs. "You're doing it again," she mutters, trying not to be too bitter about her current life circumstances as she continues to scrub at her hand. Stubbornly, she doesn't turn her head to fully greet Marya, instead speaking blandly into the sink.
"What's that?" There's no surprise in Marya's voice, just casual amusement, as if getting caught is mildly entertaining in itself. Still, Van knows the way that her captain cares for their crew. She knows what this is.
"Standing around like you've got orders to bark, but you're feeling too polite to interrupt." Van turns to look over her shoulder at Marya, shooting her a smile that she hopes is more convincing than it is tight. The accompanied twitch of her jaw at the jolt of pain shooting through her with the movement probably doesn't do her any favors.
Marya pushes off the doorframe. "Your arm," she says as she walks closer to Van with a critical eye, "it's troubling you." She leans against the counter next to Van, very purposefully casual, her back pressed against the cold metal of the countertop just far enough away that they aren't quite touching. The heat radiating off of Marya, real flesh and blood, still manages to warm the cold of Van's metal arm.
Van waves a hand—her right hand, very tellingly—dismissively. “I jarred it during a roll. It'll sort itself out." She doesn't meet Marya's eyes. Part of her is aware that she used to be better at lying when she was younger—maybe age and retirement have softened her.
"Is that so?" Marya's voice is soft, but the softness doesn't dull the edge of a mechanic's certainty beneath it. "Come with me. I want to look at it."
Van's head jerks up sharply to fully look at Marya. This request isn't a surprise but, still, Van nearly squawks at it. "I said I'm fine, Junker—"
"And I didn't ask, Chapman." Her tone turns flinty, but the worry it masks is obvious. "Don't make me call this a medical order."
Van huffs, half a smirk curling at her lips despite the pain nagging constantly at the base of her skull. She flips the water off with a sigh, arms resting over the basin to let the last dredges of water drip off her skin. "That's not a real thing."
"Good thing I don't care." Marya takes one step closer, boots clicking softly off the floor and echoing across the empty walls of the galley. Van's ears are ringing as she stares dumbly at her. "Come with me."
Van's eyes flutter closed for a brief, heaving sigh. Her resolve starts to crumble, especially as she tenses her muscles during their standoff and pain sparks across her metal joint and feeds into what remains of her humerus. "Captain—"
"I'm not giving you a command, Van." Marya's voice is sickeningly warm and Van knows she won't be able to say no to it, not in the state she's in. Marya tilts her head, pressing a light touch to Van's shoulder blade. It's fleeting and barely there, but more convincing than any words she can offer in this space. "I'm only offering help. There's tools in my quarters and the light is better in there."
Another beat, then Van nods. She's not often one to yield but the day has worn her down considerably and with Marya, she can't ever quite stand her ground. Marya pushes herself off the counter as Van turns to grab a dish towel to dry her hand, making a concerted effort to appear pain-free despite how well-aware Marya is of the opposite.
Van tosses the towel onto the counter and follows Marya out, the harsh lights of the galley giving way to the dim, steady glow of the hallway. Each step sends a little thrum of pain up through her shoulder, into the juncture where steel meets skin, like the whole mechanism is just slightly out of calibration. She keeps her face smooth anyway, head held high and eyes fixed on Marya's back.
The Captain's quarters are quiet, the door clicking shut behind them, sealing away the bustling noise of the ship as the crew makes various repairs. The room is dim when they enter, golden light spilling in only from the tiny window above Marya's desk. The bed is unmade and the room cluttered with journals, notes, mechanical scraps—signs of a life half-organized and clinging to survival. It smells like oil and lemon polish and overwhelmingly like Marya, sharp and metallic. For a moment, Van allows herself the smallest sigh.
Marya gestures to the bed as she clicks on the lamp on her desk. "Sit," she commands, the type of order from her captain that Van would never ignore—though she tries to make a show of her reluctance, crossing the room with exaggerated slowness before dropping onto the edge of the bed. Marya is already rucking up her sleeves by the time Van settles. "And don't start with the flirting to distract me. I am immune today," she adds, not looking up as she rummages through the drawers of her desk.
Van raises an eyebrow with a huff, shifting against the unfamiliar softness of the mattress. "That so? And here I thought I was charming enough to be exempt from medical protocol."
Marya finally turns, several tools piled in a loose cup of fabric from her shirt that she has pulled out in front of her. With her other hand, she drags a wooden chair up in front of Van, sitting down knee to knee with her. Van sticks her arm out for inspection just like every routine check before—she is nothing if not dutiful.
"You are charming," Marya says as she lays out her tools on the sheets next to Van, seeming not to care that some of them are smudging oil onto the fabric. Her face is pensive as she begins to examine the attachment between the prosthesis and Van's stump. Her fingers are heart-wrenchingly delicate as she shoots a chastising frown up at Van almost immediately upon looking at the joint connection. "But you're also stubborn. And right now I care more about the fact that you're hurting."
The sincerity of it lands hard at the center of Van's chest, very nearly knocking the air out of her lungs. She stares down at Marya—her precise movements, her furrowed brow, the gentle way she holds Van's metal hand in hers as she carefully twists the joint to see each angle of its connection. She handles her limb like it's something precious, not a hunk of metal that was hastily retrofitted to Van's gruesome injury. Van, in turn, does her best to be the perfect patient—stifling complaints and hiding winces at each twist and turn of the machine she is connected to.
"It's rubbing too much against your residual limb," Marya mutters after a long pause of examination. She says it as much as an aside to herself as it is to Van, making observations quietly as she works. "Swollen." Her fingers skim the visible scar tissue there, and Van winces despite herself. She'd been anticipating the pain but still, she feels off balance and desperately grasping at straws for any semblance of dignity. Marya looks up, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth to worry at it—a nervous habit she's had as long as Van has known her. "How long has it been hurting?"
Van hesitates. "Since we hit turbulence."
Marya blinks, scowls in the affectionate kind of way only a Scrapsylvanian can manage. "That was six hours ago."
Van doesn't respond so much as she winces at the indirect scolding she's getting. It was irresponsible, sure. Any other crewmate and Van would've had them slung up hours ago to heal from their injury. But she's not any other crewmate—she's the bosun, it's her job to tough through her own needs for the greater good of the ship.
Marya turns back to the prosthesis with a muttered tsk, carefully loosening a screw, adjusting a tension joint, her hands practiced with the familiarity of a tool in her hands. She's being gentle at first, slowly leading Van into a full repair, and it should be condescending in its implication but Van can't quite bring herself to care. Maybe, for once, she can allow herself the gentleness of human contact before once again being accosted but various tools. "You really should've said something earlier," Marya murmurs distractedly, still intently squinting at the junction where flesh meets metal. "You've had this arm for years. You know the signs."
"I also know the crew was running on fumes and I didn't have the luxury to tap out," Van says, quieter now. The bone-deep, decades-long exhaustion she feels can't help but come out. "Didn't feel like it mattered."
Marya freezes with one hand on the metal and the other poised with a wrench inches above the first gauge. She looks up with a deadly serious expression on her face, insistent when she says, "Of course it matters."
Suddenly, everything feels like too much all at once for Van. Marya's eyes are on her, sharp and heartbroken all at once. It's too real. "Marya—"
Marya inadvertently cuts her off by standing up abruptly and turning quickly to walk back over to her desk. "I am going to need to take the whole thing off," she says, voice lilting in a strange way that Van can't quite read. "Shirt off," she says, loudly opening and closing compartments. Van raises an eyebrow and huffs a half-hearted, amused breath. Without looking behind her to see the suggestive face Van is making, Marya adds, "You know what I mean."
Van laughs, but it's softer than her usual boisterous, all-consuming laugh. "You been waiting to say that one?"
Turning around with a more comprehensive collection of tools cradled in her arms, she lets a small smile creep up on her lips. "I wouldn't dare imagine I'd ever get to say such a thing to Van Chapman."
Van works very purposefully not to blush at the teasing words. She stands as Marya begins organizing her tools in descending size order, politely averting her gaze despite the fact that she's going to be up close and personal with Van's bare arm. It takes Van longer than it should, the buttons harder to undo with one fully functioning arm and Marya makes a displeased noise every time the grinding of metal can be heard when she tries to use the prosthesis to help. The warmth of the cabin and the soft light make the moment feel oddly intimate—more like a quiet admission of a truth Van isn't sure she's ready to voice rather than a simple medical examination. She folds the shirt neatly, setting it aside, and lowers herself back onto the bed.
Marya sits on the chair in front of her again, barely blinking at the sudden expanses of exposed skin and, more noticeably, swathes of scar tissue tearing their way down the entire left side of Van's torso. Marya straightens to be able to see the joint fully and she taps Van's knee, making level eye contact with her. "Permission?"
Van nods, jaw tense. There's a beat where silence falls, Van swallowing the sudden surge of fear that rises in her throat as Marya starts smoothly unscrewing the tightened bolts closest to the connection. After a moment, Van finds her voice enough to start explaining herself into the suffocatingly quiet air between them. "It's been grinding more than usual. I adjusted the rotation pin yesterday, but—" She winces as Marya pulls out one of the stabilizing screws. "I think the socket ring's cracked."
Marya, after a particularly obvious break in Van's voice, soothes her, "Hush. Let me look."
Van watches the curve of Marya's jaw as she works. It should be clinical. And yet, there's too much tenderness in her touch, too much care in every micro-adjustment for it to feel like duty. She works carefully, gently disengaging the pressure locks and unfastening the belt that holds the prosthesis flush to Van's upper arm. It's always like this with Marya—quiet competence and a gravity that makes Van's head spin more than any aerial dive ever has. The sudden hiss of hydraulic release makes Van wince and her stomach drops straight into her boots, but she doesn't pull away. Part of her expects something to happen the moment the arm is lifted off her body, heavy in Marya's hands. Nothing does. Instead, the metal arm that Van has lived with for years being simultaneously grateful for and terrified of, is settled banally against the plain sheets of the captain's bed.
Beneath the prosthetic shell, her arm is chafed—red, and inflamed already with the beginning stages of a pressure sore. Marya can't imagine how bad Van would've waited for it to get before she asked for help if Marya's watchful eye wasn't on her almost every hour of the day. The moment the barest pads of fingertips brush her shoulder, Van flinches violently.
"Sorry," they both say at once. Then, Marya adds more gently, "Tell me if I need to stop."
Van gives a short shake of her head, eyes fixed on the wall over Marya's shoulder instead of being forced to stomach looking at the remaining stump of her limb. With her pain already as bad as it is, she refuses to tempt her brain into generating any more hurt. "It's okay. Keep going." Her voice is steadier than she feels. The absence of weight where her arm should be is always unsettling—like a ghost of her limb is waking up furious. It leaves her feeling lighter and more exposed, her balance subtly wrong in ways she can't quite correct by shifting her weight on the mattress.
"Van," Marya says, warning lilting in her tone but stripped of its usual metallic edge from the genuine concern, "this is worse than you let on." Her fingers ghost along the ridge where scar tissue gives way to smoother skin, guiding the joint into a quick tests of range of motion without applying too much pressure. She tilts her head in consideration, as though Van's body is a particularly interesting repair. "You have been overcompensating for this," she murmurs, her thumb brushing near the base of Van's neck.
"Good eye. You're almost too smart for your own good," Van says, though the words come out breathier than she intended. She's trying to focus on the conversation—on keeping it light—but her mind keeps catching on the nearness of Marya's hand to her pulse point and the way her chest feels too tight for a simple breath.
Marya leans back, reaching for a tin of salve, dented and rubbed bare of its label, and a clean cloth from the pile of supplies she had set aside. She opens it with one hand, the sharp herbal scent cutting through the stale air of the cabin. "This will help with the irritation," she says. "But it'll sting." There's no actual question in the sentence but it is one nonetheless, Marya staring expectantly at Van.
Van stares right back at her, throat thick. Marya is so earnest in her kindness that it chokes her up immediately. Feeling acutely vulnerable, Van tries to swallow the emotions stuck in the back of her throat by waving her hand and quietly saying, "You don't have to—"
"I know," Marya cuts in, anticipating what Van was going to say. Her voice is soft, but not pitying and, for that, Van is grateful. "Let me, anyway."
Van nods her assent without trying to stumble her way over any more words. Marya works the balm open one-handed, the other resting lightly on Van's knee as if a way to remind her where she is—not years back, fighting to keep her arm attached to her body. Marya dips her fingertips into the salve, rubbing it between her palms to warm it before touching Van's skin. The first firm contact on the inflamed area makes Van stiffen, every muscle in her torso clenching, but Marya keeps her movements slow and deliberate, working in small motions to ease the tension without adding more pain.
Marya smiles faintly, the expression on her face more whimsical than Van has ever seen her, fingers soothing salve in distracted little circles over the more obviously sore part of her residual limb near where the muscle thins to give way to bone. "I used to do this for my cousin. He lost his leg to a sea beast when we were kids and would fake fine for weeks until he could hardly walk."
The fondness in Marya's voice is not unlike the one she often turns on Van, simultaneously affectionate and exasperated. Van huffs, making a show like she's indignant but the smile on her face takes any sting out of it when she says, "Seems like that's a family trait."
The laughter that erupts from Marya is immediate. "Pot, meet kettle," she snarks back, earning a genuine laugh from Van in turn.
Van raises an eyebrow and her eyes dart down to look at the well-worn, dented can of balm. It's clearly been well-loved and Marya took it out immediately along with all of the more practical tools in her assortment. She can't help asking, although part of her thinks she might know the answer by the way Marya is blushing, "Now you carry salve for sentimental purposes?"
Marya smiles faintly, though her focus doesn't waver from her work. "No. I carry salve for when my bosun is too stubborn to ask for help unless she is falling apart."
Van rolls her eyes at the comment, though her chest feels a little warmer from it. She watches Marya's hands instead of her face—partly to keep the wild look in her eyes from betraying her, and partly because it's easier to focus on the action itself rather than the fact that they're close enough for Van to feel Marya's breath ghosting across her bare collarbone. Marya works methodically, fingers slow and precise, massaging the balm into the skin with deliberate pressure. It's not the hurried fix of a crew medic—it's with a reverence only a mechanic who truly cares for the things she repairs can manage.
Eventually, Marya twists the cap back on the salve and returns her attention to the mechanical aspect, first inspecting the bone-integrated brass connection that remains fastened to Van's limb at all times. Then, she takes a serious look at the prosthesis while Van watches, silent. Marya is reaching for the tools in front of her before it even seems that she's aware of it, absentmindedly twisting a wrench in her hands as she glances up at Van with a chastising look. "You're lucky this didn't start sparking. You are right, the socket ring is broken through."
Van hums, noncommittal. Her eyes, now that Marya's full attention is on her face, are trained out the window, staring into the gray swirl of clouds as she makes a valiant attempt to ignore how close they are to each other while her shirt still sits folded on the mattress next to her. She looks older in this light, exhausted in a way that hasn't touched Marya until now.
Marya sighs once it becomes obvious that Van isn't going to comment further on her self-destructive habits. She tries a different approach. "I don't like seeing you in pain," she says softly, eyes wide and imploring as Van finally looks back down at her. There's nothing that can persuade Van quite like somebody else being hurt on her behalf or by her actions, no matter how unwavering she feels in them.
"I know," Van says because she does, she really does. And sometimes it's hard to balance the priority of the ship and its crew versus Marya and the care she offers to Van so casually. Part of her aches just to stop and let herself be cared for and the other part of her, ingrained from a childhood spent working as the youngest member of any ship crew, is insistent on her worth being equated to the labor she can do for others.
Marya straightens from being hunched over the prosthesis in front of her and brings her hand up, moving to run her thumb over the muscles at the base of Van's neck and press into the most obvious knot in her perfect posture. It's enough to pull a sharp breath from Van and have her turning her head, the kind that's not quite a gasp but carries the weight of one anyway.
Marya pulls her hand back like she's been burned, rushing to say, "I didn't mean to—" but Van is already shaking her head.
"No. You— it helps," Van admits begrudgingly. Her eyes flutter shut for just a split second, letting the admission settle into the room without her having to watch the visible reaction it creates. The tension in her shoulders doesn't vanish, but under Marya's hands, it begins to unspool, little by little.
They sit in a kind of aching quiet—only the sound of the ship's timbers groaning faintly with the wind outside and the soft clink of tools when Marya shifts on the bed and knocks her pile sideways. The moment of reverie breaks suddenly and all at once, Van startling just slightly as Marya clears her throat and pulls away. Her voice is a poised kind of professionalism that Van doesn't often hear directed at her, "You'll need to go without it for at least a few hours and let the skin rest. I will reline the socket in the meantime, and adjust the tension pins so they're not pulling you off-balance."
Van furrows her brow, doing the math quickly in her head as she looks at the setting sun sending cascading golden halos through the window and across the room. "You're going to do all that before dawn?"
"I've worked on ships in storms that were less stubborn than you and I'm not trying to tempt my luck," Marya says, standing to gather the prosthesis from the bed. She cradles it like it's something alive—something she's taken full responsibility for. "You will have it back before breakfast."
"Is that a promise, Captain?"
Marya turns as she places the limb gently down at her desk, the corner of her mouth quirking upward. "That's a promise, Bosun." Her hands hover over the worn mechanics of the joint before fully making eye contact with Van, gaze burning. "You come to me again when it gets half this bad, yeah? I'm not happy with you."
Van laughs—bitter and bone-dry. "Yeah, well. Didn't want to be one more thing to fix."
Marya's breath catches. She makes her way back over to Van with two wide steps and a serious look on her face, poking an insistent finger into the center of Van’s chest. With her standing and Van sitting on the edge of the bed, they're very nearly eye level. "You're not a thing," she says, quiet but firm. "You're mine to look after. Don't tell me you're accusing me of being one to shirk my work."
Van scoffs, all of her professional instinct coming out at once at the idea she'd ever question her captain, "I'd never."
They stare at each other for a beat of silence, both in some sort of standoff to understand what's going on beneath the other's carefully constructed facade. Van swallows, words rising in her throat before she can stop them. "Has Bert talked to you?" she blurts into the air between them, dropping heavy into the silence between them. Now that they're out, Van is blushing up to her ears, suddenly unbelievably anxious for a conversation she already wishes she hadn't initiated. If she were Wealwell, she might vomit just from the idea of it.
"Like, at all?" Marya asks, suddenly thrown for a loop as her hand drops to her side. The answer should be obvious considering they've all been confined to the ship for days on end, with no one but each other to talk to. She settles back onto the wooden chair in front of Van, one leg tucked under her, and she tilts her head curiously. "We chat during breakfast most days."
"No, I mean, like," Van trails off, sighing with a weight that none of them used to be able to muster. The room suddenly feels so small, dangerous in their proximity to each other. Her good hand flexes on her thigh. The flutter of her heart is heavy and strange in her chest, like it takes effort to even hold herself up. "About me. Or, really, you."
Marya stills, and her face contorts into a complex series of emotions before very quickly settling into something that is resolutely neutral. Her voice is deceptively even when she says, "No. He hasn't said anything. Why? Did something happen?"
Van rubs at her brow, listing to the side just slightly due to the sudden balance change. Marya, seemingly without notice, presses a hand to her knee in a soft attempt to balance her out. Despite being the one to initiate this conversation, Van has to force herself to spit the words out, "He said I should talk to you. That I was being a coward." She's being purposely vague, part of her hoping Marya will figure it out without her having to say anything, and another part of her hoping she can manage to back herself out of this conversation.
Marya rears back, looking at her fully. "About what?" Van finally meets her eyes, and Marya knows. Maybe she's always known. They've been circling each other for years, even when they were out of contact with each other. Every time they returned to work together, every night they did their chores side-by-side. It's always been them to some degree, the captain and the bosun.
"I don't want to make it weird," Van says, suddenly hurried at the look of realization in Marya's eyes. "With you. Or him. Not with the close quarters. But Bert—he knows me better than anyone. And he's okay with— he's known my heart for a long time. If you're— if that’s something you'd want." She feels like an idiot, stumbling over her words like a schoolgirl.
Marya's eyes widen like she had expected any other outcome to this conversation. She probably had, given the original reason she had tracked Van down to the galley. "He—really? He gave you permission?"
Van laughs under her breath, flashing back to the unbelievably good-natured conversation she'd had with her husband. She'd cried during it, ashamed, and all Bert had done was comfort her and encourage her forward. An angel of a man, truly. "He said a lot more than just that, most of it smug, but yes."
Marya sags heavily against the back of her chair, the wooden legs creaking against the floor, and studies Van with a kind of intensity that makes her feel stripped down in ways that have nothing to do with her missing shirt. The golden light from the porthole catches against the curve of her cheeks and makes Marya’s eyes sharp and unreadable. "So," she says finally, voice quiet in the way it gets when she's thinking several steps ahead and then some, "Bert told you to talk to me. About this." She gestures vaguely between them, a quick flick of her wrist like she can wave away the tension gathering in the air. "And he's fine with it?"
Van tips her chin in a half-nod, half-shrug, her mouth quirking in a self-deprecating smile. "More than fine, I think. Practically shoved me at you. Said I'd been mooning around like I was several decades younger and he could hardly stand it."
Marya gapes at her, uncharacteristically stunned. "Sorry," she says, her voice suddenly breathless, reeling. "I thought— this wasn't me misreading things?"
Van laughs a short huff, dry and tired. The tension in her body has very nearly sapped the last of her energy and, with it, her ability to mince her words. "My love, you've been driving me out of my mind for decades."
She shifts on the bed, bare skin prickling despite the cabin's warm air, suddenly too aware of the fact that her shirt is still folded neatly beside her and that Marya's eyes have flicked to it more than once. She leans forward, mostly to hide some of her skin by curling inward, but then becomes very suddenly aware that the movement has sent her impossibly further into Marya's space as her pupils blow wide. She reaches up, practically on her arm's own accord—the strain in the muscles that ripple at the back of her neck completely ignored—and wipes at a smudge of grease above Marya's temple. "You can tell me to stop," Van says, voice suddenly quiet as she leans in enough that the breath of her words flutters Marya's eyelashes. She glances down at her lips once, back to her eyes, and then again to her mouth as her thumb brushes absentmindedly high on her cheekbone. "You probably should."
The look in Marya's eyes is fiery. "Not a chance in hell," she says, breathless. That's truly all Van needs to hear after waiting years for this opportunity, most of which she spent believing she would never have the chance to try.
Van has never done anything in half measures and she certainly isn't going to start now, not with her hand half tangled in the hair of the woman she's been pining over for what feels like half her life. Their mouths meet in a crash that feels inevitable, years of orbiting drawn suddenly, irrevocably, into collision. The kiss is hot, unpracticed in its urgency, the kind of desperation that speaks of a hundred quiet nights where she's bitten her tongue raw rather than speak. Marya responds with equal force, the metal of her lip ring clinking faintly off of Van's teeth as she leans in closer, one hand still braced against Van's knee like she might fall if she lets go.
Van groans into Marya's mouth, the sound pulled from somewhere deep in her chest, her hand anchored hard against Marya's jaw. She feels Marya smile into her, feels the little scrape of teeth and the insistent press of her lips, until her head is spinning worse than any storm they'd ever flown through. The faint, metallic scrape of her lip ring against Van's teeth is enough to draw a sound from her throat, embarrassingly needy and unrestrained. She tries to temper it, to reel herself back in, but Marya shifts forward just enough to press her chest against Van's, her legs anchored on each side of Van's as she shifts to carefully straddle her so that Van no longer needs to awkwardly crane her neck to reach her mouth. The motion in and of itself knocks every last thought out of Van's head. The world shrinks to the heat between them—the warm press of Marya's hand as it slides from her knee to the side of her thigh, steadying and careful not to presume too much.
Still, despite herself, Van is also very aware of her balance—of the way her body lists unsteadily without her prosthesis and the sore ache in her shoulder, combined into an exhaustion threading down her spine. She doesn't want this moment ruined by pain and some misplaced reminder of what she doesn't have.
The heat of it lingers, slow to end. When they part, Marya almost fully settled in Van's lap, Van keeps her forehead pressed to Marya's, her breath shaky but pleased. "Hell of a bedside manner, Captain."
"You're a terrible patient," Marya murmurs back, her lips brushing the corner of Van's mouth as if she can't quite bear to stop touching her, like she can't quite believe it's real yet. "Won't sit still, won't admit you're hurting. It's a wonder you've survived this long."
"Like you said—stubbornness," Van says, her grin crooked and a little lopsided. "Family trait."
Marya's amused huff is breathed almost directly against Van's lips as she lingers where she is, knees framing Van's thighs. Her lip ring catches in the fading daylight, and Van can't look away from it—can't quite stop tracing the shape of Marya's jaw. The sharpness of her features softened by the glow of the desk lamp, she looks less like the unflappable captain she is now and more like the girl Van remembers in fleeting flashes, bold and brilliant and always building something out of scraps no one else saw the potential in.
Marya studies her, eyes dark, though her mouth softens at the edges. She leans in again, slow this time, more her own, easy pace rather than Van's wild abandon. Van can feel the weight of it through her whole body, the steadiness of Marya's hand on her thigh and the other on her bare hip. The pressure of her touch is deliberate, mindful of the blooming bruises on Van's skin and her aching shoulder. Van lets herself melt into it, her entire world narrowed to the warm press of lips and the faint sound of their mouths moving together.
When they finally break apart, Marya lingers, forehead resting against Van's. "So," she breathes, lips barely brushing Van's again, "Bert is ok?"
The mention of her husband should maybe be off-putting given the situation but instead, all it does is bring a fond smile to her lips. She nods, fingers tracing slowly down the side of Marya's face. "He's been urging me in your direction for weeks. Quite the wingman, Bert is."
Marya lets out a disbelieving laugh, shaking her head in exasperation. "Good man."
"Best there is." Van pauses, very suddenly sobering. "I love him. And that's not going to change—I made a vow to him that I stand by. Is that— are you willing to compromise with that?"
Marya pulls back fully at that and for a brief, terrifying moment, Van thinks maybe she's already scared Marya off, that maybe she's not willing to live in such a complicated situation. Still, Marya's thumb is smoothing light circles into the fabric of her trousers and she doesn't completely move off of her, just leaning back to look her firmly in her eyes. "Van, nothing about this is a compromise. Any part of you is a gift, whether I share that with another person or not." Van tries not to let out too obvious of a relieved breath, her lungs suddenly working again. A small, teasing smile comes to Marya's face as she leans in conspiratorially to say, "Besides, with Bert on my side, we'll be an unstoppable force against your self-sacrificing stubbornness."
"Sounds like trouble." Despite her words, the image of the two of them working together sends a flush of simultaneous warmth and relief through Van—never in her wildest dreams would she ever hope for something like that, Bert and Marya getting along despite their mutual feelings for Van. It almost feels greedy, too good to be true.
"For you? Maybe." Marya teases, pressing a warm, searching kiss to Van's lips. "But it'll cut me and Bert's work in half." Before Van can find it in herself to argue, Marya is sealing her mouth back over hers insistently.
Van tilts her head, yielding to Marya's command as she deepens the kiss, pressing closer until the warmth of her body is inescapable. Her hand drifts over Marya's shoulder, fingertips grazing the firm muscle there and then down to the sharp angle of her ribs. Marya's hands roam lower along her back, gentle but insistent against warm skin, pulling Van flush against her. Van tilts her head, angling to deepen the kiss, teeth brushing softly against Marya's lower lip, eliciting a soft gasp that vibrates against her chest.
A particularly sharp movement—a twist as Van presses forward, lips moving hungrily over Marya's—sends a flash of pain up her shoulder and down through the socket where metal meets flesh. Van draws back with a sharp hiss, her shoulder spasming from how she immediately braces her weight up through the muscles of her back, multiplying the sparks of pain.
"Van," Marya says, voice sharp. Her hands are already reaching instinctively to steady her, and her weight is sliding off Van's lap before she can try to mask her discomfort. "You're hurting."
"Been hurting," Van admits, breathless, her eyes darting between Marya's worried gaze and the arm sitting on her desk that she had relinquished. She tries to laugh it off but it comes out thin.
"I'm being a bad influence," Marya says, lips thinning into a straight line as her eyes trace the edge of Van's shoulder, just to check that none of the irritation has spontaneously gotten worse. She shakes a chastising finger at Van, mostly playful, but still serious when she says, "You're supposed to be resting that arm."
"Bossy, aren't we?" Van jests, trying to hide the underlying frustration with herself. She's finally getting everything she's ever wanted and it's being put on hold, all because of a ridiculous ancestral curse.
"Don't begin with me," Marya warns her, leveling a steady glare at Van but all of the heat is taken out of it from the genuine affection that comes through. She reaches out, finding Van's right hand and squeezing tightly. "Why don't you take the bed and rest while I finish these repairs?"
Van wants to argue—because of course she does—but the fight has suddenly gone from her body just as the sun has set past the horizon and dimmed the light of the captain's quarters. The ache in her shoulder throbs with every breath, exhaustion dragging heavy through her bones. She nods instead, tilting her head so she can brush her temple against Marya's as a makeshift goodnight. "Don't stay up all night with the arm," she murmurs, words just the slightest bit slurred with weariness, though she would deny it if Marya ever dared point it out.
"I'll do what needs doing," Marya replies simply, which Van knows full well means she'll work until her hands shake if it means Van's prosthesis will be mended by morning. But in the moment, she doesn't have the strength to protest. Especially not with the look on Marya's face, commanding and sure of herself—Van doesn't stand much of a chance against that.
Van eases herself down onto the bed, lying back against the scattered pillows as the muscles in her arm and shoulder coil with stubborn ache. She props herself up slightly, trying to keep the weight off the throbbing joint, but even that small movement sends another flare of pain up her neck and behind her eyes. She groans softly, trying not to be too obvious in her frustration.
Marya notices—of course she does. She sits easily at the side of the bed, very quickly moving her attention to getting Van at least somewhat properly ready for bed. She sets her eyes on her boots first and their endless buckles, fingers working deftly in a way that Van's envies right now to undo the various attachments. There's something disarming in the way she does it—no ceremony, only quiet practicality. The leather comes loose, boots sliding free, and Marya sets them neatly aside with the same care she's treated Van's prosthesis—and even Van herself—all evening.
Like she's able to sense the protest and apology forming in Van's brain, Marya glances up at her assuredly. "No sleeping in my bed with your shoes on." She knows out of all things, Van will listen to the rules set forward by her captain. "Let me help you get comfortable." It's an offer just as much as it is a command.
Van tries to wave her off—she's done plenty already—but the effort only tightens her muscles and makes the pain thrum sharper. She exhales, finally surrendering, and lets Marya adjust the pillows behind her, nudge her arm into a supported position, and stretch a blanket over her. Every movement is deliberate, and Van can't help the small, appreciative sigh that escapes her. "Fine," she mutters, a half-grin twitching at the corners of her mouth through heavy lidded eyes. "You win."
Marya lets out a soft chuckle, brushing a strand of hair from Van's forehead, and her hand lingers there, tracing lightly along her temple and jaw. "Don't make it sound like a punishment," she teases, though the warmth in her eyes makes Van's chest tighten.
Van swallows, heart hammering against her ribs. She wants to argue, wants to claim some shred of independence, but the ache in her shoulder is relentless, pulling all argument from her. "Mmh," she concedes, a soft sound that could almost be mistaken for agreement, or surrender, or something like relief.
Marya leans closer, her shoulder brushing Van's, careful not to put weight on her. She presses a quick, feather-light kiss to Van's temple, then another to the corner of her lips. Van inhales sharply, but the ache in her shoulder keeps her from moving to accept it fully. Still, the small, deliberate closeness of Marya beside her makes the room feel warm. "Better?" Marya whispers, thumb tracing a light circle over Van's hand.
Van nods, letting out a slow, shuddering breath. "Much better," she admits, closing her eyes and allowing herself a rare moment of vulnerability.
Then Marya leans close, her hands sliding up to the end of Van's braid. "This has to come out, too. You'll wake with half your scalp aching if I let you sleep like this."
Van swallows, opting to close her eyes rather than face the challenge of figuring out where to look as Marya's fingers work patiently through the braid. Each careful tug loosens the tension along her scalp, sending little waves of relief through her. The sensation is so intimate, achingly tender, that she doesn't know where to put the feelings it stirs up. Her hair has gotten arguably too long and it's knotted from hours of fierce winds but Marya treats it like a leisurely puzzle instead of a nuisance that drives Van mad just about every night.
When the braid finally unravels, Marya combs her fingers once through Van's hair to smooth it out, her touch lingering at the nape of her neck. With a self-satisfied, triumphant grin, Marya announces, "There, fixed."
"Thank you," Van murmurs, grabbing onto Marya's hand and bringing it to her lips to kiss it softly.
It earns a genuine laugh from Marya but it also has a blush rising to her cheeks as she teases, "Such a gentleman."
Van lets her eyes close fully this time, resting her head against the pillow Marya has adjusted with the softest smile on her face. The ache of the day and the dull throb in her shoulder combine to a faint buzz in the background as she starts to drift under Marya’s attention.
Marya sits back just enough to watch her for a moment longer, ensuring she is fully settled. Her fingers linger against Van's arm, brushing lightly over the tanned skin and tracing the barely visible lines of the veins that run through her hand.
When she recedes, settling Van’s hand lightly over the blankets, Van murmurs something indistinct in response, already half-drifted toward sleep, the tension in her jaw and shoulders slowly melting away. She looks at peace for the first time all day, heartbreakingly young with her face relaxed instead of drawn into a commanding scowl. In a moment, Marya will pull away to work on Van’s arm, by all odds having it fixed before the sunrise creeps over the horizon. But for now, she takes a second to marvel at her luck.