Chapter Text
It wasn’t noticeable at first, though as the moments passed by, the shifting above him had regretfully stirred him enough to consciousness. He took a breath and remained still, feeling the slightest tang of resentment for his friend above. He missed his room on the Titan. He didn’t spend much time there, of course, practically every two minutes he was getting grabbed out of his room on some high-stakes, ass-kicking mission! In the time between those adventures though, he could tend to himself privately. He could close his eyes and slip down into the hum of the ship, feeling himself blur into the noise and sheets, and fuck, the sheets on the Titan were so soft!
Brad turned over onto his side just in time to see the shape of his bunkmate slip silently out from her quarters and off into the hallway.
As she vanished, Brad felt the stiffness in his joints loosen and a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding was released. Cautiously, his brows knit and he slowly crawled out from his bed. Knowing Mariner, there were one of two things she could be doing. The first option was, of course, what she had been doing all day: finding ways to make his life a logistical hell. She didn’t say so, but he was partly certain it was her who had messed with his access to the ship. The second option was just your average, everyday Mariner-sneaking-around-with-ship-contraband type scenario. He hoped for the latter but would prepare for the worst of the two.
He paused as he checked his PADD, blinking at his illuminated face in the reflection. ‘No,’ he thought to himself, he was not the same Bradward that would lie on his back and prepare for Beckett to do something to him. He spent three months on the Titan, goddammit! His lip tightened and Brad tossed his device onto the bed. He won’t prepare, he’ll prevent it.
Sneaking around to get the drop on Mariner wasn’t exactly new, but he felt a bit more self-assured in doing so. First of all, he wasn’t trying to rat her out this time. ‘If anything…’ He peaked around each corner, anticipating Beckett to be around one of them, ready to scare the life out of him… He relaxed briefly when he saw that she was nowhere to be found, then continued down the halls with his thoughts.
If anything, he felt he wanted to talk to her. Where to start, right? He thought that she’d been sending those voicemails, at least a little bit, as an overreaction. Why would Mariner be that upset with him leaving? She was constantly acting like he was a burden to be around! Despite the better part of himself knowing what he told himself wasn’t true, the weeks carried on and the messages kept coming, he kept ignoring them, and it didn’t take long after for the dread to set in. Three months in, there was no way he could bring himself to talk to her. Let alone listen to her voice messages... He didn’t want to imagine the things she’d say about him. He knew how much worse they’d be than the ones he thought in the brief glances he gave his device.
She might forgive him, eventually, … Either way, he was back on the Cerritos and was ready to face her. He wanted to face her.
Her shadow against the wall in the next hallway over almost had him dive into the nearest storage closet… or let out a scream that might've burst his lungs. Instead, he froze up the same way he did on a ship that’s lightyears away by now. Her shadow disappeared into the depths of the hall as quick as he noticed it. He was shit at this. His stems unbuckled after an eternity, it seemed. Realistically, it was probably only a couple of minutes after he heard the gasp of their repair bay doors opening, then hissing shut.
Boimler cocked his head suspiciously down the hall, then shot straight back up.
“Oh!” He remarked, then laughed to himself. “Oh my gosh, duh, she’s working on the Sequoia…” That explained the toolbox she was carrying under her arm. Brad rolled his eyes, pacing down the hall more relaxed than he might have ever been on the Titan. Well, no, that’s not true. Listen, those sheets were ridiculously comfortable. However, knowing Mariner was just working on an accumulation of their friendship made the situation much more approachable. Way less temperamental than trying to talk her into abiding by protocol. As the doors parted for him, thankfully, his gait evened out as he stepped back into their sanctuary aboard the Cerritos… He paused as he looked around, hands meeting on his hips.
Man, he missed it here. He paced about, heading around all the nooks and crannies he’d coop himself up in while buffering with the gang. He noticed a few things here and there got moved, a couple new improvements to the Sequoia—Ooh, and a couple of new dents… He winced on her behalf before his eyes caught on the recent addition to the paneling: four figures holding each other's hands, y'know, together.
The edge of his smile trembled slightly. His composure managed for the better half of a moment before slipping out a guilty, uneasy breath. He could hear Mariner inside, working, as he looped around the back of the ship. She was probably engineering something within the control panel by the way he could hear whatever she was working with buzzing around in there... She’s smart like that, anyways. He hesitated a moment before reaching his fist up to knock on the door paneling. Only to be met by Mariner’s grunting on the other side.
“Stupid— ngh-!” Oh, man… Repairs did not sound like they were going well. Hey, at least he could lend a hand! She was probably burning herself by not wearing her Starfleet-issued protective gloves. Y'know, the ones with the glittery fabric? “.. Fucking—piece of shit, Boimler—” Annnd, his expression burst in offense and terror. If he was caught, he understood he wouldn’t be getting off light with Beckett anytime soon. He was about to make himself known with his fist when something pulled itself through his ears, a noise—something guttural, something desperate.
Despite everything in himself that told him to back away slowly, then sprint away, back to bed, and forget everything he heard… Hesitantly, he pressed his ear flat against the door panel to satiate his morbid curiosity. A shiver crawled up his spine as each sound, half-indecipherable from the outside, came into clarity. The buzzing tool, he now understood, with its wetness resolving in and out. The whining back and forth of her chair, stressed under the way she was rocking herself into each thrust—his eyes clamped shut, breathing something profane into his hand. He was unaware when exactly his hand made its way to the front of his uniform, palming the crux of himself, or when his body began to crumple against the door.
She let out a sob before suppressing something through gritted teeth. “Boims, fuck, fuck—I need you, please,” His ears went hot at the sound. Mariner begged… Kicking ass and taking names Beckett fucking Mariner begged for something so intimate… from him. What he wouldn’t do to know what kind of fantasy she was living out inside her head. The sprout in his stomach grew into nausea as he fixed his eyes upon the seam between beige and white paneling. He’d do anything except open the door, anything except listen to those voice messages, anything except ruin what he just got back.
Before nursing the thought any longer, Brad backed away from the ship, tripping the back of his heel against one of the discarded core engines littered about the bay. The metal tube went clattering about, sending the already flighty ensign out the door and back to his quarters.