Work Text:
"You wanted to see me?"
They're taller.
Their hair's gotten longer, too, tied in a high ponytail that drapes down their back. Back then, it was just down to their shoulder, cropped short with a pair of kitchen shears, I'm not shelling out 500 beans for a trim, Redsy.
It looks good on them. Everything looks good on them.
(They should be getting ready for the mission. Their first real mission, not just a pop-over from one planet to the next, drop off cargo, delivery stuff, no. They're going to Industria.
Fill up on fuel, load up the precious shipment, do a check of the perimeter— anything that could potentially qualify as a "workplace hazard" should have a company-approved sign in the vicinity detailing their policy on workers' compensation, as per the MIRA Captain's Handbook for the First-Time Flyer, Volume 18, Fourth Edition.)
And, of course, meet their crew.
"Purps!" Red calls out. The cockpit is so small, but it feels huge, right now. Yawning, that's the word. It's yawning, mouth cracked open. "Purps, oh my god, you—"
They're in the standard MIRA uniform. Jacket zippered up, hands in their pockets, cap drawn low, the brim pulled over their brow— is it cold in here? It has to be cold in here. Purple has to be cold, Purple's always gotten cold easy, unlike Red, who runs hot. So damn hot they're sweating. Maybe the A/C needs checking, too. They should get Lime on that.
"You're here." Red settles on. "You're really, really here."
"Yeah, I'm here." Purple shrugs. "Reporting for duty."
"How are you finding the place?" Red hops from one foot to the other. They might need to pee. Maybe because it's so damn cold. "Pretty nifty, huh?"
"It's… fine."
"Much bigger than the ships back home." Red's so glad that Purple agrees, they agree on things. "I got lost a few times just trying to find the bathroom! They should really think about putting a toilet in here. It isn't really responsible for the Captain to leave their post like that. But the Skeld has auto-pilot! Hey, do you need to use the john before we take off, Purps? I can take you on a tour—"
"No." Purple says. "I can find my own way around."
Oh. Red understands.
"It's really no trouble." They're shy. Purple's never been a people person. New ship, new Crewmates. It has to be a lot. No wonder they're all clammed up like a clogged turtlemate. "As your Captain, it's my responsibility to—"
Their back slams against the control panel. Purple's cap falls to the floor.
"Let's get a few things straight." Purple hisses, in their face, both hands tight around the straps of Red's backpack. "I'm here to do a job."
They're close.
"I just want to finish this mission, get my paycheck, and leave." They're so close. "We don't have to talk. We don't have to do— this."
They had ice cream for lunch, the radioactively pink artificial strawberry and the cheap, mass-produced vanilla MIRA Food Corp. manufactures from lab-propagated tree bark. Purple always used to save the chocolate for last.
"We don't have to pretend we're friends." Their breath smells like chemicals. MIRA uses their vanilla extract in their industrial cleaner, too. "But in case it isn't clear, you are the most infuriating piece of shit I've ever met, and I want nothing to do with you unless strictly, absolutely necessary."
Red grabs the head of the pilot's seat just to steady themself.
"— uhm. Yeah."
They've gotten taller, but so has Red. They never got to look Purple right in the eye, before.
"Are you even listening to me??" Purple shakes them by the straps, knee on their thigh. "You have me dragged in here, act like— like everything's god-be-damned fine, like you don't know— then you have the gall to—"
Purple pulls them in, closer, closer still, the weight of them, the flitting mass of them on one side of Red then the other, trying to get a better grip, a tighter grip, half in their fucking lap, half out of it, pressing on the buttons of the control panel lighting up like a Christmas tree, bright like a star, like strawberries, like the flush rising high and crimson over the arch of Purple's cheeks, so close, and it isn't supposed to be, they weren't meant to, but, but, but.
Red bucks.
Grandma. Laps. Training drills. Lime.
"Purple," Red grabs them by the hips, forehead pressed to their shoulder, heavy. "Please stop moving."
The electricity bill. Student loans. Laundry.
Purple's fingers fist in Red's hair and yanks.
"You're pathetic." They hiss, visor to visor, strawberries, industrial cleaner, heavy and moving and hothothot, Lime, airconditioner, the thermostat. "And disgusting."
The systems check, the manual, Lime. Lime. LIME.
Is the MIRA-issued security uniform supposed to be this rough, scraping against the smooth fabric of Red's slacks, deafeningly, mind-numbingly loud.
"Purple— I—"
"Shut up." Purple fists their hair harder, a small, tight ball in their long fingers. "Shut up, shut up."
They grind their hips down, a fluid movement that has Red swallowing, pit in their stomach, yawning, the word is yawning, like the space between two interplanetary systems or the hole at the bottom of the trash chute, or an old friend sitting on your stomach, so, so close.
That's how black holes are formed, Red remembers from Intro to the Galaxy 0167. Pressure. Density. Too much in too little of a space. The handbook and the modules and the PowerPoints in the MIRA Workspace online Classroom said not to come near it, but you don't see them until they start pulling you in.
Purple kisses them.
It's pathetic. It's disgusting. Red cums anyway. Too much in too little of a space.
Purple shoves themself off.
"Don't get any ideas." Their mouth is shiny and wet. "Just because you hired me, doesn't mean this is gonna happen again, Captain."
They fit their cap back on their head, brim low, and walk out of the cockpit.
Red licks at their own mouth. It tastes like industrial cleaner.
Fuck, Red slides down to the floor.
So much for making a good first impression.