The End is Never Final

Bunching up the pull-over, he forms a makeshift pillow for the wounded Commander. It wouldn’t be the most comfortable, Lucas himself would be the first to admit that fact; however, it would be better than the nothing that the rest of them would pass the night upon. He had offered the pull-over without fuss or fanfare. Hudson may begrudge the silver spoon that he had supposedly been born with, but that didn’t mean that he was also born without a sense of moral obligation.

Not that he believes himself to be advantaged. Years of money may have cushioned his path, say, by paying for the special schools and by getting him a spot on U.E.O.’s pride and joy. But money only goes so far. It doesn’t come close to making up for the years of careful babysitters to play with while his father sat, an imposing and eternally busy figure behind an antique desk. It also doesn’t make up for the nagging feeling clawing at his balls. That feeling rarely slept and the only man that ever came close to silencing it, Nathan Bridger, is no longer there to keep it from screaming Why care for you? You are a financial drain with this unattractive, needy personality. Fuck you, Wolenczak. Hudson is right about you…Weak, weak, weak, WEAK.

He found, when he got older, that the perception is more important than the reality. Hudson sees a kid whose rich parents allow him to take a spot more properly equipped by a naval personnel. He brains, instead of allowing that spot to fit better, only serves to rub Hudson’s nose in it. As a result, handing over his pull-over is not an act of kindness or, as he would like to believe, the automatic reaction of a friend. No, when Lucas hands over his pull-over he is repaying an unacknowledged debt; the debt caused by his unwelcome presence and irritating intelligence. Weak, weak, weak. His thoughts are confirmed by the sharp pull of the shirt from his hands before it’s pushed under the unconscious man’s head.

He wipes the sweat from Ford’s face with a MedBay cloth. “It’ll be okay, Commander. You’ll see.” Talking calms his nerves and he babble, answering thoughts as they pop into his head. “Hudson? Sure, he’s no Captain Bridger, but I think that he’s going to get us out of this. That “us” includes you, you know.”

Lonnie Henderson sits down beside him, legs curled under her. A hand gently strokes his arm and he knows that she is sharing his concern. (Maybe more entitled to that concern, she is sleeping with the man after all). He takes some comfort in her touch, but his own thoughts prevent him from taking more comfort then would have found wrapped in the greedy arms of his vent.

“We aren’t going to die here you know.” Her voice is quiet. Both unsure of how much the Commander can actually hear.

Lucas shrugs. One finger lazily points to the dying man. “That’s what I’ve been telling him.”

Lonnie sighs and he knows that he has said the wrong thing. His mind races, trying to find the words necessary to correct the problem, but it’s useless. The mind that can easily provide solutions to complex computer problems is stumped when it comes to social situations. She knows this, “Lucas, not what I meant. I don’t care what he thinks. Right now, he’s a vegetable. I’m saying that you won’t die here…that I won’t either.

She gives his shoulder a quick squeeze before leaving him alone. He picks the cloth back up, the skeleton of a U.E.O logo looking up at him through deep blue lines, and drops it again. The cloth, damp with Jonathan Ford’s sweat, falls to the dirty floor.