Author's Note: Additional characters included that couldn't be included because of FF's character limit. :P - C. Carmine, Anya Stroud, Dom Santiago, and my female OC, Evie Williams. Definitely includes explicit M/M action. Sorry for the spoiler, but you can't say you weren't warned now! Anyway, enjoy ~

He smirks in self-satisfaction. The rugged quality of his handwork has refurbished the engine to a state of near perfection. His eyes swim with delight at the finished work. Throughout his whole life, little has come to satisfy the engineer more then fixing broken or breaking machinery (in most cases broken as shit). Even if he has to tinker away for hours on end, pulling out this, then that, and sometimes testing various theories to mend the engine's problem. Something fundamental? Factory defect? Dumbass job from shit-ass driving?

Baird is always willing boast he has fixed it all. And considering probability, he might just have actually done just that.

Whenever bored topside, he nestles himself comfortably in the ship's hull under the hood or underside of a vehicle and starts his magic. There is always something to fix. Machines are like people-they always have aches and groans, problems in short. But unlike people, and this is the part Baird likes, they can't bitch about them.

"Other men have actual friends, but Baird is such a pain in the ass, his are all metal," Sam had jested. But repairing clears his mind. He's good at. It's fun. What more reason does a guy need? No one bothers him. Hell, he might as well have found a variation of the gold at the end of the rainbow.

After he finishes grinning over the engine, he hauls the piece of artwork back towards its owner. Steadily working through the processes, he mentally checks out everything he needs to do. It's systematic and nearly thoughtless, but since a past... accident he has decided to be a bit more careful. Although in that particular situation he had been rushed... The blonde shakes his head. Idiots shouldn't have rushed him.

"Now where's that fucking wrench?" He mutters and starts fumbling around, feeling for the tool on the table set-up directly behind him.
"Here." He jumps... only a little.
"Hey asshole, watch it next time otherwise you might find a screwdriver stuck up your ass," he growls turning around and wondering how he didn't hear any footsteps. Even though it's Marcus, the Corporal is not even slightly deterred to being respectful. One could say he had slight problems taking orders. Fenix merely shrugs off the remark, however, and drops the wrench in his hand. Without another glance, he walks to the workbench set up against the far wall and grabs the COG dog tags sitting on a toolbox. Baird pretends not to notice or be interested, but he opens his mouth has soon as the question hits him. "What the hell do you do down here? Not like you can fix anything," he says.

He has always been noticeably defensive about someone replacing his field of interest and, as if protective over the COG vehicles, grows noticeably irritated when someone tinkers with the engines. Even if the potential of Marcus doing either is low, Baird still bristles. "A mother hen," Sam had said when she had noticed before, and Cole had to agree.

"Forgot something," Marcus gruffly says. He can take Baird's nagging, bitching, and smartass remarks surprisingly well.
"No shit Sherlock." Baird looks pensive a moment and asks in an almost normal tone: "How'd you forget them anyway?" Fenix waits a spell for the assured follow-up comment but it doesn't come. He watches Damon regard the wrench he'd given him before putting it to use. "I got distracted," he says, watching the engineer's face. It's almost placid and kind of attractive... "With...?" Baird's glance makes him avert his eyes to the engine. "I'm sure someone has already told you this before, but you fucking suck at small talk."
"I'm not worried about it." The blonde scoffs, but becomes too distracted by his work to comment further. Marcus takes a few steps closer to watches his handiwork. He could effortlessly hand it to snotty bastard: he has a way with machines... an efficient, smooth way he never has with people. Fenix offers him another tool. Baird glares at him slightly, but accepts what he requires—needing it being the reason for his frown. "Thanks," he mutters after replacing the wrench back on the small bench. 'I didn't know that words was in your vocabulary,' Marcus nearly says. "Yeah," he mutters instead.

The atmosphere being to feel awkward without their usual bickering so Marcus slips his dog tags back on and begins to head back topside. "You weren't messing with anything were you?" Baird questions. "Some asshole left my tools all over the fucking place yesterday."
"I didn't touch your stuff."
"Normal people find fresh air better for thinking," Baird is quick to retort.
"I guess neither of us are normal then." Finding something he is compatible with Baird on feels... weird. Fenix shakes it off and leaves.

The engine repair moves along delightfully. Within the next two hours Damon finds himself admiring a complete job. It's a wonder he didn't notice this at first. He gazes across the COG vehicles parked down here. Damn, how he will be bored when he finds out there are no more repairs to do! Then what? Float around on this goddamned boat for the rest of his life? "Didn't sign up to be a fucking sailor," he mutters.

Up top Baird wanders into the ship's mess hall and gathers a small pile of cold food for his nonexistent hunger. There are plenty of seats to spare since most of the other COG had already eaten. Only Cole, Anya, and Clayton are sorted around a table. He joins Cole, but puts a fair amount of space between himself and the former thrashball player-he never really knows when the big man will get touchy feely. "Hey, back from the caves!" Cole exclaims with a grin. "Find something to fix?" Anya asks, with a friendly smile.
"Yep," Baird replies. He shovels a fork full of food into his mouth to avoid further explanation. Even though he doesn't mind socializing with his friends, nobody knows shit about fixing so what's the point in going into the topic? Explaining anything takes too long and is too damn frustrating. Anya seems to take the hint and picks back up on the conversation she was having with Clayton. Something about bacon, and Cole jumps in with some recipe that included bacon as a main component. 'What the fuck are they talking about bacon for?' he wonders. 'Not like we have any.'

Damon switches off listening mode soon afterwards and zones off into his own little world. What should he do tomorrow? Hmm… watch the "sunrise", eat breakfast, and organize the workbench a little? Maybe somewhere in between clean his weaponry again? Yep, the choices were so fucking endless. He stares at the blob of food on his tray. What is this shit anyway? Beef fused with pork and dashed with chicken to make some sort of Frankenstein cuisine? Yep, he has just officially lost the appetite he never had. He dryly wonders when he'll loose his sense of taste too.

"I'm outta here. See you guys later," he says.
"What about dinner? You barely ate," Cole protests. Baird shrugs.
"I'm not hunger."
"You'll indulge later!" his fellow gear warns.
"Thanks, but I don't need a nutritionist... or diet helper."

Outside the fresh air feels brilliant. Baird quickly decides he definitely must have been in the hull too long today to actually miss the cool breeze. At least he can miss things on this Goddamned ship. Everything he truly pines for has been taken from him or lost forever. Now all his belongings are standard military, nothing personal and nothing exceptional. He could bitch about it and reign high-hell about everything that's gone, but he's learned to detach from that side of reality. He found that acknowledging the matter was merely just another way of approaching depressing and say, "Hey there, wanna fuck me?"

Still, it's hard not to feeling gloomy anyway. Everyone has their own barricade for blocking it out, but just thinking about their troubled life in general is enough to send any gear spiraling down a steep set of stairs. Like most bad things: easy to fall down and hard as hell to get back up.

Damon sighs: why is he thinking about this again?

He gazes out towards the sun. It never really seems to set out here on the sea, but, rather, just hangs above the water like a big, orange floating buoy. He shutters involuntarily as his gaze falls to watch the waves collapse over one another. Something about large bodies of water has always pitched up his uncomfortable tent… one never really knew what was stirring beneath the water. And with the locust and lambent around, how did they know if there wasn't some big-ass sea monster swimming around down there thinking: "That ship looks yummy! Maybe I should fuck my diet and take a bite."?

Talking draws his attention away from the stern: Marcus and Anya (with Anya doing the talking of course). Fenix doesn't cower easily, but he sure doesn't seem to have the balls to get serious with her. Marcus catches his gaze, but Baird doesn't hold it. There's nothing much to see in those eyes from this distance, and he's willing to guess it's the usual: annoyance.

He settles his back against the ship's side and contents himself with gazing towards the small gardens of crops. They're growing nice considering the soil is shit-tastic and they have no fertilizer… then again they sort of make up for those defects in their interesting taste. Needless to say, he's still grateful for fresh vegetables and fruit again (even if they're seriously rationed).

Three minutes tick away before the blonde finds himself bored and starting to reminiscence of better days… a dangerous road to go down. He pushes himself up from his resting position and leisurely walks towards the front of the ship from the starboard side. Port is the distant outlines of a ghost town of memories. He would rather stare into the water than look at unchangeable destruction.

For putting up a staunch line of "I'm a stuck-up asshole", Baird can be surprisingly sentimental sometimes. The "I got something in my eye" isn't always the real reason a stray tear leaks from his eyes. When he had first looked out at the shadow of a former life, Damon almost believed he saw the ghosts of the innocent people who lost their lives to the reckless hatred of the locust. It had driven a stake straight into his emotions, and he had laid in his "sailor's bed" that night with hot tears chilling his pillow. And he never admitted or spoke of it. How could he? He was "Baird the smart ass". "Baird the asshole". And sometimes "Baird the stuck up bitch".

At the bow of the boat, the engineer leans against the side with arms crossed. His eyes have finally begun to start feeling heavy, but his heart is heavier. The quietude doesn't bring solace to the gear. No, he needs words and action. The quiet is a trap, the spider's web where he is the fly. He must have waved the white flag of surrender, because depression has come marching in.

And suddenly a thought strikes him hard and deep: he wants to talk to someone. Really, really talk to someone in one of those heart-to-heart conversations that are generally groundbreaking and tear inducing. (Well, he could go without the tear-inducing part, but the other parts would be nice.) With Cole it's unquestionably friendship, but somehow talking to Cole about something sentimental feels like it would change their friendship in a way he wouldn't like. He wouldn't feel even slightly comfortable talking to Sam. Anya would be just plain weird. Though, he imaged she would be a pretty good therapist, but he didn't know her well enough to feel comfortable with her either. They only somewhat knew each other from missions and the occasionally chat. The same went for Clayton Carmine and Dom. The guys were nice enough. And Marcus? The boss-man and him were more like… well, he didn't really know. This makes him frown. What would he consider their relationship? More like work partners or something of the sort. And work partners definitely didn't talk to each other about personal problems. Maybe they did sometimes, but they had to be close enough. Marcus and him certainly knew some things about one another. Nonetheless what they cultivated was more of "You're only around because I need you" sort of deal. But that wasn't really Marcus' fault. Baird had put up a wall.

Wait, was he trying to make an excuse?

"What the fuck is wrong with me?" he wonders aloud.
"You're still on your feet, so you'll probably survive." Once more the engineer finds a flicker of surprise jolt him. However the usual smart-ass remark doesn't spring to his mind as usual. "What the hell do you want, Fenix?" he growls, instead.
"Normal people find fresh air better for thinking," the Sergeant reminds him. The blonde rolls his eyes, but doesn't take the bait. When he doesn't Marcus is quick to pick up. "Something wrong?" The words aren't set-up as shot, but actually as a real question.
"My hair is falling out and I don't want to be bald," Damon retorts, though his voice lacks the usual punch.
"That's too bad," Marcus replies quietly. "You look better blonde…and with hair."

At this Baird turns around. His eyes are full of confusion when they first meet Marcus', but quickly turn accusing. Still, he waits for the Sergeant to talk first. The latter refuses to break the silence, however and irritations turns this idea inside out. He opens his mouth to jump down Marcus' throat, but the Sergeant takes this moment to speak up. "Well," he says leaning against the rail beside the Corporal. "What are you doing here?" Baird asks quickly. His voice is surprisingly plain, not laced with the normal sarcasm or annoyance. There is no immediate reply and when he looks over, his curiosity peaks as the Sergeant begins to look uncomfortable at the question. "Marcus?" he ventures to add when there is no reply. Somehow using the boss-man's first name sends something partial to a blush alight on his cheeks. He tries to hide it by looking away when Fenix glances at him, but he immediately fears the man saw it. "You looked a little lonely," he says finally, turning his gaze seaside much to Baird's relief.

However his mind is quickly flooded with his reply. Should he say yes or no? He feels incredibly stupid wondering, but he knows what he says will decide whether or not Marcus will stay longer. Does he want the man to stick around? He finds a frown forming when he realizes he wants Fenix's company. "Yeah. I am," he admits hesitantly. "A little anyway." There is an awkward cough from Marcus.
"Do you want me to leave?"
"I just said I was lonely numb-nuts," Baird retorts. He glances at Marcus. "Do you think—?" The rest of his question shrivels up like a balloon that's just gushed out all its air. "Um," he finishes stupidly. Fenix's eyes are no longer little icebergs, but deep reflections of a pale blue sky. They look honest, secure, and strong. Suddenly Damon finds himself really thinking about how extraordinarily handsome and pensive they are. And since when did Marcus ever look strikingly attractive?

He snaps out of the reverie quickly. What the hell is he thinking? Firstly, Marcus has a girlfriend. Secondly, he is not attractive. "I gotta go," he mutters, making to slip away. But just when he thinks he's home free, he feels Fenix's hand wrapping around his wrist. "Damon," the Sergeant starts. Again, the blush creeps upon the said Corporal's face. "I'm not much for small talk, but I can listen… if that's what you need." Despite feeling particularly stupid about it, Baird looks up with a simmer of something akin to hope. "Okay," he manages, his voice tight from his suddenly dry throat. He doesn't miss the surprise on Marcus' face. He returns to the ship's side, looking down questioningly when he notes Marcus' hand still holding his wrist. Before the Sergeant lets go, he finds the thought that the touch feels kind of nice shooting through his brain. "Sorry," Fenix mutters.
"Uh, yeah. S'okay," Baird replies just as awkwardly.

Silence threatens to loom again, but Marcus speaks up before it can march in. "What's bothering you, then?" Baird releases a breath he hadn't known he was holding. "Nothing unusual, really. We're stuck on this damn ship. Well, and I-I'm not such a tough-ass as I make out." He can feel Marcus' eyes burning into him at this portion. He is at a loss of words suddenly. For having cultivated and known such unpleasant emotions, they are unexpectedly difficult to talk about. This is probably what he gets for being so tight-lipped for so long. Sure he had thought a talk would be nice, but the talking part? Yeah, he hadn't really thought about all that he'd want to say.

He can tell Marcus is waiting for him to go on, explain what he meant by not being so tough. "It's just easier, you know?" he blurts out. "Ignoring everything, making jokes about it, and acting like 'sure the locust blew the shit out of lives, but hey I'm just gonna make a nomad joke about it instead of get sentimental.'" He wants to stop talking. This is stupid! For God's sake, Damon, this is Marcus not your grandma! But even he is prone to admit he has a motor mouth. Once he really starts talking, the rest is history. "It's easy that way, sure," he continues, his voice softer now that he's arrived at his critical point. "But it just builds up until it's like this giant weight you're carrying, but you don't want to stop and thinking about it… because you've already built up a… reputation."

With a sigh, Baird suddenly hops into the personal boat. "Look, Fenix, I know I'm always… sort of an asshole to you." He chances a glance at the Sergeant to see one of his eyebrows raised. "Okay!" He throws his hands up in defeat. "I'm really an asshole to you. But I don't really mean anything by it." The blonde gazes reproachfully at the grease stains on his hands.
"You just need someone to lay off some of the anger you get from holding everything inside for too long," Marcus replies. Damon glances at his boss in surprise. 'Since when was Fenix good at this sort of thing?' he wonders. Nonetheless, a smile gingerly begins to warm his face. "Yeah," he replies. "I think it might be something like that."

Moments slip by in silence. However, not the sort of muteness that lingers in a deep awkward, needing words to break it and restore somewhat of a comfortable balance. Instead it is the content sort that smoothly passes by. Nonetheless, Baird wishes he had something more to say. He feels like he made a mole hole out of a mountain, which was not his intention. His mouth opens, but nothing particularly smart wants to come out, so he pretends to lick his lips instead. "I'll see you later then," Marcus mutters.
"Sure," Baird replies. "And… thanks… for listening." His Sergeant flashes him a rare smile before heading off.

Damon lingers at the bow longer. He doesn't feel tired enough to go below. Besides, "his" room is crowded enough between Cole's and his stuff to make him claustrophobic. He pinches the bridge of his nose and takes into regard how he's feeling now. Besides feeling hungry, he can counter that discomfort with the intriguing knowledge that talking to Marcus has made him feel better. How the hell did that happen? Hadn't he only scrapped the surface basically?

But maybe that's all he needed… to scrap the surface. Maybe having someone genuinely listen (or at least from what he could tell) was all the consolation he required. Strange… Damon shrugs anyway. Who is he to judge? If something wants to be a simple fix then by all means: let it be simple!

Will be updated frequently! Any and all reviews, follows, and favorites are much appreciated. Thank you for reading. :)