A/N: So, after I posted that last one-shot, I realized I left a few loose ends open. Here's a sequel part that hopefully ties them up!


My Dear Captain Part II

Cress woke in Thorne's arms, in Thorne's bed. He was asleep, his rough, unshaven cheek pressed into the hollow curve of her neck. She stiffened before relaxing, body sagging under the soft cottony sheets.

She tucked a stray curl of Thorne's hair behind his ear. It had gotten long, strands curling in at his collarbone. She liked his hair like this, wild and out-of-control.

Pressing a kiss to his temple, she slid out of his grasp and stood, wobbling unevenly for a moment before righting herself. It was dark in his cabin, and she groped around for a light switch. She didn't want to wake Thorne up, but on the other hand, she couldn't just stay here forever, either.

She finally flicked a switch, and a small lamp in the corner flickered on. Her eyebrows furrowing, she tiptoed over. The lamplight illuminated a wall covered in the same maps she'd caught glimpses of here and there the previous night, scrawl forgotten in the cocoon of Thorne's bed. Now, she leaned in to decipher their writing.

The map of Paris had a scrawl in black marker that read: February 14. Date of second-era romantic holiday. Paris=city of love.

On the map of Dublin: Picnic on hills. Bottle of wine & whatever Scottish people eat.

Sydney: Opera house, July 6. Front-row seats. Pull strings with Cinder/Kai.

Moscow: St. Basil's Cathedral; pierogi or whatever people eat there.

California: Home.

She traced the streets with her fingertip, brow creasing. Her eyes flicked back to a sleeping Thorne sprawled out on his bed, hair mussed, mouth ajar in a silent snore. Cress had read romance novels where the hero or heroine was always beautiful in sleep, but as far as she knew, that wasn't true in real life. All of Thorne's abundant handsomeness dissipated with sleep. His pillow was wet with sticky drool.

She loved him even better for it.

A leather-bound portscreen was set on his desk. Curiosity rising, she picked it up gingerly, eyes narrowed. She was such a sneak. Years after she'd stopped sneaking around professionally, she still did it compulsively without even realizing it.

She slid it open—there wasn't even any password-protected barrier, not like it would've stopped her—and it went to a netlink.

Guilt is a complex emotion. There are many reasons why a person would feel guilty—guilt over an action, guilt over an action a person wanted to follow through but didn't, guilt over an action a person thought they did, guilt over not helping someone enough, and guilt over doing something better than someone else.

Cress stopped, hands stilled. She stared at Thorne for a long time. Guilt. Did he really feel guilty? Was that what the punching bag was for, trying to channel his guilt into something physical instead of beating himself up internally over and over again?

She closed her eyes. Stars, what was he guilty for? Had he done something bad? She ran through the list of the different kinds of guilt, mind whirling.

"Cress?"

She jumped, startled. Thorne was sitting upright in his bed, rubbing his eyes. She put her arms behind her back and set the port down on the desk again, plastering on a too-bright smile. "Good morning. How are you?"

He squinted at her, yawning. "You look like you just spiked yourself with some sort of happy drug."

She let her smile fade a little bit. "Uh, sorry."

He grinned, one corner of his mouth curling up. "Don't be sorry. I love it when you smile."

Her cheeks flushed. "I—Uh—"

His grin widened. "Crescent Moon Darnel, have I got you flustered?"

At the moment, she couldn't think of anything else to say but the truth, which was, "You've always got me flustered."

Thorne pushed himself up, stumbling over and wrapping his arms around her waist. He nuzzled her neck affectionately. "See, now that's what I like to hear."

"Your head is big enough already," Cress said firmly, rolling her eyes. "Stars above, Thorne, I can't imagine—"

All at once, his expression changed, and he pulled back. He leaned over and picked up the port just centimeters away from her hand. His eyes met hers, his smile gone in an instant. "Did you take this?" He set his jaw. "Did you go snooping through it?"

She winced. "I didn't mean to."

Which, of course, was the exact wrong thing to say.

"Didn't mean to?" Thorne's cheeks flushed. "How can you not mean to go snooping through someone's portscreen, Cress?"

"I—" She swallowed. "I don't know."

He grabbed a fistful of his hair, closing his eyes, jaw clenching. "What did you read?" he said quietly. "And for stars' sake, Cress, don't lie to me. If you're going to dig through my personal things, at least have the decency to tell the truth."

She gulped. "I just read a paragraph, I swear."

"On what?"

Her shoulders folded in on herself. "On… on guilt."

He didn't say anything. He just looked down at his hands.

"Why are you feeling guilty, Thorne?" Cress asked, so soft she wasn't sure that he heard it at first. "What on earth could you possibly be feeling guilty about? I'm the one that should be guilty. I did go snooping through your port, after all."

His lips twitched with a reluctant smile, but as soon as it came, it left. "I think you should be going," he said abruptly, turning around, stalking back to his bed.

"I don't think I should."

Thorne's head snapped up. "Excuse me?"

Cress was just as surprised as him—she wasn't the sort to make sudden stands of courage, but when she did, they were typically misguided and stupid. (Which was typical.)

"I don't think I should go right now," she said, voice growing more and more unsteady as the seconds ticked by. "I think we should fight. I think we should deal with this."

"With 'this'?" he repeated. "And what exactly is 'this'?"

"It's the guilt page on your port," she said. His face darkened dangerously, but she pressed on. "And the mysterious notes on the map on your wall, and the second-era boxing techniques in the middle of the night."

He folded his arms, clearly not receptive.

Still she pushed on, shoved a boulder up a hill with her wiry forearms. "And the fact that I went snooping through your portscreen even though I'm not supposed to be snooping like that anymore," she said. He arched an eyebrow, agreeing though he didn't verbally concede the point. "And the fact that I was wandering the hallways of the spaceship at night like a madwoman… What's that second-era novel again? Jane something?"

She plopped her hands on her waist, struggling for bravery. Stars, he looked judgmental. "If we don't talk about it now, Thorne, we never will. That's the problem with us. Neither of us, I don't think, has ever been in a real relationship before. And that's what people do in real relationships. They talk. Or, they're supposed to. I watched a lot of netscreen dramas in my years in the pod, you know. I know all this relationship caveat shit."

Dead silence.

And then: "You just swore." With no small amount of surprise. He looked almost astonished.

Cress looked down at her feet. "I know. I didn't… I didn't particularly like the way it sounded."

They stewed in awkward silence for a bit.

"You're right," Thorne said at last, sighing heavily.

Her head snapped up. "I am?"

"Don't sound so surprised," he said, lips twitching again with that rascally smile that made her knees wobble. "You're awfully smart, you know, for a socially stunted teenager."

She narrowed her eyes. "No wonder I'm being driven to swear."

He laughed, dissolving some of the tension in the room. "Look, I can answer a couple right off the bat. Those maps on the wall were for my grand plan."

Cress cocked an eyebrow. "Your grand plan?"

He scratched his head, suddenly awkward. "I promised you that I'd take you to see the world," he said. "And I have. I've shown you cities and things. But… a little while ago, I wanted to plan a little more. So I wrote notes for myself, things I wanted to do if and when we ever got a day off, or if we arrived in a specific city. Notes for outings. You know, to sort of make up for the time that you…" He trailed off. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Oh, Thorne," she said, neck flushed, lower lip wobbling. (Sleep deprivation. Probably.) "I don't know. I just… We're supposed to be communicating and fighting this out like a normal couple, but right now all I want to do is kiss you senseless for being such a softhearted gentleman."

His cheeks pinked, a surprisingly juvenile gesture. "Well," he demurred. "I don't think we're ever going to be ordinary, you and me. I mean, I'm an ex-convict and you're a shell. We were both an integral part of the Lunar revolution." He laughed, but it was halfhearted; forced.

She hugged her arms to her chest. "I have nightmares about being left in the pod."

"What?"

"I have nightmares," she said, shrinking back. "I think sometimes that I'm still in the pod, that this was all just a strange, fascinating dream, and Levana's still real, and I'm still working for Sybil, and Cinder never existed. That's why I was wandering the halls." She raked a hand through her hair. "Stupid, I know, but…"

"Not stupid," he said, shaking his head firmly. There was something in his eyes that she hadn't quite expected. There was sympathy, anger (at Levana and Sybil, presumably), heartbreaking pity. All this she had expected. But there was also an empathy in his gaze, as if he'd been spending more nights up, boxing just a few rooms away while she tossed and turned, than she'd known.

"I didn't mean to go snooping through your portscreen," she said now, "and I'm sorry."

Thorne kept her gaze, unnervingly steady. He was like that, Thorne. When he got determined, there was nothing—literally nothing—that could stand in his way. "I have nightmares about shooting you," he said. "About holding the gun. About you bleeding, and me not being able to stop, and Kai screaming about Cinder, and Winter shrieking in the hallway as she lost her mind, Jacin struggling just hold her, and Levana choking on her own blood; that whole bloody scene that night. But mostly about leveling the gun at you, and not being able to stop." He looked away for a moment. "That's why I'm guilty, Cress. I almost killed you."

She stared at him, sure for a moment that he must be joking. But as the minutes dragged on and it became painfully obvious that he was anything but, she sighed.

She walked toward him, too-small feet padding on the cold metal floors. He was uncertain now, all of his unwavering courage whisked away with his startling confession. His iron nerves had carried him through his words, but not after.

She lifted up her shirt, exposing a pale, bone-white scar on her stomach. It wrapped around her ribcage, wicked and jagged, the stitches neat, the wound anything but. Thorne sucked in a sharp breath, cheeks the color of puce.

Cress was unsympathetic. She took his hand—his big, slightly hairy, long-fingered, tanned hand—and pressed his palm against her scar. His eyes were afraid, his body trembling, but as soon as his fingers splayed across her skin, he stilled. Calmed.

"I have too many scars to count," she told him. "Inside and out. I have the scars that Sybil and Levana left me, the scars that my parents left me, the scars that my old playmates in the tubes left me. Some are mental scars. Some you can see on my skin. You gave me this scar through no fault of your own." She held his eyes, clear blue and stunning. "It was not your fault. Do you hear me? It was not your fault."

His breaths grew shaky. And so she repeated it.

"It was not your fault." She took a step closer to him, toes flush with his bare feet. They were burning hot, Thorne's feet, so contrary to her icy cold skin. "It was not your fault. It was not your fault."

A tear slipped down over his cheek, landing suspended on his chin.

With her other hand, she cupped his cheek. "Oh, Thorne. You gave me this scar through no fault of your own, and you've healed so many others on the inside. You've been so good to me, so wonderfully good, so unimaginably heroic and romance-netscreen dashing that I can't even begin to tell you how grateful I am." She brought his hand up to her mouth and kissed it, soft and fleeting. "I love you, Carswell. I'm so, so, so grateful to have known you."

He took hold of his limbs again, and his hands wrapped around her waist, pulling her close, her body pressed against him. He kissed her, mouth searing and flaming hot against her cold lips, warming her from the inside out. They stumbled back down onto his bed, him landing with her in his lap, her legs wrapping around his waist almost instinctively.

"I love you," he said, smoothing down her hair, cheeks wet. "So much. So much."

"So much," she agreed, kissing him again, leaning into him, letting go.

And this time, his bed was not used only for sleeping.