Spaceman (First Class) Barrow

The lieutenant in charge of their rescue team was a blotchy faced man in his thirties, and he stood at the front of the shuttle, despite the pilot having yelled at him not two minutes before to stay in his seat, gods help him. He was shouting in vain over the angry thrum of the shuttle's engines, holding on with one hand to the strap above his head, gesticulating madly with the other. His feet were hooked into the slats on the floor, but it didn't seem like that was going to do much to stop him from falling over, should they get hit, or even make a sharp turn, for that matter. Thomas Barrow wasn't paying much attention to the lieutenant from his seat near the back; he had tuned out the sound but was fixated on his fleshy lips moving.

The man next to him nudged him, then nodded to the tiny slice of window that they could see from their seats. "Looks like things are going well."

"I don't know what makes you say that," Thomas said. All he could see was the carcass of an Alliance destroyer sliding past the window, the metal frames shoved outwards like broken ribs where the engine had catastrophically exploded. There was a part of his mind that was running the calculations: was there anyone left alive? What parts of the ship would they be trapped in? The engine was already blown, so the destroyer would be relatively safe to enter, for the rescuers at least. Probably not many survivors with a hit like that, though.

But, as the man next to him said, they were winning, so there would be no rescue shuttles like his coming from the other side, dodging through the barrage of laser fire to latch themselves on to the side of the Alliance ship like a leech, cutting open the metal flesh, and sending in men to extract the life that remained. Anyone still alive in that destroyer either soon wouldn't be, or would eventually become an Imperial prisoner of war. Thomas had to think that would be worse. It was bad enough being an Imperial soldier, he couldn't think that prisoners of war were given any more of a light touch.

Their shuttle made a sudden, sharp twist and turn, pressing Thomas up and forward. If he hadn't been suited up in his scuffed and stained white armor already, the restraints across his chest probably would have left gouges in his skin. As it was, he nearly dropped his helmet. According to procedure, they were all supposed to be wearing them already, but nobody wanted to, so it was customary to put them on right before the shuttle sawed open their route into their target ship.

The lieutenant at the front was yelling louder now, though he was clutching his shoulder with a grimace- it had been worth staying seated after all. An Imperial battleship swerved into view in the window and Thomas took notes: engine intact, but half of one side sheared away. Collision? It was bad that the engine hadn't blown. Thomas didn't want to be anywhere near this ship in case it was about to.

"It's a Munich class ship!" the lieutenant yelled. "We're aiming for the fourth deck, port side. Everyone who could evacuate already did- we saw the escape pods go out. This isn't likely to be one where there's an untouched group. Don't try to go towards the starboard side- there won't be survivors there. Alpha- you're with me in engineering. Beta- crew quarters, deck six and seven. Gamma- command decks. Gravity is going to be fucked on this one- do not come back if you feel it go- it might not mean anything!"

Or it might mean that the huge gravity engine at the center of the ship was ticking over into instability. They just weren't allowed to leave for the sake of their own lives: that would be too cowardly, after all. Thomas tried to stuff that thought down, knowing that he didn't have a choice except to enter the ship. He figured somebody'd shoot him for refusing to go. He wouldn't know; he'd gone every time before. Spaceman First Class Barrow.

He braced himself for the part of each one of these missions that he hated most, clutching the chest straps that held him down as their shuttle hit the bulk of the ship before them. He had seen other shuttles do this from the outside: the front end latched on like a mouth, and then a fiendish contraption of circling plasma cutters would strip away the shielded metal flesh of the larger ship, cutting a hole big enough that two people could step through abreast, ducking. From outside, it hardly looked like anything. From inside the shuttle, he could feel the impact as they stuck on, throwing him hard against his seat, and then the vibrations of that whirling mouth carried back through their shuttle like a scream.

"Helmets on, gentlemen!" the lieutenant yelled.

"Well, here we go," the man next to him said with a sigh.

The helmet tucked between his knees was ghastly. The eyes were sunken red holes in a white skull: a death's head, for sure. It was intentional, of course. If such a terrifying visage could make a rebel soldier hesitate for even an instant, that was enough of an advantage to make it worth it. But as his fellows in the medical corps clicked their helmets into place, Thomas was surrounded more by dead men walking than he was by his peers.

His own helmet settled around his head, the sweat-and-gunmetal scent of the shuttle replaced with the tang of filtered air. He couldn't hear anything until the radio in his ear crackled to life, the sweaty lieutenant's heavy breathing audible as though he was standing right at his shoulder.

"It's get in and get out on this one," the lieutenant said. Now that there wasn't the throb of the shuttle's engines between them, Thomas could hear the anxiety in his voice clear as day. "Don't go far from your group. If you lose signal, you won't be able to hear the order to get out. Understood?"

A few people across the aisle from Thomas flashed the "acknowledge" handsign, not bothering to turn on their radios to verbally report back to the lieutenant. Even that acknowledgement was lackluster.

"Two minutes until we get this open. Form your lines."

He hesitated in unclipping his harness, his hands suddenly not working under his control. The man next to him reached over and did it for him, then engaged his squad comms. "Come on, Barrow. There'll be time to nap in your chair later."

He pushed himself to his feet, the magnetic feet of his suit hooking into the floor, allowing him to take dragging steps forward, forming a line, one body among bodies, ready to enter the ship.

He was near the rear, so he watched as groups of ten at a time pushed forward, squeezing into the airlock, and then vanished into the bowels of the ship. He came closer and closer to the front of the line, then he was in the crowded press of the airlock, radio chatter filling his ears without registering, and then he was stepping through the blistered hole in the ship, feeling gravity take hold of him and almost send him to his knees, and then he was moving, running forward, the way illuminated by only the red emergency lights in the smoke-filled corridor of the dead ship.

He hadn't been a soldier forever.

Thomas often thought back to the day he had decided that he would become one. It had been a clear blue day, the kind of early spring that made him take the task of blacking His Lordship's shoes outside, sitting at the rickety wooden table outside the kitchen's back door, rag in one hand, shoe in the other, cigarette dangling out the corner of his mouth, looking up at the little white clouds shuffling their way across the sky. Any time the door opened behind him, he'd be furiously engaged in bringing the shoes to a mirror sheen, but there was plenty of time and no one needed him inside just yet, so he could dawdle, if he wanted.

The talk at breakfast had been that His Lordship had finally agreed that it was time for his youngest daughter, Sybil, to take her first trip off planet, heading to Odin for the season. They would be going early this year, a month earlier than usual, to give Sybil time to get acquainted with the capital's atmosphere before the season began properly. This disruption from the usual yearly routine was the kind of thing that made everyone talk around the servant's table, not just upstairs. The house in the capital had a good number of its own staff, so it was a point of honor to be chosen to accompany the family from their country estate to the capitol on Odin.

Thomas had not yet had that opportunity, but this year... This year he was secure in the knowledge that he would. Lord Grantham's valet's father had fallen ill with something that was described as both tragic and terminal, and he had left abruptly the month prior, leaving Lord Grantham with no valet to speak of. Thomas, who had been first footman, was therefore the most eligible replacement, and had been serving in that capacity ever since.

And Lord Grantham's valet always made the trip to Odin. He was indispensable.

Thomas was looking forward to it. Thinking about everyone else rushing back and forth in the house, wondering if they would be among the lucky number, while he was sitting secure in his position, that was the kind of thought that put a smile on Thomas's face, curling his lips despite the cigarette.

The kitchen door banged open behind him. Thomas busied himself with the shoe polish instead of his daydreams about the bustling city life on Odin. He imagined there must be so many people there- millions, billions even- on the planet. Far more than the sparse, agrarian landscape that was the family's duty to oversee.

O'brien, the lady's maid to Lady Grantham, slid into the seat at the table across from Thomas. She had one of Lady Grantham's bodices in one hand, and a huge ruffle of lace in the other, along with her sewing kit under her arm. Her face was as pinched and annoyed as ever.

"What's all that, then?" Thomas asked. Seeing as it was only her, he put down his shoe polish entirely.

"Her Ladyship has decided that she does want to follow the latest trend in the capital after all, since we'll be heading there right away." She put the lace down on the table and brought her hand to her chest, wiggling her fingers outward to illustrate the ruffle that was to be added.

"Is the fashion to look like some sort of overgrown bird?" Thomas asked. "Maybe it won't be so pleasant to go to Odin after all."

"Not like I ever get to wear much that's fashionable over there."

"It's not so bad to get to see what they all wear upstairs. It's a shame if it's ugly."

"You would like to look, wouldn't you?"

Thomas took a long drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke out across the table. "Not a crime to look, is it?"

"Not a crime to listen, either," O'brien said.

Thomas looked up at her. "Oh?"

"Talking might be a crime, though."

"Out with it."

"You won't like what I have to say."

"Dangle whatever you heard over my head if you like," Thomas said. He leaned back, trying to look relaxed and failing. "I'll find out my own way."

"I doubt it."

He blew smoke at her again.

"Give me one of those," she said, and held out her hand. Thomas fished around in his pocket for his last loose cigarette and passed it to her. "Light," she demanded. The book of matches in his back pocket was almost empty, but he struck one and held it out to her so that she could light her cigarette, already between her teeth. Still, despite his generosity , she took a long, long time to say anything.

"Lord Grantham received a letter yesterday."

"You reading his post now?"

"No," she said. "He was telling Her Ladyship about it, and I was in the room."

"Go on."

"You know how he talks about his soldier-servant sometimes. From when he was in the fleet."

"What of him?" Barnes or Bates or Bane or something- Thomas couldn't remember what the man's name was. They had never met.

"Apparently, he's on Odin and looking for a job."

"What's that got to do with me?"

"Lord Grantham wants him for a valet."

"I'm his valet."

"You're not his valet," O'brien said. "You're the first footman, who's filling in while he looks for a replacement."

"He's been satisfied with me."

"Has he?" O'brien asked. "Or has he been putting up with you?"

Thomas narrowed his eyes. "I don't believe you."

"Believe me or not," O'brien said. "No skin off my back."

"And when was I supposed to learn about this?"

"I expect right before we were set to get on the ship to go to Odin," she said. "His Lordship doesn't want you to feel slighted and leave him in the lurch without a valet."

"And how does His Lordship think I feel about that?" Thomas asked.

O'brien just smiled grimly. "You can't let on that I told you. Consider this information an early birthday gift."

"It's a fine one," he said, scowling. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Go back to your family for the summer, like you have been."

"I will not," Thomas said. "I've been moving my way up in the world. I'm not going back."

"And I suppose you'll say you won't go back to being first footman, neither."

"No," Thomas said. "I won't."

"Better start asking Mr. Carson for a good reference now, then, before the whole family ups and leaves, and him with them."

"Like it matters," Thomas said. "No use for a reference around here. Nobody else looking for a valet on the whole planet."

"Do you have enough saved to let a farm?"

Thomas laughed and stubbed the ashy end of his cigarette out against the table. "If I had that kind of money, you think I'd be hanging around here?"

"Stay or go, I don't care what you do," she said. It was certainly a lie on some level- Thomas was the only friend she had among the staff, and the reverse was true as well- but she had to say it.

"I'll figure something out," he said. "I always do." He gathered up the shoes and polish and left without another word.

All through the rest of the day, Thomas kept quiet. He was furious, of course he was, but one thing servants learned quickly was a perfect mask. If he hadn't been able to keep himself under control while dressing His Lordship for dinner, he might have found himself without a job sooner than expected.

It was after dinner, when Thomas was downstairs sitting at the table and reading the day's paper, that Carson, the butler, came by. Several of the other servants were sitting as well, drinking tea or working on various petty tasks that could be done in the servants' hall.

"I have the evening post," Carson said. "One for you, Anna, and" -he flipped through his stack of letters- "one for Thomas." He scrutinized the envelope more closely before holding it out to Thomas to take. "You didn't inform me that it was your birthday."

"What's it to you?" Thomas asked. "Didn't think you'd be getting me a gift, Mr. Carson." He took the letter. "And it's next week, besides."

"Well, happy birthday." Carson's voice conveyed the usual level of disdain. "You'll need to speak with His Lordship to sort that out. Won't want to have you missing when we travel for the season."

"No, Mr. Carson, we wouldn't," Thomas said, voice brutally dry. He took a closer look at the envelope that Carson had just given him. He was turning eighteen. This, then, was the standard notice informing him that he was being summoned for compulsory service in the Imperial fleet. University students automatically had their draft date deferred until they graduated, but Thomas was not in university, and so here was his notice, right on schedule.

Anna looked over at him. "You'll want to get that sorted right away," she said. "They don't joke when it comes to making you serve if you don't."

"I will," Thomas said. But as he did, he caught O'brien's eye from across the table. She raised a silent eyebrow, and Thomas stood, tucking the letter into his pocket and heading outside.

The night was cool and dark, and Thomas bitterly wished he had another cigarette. He hadn't been to town in too long, and had missed the chance to buy more. O'brien followed him out after a minute, and this time it was she who silently offered him a cigarette, lighting them both in her own mouth and passing it to him.

"You're not thinking of going into the fleet, are you?" she asked.

"Why should you care?"

"The only reason men work in this damn place is to get out of it," she said. "Seems like a waste if you don't at least take that piece of payment."

"Oh, yes, have His Lordship sign the piece of paper that says I'm vital to the functioning of the estate and can't be spared even for a second." Thomas took a drag on his cigarette. "I don't know why anybody goes along with that stupid line."

"Because nobles like to feel so generous," O'brien said. "And they like to have everything just so, and wouldn't it be a shame if their valet went and got his head shot off in space."

"Hah."

"Don't do it," O'brien cautioned. "I doubt this soldier-servant His Lordship wants will last- I'll make sure he doesn't come back here when the family's done on Odin."

"You're too kind," Thomas said.

"Not for your sake. I like things just so, too. And having a new valet when I'm the lady's maid- it changes things."

"And what if you can't make him go?" Thomas asked. "Am I to be shunted back to being a footman?"

"Put up with it for now," O'brien said. "You'll only make trouble for yourself if you don't."

"What if I'm tired of putting up with things?"

"And you think there won't be endless putting up with things in the fleet?"

"A different sort. And a chance to advance."

"A chance to get yourself killed, more like."

"I don't care," Thomas said. "I want to get off this planet. And if I can't get to Odin with them" - he jerked his head at the big house- "I'll do it my own way."

"Don't come crying to me when you get killed."

"I won't get killed."

"That's what they all say." She took a drag on her cigarette. "I doubt it'll be as pleasant as you're imagining."

"And what do you think I'm imagining?"

"Oh, I don't know," she said. "But I'd be careful, if I was you. And I'm glad I'm not you."

Thomas scowled. "Aren't you the lucky one."

"All I'm saying is that if you think you've had to watch your back around here, I don't think it compares to anything in the fleet."

"I don't think you know anything."

"That may well be," O'brien said. "But I don't suppose you know anything, either." She dropped her cigarette to the ground and smashed it under her heel. "Don't do it, Thomas."

"It's not your business what I do or don't do."

She just shook her head and walked back inside.

Thomas said nothing about the letter to Lord Grantham, or anyone else, for quite some time. When he was finally told that he would not be leaving with the family for Odin, Thomas simply smiled and said, "That's alright, Your Lordship. I've got my fleet papers served to me, anyway. So I'll just answer that summons, then."

He had to admit that he was gratified to see Lord Grantham's mouth pinch at that.

Thomas had been in the fleet for nearly two years, with some time left in his compulsory service still. He had been lucky, all things considered, as he had not yet been killed, at least. There had been some disturbingly close calls, the kind that made him wake up in his thin bunk, sweating and thrashing in his sheets. Everyone had those.

The time when his shuttle had been hit by laser fire had been the worst one, he thought. At least the closest he had ever come to dying himself. They were lucky it was only a sub-light engine in the shuttle, so when it was cleaved in half, taking off a slice of ship, all it had done was start a fire, and another shuttle had pulled course and grabbed all the survivors.

A less fatal close call had been the NCO who had threatened him, not for anything he'd done, but just because- well, some people had a sense of things. And Thomas stood out to those people, even if he wished otherwise. But that NCO had been transferred out to a different unit, taking his threats with him, and there hadn't been any more of that trouble since.

Life in the fleet was almost unbearable, and it wasn't one thing that made it so terrible- it was everything. Hauling the dying out of ships that were about to blow was a difficult task, the kind of thing that most people wouldn't volunteer for unless they were stupid.

Thomas had been stupid, had thought that the medical corps would be an easy position. But he hadn't known at all what it would be like.

He envied the crews of the big destroyers. They didn't have any control over where their ships went, and if they were going to die, they wouldn't see it coming. Someone who sat at a gun turret or a communications panel, they didn't have to put one foot after the other, running deep into the guts of a ship, barely able to see through the smoke in the halls, the gravity warping and shifting beneath their feet, throwing them to the hallway wall or pulling them down to their knees, stepping over the dead on the ground.

His father had been a big believer in religion, talking about Valhalla. If this was a warrior's paradise, Thomas had to wonder exactly what hell would look like, because he thought this might be it.

The smoke was so thick in the ship's hallway that Thomas lost sight of his group almost immediately. But he had this ship class layout memorized- he could have made his way towards the command deck blind if he had to. Every door that still had power opened beneath his medical corps authorization, and those that didn't, he had to pry open himself, straining with his full body to break the door seal, sending out a new rush of smoke each time.

At first, he was unsure where the smoke was coming from, because he saw no fire, but as he advanced deeper into the ship, more and more of the electrical systems had failed, and when he accidentally stumbled and put his hand against the wall, he could feel the heat of the burning cableways inside through his gloves. Smoke must be pouring out through every socket, every crack in the walls, every ventilation shaft.

There were very few people left alive, and those that were might not be for long. It took some time searching, but he found one person still living, laying on the ground, barely breathing with the smoke. He waited for a shudder in the gravity, making him and everything else briefly, momentarily, blessedly lighter, and pulled the dying man over his shoulder. The gravity swamped him again- it was all he could do not to stumble to his knees.

He dragged himself, footstep by agonizing footstep, back to the shuttle, passed off the dying man on his shoulders to the medical team there.

"Get going back in," someone said, though he didn't recognize their voice through the radio, nor could he see their face through his headset.

"But the gravity-" Thomas said. The oscillations of it had been coming faster and faster, a sure sign that the engine was going to go, and take everyone who remained on board the ship with it.

"It's the order of the day," the man said, and gave Thomas a shove on the shoulder. His tone hadn't been cruel, nor had the shove been heavy, but that was an easy thing for someone who got to stay in the shuttle to say. If they thought the engine was going to go, they would not hesitate for a second to unlatch themselves from the ship, leaving everyone else behind to die.

Thomas knew that first hand. He had been on the shuttle once, when that happened. Someone had given a two minute warning, and Thomas had dropped what he was doing and had sprinted, faster than he had ever run in his life, back to the shuttle. They had closed the doors right as he slid on board, and he knew, counting heads, that they had left a good twenty percent of their team behind. The ship had blown, two minutes after they had unhooked themselves from it.

That was a hard two minutes, he remembered. And he didn't want to think about what it was like for everybody who hadn't gotten back to the shuttle on time.

He tried to put that out of his mind, but it was difficult as he ran back in to the ship.

He didn't trust the lieutenant who was in charge of their group. He was antsy, the kind of man who wanted to look good to his superiors, more than he wanted to direct his team. That was the kind of officer who wouldn't want to give a five minute call, enough for everybody to get out. That was the kind of officer who would only give a sixty second evacuation call. A thirty second call.

Gravity throbbed beneath his feet. Thomas, distracted, stumbled and fell, knees and palms smacking the deck hard. It took far too much effort to drag himself back to his feet. Gravity swung again in the other direction, and his next step bounced him forward unpredictably.

This ship was not going to last.

But if Thomas ran back to the shuttle now, without a rescued body over his shoulder, he would- well, he didn't know what would happen to him.

Another step forward.

He was at the bridge, now, though it was barely visible through the smoke. Someone had already been through here, one of the other medical corps members; the door was open. Still, no one had tagged the door with the fluorescent mark that said the room was checked and clear, so Thomas went in.

His weight shifted; he could feel it in his gut. It was fear made physical, that sensation of gravity changing. Nausea tugged at him, and he swallowed acid bile back down. He was sweating through his uniform, feeling it pooling around the joints of his suit. He wanted nothing more than to run back to the shuttle, but he dragged himself forward.

He saw the fire for the first time here, black-red through the heavy smoke, heat pressing down on him even through his suit. He imagined the white paint of his suit warping and bubbling with the heat. The wall of computer terminals between him and the command chair was ablaze, his path towards the dais where the captain usually sat blocked by structural debris that had fallen from above, bolts deformed by heat and pulled out by changing gravity. Much of that debris, too, was on fire, cables which traveled in the ceiling conduits now twitching like snakes as their heat-wrapped outer layers melted and constricted.

Underneath all that debris, his legs trapped beneath a half crushed computer bank, his arm reaching out towards nothing, was a man.

He was dead already. Thomas could see that, as soon as he could tear his gaze away from his agonized face. He wasn't breathing, at the very least. Thomas turned away. He doubted there were other survivors on the bridge, but he should check. But gravity throbbed again, harder and faster, and Thomas realized that there would be no time to look for other survivors. He had felt this type of thing before. This was the kind of throb that the engines gave when they were five minutes away from going.

Maybe it was paranoia. But he knew, would have sworn any oath, that if he wanted to live, he needed to get out, now.

He would be shot if he returned without the order to return, and without someone slung over his shoulder.

His gaze twitched back to the dead man on the ground, pinned beneath the burning rubble. He was a captain. They liked it when officers were rescued. He might even be a noble, for all Thomas knew. If he lied and said he had been alive when he started walking back to the shuttle- pretended he died in his arms- that would make him look a little more like a hero, and a little less like someone who was abandoning their post to get back to safety, wouldn't it?

The ship groaned beneath Thomas's feet. He could feel its death-scream in his bones.

Why wasn't the lieutenant giving the call? Because he didn't care if Thomas lived or died. Only Thomas cared about that. And he was going to die if he kept this up. If he kept being assigned under officers who didn't know what they were doing, or even if they did- it was luck, and everyone in the Imperial fleet had bad luck.

He never wanted to do this again. They couldn't make him.

Except they could, couldn't they? It was this or court martial, and the execution for desertion of his post.

The captain was still lying dead on the ground, and Thomas was frozen, unmoving, pinned between the fear of the ship beneath him, and the whole fleet's justice in the shuttle behind him.

He was envious of the people on this ship, the ones in the side that had been destroyed completely. They'd died before they had even known what hit them.

He couldn't do this anymore. He realized, suddenly, that he would do anything to never have to do this again. Never have to run back in to a dying ship. Any bargain he had to strike, he would strike it. Any sacrifice he had to make, he would make it.

That realization clarified the situation in his mind, swept away the fear and replaced it with a calculating certainty, a cold, blank feeling in his chest. He could hear his heartbeat.

The captain was dead on the ground, and when gravity pulled Thomas down, he went down on his knees next to him.

There were wounds that a person could get that would discharge him from service. Not losing an arm- if he lost an arm they'd give him a mechanical replacement. But if a man had enough damage to his limb without it being justifiable to cut it off, they'd send him home. It was burns, usually. The kind that required skin grafts. Those got a man out of service.

The captain was dead on the ground, trapped underneath burning debris.

His left hand trembled, acting like a creature with its own mind, as Thomas jammed it under the cable conduit.

At first, there was nothing. Then he could feel the heat, more and more intense. He had to look away, couldn't watch the armor of his suit blistering and melting. It burned.

It was the worst pain Thomas had ever endured, and he bit his tongue until it bled, holding his arm in the fire. It was the pain that meant he was going to live.

Gravity threw him backwards, sending him sprawling onto his back. He couldn't move his arm, even if he had wanted to. The joints in his suit had melted.

Thomas could barely think, or breathe, but he got to his knees. He grabbed the dead captain's outstretched right arm. In the weak gravity now, it was easy enough to pull him, drag him, lift him by one arm, onto his shoulder, take steps down the smoke-filled hall.

He made it to the shuttle as the lieutenant, fleshy-lipped and sweating, called the fifteen second warning. Someone took the dead captain from his shoulder. With the weight gone, Thomas fell forward and it was someone else who had to drag him back towards the medical area, no one touching the char-black left arm of his suit.

"Thank you," Thomas whispered, slumped against the shuttle wall, though he was glad no one could hear him through his suit. "Thank you for my deliverance."

Thomas was going to live, and he was never, never going back into a ship like this again.

Author's Note

If you're here because you read my other LOGH fic... thank you for trusting me... I love you.

If you're here because you like DA- hello! It's nice to meet you! Thank you for coming on this journey with me!

Hopefully, whichever side of this story you're here for, you will find this interesting. I will do my best to do everybody justice haha.

This is very much a back burner project, so don't expect regular updates. I'm really only allowing myself to work on this when I have accomplished what I need to do in Lighting Out for the Territories. But hey, something to read is better than nothing to read haha.

The title of this fic is from a mountain goats song .

You can find me on tumblr javert , on twitter natsinator , and the rest of my writing is at gayspaceopera . carrd . co