Chapter 12: In Theory/In Practice

("The Sporting Kind")

Title: Herculean Tasks - In Theory/In Practice

Category: Hurt/comfort, angst

Pairings: Goddenport

Summary: Seth knew his truths could break T.J.'s heart. He hadn't considered that her truths could break his. Takes place after "The Sporting Kind"

Disclaimer: I don't own Space Cases; I just like to play in the series' sandbox.

A week later, Seth had once again made his way onto T.J.'s list of people who could fuck off. It was a position he seemed to occupy with increasing regularity these days. She'd been cornered by a pair of Spung hunters, miniaturized, and held hostage in a box small enough to fit in her captor's pocket. In attempting to ward off a panic attack, she'd tried to be noble. The memory still burned: trapped inside a palm-sized containment cube, air thinning, walls pressing in. She'd kept her voice steady through rising dread, insisting Seth not trade his safety for hers. She wasn't important, she had said. A disposable piece in a far more important game.

And he'd agreed with her. Out loud. In front of the children.

So when they headed back to the Christa at the end of the day, she brushed past him with a simple, "I am not speaking to you." No eye contact. Just cool finality.

Seth froze, her words hitting harder than he'd expected. "What did I do?!" he blurted—too loud, too defensive—and immediately wished he could yank the question back down his throat.

Suzee narrowed her eyes at him. "You really don't know?"

He groaned, drawing the sound out like he could delay the inevitable. "I thought she had a plan," he muttered. "I was just… following her lead."

Suzee didn't blink. "If Cat were here, you know what she'd say."

His jaw clenched. "Grozit," he mumbled, the curse tasting like guilt. He missed the Saturnian's blunt wisdom, now more than ever, and her absence still stung.

"You've gotta make this up to her, Commander. She's going to make all of us share in her misery until you do."

He knew T.J. could commit to silence with military precision. She was tenacious, principled, and when crossed—unyielding. And the idea that he had shattered years of tentative trust with one careless mistake hit harder than any punishment.

Grozit.

T.J. kept her word. Not a single syllable passed her lips for the rest of the day—not toward Seth, anyway. Her silence was deliberate, weighted, and loud in its own way. When he showed up at her quarters the next morning, the tension between them felt like walking into a force field.

He stood there with an awkward, sheepish grin and a spark of hopeful energy. "I think I have a way to make it up to you," he offered, almost pleading.

Her expression was unreadable, lips pressed in a line, but she tilted her head and gestured—just barely—for him to lead the way.

He took that sliver of hope and ran with it, walking a few paces ahead but constantly glancing back. She followed in silence, arms folded like armor, one brow arched in silent judgment. The look brought back vivid memories of the Starcademy—those times she'd called him out with nothing but a glance.

They reached the airlock. His spacepack sat prepped and ready beside the sealed hatch. As he slipped it over his shoulder, he noticed her hesitation. Her weight shifted, body half-turned, like she was ready to retreat.

"Please, I know I gave you a reason not to," his voice was low and sincere, "but let me earn back your trust."

She didn't speak. Just rolled her eyes, sighed through her nose, and gave the barest nod toward the hatch.

Seth adjusted his pace as they stepped into the open terrain, deliberately slowing so T.J. wouldn't lag behind. He kept glancing over his shoulder, half-expecting her to vanish back into the safety of the Christa. But she stayed close, boots crunching softly in the sand, her eyes roaming the unfamiliar landscape with a cautious curiosity.

Now and then, she paused to study a strange blossom or run her fingers across the smooth bark of an alien tree. Seth caught the faint lift at the corners of her mouth—an almost-smile that told him he was on the right track.

He'd gone overboard, he knew. The apology had spiraled into a full-blown operation, planned down to the last detail. He'd mapped their route, packed supplies, and even walked the trail at dawn to clear it of hazards. It wasn't just penance—it was strategy. T.J. liked order. He was trying to speak her language.

"Just a bit further," he called over his shoulder.

Behind him, she huffed and navigated the slope sideways, careful not to twist her ankle on the uneven ground. Her boots slid once, and Seth immediately turned, hand outstretched. She accepted it without hesitation.

Her fingers were warm in his, and the grateful smile she gave him—genuine and unguarded—was worth every awkward step.

"I can't wait for you to see this," he said, his own grin tugging wider.

They rounded the last bend and stepped into the clearing. T.J. stopped mid-stride, her breath catching in her throat.

Before them stretched a surreal shoreline: waves of deep violet lapped at pale cyan sands, and sunlight danced across the lavender crests like starlight scattered on water. The scent of salt and wild alien blossoms hung in the air, sweet and slightly electric.

"Well? What do you think?" Seth came to stand next to her, hands clasped loosely behind his back, at ease. "This is the spot I was telling you about: the one I found while searching for Thelma the night we crashed. Looks even better in the daytime."

"My," she sighed through an astonished breath. Her voice was reverent, as though she were witnessing something sacred: a marvel of the universe. "It is beautiful."

"Yeah," he said, but he wasn't looking at the ocean anymore. "See? This planet isn't all bad. Looks like a tropical getaway, right? Some people would pay good money to relax on a private beach like this. And we get to experience it all free of charge."

She allowed a small laugh, the tension in her shoulders beginning to loosen. "I suppose it does have some potential," she conceded, blushing slightly. "Though we should still test the water quality and continue to research the wildlife, and it would be ill-advised to—"

"We will. But first, in a rare moment of peace, we could just pause and exist—without data, without danger—and appreciate it all by observing safely from a distance."

T.J. turned toward him, narrowing her eyes in that analytical way that always made him squirm. And yet, her smile lingered. He grew nervous under her scrutiny and unfastened the collar of his jumpsuit before setting his spacepack in the sand and emptying its contents with methodical care. First came a folded blanket, which he laid out across the sand. Then a pair of thermoses, two sets of silverware, two packs of dehydrated food, and a small vial of rehydrating solution.

T.J.'s hands fidgeted at her sides, caught in a war between curiosity and caution. Her voice was quiet, almost disbelieving. "What is all of this?"

"It's for a picnic. I said this spot would be great for a picnic if you wanted…" His smile faded as he realized, "But I never actually asked if you wanted to have one." He busied himself by hastily repacking his bag as he rambled, "I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking! I was so attached to this idea, but you hate surprises, and now you're probably mad at me for being even more inconsiderate, and—"

"Seth?"

He dared to look up at her again. "Yeah?"

T.J. stepped forward, gingerly settled onto the blanket beside him, and placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. Her touch was light, but grounding."I think it is a lovely idea: in theory and in practice."

Seth let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, his posture relaxing as he started unpacking again—this time with a small, relieved smile. T.J. smoothed the blanket between them, her hands working in neat, anxious little movements, like she wasn't quite sure what to do with them now that she was here.

"The food wheel was behaving. I think. I hope." He chuckled and pulled a face. "I guess we'll find out together."

Feeling a bit daring, T.J. filled the eye dropper with rehydrator and squeezed the bulb. A soft hiss escaped as the powder shifted and reformed, revealing a steaming stack of waffles with fresh strawberries. Her eyes lit up with surprised delight.

"How did you manage that? The Christa never honors my request for waffles and strawberries. However, it seems when you make the request—twice now, at least—she delivers."

"Maybe I've finally gotten on her good side," he offered with a smug smile. He used the rehydrator on his own plate, and his confidence dissipated when its contents morphed into green eggs and ham. "Or not."

"Do you not like them?" T.J. quipped through a chuckle. "No matter. There are more than enough waffles here for both of us."

Seth bit the inside of his cheek. At least there were no worms involved. "English breakfast, two sugars," he said as he handed her a thermos.

Something in her recoiled from the gesture even as she accepted it. T.J.'s lips drew into a frown as she stared down at her tea. A quiet settled between them, awkward and dense with something unspoken.

She felt stupid to wonder—and it felt even more wrong to ask—but she needed to know, "Seth, what are your…expectations?"

His head tilted slightly at the question, his smile faltering. "Professionally, I expect that we work together and that you continue being a stellar second in command." He exhaled, slower now. "Personally, I hope that we're friends, that you feel you can trust me. And I hope that you'll forgive my idiocy yesterday."

Her heart ached at how sincere he sounded.

"We are friends, and I do trust you. And of course I forgive you." But the words felt like stepping barefoot onto cracked glass. "Nevermind."

"I mind if it makes you upset or uncomfortable," Seth responded gently. "I'm sorry. We can pack up and head back to the ship if you want."

"No, that isn't what I want. This is nice. Truly. I suppose…" T.J. trailed off as she stared out at the sea. She took a sip of tea to buy herself time to process, her brain spinning in quiet loops. She hated that she couldn't just sit in this moment. "I'm being foolish," she said, mostly to herself.

"Not foolish." As badly as he wished to take her hand, he instead kept an appropriate amount of space between them. "Please let me know if I ever do anything to make you feel uneasy; no explanation necessary. You don't owe me anything. Your wellbeing is important, and I'm here for you as a commander, as a caregiver to the kids, as a friend, as…whatever you need, in whatever way you feel comfortable."

He didn't reach for her. Didn't even shift closer. Just waited, present but patient. That helped.

Tears of gratitude shone in her eyes as she turned to him once again. "I wish you could understand precisely how much that means to me. Thank you, Seth. Thank you for your gentle curiosity, and your continued patience and understanding."

"Of course."

She pushed her plate toward him. "I'm afraid I am not terribly hungry. Would you mind if I took a moment to lie down and look at the sky?"

"Not at all."

He didn't know what the request meant to her, but he sensed its significance—intimate in a way that words couldn't explain.

T.J. offered him a grateful smile, then reclined gently on the blanket, her hands folded over her stomach like she was trying not to disturb the serenity of the moment. Her eyes traced the sky above—soft violets and faded oranges swirled together, accented by cotton clouds drifting slowly, lazily, across the alien heavens.

Seth sat cross-legged beside her, watching her instead of the view. She looked different like this—unguarded, peaceful, almost childlike in her wonder. He leaned back and let his gaze follow hers upward.

He broke the silence as he mused, "That one kind of looks like an old Earth sailboat."

T.J. chuckled as she returned her attention to him, wordlessly patting the spot next to her in invitation. He settled closer to her and mirrored her posture, careful to keep a respectful distance between them. He hadn't pushed. He hadn't demanded an explanation for her silence or made her discomfort about him. Maybe that was the difference. Maybe that was what made this feel… safe.

When she was a child, T.J. used to read volumes of adventures to both satisfy and fuel her curiosity: tales of distant galaxies and brave explorers who never flinched in the face of danger. She'd lie beneath the Mars dome and daydream about it all for hours, watching the artificial skies shift through programmed simulations. Even then, she preferred experiencing the version of the stars she could control—predictable, repeatable, safe. She was always surrounded by structure and tethered to her safe reality as she imagined what it might be like to wander worlds she'd never see.

This…was not that. This was real. Wild. Unfiltered. And beautiful in a way that felt undeserved.

"I always wondered what it might be like on other worlds, so far from home," she murmured, not quite thinking about whether she meant to say it aloud. "Now I am on another planet, staring at an alien sky, dreaming of the safety and predictability I left behind. Yet I find it does not hold the same appeal I expected it to. Ironically, that frightens me."

Seth swallowed. "May I ask you a personal question?"

She pressed her fingers against the fabric of the blanket, grounding herself in the texture. "You may. But I may also decline to answer."

"Fair." He nodded, accepting the boundary. He paused before gently wondering, "When did the universe become scary for you?"

She let out a slow, contemplative breath. "That is a rather loaded question."

"'S why I asked for permission."

"Fair," she parroted before pausing thoughtfully to consider his question: a personal question no one else had ever bothered to ask. "I suppose it has always been intimidating. I led a very sheltered life growing up on Mars, you see. Everything was regulated in the biodome communities. We quite literally lived in a bubble. My sister and I were a handful, with Father away so often at the Starcademy. Mum imposed a litany of rules in an attempt to keep us safe. 'It is for your own good,' she always said."

"I'm sorry that happened to you. That's a hell of a way to grow up: being warned away from everything you're curious about."

"Indeed. When I left for university at Tau Ceti, I thought I'd found a kind of predictable freedom. I knew what was expected of me and how to meet those expectations. And then the Starcademy was far enough away from home to have my independence, but I was in a familiar environment, and always—always—with a direct line to Father if I ever lost my footing."

"Did you ever take any vacations on your own? Go anywhere spontaneous just for fun?"

"Most were educational retreats. I researched them extensively beforehand, and they all had itineraries. Approved accommodations." She laughed softly at herself. "It's absurd, I know."

He realized what she was afraid to admit directly, "Being on the Christa is the first time you've really traveled. This is your first adventure away from home."

"Yes. And setting foot on this planet is the first time I have left the safety of a controlled, artificial atmosphere," T.J. admitted, sheepishly. "Please don't tell the children. I fear the revelation will shatter what little illusions of competence I've managed to maintain. I've lost count of the number of times they've questioned my judgment and witnessed my unraveling. For one so curious, I've barely done any actual exploring. And forced to operate outside the safety of schedules, plans, regulations, and routine, I stumble more often than not."

"Well, you've got me to catch you, for whatever that's worth."

He wasn't reaching for anything. Not control. Not closeness. Not her gratitude. Not even for forgiveness anymore. He was simply offering her support. No strings attached.

"I'm glad," she said, and she meant it. "I am glad it's you."

"Yeah." He flashed his trademark smile and couldn't help but sound a bit smug when he told her, "I know."

She rolled her eyes at him as she felt her face flush. "And how precisely did you arrive at that conclusion?"

He waited for her to look away and begin sifting through her memories before he took her hand and asked, "You with me?"

Her eyes immediately locked with his. "Yes."

"That's how."

T.J.'s heart stuttered as she processed the revelation: Whenever he asked her that question now, she responded in the affirmative, without hesitation. As she was one to overthink everything, it startled her that this was the exception to that rule. He was the exception to the rules. She sat up, never letting go of his hand, and he followed suit.

"That and your admission about your 'required reading,' at the start of all of this," he teased her. More seriously, he added, "I don't want to let you down."

"You haven't. You've upset me before, just as I have you. And I am certain we will both accidentally do so again in the future. But we will forgive one other. I do not believe it is possible for you to truly let me down."

She couldn't explain it, not in a way that wouldn't sound foolish—or worse, naïve. But that kind of certainty wasn't something she usually granted people. It was new and unsettling. And it was precious.

"Well, I'm glad that's your current opinion. Opinions can change though."

"Indeed." She tilted her head, her tone more playful. "And I concede my initial assessment upon first meeting you was horribly inaccurate."

"Careful. That almost sounded like an apology."

She chuckled under her breath. "It was."

He sobered as she drew in a shaky breath, her thumb brushing along the edge of his knuckle like she was trying to summon courage through touch.

"I am sorry. Truly, I am. For many reasons. There are so many things I haven't explained properly."

Seth leaned in a little, not crowding, but close enough that she could feel his sincerity. "Would you feel comfortable sharing any of them with me now?"

She didn't answer at first. Just stared out at the sea, at the strange, surreal beauty of it all. She hated how often she'd stood in places like this before—metaphorically—on the edge of something real, only to turn back because that felt safer than to risk being hurt.

But Seth was still there. Still waiting.

Drawing strength from his steady presence, she squeezed his hand. "First is the obvious direct apology: I am sorry I behaved like such an insufferable wench—"

"You really didn't."

"I deprived myself of three years of," her voice broke as unshed tears danced in her eyes, "possibilities. My experience as Starcademy Assistant Principal was not a happy one. And if I'd not been so stubborn—"

"Determined?"

"No. Stubborn," she said firmly.

His face fell. "I'm sorry I caused you so much grief."

"No, that isn't what I mean at all! It wasn't you. Goodness, no! I knew you never meant to hurt me. You were chaotic. Frustrating. Reckless, even. But you were never intentionally…cruel."

Seth took a breath, jaw tight, battling the guilt coiling low in his chest. "I don't know which questions to ask."

"Yes, you do. But the answers to those questions are ones you may not be ready to hear," she said as she looked away.

Seth didn't speak. The question hovered between them like a fragile thing—delicate but undeniable. The longer the silence stretched, the heavier it became.

T.J. finally broke it, her voice hushed, careful. "I taught advanced hyperspace physics prior to becoming Assistant Principal. Did you know that?"

There was pride in her tone—restrained, but unmistakable. Her fingers brushed gently through the sand beside her, drawing tiny arcs as if the motion grounded her.

"I didn't know," he said. "But I'm not surprised. You always seem to be good at things I can't even begin to understand."

She gave a short, breathy laugh, the kind that wasn't quite happy. "I love it. I love teaching. The clarity of it. The rules that make sense. Most of all, I love helping young people learn and grow and succeed. That is the true reward. But when the position of Assistant Principal became available, I knew I needed to apply. I saw the opportunity to make a difference for all Starcademy students, especially those who were struggling: the ones the system had failed."

Seth didn't interrupt. He just watched her carefully, his brows knit, his expression softening as the weight of her words settled over him like dust. Her posture had changed—not defensive, but braced. Like she was opening a door just a sliver, enough to test the air.

She continued, "When I earned my promotion—on my own merit, without Father's influence—that achievement allowed me to believe that I could improve the young lives touched by the War: to create some truly positive change as we rebuilt our community and help heal what the War broke."

Seth could do little more than stare at T.J as the profound sadness in her voice tainted what should have been a happy memory. The pain in her voice didn't rise or spike—it was quiet, restrained, lived-in. Like something she'd carried for years.

She pressed on, "My own ambition became secondary. I wanted to do everything I could to help the students succeed—and to help you succeed—especially when the odds were against you."

"His breath caught, and he shifted, guilt flickering in his eyes. "Teej…"

"I was stubborn," she went on, as if she hadn't heard him. "I believed rules existed to serve—to protect. Not to control or intimidate. But not everyone shared that philosophy. I opposed individuals with more influence than I possessed. And breaking their rules...had consequences."

"What rules?" Seth's heart plummeted as he recalled their earlier conversation about amending the rules to fit the crew's unique situation. More importantly he asked, "What consequences?"

"At one point I assumed you were helping me in your own misguided way: by causing trouble so I had legitimate reasons to be closer to you with your oddly protective hovering. Even if that posed its own set of challenges."

"Teej, what happened? What consequences?"

"I began receiving anonymous threats after I started advocating for Radu," she admitted, her voice dropping low, almost a whisper.

His blood ran cold. "Threats?"

She nodded once, eyes distant. "They were positively horrid. They wanted me silent. Obedient. Afraid. I didn't know who I could trust. When you and I got on, I dared to hope we were on the same side. But then you would turn around and undermine me, and your temper would flare. And now I feel awful because there once was a time I thought you might resent me enough to want to hurt me."

Seth's eyes widened. "God, T.J.—no. No. I—" His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. He stared at her, stricken. He knew the truths he hid would break her heart; he hadn't considered that her truths would break his.

It rattled him in a way nothing else ever had. Because in all the ways he'd screwed up, all the bridges he'd almost torched, it had never crossed his mind—that someone like T.J., someone strong and sharp, might have looked at him and braced for impact, because someone else had taught her to.

He wanted to say something. Anything. But everything felt either too small or too heavy. So instead, he reached for honesty.

"I should've done more," he said, his voice quiet but firm. I could've done something to actually help you when you really needed it. I was a mess. Angry. Impulsive. I thought I was doing enough, but I didn't do anything. I never—never—wanted to hurt you."

"I see that now. I believe that now. I know you cared for me, even then. Even when I was cold and awful to you. Even when I didn't know what to make of you, you were there." Her voice wavered, and she blinked against the sting in her eyes. "But when you grow used to people twisting kindness into a tool for control…sometimes it becomes hard to tell the difference."

Seth's throat tightened. "I hate that anyone made you feel that way."

She didn't answer. She didn't need to. Her silence said more than words could.

"I wish I could've been the person you needed back then," he added, his voice barely above the hush of the waves.

"I wouldn't have let you," she said softly. "I wasn't ready. I hadn't learned how to tell the difference between support and manipulation. Between care and control." She reached up to brush her fringe from her eyes. "I see it now. I see you now. Besides, It was my job to mind you, not the other way around."

"No. 'I help you, and you help me' was always the agreement."

Her eyes fluttered closed, and she smiled at the misplaced memory that often drifted to the surface. That pinky promise—born in borrowed childhood—had turned into something bigger. Something that didn't fade with time or trauma. It was written into them, coded into the seams of who they were becoming. When they'd sat beside each other in the dark and told each other "You are not alone."

"We seem to have built upon that promise even if we were unable to realize it, yes? That memory is a moment taken out of time, but it still fits. It feels like I have known you for at least two decades now."

"And it feels like I've known you just a bit longer," he quipped.

T.J. smiled, but it was bittersweet. "Our personal history was rewritten so that I remember you as my first true childhood friend. It feels like it was always there, just beneath the surface. Like we were meant to remember each other that way, and it provided a reason for why I've always…" She cleared her throat. "Our shared experience as children put us on equal footing so we could have a fresh start and some clarity. For that part of our journey alone, I will be forever grateful."

"What are the odds that we'd end up here?" Seth wondered, staring down at their joined hands. "Distancing ourselves from our demons, with seven years of opportunities to support each other and rewrite our history? Do you think we were always headed for this?"

She admired the landscape and considered the experience for the gift that it was. Not too long ago, she likened the crash-site to a haunted forest: a jungle shrouded in danger. Seth had given her a new perspective, and now she could see the planet for its beauty. "The odds of seven years of opportunities," she repeated, gazing out at the alien paradise in awe. "You do realize you are beginning to sound like Rosie," she noted.

"She's great at giving moral support, so I take that as a compliment." Seth chuckled. "So what are the odds? With the—I dunno—temporal mechanics and all of that?"

"I could perform the calculations, if you'd like. But the way I see it, it does not matter what a statistical analysis reveals. I still believe that in any universe or reality—"

"You and I are a team," they finished together.

"T.J. Davenport is operating on blind faith now, eh? Never thought I'd see the day. How do you feel about that?"

"My required reading combined with firsthand experience has provided enough evidence to convert my opinions of you into facts." She locked eyes with him. "And I trust you. Completely."

He swallowed hard, caught off guard by the weight of that statement. "There are still some things you don't know about me. You deserve to know what kind of man you have so much faith in."

"I know enough. I know we are not defined by the past. I know the people we were then are not the same people we are now. I know we have the capacity to learn and grow. And I know I rather like the people we are helping each other become."

Seth exhaled, overwhelmed but grounded by her certainty. "Well if those are facts, then I guess I can't argue with them."

"Would you really want to?"

"No."

"If I may offer a few more facts?" She squeezed his hand. "You are a good man, Seth Goddard: an honor to serve beside, and an honor to know."

"I'm really not. But you…" he murmured, his voice cracking just slightly. There were so many things he wanted to say, but what he settled on was, "You're brilliant."

She shook her head at him, blushing faintly. "I'm rubbish. I do not understand how you have not lost patience with me."

His quip about being stubborn was on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back deciding his usual deflection techniques were not appropriate for the occasion. Instead he linked his pinky around hers and said, "Everyone has baggage. You're helping me unpack my own out here. I'd like to return the favor when you're ready, if you'll let me. That's what the pinky promise means to me. I want us to be…"

She leaned closer, heartbeat audible in the silence. "Yes?"

"Solid."

The word settled into the space between them like a vow. And for the first time in a long while, T.J. didn't feel like she was bracing for loss.

She felt…steady.

T.J. exhaled slowly, visibly moved. "I do intend to be a thorn in your side for quite some time," she quipped once again. "Please hold me to that."

"For as long as you'll let me."

They stayed that way for a moment longer, pinkies linked like they were still those twelve-year-olds on the wrong side of time, clutching a moment of peace they hadn't yet learned how to name. Then, without a word, she lay back down on the blanket, tugging his hand with her. He followed easily, settling beside her, their fingers still loosely twined. The silence stretched, but it wasn't heavy anymore. It felt full—like the kind of stillness that comes after a storm has passed.

"Seth?" she murmured.

"Yeah?"

"You've gone and covered this blanket with sand."

He barked a laugh, full of guilt and amusement.

"It is not funny! It has already migrated throughout the ship despite my best efforts. I fear we shall never be rid of it."

"Think of it as a souvenir from our travels. A gift from the thorn in your side."

"Charming."

"Admit it: you love the banter."

She turned her head toward him, eyes gleaming with affection and just enough dramatic annoyance to keep him humble. "It is positively exhausting."

He grinned, eyes never leaving hers. "Yeah. You love it."

They lay there, side by side, the ocean murmuring its secrets behind them. For the first time in a long while, the universe didn't feel like it was collapsing in on them. It felt like there was room for healing and hope in the infinite. And as T.J. closed her eyes and let the alien sky fill her thoughts, she held fast to the truth that had taken her so long to believe: she wasn't alone.