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Ashes takes a deep breath and pushes the door open. They’ve been putting this off for weeks, not quite feeling up to facing his room just yet. It’s probably a fucking biohazard in there, anyway; they’ve considered just throwing a spmolotov cocktail through the door more than once. Except… except they can’t do that, not yet. Not until someone has sorted through his stuff, and well, none of the others are going to do it.
Or maybe that’s unfair, Brian would undoubtedly help them if they asked, but they can’t stand the stars whirling behind his eyes right now. Half the time, he seems barely there, his mind far out in the void, and… Ashes swallows. Right now, they can’t be what he needs them to be, so it’s easier to claim they need some space and stay away. Fuck, it’s not even a lie.
The room is… still. Empty. Not of things, although it’s way less cluttered than they imagined, but of – well, him . Ashes sighs, fiddling with the lighter in their pocket. No use in putting it off any longer, not when they’ve got this far.
*
Hours later, they’re dusty, sweaty, and exhausted. Their eyes burning from the dust, they sink down on the bed to light a cigarette from a pack they found in the bedside table. It’s one of those shitty interplanetary brands from the Yggdrasil system that they’re almost certain Jonny was hoarding just to spite them, and they sniff it for a moment before putting it in their mouth. Fuck, even unlit it smells like shit. Ashes swallows, their throat tight.
Jonny had made a habit of practically sitting in their lap before lighting one, then kept blowing smoke in their face until they snatched the cigarette from him and made him eat it. When did he stop doing shit like that? How did they not even fucking notice when he did? Or did they, but just couldn’t be arsed to care?
They light the cigarette on the third try, their fingers slipping on the lighter’s wheel. It tastes awful, but Ashes sucks it down like they’re drowning and it’s their only source of air, because it tastes of him .
Halfway through the second cigarette, they shift to reach for a bottle of equally shitty whiskey they found while digging through his closet. There’s too much stuff to sort through to do it all in one go, and they feel done for now, done in, done over, just - done . Getting drunk on Jonny’s shitty booze and setting his bed on fire when they inevitably pass out with one of his shitty smokes still lit feels suitably pathetic for their current mood.
Except that while reaching for the bottle, they nudge something with their foot, something that feels heavy, but not too heavy to move. When they straighten up to look, the corner of a box sticks out from under the bed. They nudge it some more, and a large, double-locked strongbox slides out. Huh. Jonny always claimed that locks were for other people. To prove his point, he’d refused to repair the one on his door when it broke, more than four thousand years ago. When Ashes had fixed it anyway, he’d immediately broken it again, instead opting for shoving his dresser in front of the door when he wanted to keep the others out.
They heave the box onto the bed to get a better look. The design is plain, clearly made for durability rather than to be decorative. Ashes pokes at the manual lock, deeming it of good quality but not too hard to pick. The code lock, though… They take another drag on the cigarette, whiskey temporarily forgotten. What could be important enough for Jonny to store in a box like this, looking built to withstand a nuclear blast?
It takes a bit of work, but before too long, the first lock clicks open, and they turn their attention to the second. Ashes hopes it has unlimited attempts, instead of self-destructing if they enter the wrong passcode too many times, or something. But what the hell would Jonny choose for something like this? Random numbers or something meaningful? And if so, what?
They punch in a familiar sequence of numbers, holding their breath. The keypad blinks red, letting out a small, angry beep . Not the Aurora’s passcode, then, no surprise there. They think for a moment, then try another combination. Red. Beep. Another. Beep. Beep. Red. Beep.
Ashes huffs, reaching for the whiskey. The passcode could be fucking anything, there’s no way they can try every possbility. Maybe Ivy could, but… fuck, there might not even be anything of note in the box, it could just be a fucking box that Jonny found somewhere and decided to drag home. Or – They’re so tired. All they want is to curl up in Jonny’s bed and see if the sheets still smell of him, and try to forget that he’s never coming back, just for a little while.
The first swig burns, Jonny’s cheap booze having none of the smoky smoothness Ashes favours. They take another sip before preparing to dump the box back onto the floor, but pause just before they do. It’s ridiculous, they think, brushing over the keypad, trying to remember, to be certain they get it right. Nothing to lose, though.
Chest tight, they punch in the code. The light flashes green. Beeeeeeeeeep-click.
“Huh.” In all the years they spent in the City, Jonny had been the only one except for Ashes who knew that code. Ashes – Hades – had commissioned the secret entrance to be built right after settling into their residence, and Jonny had only ever used that one, when he came to visit. They’d even let him murder everyone involved in the construction afterwards, as a special treat.
The City years had been a good time, for a few decades. Happy. Ashes had enjoyed being Hades for most of it, and Jonny’s eyes used to shine with cruel glee when he showed up, often stained with blood and city grime.
“All done”, he’d say, grinning at them. Then, smile turning into a leer, “Boss.”
Yeah, it had been good. Unlike – they can’t even remember when it started. In a way Nastya’s departure had been the beginning of the end, they guess, but there had still been good times after that. Not in the last few centuries, though, not really. When did Jonny stop laughing when he shot at them? When did he stop laughing at all? And Ashes… they should’ve done something! They’re the fucking quartermaster, the crew’s wellbeing is ultimately their responsibility, whatever Marius likes to claim, and they –
They’d done nothing. Jonny had stopped laughing and gone quiet, Jonny who was never, ever quiet, and Ashes hadn’t cared. They hadn’t fucking cared, and then he was dead. Dead for real. They cared then, when it was already way too fucking late.
Swallowing around the lump in their throat, they run their hand over the box’s lid. This time it opens easily.
It’s full of… stuff. Ashes rifles through it, frowning. Why does this collection of - of random odds and ends deserve to be hidden in a box like that? A loose set of gold uniform buttons, two rusted, bloody nails, a scuffed, old notebook, a battered tophat that must’ve belonged to Brian once… a belt.
Their heart pounding, they take it out and unroll it. It’s a beautiful belt, made of dark brown, burnished leather, embossed with a pattern of guns resembling Jonny’s favourite, the old sixgun he always insisted on carrying around. They’d had it made for him on a small moon, famous for its leather work, and Jonny’s face had gone all soft when they gave it to him. After looking around to make sure they were alone, he’d pulled them into a quick, tight hug.
“Looks good, Ashes”, he’d muttered into their shoulder, then walked away, holding the belt close to his chest like something precious. Ashes had smiled as they watched him go, feeling warm and happy, looking forward to seeing him wear it around the ship.
He never had. When they’d asked him, he’d muttered something unintelligible and shrugged them off.
It still looks unused. Ashes traces the pattern, remembering how pleased they were with it when they thought about how well it’d fit him, and wonders why he chose to put it here instead of wearing it. With that thought in mind, they return to the box, emptying out its contents on the bed to look through them more easily.
An anti-ageing case containing a bunch of pictures lands on top of the pile, and Ashes picks it up, curious. The whole box must have some kind of protection against the passage of time, judging by the pristine state of the belt, but the extra layer of protection makes the pictures look almost new, despite how ancient they are. Ashes carefully takes them out and touches Doc Carmilla’s face, smiling at them from a sunlit plaza on a planet they don’t recognise.
She’s alone in the first picture, but Jonny is with her in the second. It’s a badly angled selfie, the shadows falling oddly over their faces, but what strikes Ashes the most is how happy they look. The pinched, unhappy lines around Carmilla’s mouth are missing, and Jonny… there’s something about his face that it takes Ashes a moment to pinpoint. Then it hits them.
He looks young. So incredibly, impossibly young. There’s only a hint of eyeliner around his eyes, and he’s only wearing a single belt in all of the pictures, no gun holster visible as far as they can see. Knowing him, he’s probably armed anyway, but…
They swallow. This Jonny, the Jonny smiling at the camera, or taking a bite of an ice cream as big as his head, or staring at something out of frame with openmouthed wonder… it’s not a Jonny that Ashes ever knew. The Jonny leaning into Carmilla’s side on the one picture seemingly taken by someone else, can’t be anything but a young mortal, overflowing with joy at seeing the universe for the first time. They have no proof, no date to back it up, but the certainty grows as they flick through the rest of the pictures. These are from a time before Jonny had his heart replaced, before –
Ashes can hardly imagine that such a time existed, but it did. Jonny never talked much about those early days with the Doc, and neither did Carmilla. Seeing these pictures, they wish they’d asked more. And got shot for the trouble, they think wryly. But why did Jonny keep them? He’d always hiss and bristle like an angry cat every time anyone mentioned Carmilla at all, but the pictures show clear evidence of being handled; they haven’t just lain tucked away in their case since they were taken.
The ones of Jonny and Carmilla together look especially worn, with crinkles and fingerprints here and there. Ashes touches a small tear at the edge, cutting through Jonny’s outstretched arm. Their chest feels tight, their metal lungs aching when they put the pictures back in their case and set them aside. Lighting another cigarette, they continue to sort through the pile.
A metal feather that must be from Raphaella’s wings, a large hunting knife with a wickedly sharp blade. A piece of resin wrapped in purple cloth, a gouge with a painted wooden handle. A bent and slightly melted plastic card. Ashes picks it up, and realises with a jolt that it’s one of Ivy’s library cards.
She tried to implement a more formal, organised lending system for the physical library once. It had been a relatively short lived experiment, before Ivy had declared that after analysing the collected data, she’d concluded that it was a lost cause. Anyone was free to borrow a book whenever they wanted, but damage them and face the consequences. This didn’t come as a surprise to anyone, and the library cards were quickly forgotten.
Or so they thought; Ashes sure as hell didn’t keep theirs. And yet…
They pick up the notebook next, flipping it open on a random page. Expecting Jonny’s untidy scrawl, maybe ideas and drafts for songs or stories, they’re startled to find Marius’ handwriting instead. It’s… yeah, it’s the notes from one of his ridiculous crew observation sprees, where he follows them around for a week or two before growing bored or sick of getting murdered quite five times a day. How the fuck did it end up in Jonny’s box?
It’s a thin, nondescript notebook that can’t have taken Marius many days to fill. Still it looks well read, the cover creased and faded. Flicking through the pages, they see Marius idiosyncratic observations on his friends, as well as sketches of their various activities.
Ashes is just about to put it aside when they come upon a spread with an especially well thumbed look. The entry details an afternoon of Tim feeding and playing with a clutch of octokittens, peppered with Marius’ suspicious commentary about them and their clearly sinister ulterior motives. Ashes smiles at the pictures illustrating the scene, showing Tim tussling with several octokittens at once. While Marius has chosen to draw his face as covered in tentacles, they can imagine the pleased smile underneath.
Then they read the closing observation, and it squeezes the air straight out of their lungs.
Jonny wandered by and stopped to watch, telling Tim he was flirting with death. Tim told him he was an idiot. Three minutes later an octokitten tore out his jugular and started slurping blood, while the rest of the clutch munched on his limbs. Jonny laughed until he cried, then shooed the little monsters off Tim’s body and took him away for some ‘rest and recuperation’, leaving the cleanup to me. Bastard.
“Bastard”, Ashes whispers, the page blurring in front of them. They blink, trying to clear their vision, and press their fingers to the paper, as if that could make the words come alive. Jonny laughed until he cried. Jonny, laughing. Jonny. Alive. How old is this notebook, anyway? They flick through the pages, trying to find any clues, anything they might remember… Oh.
Ashes had been fucking furious with him that time. They’d been in the process of flambéeing a nice, slow cooked moonbeast roast, with Marius as a quiet but appreciative audience. Just as they’d been about to set the roast on fire, Jonny had dropped from a vent in the ceiling.
“BOO!”
Ashes had jumped, losing control over the flamethrower’s nozzle just as they squeezed the trigger. When the fire was finally put out, nothing but a blackened crisp remained of the roast, and Jonny had the audacity to ask them what he’d eat for dinner now.
“This, you fucking menace”, they’d growled and shoved the flamethrower’s nozzle down his throat instead. He’d burned spectacularly, that time.
It was a fucking hassle to repair and replace half the kitchen afterwards. Described in Marius’ words, though, thousands of years later, the memory makes Ashes smile, a little wetly.
They turn another few pages, detailing various crew shenanigans as well as more mundane observations, before pausing again. This time, the entry itself is short; instead the accompanying sketch takes up most of the page.
It’s Nastya, a full body portrait of her, playing the violin with her eyes closed, looking happy and relaxed. She’s smiling.
Ashes sucks in a sharp breath, taking in the state of the page. It’s crinkled and stained, and it looks like someone’s tried to fill in the lines of the drawing where the ink has run. Oh Jonny… They never saw him cry over her, but they can imagine it easily enough: Jonny curled over the notebook, shaking as the tears dripped onto the page, ruining the very thing he was trying to hold onto.
They close the notebook with a renewed lump in their throat. Part of them wants to linger on that page, study Nastya’s face more, but it feels – it feels too private, somehow. It was something Jonny chose to never share. Instead they tuck it away at the bottom of the pile, leaving a decision of what to do with it for later.
After wiping their eyes on their sleeve and taking another slug of whiskey to fortify themself, Ashes turns back to the things they haven’t looked at yet. They turn a beautiful, dark red rose over in their hands; judging by how fresh it looks, it must either have been pilfered straight from the garden, or immediately after Brian put it in his hat, then dipped in clear lacquer to preserve it. That’s not something they’ve ever known Brian to do, so it must’ve been Jonny’s work.
Ashes wonders why. Why this rose? Why do it at all? Guiltity, they think they should give it back to Brian. Even if he doesn’t recognise it in particular, he’d probably want it. They should really let him have it, but they won’t. Quashing the guilt, they set it aside along with the belt, grabbing another item at random from the pile.
A set of worn-down lockpicks, half a uniform name tag that might’ve been the Toy Soldier’s. Three tuning pegs, all from different instruments. A jagged lump of volcanic glass. An embroidered eyepatch, a shoelace encrusted with blood. A set of elaborately carved chopsticks, a small toolbox they recognise as Nastya’s. Tim’s dogtags from the Moon.
Ashes picks them up by their string, reading the name and number embossed on them. Jonny knew that Tim, grew fond enough of him to decide to gift him immortality, heedless of the consequences… They’ve always wondered why. Jonny could never find a proper answer when they asked.
“I had to”, was what he settled for. Eventually, Ashes let it lie. Done was done, after all, and Tim proved to be an excellent addition to the crew.
(Later, they will seek out Tim, to give the tags back to him. They find him in the shooting range, huddled beneath a picture of Jonny, tacked to the wall and riddled with bullet holes. The gun – Jonny’s gun, Ashes notes, their heart twisting at the sight – lies discarded a few feet away.
“Here”, Ashes says, not bothering with small talk, “I think these are yours.”
Tim looks up, clicking his eyes a few times. Then he sees the dogtags dangling from their hand, and his breath catches.
“What – wh-”
“I found them. In Jonny’s room.”
“Oh.” He takes the tags from them, and gently runs his fingers over the raised lines of text. Then he whispers, “He gave me Bertie’s, you know. I never thought about what happened to mine.” His voice breaks, and he curls in on himself, closing his fist around the tags.
They sit in silence for a few minutes. Ashes isn’t sure what makes them stay, but somehow, they can’t bring themself to leave. Tim’s shoulders shake, but he doesn’t make a sound. Then he looks up, still clutching the dogtags tightly in his hand.
“I never thanked Jonny for Bertie’s. I – Thank you, Ashes.”
They nod, their throat too tight to speak, then rise and walk away.
The next time they see him, he’s wearing them around his neck.
He wears them till the end.)
Ashes pockets the dogtags and takes another drink. Their eyes are burning, their chest feels tight, and they’re so, so fucking tired. The pile of things on the bed taunts them, bits and pieces of the story Jonny made his life into, things that were important but he never told anyone about. Things he wanted to remember, to keep.
They choke back a sob fighting to escape. Sitting here, surrounded by his things, they feel his absence more than ever. Some days, they’re still not sure they’ve processed that he’s gone for real, but on others… on others, it feels like the Jonny shaped hole in the universe is about to pull them into it, devour them with its awful grief-laden gravity.
It didn’t feel real, when Brian returned from what was supposed to be a simple pickup trip to the little asteroid where Jonny had gone to have a drink or fifty. Jonny returning dead from a pitstop like that wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, and at first they couldn’t understand why Brian looked so broken, so lost.
“It’s been days”, he’d said, gently lowering Jonny’s body onto the floor of the bridge, but Ashes still didn’t understand. Not until Brian stroked the hair out of Jonny’s face and added, “They said he laughed. I think he must’ve known.”
Their memories after that are fragmented, shards of glass waiting to cut them the second they don’t watch themself. They held his body, they think, while Tim broke his fists on Brian’s face, calling him a liar, and Brian sat still as a statue and took it. Marius’ metal hand tore clean through the handrail running along the wall, and Raphaella quietly pulled him into the shelter of her wings, blocking them both off from the rest. Ivy tried to calm down the Toy Soldier, as it frantically tried to offer Jonny tea.
It took them sixteen days to reach and enter orbit around the nearest star, and they were the longest ones in all of Ashes’ life. Before they ejected Jonny’s body through the airlock, Raphaella clipped a small sensor to his vest.
“So we’ll know when –” She bit off what she was going to say, but they all knew. When it was over. When he was gone.
They stayed in orbit, huddled on the bridge around Raph’s tablet until the small blip that was Jonny was sucked into the star and connection was lost. The mournful beeeep the tablet made before Marius smashed it on the floor still haunts their dreams sometimes.
“I miss you, you bastard”, Ashes whispers into the empty room. “I miss you so fucking much.”
Listlessly, they sift through the remaining pile, barely looking anymore. A pair of safety gloves, a pipette from Raphaella’s lab. A plectrum. A gilded lighter. Ashes does a double take and picks it up. Fuck, it is. It’s their lighter, one they thought they’d lost a long, long time ago.
After toying with the politics on a rocky little moon solo for a few years, Ashes had decided it was time to burn the place down. Well, the capital city at least, where the bastards in power had their seat. Most of the actual population lived outside of it, and from what they’d seen and heard, they’d probably enjoy the show.
They’d taken Jonny with them to do it. It had been a few years since they’d seen him, and when they went back to the Aurora to pick up some supplies and ran into him there, they impulsively asked if he’d like to tag along. His face had lit up with unholy glee as they told him their plan.
“Murder people and torch a city with my favourite arsonist? Would I ever pass up a chance like that?” he’d said, grinning widely.
“You did, though”, Ashes mumbles, caressing the lighter’s design. Two playing cards, the king of clubs and a grinning red joker. “You never wanted to come along, lately. It wasn’t as much fun without you.”
After quickly collecting everything they needed, they took one of the smaller shuttles planetside.
“Nice place”, was Jonny’s verdict, when they took him on a stroll to point out the strategic locations of their plan. “What a shame if something happened to it.”
Ashes laughed and punched his shoulder. They’d missed him, these last few years.
They split the task of setting the fires, and met up just outside the city limit as the flames began to lick the sky. Hand in hand, breathless and laughing, they made their way up a steep hill nearby, to find a good vantage point to watch from.
Jonny smelled of smoke and gasoline, tasted of fire and joy. They fucked while the city burned, the roar of the fire accompanied by sirens and screams. The firelight played on Jonny’s skin, casting twisting shadows on his face. They came together just when the fire reached the city’s gas reserve, their shout and Jonny’s muffled cry drowned out by the explosion.
At least they wanted to remember it that way. It made one hell of a good story.
It had been a perfect night.
The tears are hot when they drip onto their hand, clutching the lighter so tightly it cuts into their palm. Ashes had noticed that the lighter was gone the next day, when they were already back on the Aurora, but simply assumed that it had fallen out of their pocket sometime during the night. It didn't even occur to them to ask Jonny if he knew where it was; sure, it was a nice lighter, but they had plenty of others around.
Did he pocket it accidentally, or was it a deliberate theft? Had he taken it with the intention to hide it away in his box of treasured memories?
Ashes sniffs, fresh tears dripping into their lap. Experimentally, they click the lighter, curious to see whether it still works. It does, and they trail their finger through the flame. Then they flick it shut, not wanting to waste whatever lighter fluid might be left. It feels like it's a bit of Jonny, and they can't bear the thought of losing it, too.
Pushing the piles of things to the side, they curl up in Jonny’s bed, clutching the lighter to their chest. The pillow does still smell of him. Ashes buries their face in it, and cries.
He's gone, they think, and a new, hollow finality to the thought. Here, surrounded by his memories, it is as if it's finally become real. He's gone, he's never coming back.
Caressing the joker embossed on the lighter, Ashes wonders if they should make a memory box of their own.