Chapter Text
Velite’s uniform is actually quite expensive, material-wise, and he’s not sure how to feel about it. Shockingly, the IPC hasn’t been stingy in this regard—so the tools they receive tend to be of high quality, regardless of how useful they actually are. It doesn’t mean things don’t tear, but it does mean they can take quite a bit of abuse.
Velite has destroyed three of the five uniforms he’s been issued during his employment. One of them got ripped apart in high winds, on a planet with rare resources but an incredibly hostile atmosphere. Another was lost when a plant sprayed him with globs of…something, and stained it all over. He had a fever for days , and no one ever told him what it was. For that matter, he doesn’t remember what happened to the third. He passed out, and it was torn to shreds when he woke up.
The fourth is about the only extra he has left. He’s not trying to ruin them, despite what his supervisor says. The cookie just always seems to crumble that way on the more troublesome (read: life threatening, union-summoning, underwear soiling) assignments as a general work grunt.
Of course, he’ll take a ruined uniform any day over what happens to some of his coworkers. Some things, like death and dismemberment, don’t come out in the wash.
Lately he’s had a bit of a lucky streak, though, if one counts ‘barely escaping with his life from giant man-eating insects’ as lucky. He only lost one button to a True Sting thanks to timely intervention, and the return journey had been so uneventful it bordered on mind-numbing.
And then came the Message. Because apparently Velite can’t have enough surprises. It’s not even just because he hadn’t expected Argenti to be alive period , though he can’t deny that the realization brought a certain degree of shock. ‘Bursting into tears in the middle of the workday’ sort of shock, followed by indignation at having mourned for Idrila’s Greatest Cockroach.
It’s more about the fact that he’d chosen to stay in touch with Velite , of all people. It’s flattering enough that he still feels a little sheepish about it.
Of course, now Argenti won’t shut up, which is a problem in its own right.
Day in, day out, as he handles odd jobs (“For your nerves, young man.”) his phone just rings and rings and rings. Lengthy, long-winded paragraphs that he doesn’t even have the time to read and reply to properly, just sending one or two lines as he runs back to his busywork.
On the other hand, Argenti’s shorter messages tend to be photos, though lacking in any sort of context. Velite figures out pretty quickly that they’re meant to be Argenti sharing things that he finds beautiful, but it’s hard when some of them are…less than flattering. Some of them are blurry , is all he means; for all that Argenti’s hand is steady, taking good photos while swinging a spear is beyond even him.
However, despite the veritable torrent of contact (whenever Argenti is in a coverage zone, anyway), Velite hasn’t seen hide nor hair of the man himself. Not that he would have any time for it amid the work, but Argenti hasn’t even given him the chance to say no.
Every time they manage to have slightly longer conversations, just when Velite’s finally worked himself up to asking what Argenti’s up to and what his next stop is, Argenti seems to vanish into the ether until the time comes for him to send another photo or something.
It’s not like he thinks it’s on purpose or anything, but—well, he does! It’s not even a matter of being uncharitable, simply of seeing what he’s presented with. It happens too often, matches up too perfectly for him to assume otherwise.
He can’t even blame Argenti, is the thing. Velite wouldn’t visit himself either, if he was someone like Argenti. What would someone like that be doing, wasting time running around going to see a random guy? It’s only because seeing Argenti would be like a holiday that he even thinks about it at all. The selfishness of a side character, truly!
He can’t bring it up, either. He’ll explode, or something bloody along those lines, and that’s another uniform down.
Velite thinks about this while fulfilling a stray inane request for coffee, despite the fact that it’s not even his job. Whatever—it’s less tiring than other things people ask him to do these days, so he won’t complain.
Of course, like some sort of vengeful ghost hanging over his head, Velite’s phone rings in the tone he’s set for Argenti right that moment.
It’s supposed to be the same as the rest of his non-work related ringtones, even though that’s basically just his parents. Even his brother gets the work ringtone, though that’s because Wilder has no respect for ‘leaving work at the desk’. To be fair, Velite wouldn’t either if he enjoyed his job about half as much as that guy.
Somehow, when setting Argenti’s ringtone, Velite’s thumb slipped, and now it’s a random song file that he hasn’t gotten around to changing yet. It’s louder than any of his other ringtones, so it scares him half to death every time, yet he can’t seem to find the time to switch it back. Yet another way Argenti seems to be interrupting his life.
“You’re so… myeh ,” A voice pipes up to his left as the peppy instrumentals build up. Moira doesn’t even look at him as she says it, and Velite has some thoughts about her word choice. It’s Robin! He’s not even that big of a fan, but ‘myeh’-ing objectively good music is too much, even for him.
Then again, she’s just making fun of him, so it’s really not that strange. “What is it with your guy now?”
Velite hadn’t been close to anyone in particular before, and that’s still true after coming back. However, it seems going missing for several days after a workplace accident spooks some people—HR especially. His supervisor had mentioned something about being seen as a ‘risk’, and Moira had been tied to him as ‘emotional support’ before he could get a word in edgewise.
She doesn’t really support Velite in much of anything, except maybe in also thinking his life sucks. Though her reasoning just seems to be thinking Velite himself sucks. If he were truly a risk for anything, she’d probably end up making it worse, and he’s not sure if that’s just the point of it.
But, since he’s not a risk at all if you ask him, it just feels like he’s got a personal shadow in the form of a coworker that does nothing but talk shit at him to his face. Neither of them is happy about it, though he wonders if they might eventually get to the point where he could ask her to hold a pencil or something without being afraid of the consequences.
“It’s not my guy . AND! It’s just a photo,” Velite says, though the look she gives him after makes him wonder if he should just start lying to her. That’s the basis of positive human interaction, he’s learned.
Trying to explain Argenti’s whole…everything just makes him sound crazier and crazier every time, so much so she doesn’t even ask anymore. The reports about him to HR must be the stuff of nightmares.
Moira doesn’t help him with the coffee cups, so he can’t actually look properly at whatever Argenti sent him until he’s back at his desk. It’s just a little area in the corner of the base. He’s not allowed to pick what floor his little cubicle is in, but he is allowed to pick the one in the room he’s been assigned to. Originally, he’d just picked the middle, but somewhere down the line in switching places with other people Velite’s ended up in the corner, and if he’s honest he likes it better this way. He was never going to have enough friends to justify being in the center of everything.
By the time he gets there, Velite’s already lost hope that he might get a reply back if he sent a message, but he looks anyway.
The photo is one of the calmest ones he’s seen in a while from him. Wherever Argenti is, it’s nighttime, though there’s an odd purplish light to his surroundings. He seems to be sitting in front of a low fire, the flames burning almost to embers, and there’s a skewer of something greasy and meaty in the hand that’s not taking the photo. It looks like Argenti has even taken off his gauntlets, calloused hands visible, the small scars shiny in the firelight.
…What possessed him to send this to Velite? Is he showing off his dinner? It’s not even that good! There’s some burnt parts that he can see at the edges! If he points them out, maybe that’ll get a reply.
Before he can start typing out a scathing review of the meal and ambience, he hears a little knocking sound that makes him look up.
“Hello, young man.” Velite’s supervisor always speaks like he should be smiling, yet whenever he sees him there’s always nothing but a flat expression on his face.
It makes trying to figure out his mood the worst, because he’ll speak in pet names and shoulder pats and vaguely encouraging platitudes even when he’s angry about anything. It’s beyond being polite—it’s just plain creepy!
He also has a weird tendency of putting his hands on Velite’s hips when walking by, physically moving him out of the way just to walk past. He even does it regardless of whether his fingers are clean or not.
For a guy worried about image enough he’s trained himself to be inexpressive, he sure doesn’t put much stock on respecting personal space!
This time, though, it doesn't seem like anything bad is gonna happen. Velite counts his blessings where he can find them. “Good news today. You’re cleared for working in the field again.”
“Oh,” Velite says, brain processing the information for a good couple of seconds. By the time he’s finished with that, his supervisor is already slapping his shoulder in an attempt at ‘good-natured’.
He always squeezes too hard, Velite knows, and his shoulder aches with it. He can’t bring himself to care this time. Out? Field work?
“It’ll be good for you to get out there again,” the man mutters, squeezing Velite’s collarbone like it’s a stress ball. “One of my best, aren’t you? Look at your messages for details later.”
To his credit, Velite does try to protest. He leans up on his desk as his supervisor starts walking away, almost stabbing himself with one of the pencils lying about. He drops his phone, hearing it slide across the floor like a star athlete, but the sound doesn’t even make the man turn.
His mouth makes it about one millimeter open and he’s already gone, and all Velite can hear is Moira groaning in the desk on the other side of the partition. It’s not just her in the three other desks in the corner square, but the other two workers don’t even bat an eye.
He’s done that before, too. Ignored whatever was being said to someone that should have probably been done a bit more privately. It’s supposed to be respectful.
“‘Just stay with him for a few weeks’, they said,” Moira mumbles, knocking on the thin plastic between them as if it were a door. “Oi. You’ll have to forward me the messages, too. Fucking fantastic…”
He makes a half-assed note of her words in his head. They don’t have each other on messages, but everyone can find everyone in the IPC system. It’s all connected, anyway. It’s not that that worries him.
It’s just…so soon? Do they want him to die off already?! He’s been looking forward to at least a month more of staying in one place, but it seems his division is already set on sending him out without a care in the world… This is the sort of moment where he wonders if the universe is out to get him.
Of course, it’s not—Velite doesn’t matter enough in the grand scheme of things to be tripped up directly by the universe itself, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t feel like it sometimes.
The next few hours pass by like a blur. He would doubt if they even pass at all, if it weren’t for the change in his clock and the fact that Moira thumps him on the neck when she clocks out.
It’s distracting, to be checking his messages over and over again—he ends up saying yes to some overtime assignments that he swore he’d never pick up. It’s stuff no one ever wants to do, and with good reason. Thirteen system hours later and he’s still at his desk, crunching away at numbers that he’s supposedly not allowed to automate.
When he looks up, though, there’s no one else in the room. Is he allowed to be here this late…? Most likely, right? But anyway, there’s no one to see if he takes a break, so Velite looks at his phone again.
His supervisor deigned to send the message two hours ago, when he started doing what he’s doing now. The letters are bolded, disappearing into dots with the details of the trip. From the preview, it looks like he won’t have long to prepare. A couple of days, then he’s off—at least twenty three systems away. Brilliant.
Velite would laugh, but something tells him that another thing would come out, instead. And he’s already out of tissues at his desk for the week.
His thumb moves, scrolling slightly. Right underneath it is still that message from Argenti, still unanswered. Argenti hasn’t sent anything else since, either asleep or busy.
Before he can think about it, Velite is typing away to answer Argenti, taking in the comfortable pose, the warm-looking fire. The hot, self-made meal under a sky. If there were less smoke, perhaps Velite could see the stars Argenti had been looking at.
You burnt the meat. You have to pull it out sooner. Did you even season it?
It’s all simple to write. The hard part is not asking, Can you bring me some?
…He should get some dinner. There’s a vending machine out in the hall.
The assignment isn’t meant to be that difficult. Jade’s not even gonna be there—it’s just an advance team, which means they’re not supposed to go too deep into the tiny planet they’ve been placed on. Gather some data, shake a few hands, keep quiet while the team leaders handle the hard stuff.
It’s only two weeks, so it’s not a long term duty either. But then again, that’s two weeks of finding someplace to wash his uniform where no one will decide to take it as it dries.
In such a small place, every second counts as work. The only time Velite will be in casual clothes is probably as he sleeps! It makes picking out luggage easy, but some of the combat team members…
It’s like no one taught them how to do laundry. Or shower. Or wear antiperspirant. He counts it a lucky day when some of them wear perfume . He’s not allowed to complain about it, either—somehow, security grunts are still ranked higher than he is! Maybe instead of going to school, Velite should’ve just gotten into street fighting.
Actually, probably not. He’d have just died a lot earlier.
Of course, Velite still gets an earful the entire way out.
“I’m not sleeping in your tent,” Moira says when they get to their assigned seats in the transport ship, blunt and loud enough that at least one head actually manages to turn. Of course, she doesn’t care for the damage to his nonexistent reputation.
“I don’t want you to,” he answers, still honest. For some reason, he half-expects that answer to make her angry, and he feels unreasonably happy that she just looks at him like he’s stupid again. “You don’t even have to talk to me, just pretend I’m not there.”
She wrinkles her nose, waving him away to stare at her phone yet looking over from the corner of her eye. “Don’t have to tell me twice.”
He doesn’t understand why they had to sit together for this, too. It really does feel like having a babysitter. Velite doesn’t really like feeling like a baby in most circumstances, and this isn’t any different.
Something in his skin crawls as he looks down at his phone, too. Argenti hasn’t sent a text message in a while, only images. He can’t quite tell what’s in most of them, but every certain amount of time there’s another one of those pictures.
The calm ones, he means. Photos of Argenti sitting somewhere, of the sky or a serene little glade with alien plants Velite has never seen before. Flowers, trees, water running in streams. Sunsets with various suns, several moons swinging about in the sky, Argenti’s hand sticking out and reaching for them like he could simply snatch them out with a press of silvery, shiny fingers.
They feel a bit…domestic, in a way that makes Velite’s stomach squeeze in like a supernova. Maybe more like quicksand, actually. Suffocating in a way that he doesn’t quite understand. It’s mostly in the fact that when he can see parts of Argenti’s body, there’s a decent chance that he’ll seemingly won’t be wearing his armor.
He’s not sure how it feels for Argenti, but Velite feels a bit safer in his uniform. Sure, it’s uncomfortable to wear for long periods of time, but at least he knows how he’ll be treated in it. It’s not really glamorous, but it’s a sign that he belongs somewhere . Anywhere.
When he was around Argenti, he never saw him take any part of it off, even within the comfort of his own ship. It almost made him feel like he lived in it, breathed in it, bathed in it, slept in it. Like the armor was a part of him just as much as anything else. Perhaps it was simply that he didn’t trust Velite, then, no matter how kind he’d been.
Now, though, Velite gets to see a flash of a wrist. A dash of thigh. A set of crossed knees poking into frame. Hands and fingers and feet and legs and everything except Argenti’s face. Well, not everything, but close enough. All of it, immortalized and delivered straight into Velite’s hands. Argenti’s basest, most comfortable state, shared with him.
He’s not self-centered enough to assume he might be the only one who gets these images of Argenti…’relaxing’, in a way. But the fact that he gets them at all makes it so–It’s–How do people stand it? Baring that sort of emotion at someone they barely know?
He scrolls through the images as the hyperdrive engages, until he has to set his phone down for fear of it flying out of his hand. It’s only a couple of seconds, but they have to sail for a little longer to approach the docking point, close enough to be sent down to the surface.
The planet is pretty green. Velite looks at it through the window in the room, over the heads of coworkers and cargo. There’s a big ocean that looks a bit turquoise, landmasses swathed in colors over large patches. He bets there’s not even preliminary bases down there.
Almost against his will, Velite lifts his phone. He snaps a photo of the curve of the planet, zoomed in just enough that the people around aren’t really visible. When he looks properly, there’s a smudge of his thumb on the edge of the lens.
He doesn’t retake it. His phone dings, message sent.