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And when nothing else remains, you lose your humanity. He wants nothing more than to reach forward and gouge his thumbs deep into Jimmy's eyes.
He's made of only feelings, sensations. The pain is too much, gets in the way of any length of coherent thought. There’s no point to it, anyway. What's there to think about?
Culpability.
It’s a burden too great to bear. And when his jaw is forcibly unhinged, again and again, the sound of Anya’s purposefully even breaths from beyond his field of vision the only thing he can hear— he can’t bring himself to believe it’s really his burden at all. It couldn’t be.
Is this what he deserves? 382 days is a long time to be trapped on a ship. No way to turn back, to wave a white flag. No options, other than to keep the peace, as flimsy as it may be. As false as it may be. Even if it’s painful. Because that is his duty, as a captain, he knows.
Responsibility.
When Anya came to him, whispering and heaving and terrified, the weight on his shoulders had never felt heavier. Like cement. Thick and rough, piled up and up on layers of muscle. He gave her words of reassurance, though they both knew they were meaningless. Curly wouldn’t act, and neither would she. A pointless secret kept between them, accompanied by an imitation of kinship.
If he could have just kept everyone together. He could've taken care of it. Jimmy would listen to him. He would have, if Curly had made it in time. Just a bit earlier. And if he hadn't—
Curly wonders.
He hears movement in the room. And then Jimmy is there, in his peripheral. There’s some more shuffling before Jimmy finally approaches. He leans over him, looms. He places a hand carelessly on Curly’s shoulder, and it’s agony. There’s a pop from below, which Curly assumes is the release of the lid from the painkiller bottle. Not that he can see it. Couldn’t move his head enough to know what Jimmy's doing, no matter how curious he is.
If he was early enough, but couldn't convince him. What would Curly have done? Standing between that bastard and the cockpit door, a standstill. Though, not really. Curly can’t imagine Jimmy waiting very long.
He wonders, and wonders.
Maybe he would have grabbed the rope from the utility closet. Maybe Jimmy could have been subdued, at least temporarily. He'd come to his senses, eventually. Possibly.
Or Curly could have just locked himself in the cockpit. Jimmy would make a fuss, of course, pound and yell and threaten, but he’d tire himself out. Come to reason.
Or maybe, he wonders, he should have never let Anya move that gun. He sees it clearly. Standing in the final doorway to that fucking cockpit, Curly slams the door shut and locks it, leaving Jimmy stranded in the hall. Why can’t he ever listen? Curly takes a single step towards his utility closet, opening its well-used hinges, and fumbles the protection kit off the back wall.
you know this is what needs to be done. open the damn door. i’ll solve this, for both- for all of us. i know you understand, curly. we’re fucked otherwise. just let me handle it!
Curly slides the smooth metal cogs of the lock, the entry number clear in front of him. The number only he can access. He gingerly picks up the gun, closely inspecting its chamber. He loads it quietly, calmly. He's prepared for this situation; knows exactly what steps need to be taken next. The weight on his shoulders is familiar. It's constant. He's gotten this far in his career for a reason, he knows. Because he knows how to prioritize. How to keep his crew happy, and efficient. A well-oiled machine. No room for mistakes.
Curly is certain of one thing: this is not a mistake.
He’d open the door in one quick motion, Jimmy's fist in the air from where he’d certainly been incessantly pounding on the frame. Jimmy's eyebrows would rise, his pupils would dilate, and his lips would subtly fall apart. And Curly, of course, would notice all of these things in succession, before Jimmy would fully comprehend what was in front of him. A barrel between his eyes. And right as Curly would see it— the understanding in his eyes, the look of a man, a coward, doomed beyond doubt, Curly would pull the trigger.
Jimmy's fingers latch onto Curly’s jaw, no gentleness in his movements, and Curly stares up at his unblemished forehead. He thinks they’re alone, though he can never be sure. Everything is so orange, now, light reflecting off of Jimmy's too-close face. The pain is something that can’t even be described. He isn’t in pain, he is pain. There’s no escaping it. Especially not with his copilot around. Those calloused fingers yank his maw open, thoughtless of their speed. Curly briefly tastes the sweat from Jimmy's skin skimming his tongue. It's disgusting.
stop making so much fucking noise. jesus. i’m lowering the dosage; we’re getting dangerously low on pills. better get used to it.
Curly watches as Jimmy pulls back, and shakes a pill into his waiting palm. He places the bottle next to his prone body, right next to his head. Curly stares. Jimmy pays him no mind, focusing on the task in front of him. He carefully snaps the pill in half. Specks of dust fly from between his hands. One half of the pill is dropped right back into the bottle, and the noise is sharp beside Curly’s ear.
The former captain’s mouth is still open, slowly drying as he observes. Not that it matters much. He couldn’t possibly produce enough saliva to make the rest of this any less painful, anyway. Jimmy leans forward once more, brings the half-pill to Curly’s mouth, and closes his eyes. Just like he always does. Jimmy mocks Anya for her weakness, her fear, but Anya never closes her eyes when she tends to her captain. Never.
Coward.
Curly gasps, and chokes, and is unable to scream. Jimmy's fingers invade painfully, forcefully, like he wants this over quickly. It’s pathetic, Curly thinks. His guilt.
After a few seconds, the fingers quickly recede. Jimmy's eyes open, a grimace stuck permanently on his face. He wipes his hand on the bedsheets. They’re filthy.
…
see you.
Curly only has so much time out of the day that he can spend, reasonably, on his wonderings. It's all so tiring. The meds keep him just under the surface, anyways. But as Curly watches Jimmy's back head towards the door, he thinks.
Anything. A rope. An axe. Pills. The vents, and their live wires. The gun.
He can’t be culpable. He can’t. Someone has to take responsibility for everything that has been done. And he hopes that one of these days Jimmy’s guilt catches up to him, and he puts a bullet through his own fucking skull.