Archive of Our Own ^beta

Dref is sketching again, practicing form and figure and warming up the muscles in his hand and wrist before he starts drawing in earnest. He’s been paying extra attention to the different ways crew members move as they go about their business on the ship, practicing movements alone in his infirmary to better study them, and he’s ready to break everything down and visualize the smallest pieces before he builds them back up into something he can use for the Captain. The page in front of him is scattered withrough doodles of a few bottles with interesting shapes he keeps in his medicine cabinet, his own hand in various positions, the oil lamp he keeps on the corner of his desk. He’s mapping out the muscles of the arm and shoulder in his mind, preparing himself for the work he actually wants to do, when he hears the door creak open quietly. The room stays fairly quiet, the sound of footsteps and barely-there humming the only things accompanying the scratch of Dref’s pencil on the page of his journal.

Dref can feel Jonnit hovering over his shoulder before the other boy speaks up. He lingers like a bright shadow, buzzing electric with contained enthusiasm. “Whoooaaa,” Jonnit breathes in wonder as he leans over the back of Dref’s chair. “Dref, those look awesome! I didn’t know you could draw!”

“Hm? Oh, yes, th-thank you. Is everything, ah, alright?”

“Huh?”

“Y-you came to the sick bay.”

“Oh yeah! Yeah, everything’s fine, I just didn’t have any chores today so figured I’d hang out here with you.” Jonnit pulls a chair from the wall so that he can sit closer to Dref’s desk. He crosses his arms and lays them on the edge of the desk, then rests his chin on top of them. His eyes keep following the small strokes of Dref’s pencil as he illuminates imaginary fire within the globe of the lamp on his journal page. “What’re you gonna draw next?”

Dref leans back in his seat, wincing as his vertebrae protest the caving slouch he’s been sitting in for the last who-knows-how-long. He stretches his wrists, shaking the tension from his hands. “I, ah, h-have some ideas for gestures the C-Captain uses– mm, used when emphasizing c-c-conversation points, silent permissions, other such s-signals. I believe these c-could be useful in our d-deception.”

Jonnit looks up without removing his head from where it rests on his arms, a small line forming between his eyebrows as he furrows them in confusion. “Then what’s all this? It looks good, but I don’t see what it has to do with reanimating the Captain.”

Dref smiles crookedly down at him as he wipes the graphite smudged on the side of his hand onto his coat, leaving a gray smear on one pocket. “These are w-w-warm ups. They help my m-mind get into the right s-space to draw what I actually want to do, and helps make sure my h-hands are steady and, mm, move more smoothly.”

“Oooh,” understanding dawns on Jonnit’s face, his forehead smoothing out as he looks back at the open journal. “How many warm-ups do you usually do? How do you decide what’s a warm-up and what’s not?”

Dref rubs at his tired eyes, frowning as he realizes his slightly blurry vision is from a smudge on his glasses. He removes them and reaches for a handkerchief in his pocket to clean the lenses. “Th-there’s not really a set number; I usually t-try to draw things from m-my surroundings to warm up, it’s easier for me to draw from a r-reference than straight from my m-mind. I-I start with something simple and gradually w-work my way to more c-complicated subject matter.”

There’s an excited light blooming behind Jonnit’s eyes. He sits up in his seat, arms unfolding so he can lay his palms flat on the desk. “Can you– Dref, could you draw me?” Jonnit’s voice is eager, his enthusiasm infectious, and it feels like sunshine on Dref’s face. 

Dref’s crooked smile returns as he balances his glasses on the bridge of his nose again. “I s-suppose so; drawing a living s-subject can only help me c-capture more lifelike motion for the C-Captain, right?”

“For sure, definitely.” Jonnit nods vigorously, arranging himself in his seat. “Wait, don’t start yet! … Okay, okay, now you can go.” Jonnit’s pose is strategically casual, a teenage portrayal of the cool aloof sky pirate. Not that there are many of those on the Uhuru to take inspiration from; the only airiner that really comes to mind as casually “cool” is Nodoze, and even then the lanky man is a little off-putting. But Jonnit is mimicking the way Nodoze leans on his spear, leaning back in his chair with an arm thrown over the back support, his legs crossed in front of him with his too-big boots in the foreground. Dref flips to a clean page, shuffles to the front of his seat, and starts sketching the shape of his friend.

After a few minutes, Jonnit starts fidgeting. It starts with his eyes flickering down and away from the page again, a readjustment of his arm so it doesn’t fall asleep, scooting back from where he’s starting to slide off his chair. Shortly after that, he starts a syncopated rhythm between both hands, one tapping the back of the chair and the other’s fingers bouncing off his knee. Finally, Dref sits up with a satisfied hum. Jonnit leans in with so much haste he rocks the back legs of the chair off the floor as he tries to get a better look. 

“Dref, this is amazing !” Jonnit’s eyes shine like stars as he looks up at Dref. The physician’s face turns pink with the praise, and he gives a nervous dismissive wave. Jonnit is insistent in his admiration. “No, seriously, this is so good! I look so cool , like a real skyjack, look at my arms here! Is that legit, can you actually see my biceps like that?”

Dref chuckles, the tension in his shoulders easing in Jonnit’s easy company. “Y-yes, that is, uh, legit. Being a s-s-skyjack is an extremely physical career, it m-makes sense that you’re stronger than you r-realize.”

Jonnit grins at him. “Dope.” He looks back down at the drawing. The brightness of his smile softens with a hint of wistfulness, and he clears his throat. “Uh, would it be okay if I– it’s just, I haven’t sent anything home in a while, I think maybe my dad would appreciate it.” He plays with a corner of the page, adding as an afterthought, “And Zana could see how cool I am.”

Dref feels a pang of sympathy for his friend; sometimes it’s easy to forget how young he is. Dref found it hard enough to leave home behind, and it wasn’t even a home he necessarily liked all that much– he can hardly imagine how hard it must be for Jonnit some days. He holds one side of the journal flat with a spread hand and carefully tears the page from the binding in an even line. He presents the parchment to Jonnit, who takes it with wide, grateful eyes. Dref’s hand falls to his lap and he fidgets with a button on his coat. “I, uh. I have envelopes in my d-desk as well, if you’d like one. W-we could package it now so it’s r-ready to s-send the next time we make port near an Audron.”

Jonnit holds the paper gently. “I’d like that. Thanks, man.” He lays the drawing on the table so he can fold it into a small enough shape while Dref retrieves an envelope to seal it in. Jonnit tucks it into a pouch on the back of his belt, the same one he keeps his map in, so he always has it ready to go.

—-

Dref is sitting on the top deck, cross-legged with a journal in his lap. There is a pencil and small assembly of brushes in his breast pocket, a fine-pointed brush in his hand, and a small assortment of inks in a shallow crate by his side. A cup of muddied water sits in the crate as well, another brush sitting in the water; a handkerchief streaked with browns and reds and blues is draped over the side.

He’s in a protected corner near the stern, watching Gable fly in wide arcs around, underneath, behind the Uhuru on Metatron. They take time throughout the day to make sure each bird has a chance to stretch its wings, exercise its natural freedom and explore the skies beyond its cage. It’s not unlike when Olivia and Remington used to take out the dogs on off days, making sure they had a chance to run and play even if there was no hunting party going out. Dref rarely chose to join them, the baying pack always making his heart race a little too quickly to be comfortable, and he was always wary of the casual cruelty of thoughtless pranks.

Dref finds watching the birds to be far more interesting, even if they still scare him. Despite the fear, he thinks they are beautiful.

Gable soars overhead, the rush of wind from Metatron’s powerful wings tugging at Dref’s coat and turning the pages of his journal. He squeaks with displeasure, straightening the collar of his jacket and flipping back through the pages to find his current project. Tongue in teeth, he pulls a length of string from a pocket and wraps it around the edge of the page from top to bottom, binding it in place and keeping it open.

He doesn’t work with ink often, as frequent interruptions in his work unfortunately means he’s often startled by unexpected visits and sends wells of valuable colors spilling across his desk. But the weather is fair, and he doesn’t currently have any long-term patients to attend to, so he’s indulging himself.

Gable’s birds are far easier to depict with brushwork than pencil anyways; it’s easier to create the impression of feathers, capture the curves of spread wings. Since they’ve been flying all morning, taking each bird out in turn, Dref already has the impression of Flee and Lukas spread across his page. With a stroke here, a few dots there– Metatron is done as well.

He resists the temptation to paint the rider. The last thing he needs is for someone to catch his subject matter over his shoulder;  anyone would be bad, but Travis has a particular talent for showing up at just the right moment. He doesn’t want to explain why Gable is so captivating to look at, doesn’t want to address that he’s pretty sure their face and form changes – doesn’t want to admit to anyone, especially Travis, that he finds Gable fascinating no matter their appearance. The teasing would be unbearable.

Besides, he doesn’t have the right colors to add Gable on the back of the birds. You could put Gable on their own page, his mind supplies helpfully. You could paint them in black and white, practice using negative space to catch the sunlight in their hair, gleaming off of their exposed shoulders.

Dref shakes his head to himself. Not somewhere without a locked door, he thinks grimly, imagining all the places Travis could hide and surprise him in animal form. 

Dref unfolds his legs stiffly with a groan, stretching and pointing his toes for a moment before getting to his knees. He carefully screws individual caps tight to their respective bottles, makes sure to remove the jar of water he’s been using to clean his brushes before closing and latching the lid of the box. He gets to his feet, tucking his journal under one arm and patting his pockets to make sure he has all of his brushes. He crouches to pick up the jar, bringing it to the railing surrounding the top deck so he can empty it into the swirling rush of air below.

As if the wind heard his earlier thoughts and specifically wishes him ill, a sharp gust from behind sends him stumbling forward. An undignified squawk escapes him as he’s pushed against the railing by the force of it. Alarmed and off balance, Dref drops everything in favor of gripping the banister with white knuckles. Wide-eyed and frozen, he watches the jar and journal go tumbling into the cloudless sky. He bites his lip anxiously, unwilling to step away while the wind is still blowing. There’s a pang in his chest at the thought of the lost work. He was halfway through that journal, much of it full of medical sketches and frantically enthusiastic late-night tirades; some of it had certainly been useful.

There’s a low-pitched wild-animal cry, and Dref barely has time to look up before something plunges past him. “I got it!” Gable’s voice fades in and out of his awareness with comedic speed as they guide Metatron’s dive. He squeaks, mouth agape, as Gable snatches his leather journal from where it fluttering falls with a triumphant cry. Metatron mellows out of the dive with a few powerful wingbeats, soaring in a wide arc back towards the Uhuru . Seeing their trajectory, Dref wills his fingers to release their iron grip on the railing, stooping to snatch up his box of inks before running below decks to the roost. 

He arrives by almost tripping down the stairs, coming to an unsure stop at the bottom. His chest is heaving and his face and neck are blotched with red from the exertion of descending through the ship as fast as possible.

Gable is humming to themselves as they put away their tack, murmuring sweet nothings to Metatron while they hang his harness by his cage door. They pull a piece of jerky from some hidden pocket, smiling as Metatron snaps his lethally curved beak close to their fingers for the treat. Dref makes a concerned noise at the bird’s sudden movement, and Gable turns to him with a surprised blink. “Dref! Wow, you made it down here like. Really quickly.”

Dref swallows, wills his pounding heart to beat just a little quieter, his breathing to return to something approaching normal. Talking is hard enough without worrying about breathing for Lumin’s sake. “I-I, uh, hah,” he pants, his knees ignoring his efforts to stay cool and upright. He sits on the bottom step with a thump , one hand still clutching the guardrail that lines the stairs. “I s-suppose I did,” he finishes faintly.

Gable makes a worried noise, wiping their hands on their pants as they approach him. “Lumin’s eyes, why on earth did you rush yourself so badly?” they scold, stopping on the way over to remove a waterkin from one of their many saddlebags. “Here, drink.”

Dref takes the water gratefully, forcing himself to breathe evenly. He steadies himself with a few taps on his leg, long enough that he can take a drink without breathing at the same time and accidentally choke on it. He almost chokes anyways, when he lowers to the waterskin and opens his eyes to see Gable flipping through his journal curiously. “Th-that was, uh, a remarkable catch,” he says, partly in a desperate effort to keep Gable’s nose out of certain pages and partly (mostly) because it truly was impressive.

Gable darts a look up at him, flashing a confident smile. “Well thank you,” they preen, tossing their head back to shake flyaway hairs out of their face. Even (especially) roughed by wind, they have a remarkable quality to them that leaves Dref dry-mouthed and nearly speechless. Their hands and cheeks are faintly pink with windburn, their eyes glitter like the intelligent eyes of their birds; they seem to embody the untameable wildness of the wind itself in this state.

“N-no, thank you ,” Dref says earnestly. He stands and holds the waterskin back to Gable. When their gaze turns playfully stern he sits back down with a sigh and takes another swig. “Y-you’ve certainly saved me a lot of t-time reworking some of those drawings.” 

“Oh, it’s no trouble,” Gable says nonchalantly. “It was nice to give Metatron a lil extra enrichment before getting caged up again; it’s more fun to dive when we have a target to aim for.” They flip through another few pages and their eyes widen with delight. “Oooooh,” they coo fondly, adjusting the book to hold it in one hand. Their other hand hovers just above the surface of the page. “Can I– can I touch this?” they ask in hushed tones.

“O-oh.” Dref blinks. “Uh, mm, yes, I don’t see why not.” 

Gable traces the lines on the page almost reverently, their fingers slowly following lines Dref can’t see from this angle. He stands again, steadier this time, and approaches Gable’s side. They make no move to stop him or encourage him to hydrate more, mesmerized by the tracing of their fingers. Dref stands on tiptoes to get to an angle where he can see. “O-oh,” he says again, softly. He can feel his face growing hot again, burning all the way up to his eartips. So much for getting rid of those blotchy spots.

“Wow,” Gable breathes, lowering the journal so Dref doesn’t have to strain to see.

It’s the painting he’d been working on earlier. Flee, Lukas, and Metatron are depicted in strokes of gray and reddish-brown, soaring and wheeling through blue and white sky. It’s not so much the subject matter that makes Dref blush as it is Gable’s reaction. They stroke gentle fingertips down each birds back and wings, brush their thumb across the sky. Their eyes are wide and wondrous when they look at Dref. “You made this?” they ask hoarsely.

Dref pinches at the hem of his coat, toys with an errant thread he finds there. “Er, uh, yes, mm, yes, I did,” he finally manages.

“Wow,” Gable whispers, looking down again. Their mouth slides into a soft and easy smile. “Huh. I don’t usually get to see them from these angles. I’m glad someone else can see how beautiful they are.”

“Y-you can have it, if you’d like.” The words fall out of Dref’s mouth before he realizes he’s speaking.

Gable’s head snaps up. “Oh- I couldn’t possibly–”

“P-please,” Dref holds out his hands and Gable gives him the journal immediately. They make a worried noise when Dref starts to tear the page from the binding, but it comes out clean and evenly. Dref closes the journal with one hand and holds the painting out to Gable with the other. “As a th-thank you,” he insists, cheeks still flushed.

Gable takes the page reverently, looks at it for another second before pressing it to their chest. Their eyes are shining when they look at Dref, and he realizes with a shock that there’s a thin sheen of tears adding the extra sparkle. “Thank you ,” they say softly. “I’d like to– can I give you a hug?”

“Hmm?” Dref’s eyes widen, his hands freeze in their fidgeting. “Oh, ah, that’s fine–” 

He finds himself engulfed as Gable drops to their knees and wraps their arms around him fully. Their head rests against his sternum, and he’s grateful for the thick fabric of his coat for muffling his racing heart. He squeaks as they give him a squeeze, the air pressed from his lungs in a quick burst.

“Sorry,” Gable relaxes their grip but keeps their arms wrapped around him. Dref wiggles his arms out of their grip, holding them in the air for a moment and feeling a little lost. He finally lets his hands rest on their shoulders, giving them what he hopes is a reassuring squeeze.

“I love it a lot,” Gable breathes, and Dref swears he can feel the faint puff of air even through his many layers of clothing. “Thank you for painting them.”

Dref hums his acknowledgment of their thanks, relaxing into the embrace a little more. Gable’s like a giant furnace, pressed against his front. It’s cozy, like standing in front of a roaring hearth. After a beat or two, Gable murmurs “You really didn’t have to push so hard to get here quickly. I can still hear your heart racing.”

—-

Unable to retrieve his sewing kit himself, his hands preoccupied with holding pieces of the Captain together, Dref bites his lip and watches Gable maneuver their giant body through the delicate organized mess that accumulates in his office as the night hours pass. Gable accidentally bumps a table with their leg, sending glass bottles shuddering and clinking together. 

“P-please– Gable, be careful , those are delicate,” he pleads anxiously, eyes fixed on a particularly expensive flask that teeters near the table’s edge.

Gable puts out a steadying hand with speed that makes Dref squeak with alarm– he fears they’ve moved without awareness of their own strength, and he has visions of broken glass and powder scattered on the medbay floor.

They haven’t, of course; Gable is gentle in ways that surprise him, sometimes, especially when other times they are comically accident-prone. The wobbling table comes to a standstill under their attention, and they catch the glass jar before it can fall off the edge. Dref audibly exhales his relief, and Gable gives him a slightly offended look. “I am being careful, thank you very much.”

Dref cringes into himself a little. “I-I know, I know, it’s just that– you’re so big, and this space gets so s-small, a-and these components are, mm, expensive.”

Gable places the jar near the center of the table and moves forward with exaggerated care, commenting over their shoulder, “Expensive they may be, but I should think that my company’s priceless. Don’t you agree?”

Dref’s mouth moves wordlessly. Gable’s hit a subject he hasn’t allowed himself to dwell on: he does value their company, more than he’s ever experienced with another person, and when he thinks about it too much it honestly frightens him a little. He doesn’t know how he’d handle it if they ever stopped joining him; he’d keep on with the work, of course, how could he not? But the idea of returning to solitary work conditions, in a room that grows dark because he forgets to light the lantern, stays dark because he can’t tear himself away and surely the light of the moon through his small window is sufficient– the thought reminds him too much of skulking in the shadows of his University. It’s not a pleasant time to revisit.

He looks desperately around the room for something to focus on other than his dependence; the faint wisps of cloud through the window, the assortment of powders and herbs he’s pulled out and set aside to reach his notes on necromancy, a loose stack of drawings and charcoal by Gable’s stool– wait. Dref leans forward where he stands and squints, trying to get a better look at what Gable has been working on.

Gable smirks as they snatch up the sewing kit from a drawer in his desk. “Seriously, though, where would you be without me? Stuck running all over your office all night, that’s where. I’m useful ,” they say emphatically, making it back to his side with minimal damage in their wake. “So, what did you need out of here? Dref?”

Dref snaps his eyes back to Gable’s curious face. “You okay there, bud?” they ask gently. 

Dref swallows the cotton-dry feeling that covers his tongue. “Uh, um. Y-yes, I’m f-f-fine.” His response is wobbly and unconvincing to his own ears; to Gable’s, too, if their doubtful expression is any indication. Dref tries a smile, knows it’s a mistake as soon as he starts - he’s never had a kind or comforting smile. It’s always been more of a baring of teeth - a grimace, an apology, a sure sign of his nervousness. 

Sure enough, Gable’s brow furrows and they look back over their shoulder to where Dref’s gaze had been focused so intently just a moment before. Their face brightens considerably with almost childish pride. “Oh! I uh, I’ve just. Been practicing.” Embarrassed horror flits across their brow, over their eyes, downturning the corners of their mouth again. “I hope you don’t mind, I’m sorry, I should have asked you first–”

“G-Gable, it’s, mm. It’s q-quite alright.” Dref does his best to keep his voice soothing, his stutter interrupting his soft-spoken reassurance. He takes a breath, deep and intentional, blowing it out slowly before he speaks again. “Um. M-m-, mm , may I see them?”

Gable reaches for the small pile of loose pages and hands them over almost shyly, their cheeks faintly pink in the warm lamplight. Their hands falter once the paper is pulled away, falling away and nervously keeping themselves busy. Gable gently rubs at the rosey spots on their hands where the reins of their birds rub the skin raw, smearing the pink with streaks of gray from the charcoal that darkens their fingertips. “We spend so much time down here, and I admired the way you were able to paint the birds– I thought it would be nice to practice some drawing of my own.” they say sheepishly. 

“I s-see.” Dref can’t bring himself to look anywhere else, see anything but the parchment clasped tightly in his shaking hands. Careful , he thinks, it’s delicate.

The parchment is full of unrefined yet incredibly dynamic sketches. Faceless silhouettes with hunched shoulders, waist-down drawings of someone midstep, stark contrasts of light and shadow emphasized by the simplicity of the tool used to create them– Gable has a remarkable eye for detail, and evidence of their ability to capture motion in moments is clear on the page in front of him.

“You m-made this? Dref asks, his voice low and full of admiration. He looks up to see Gable reflecting his typical nervousness, cheeks faintly flushed and eyes studying his reaction. They nod, shoving their hands into their pockets. “H-how– is this charcoal? W-where are you getting charcoal?”

“Hm? Oh, hah, I’ve just been taking bits that look like they’d be easy to hold from the furnace room.” Gable clears their throat and lets out a low chuckle. “You should’ve seen Carlos’ face when I came to dig through their waste bin.”

“Extraordinary,” Dref breathes, and Gable’s blush intensifies, blooming across their cheeks and nose; he swears he can feel heat radiating off of them. Their reaction sparks a warm fondness in his chest. It’s reassuring to see Gable’s composure affected by his sincerity, nice to know that he can turn the tables on them for once.

“It’s just practice,” Gable insists, rocking back and forth on their heels. They’re refusing to meet his eyes; Dref thinks he’s beginning to understand why Gable finds his own reactions so charming. Gable smiles shyly, “I uh. I have more. Do you wanna see ‘em?” The question comes out in a rush.

“If you’re, mm, y-you dont m-m-mind– I would very much like to see them.”

Gable beams at him. “I’ll be right back!” They dart out the door, taking care to close it slowly behind them so it doesn’t make a loud noise this late at night.

Dref weaves his way to his desk and sits heavily. He finds himself drawn back into Gable’s drawings. He traces an outline with his thumb, pulling back when he sees the way it smudges at his touch. Dref rubs his thumb and forefinger absentmindedly, tinging them both with black dust. He stares down at the parchment, lost in thought.

It’s been a long time since Dref posed for any kind of formal portrait. His mother had one commissioned just before he was sent to University; it was a rare period when all of his siblings had come together, only because she’d asked. It was a long and miserable two days spent in tight-collared stiff clothing, the image of his father staring down cool and distant from his own posthumous portrait. Dref had a bruise on his back where Tiberius kept prodding at him, hissing at him to sit up straight, don’t you know you’re being painted? Remington’s steely grip on his shoulder, small squeezes that he probably meant as affectionate and reassuring but pinched at Dref’s nerves and wound him up tighter. Olivia was always attending to his hair during their too-short breaks, sharp eyes narrowed at out-of-place curls and deadly hands arranging them with uncomfortable softness followed by a pat to his cheek. And in the end, what was it all for? A picture of the youngest brother in a family of proud aristocrats, his siblings standing over him in performative support as though they were proud to have him among their number? A family portrait based on falsehoods hanging over a fireplace that never seemed to warm the room to the point of comfort. 

Dref’s face twists into an uncomfortable grimace at the memories. He strokes his thumb along the worn edge of the paper in his hand, bringing him back to the present. His face softens as he looks over Gable’s practice drawings again; they were apologizing earlier, for using him as a reference without asking, but he finds he doesn’t mind all that much. These studies are far different from the forced propriety and posturing of a wealthy family. These are impressions of a man at work, carved out by charcoal pulled from a furnace waste bin. Dref finds that he’s excited to see what else Gable’s been working on; he wonders if they’ve tried working in other mediums.

Gable comes tripping through the door as though summoned by his musings. Their cheeks are still faintly tinged with pink, and the room seems to glow a little brighter as they give him an uncharacteristically shy smile. In their hands is a bundle of loose pages, a few rolled up pieces of canvas, even a small, flat piece of scrap wood. Gable deposits their bundle of goods on Dref’s desk, separating the different materials with gentle care. “I don’t really carry a journal like you do, so I kind of just go at it with whatever I have on hand. The canvas is nice because I can roll it up or fold it up to fit in my pockets and not have to worry about it tearing or getting wet, so I can take it outside! I like using this lil wood piece when I’m lying in my hammock because it’s sturdy enough for me to draw without a proper flat surface to put it on.”

Dref curls his fingers around the edge of one of the canvas scraps, smiling and leaning in to see the drawings better. Fitting Gable’s reasoning, the crooked-cut, weirdly shaped canvases depict scenes he recognizes from areas around the top deck. Familiar shapes and scenes come to life in unrefined but confident lines and deeply contrasting shadows. There’s a landscape of the jagged mountains and crooked lakes they sailed over a few weeks ago, a burly figure that could only be Slam standing at the helm, Nodoze’s unmistakeable hollow eyes and high cheekbones illuminated by the lit end of the rope he’s smoking, a broad and beaming smile through a beard that’s definitely Wendell’s. Dref traces a frayed edge with his fingertip and looks up at Gable quizzically. “W-where are you finding canvas?”

Gable rubs the back of their neck. “When I first joined the Uhuru I ended up tailoring my  hammock to fit– I uh, I’m a little bit larger than standard, so I got permission from the quartermaster to acquire some canvas to extend it. By the time I was done there wasn’t much left, so I just held on to it.” They trace a crooked edge of a different piece with an equally crooked smile on their face. “Mostly I use it to patch things up, but it’s been handy for this purpose recently.”

Dref lets out an amazed chuckle, a faint puff of air filled with some fond amusement. “You’re, ah, remarkably resourceful,” he says admirably. “Y-you ability to convey, mm, expression, e-especially with such limited materials– it’s exceptional.”

Gable’s skin is a radiant pink again, the lantern flickering as they push a smooth, flat wooden rectangle towards him. “I got this at port a while ago,” they say. “It’s nice for practicing stuff I don’t mind erasing; I’m getting really good at drawing hammocks and fabric folds.” It’s obvious that they’re pleased and embarrassed by Dref’s compliments in equal measure, simultaneously brushing them off and reaching for more as they continue sharing their work. “I made sure to sand down one side so that it’s really smooth, feel it!”

Dref hides a fond smile behind his hand and pulls the wooden tablet closer. “It’s q-quite soft,” he says accommodatingly, brushing his thumb across the blurry portion of a half-erased drawing. Fine charcoal dust still clings to the surface in a gray smear, blurring the shapes of airiners seated around an Illimat, hands holding cards in a fan shape. Someone’s arm is stretched to place a small white rectangle on the board. Dref can see that this smooth side of the drawing board is faintly discolored from being drawn on and cleaned off many times before. His heart pangs a little at the thought of more moments like these, moments of easy comradery, captured by and lost to Gable’s skilled hands as they draw and wash away in turns. “I-I’d say you’re capable of f-far more than, ah, than just hammocks,” Dref says, earnestly gesturing at the half-formed scene. “I m-mean, the life in this sketch– there’s life in it, it’s h-half-erased and I can still see it so clearly!” He reaches for the loose papers, shuffling them into a neater pile.

If it’s at all possible, Gable’s even more flushed than before. Their eartips practically glow red; they clear their throat and shuffle their feet as they attempt to keep their posture casual. “Thank you,” they say faintly, clearing their throat yet again. Dref doesn’t hide his smile this time; he flashes them a slightly cocky grin, his eyes glittering with the knowledge that he can fluster them in such a way. Seeing his demeanor so changed, Gable gives him a playful scowl and narrows their eyes deliberately. 

Feeling uncharacteristically light-hearted with all of his teasing, the shadow of a smug smile still dancing across his face, Dref turns his eyes to the top sheet of paper. In a rush, his usual symptoms of nerves return to him: his breath catches in his throat, his muscles tense and lock in place, his heartbeat is alarmingly loud and only getting louder and faster as the seconds tick by.

“I really only use paper when I’m in here,” Gable’s soft voice distantly reaches his ears. “I uh, didn’t quite realize how much time I spent working on paper until I went and grabbed them all.” The words echo in his abruptly empty head, and Dref nods mutely, his eyes glued to the paper clutched in his fingers.

Dref is extremely aware of the positioning of his limbs, the way he sits on the edge of his chair, his poor posture– because it’s pictured clearly in front of him. One leg is folded almost underneath the seat of his chair, his knee mere inches from the ground. The other is propped mid-bounce, a nervous motion that has his heel tilted upwards. The curve of his shoulders as he leans over his desk, the light of a candle playing off of his glasses. It’s the most detailed, most rendered drawing he’s seen from Gbale, and it’s him , in a way he’s never seen himself before.

Speechless, hands shaking, Dref flips his way through a few more pages. It doesn’t make him any less dumbstruck, doesn’t return his tongue-tripping speech, doesn’t slow his heart rate. All of these pages show him in various stages of finished drawings, studies of light and shadow, practicing anatomy. Here, another high-detail drawing: leaning over the captain, his goggles pulled over his eyes, the sleeves of his coat rolled up to his elbows and his hands and forearms stained dark. Here, his face in varying levels of shadow and different kinds of light: the bright light of a lantern causing his nose to cast shade across one side of his face like a sundial, brow furrowed and capturing shadows in his focus, the light glaring off his glasses. A different sketch on the same page is darker, less detailed, the charcoal smudged to cast him in softer candlelight as his head rests on his desk, face slack with sleep. Here, his hands fidgeting with his ring, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve; there, they hold scalpel and subject with a steady confidence he didn’t know he had. 

“I think they turned out rather well,” Gable says in a low voice.

 Dref blinks with a start, inhaling sharply; he’s not sure how long he’s been looking in silence. “Uh, mm,” he swallows, desperately trying to bring moisture to his dry mouth. “Q-q-quite.” His voice is hoarse and barely audible. 

“You make quite a good study,” Gable says quietly. “You’re quite the model, in your own way.”

Back to our normal dynamic, then, Dref’s mind supplies helpfully as his face reddens. Gable puts a hand on the back of his chair, leans over his shoulder to point out details they’re proud of. “It’s curious, how much your posture changes depending on what you’re doing,” they muse, leafing through the pages in Dref’s hands as he sits frozen. “When you interact with the crew, you shrink in on yourself; your shoulders cave inwards, it makes you look smaller than you actually are.” Removing the hand on the back of the chair, Gable brushes it against the back of Dref’s neck and places it on his far shoulder, pulling him gently back. Dref allows himself to be reclined with a shuddering exhale, his spine knocking gently against the back of his chair. Gable’s hand leaves his shoulder to rest on the chair again. Dref swallows heavily as they continue their soft-spoken lecture. “In this room, though, especially when you have a patient? You carry yourself so differently. You move with this, this self-assured confidence– you know every detail of this room, you know your place here, and it shows. It’s a good look on you.”

The papers rustle against each other as Dref’s hands tremble. Gable tugs on a sheet in the back, and Dref lets go with a concentrated effort not to let the other pages fall. Gable lays a portrait from the shoulders up on top, flattens it with a spread hand until Dref accommodates it back into his grip. They use a finger to indicate the dark shadows under his eyes, his cheekbones, the loose fit of his collar around his neck. “Not to sound like Travis,” Gable teases lightly. “But you’ve been looking worse lately. I spend a decent amount of time looking at you, I think you can trust me to see the differences. You’re not sleeping well, certainly not sleeping enough,” their thumb hooks gently in the space at the back of his collar. “You’re not eating enough. Wasp is snitching on you, you’ve been missing meals. People are starting to worry.” They sweep their thumb on the back of his neck, the tip just grazing his hairline. “I’m starting to worry.”

Dref’s brain is on fire. There’s nothing but the bright point of contact between his nape and Gable's thumb, the heat in his cheeks, his dry mouth. His eyes sting, hot with shocked and unshed tears. I didn’t know anyone was looking.

Gable makes a sad, soothing sound. Dref realizes the words must have escaped his parchment-paper lips. They press their palm against the top of his spine, fingers splayed to his shoulder, and give a comforting squeeze. Overwhelmed and a little lost, Dref’s tears spill over unbidden. “I-I– I didn’t know–” he repeats, the words coming between soft choked gasps. 

Gable leans over him, resting their brow on the top of his head. They hum into his hair, a sad, deep, and rumbling thing that comes from their throat. Dref tries to steady his breathing, stop his chest from hitching with each inhale, blinks to clear his vision. Gable moves to stand behind him, reaching both hands over their shoulders to rest where he still holds their sketches. “I see you,” they murmur, and there goes any progress Dref was making in his efforts. “I’m glad you get to see the way I see you.”

Screwing his eyes shut, Dref turn his head into Gable’s arm. He presses his forehead to their bicep, and wills the words he wants to say to come to the surface. “Th-thank you for s-sh-shhh,” he exhales, and tries again. “Thank you for sharing these with me,” he manages in a rushed whisper. “I-I– it m-means more than you know. A-and, I should be clear: these are, ah, also extraordinary.” He says the last with a weak smile, and Gable’s chuckle melts down his spine.

“I’d like you to keep them, I think,” Gable muses after a moment of quiet between them. “So you don’t forget. Oh, uh, I do want one of those back though.”

Dref looks up at them over his smudged glasses, eyebrows raised. Gable’s face is blurry, even this close, but he’s pretty sure they’re blushing again. They don’t meet his eyes, reaching forward to look for a page and pull it from his hands. It’s the sketch of him bent over his desk, legs askew as he’s deep in focus. “It’s one of my best,” they say defensively, and Dref laughs wetly.