Hunt. Like a predator. Like a - monster. Cassius had called himself that so freely, hadn't he? And Hugh, in his infinite wisdom and capacity for ignoring red flags, had taken it as cutesy wording. A fun little self-title, like Doctor or Senior Engineer or abominable inhuman fucking thing. Because Cassius had been all big, dark eyes and little smiles, soft tones and the sort of pleasant drone that itches just right in the parts of him that aren't human anymore.
Hugh stills. Swallows audibly, eyes just a bit wider for it.
(Some part of him wants to say yes.)
"Oh - no, no. Not necessary. Adamska isn't worth the trouble, you know." There's the smile again, although it's not warm and soft - it's sharp and cocky, smeared on like paint. That glittery grin that goes crooked on one side, the one with a deeper line in his cheek. Like he wears this look often, this grin he doesn't feel. "How terribly thoughtful of you, Cassius. I'll remember that."
There are observers, of course. They shift restlessly at Cassius' quiet, earnest threat. A bit moreso when Hugh says that last line with a pointed look over his shoulder, heavy with dark promise. I'll remember it and I'll use it if I have to.
(He won't, not really. Doesn't want Cassius to make himself into the threat they so desperately want him to be so they can throw him away, or lock him up somewhere far smaller, far tighter and far worse. Treat him like a thing the way they wish they could treat Hugh.
But threats. Those are always useful.)
"I heal a bit quicker than the average human, it's really nothing. Far from the worst damage I've had done to me." He follows Cassius' line of sight down to his knuckles, laughing faint. A little shrug. "Far. From the worst. Honestly, you should see the other guy."
The squirming is slow to return, Doctor Hugh’s words easing the stillness in him little by little as he drags his eyes up to meet his companion’s mismatched ones.
“It does not make me feel better, Doctor Hugh,” he starts, voice soft like silk, that same barely-there frown upon his face. Cassius’ fingers move to trace over Doctor Hugh’s knuckles, easing the tray out of his grasp as if it is a burden to him that Cassius insists on carrying. “I would prefer you not to come to harm at all, even if you are the one to strike first. You do not heal as fast as my Hunter.”
Because his Hunter tears themselves open and mends themselves closed in heartbeats. Because his Hunter has had their throats slit, their body burned, their limbs torn, and come out of it without so much a scar.
Cassius cannot keep them from being injured, no, but there is at least a comfort in knowing that any wound will not take. Doctor Hugh does not have that luxury.
(If he had been there, Doctor Hugh’s assailant would have had his anger carved into his legs like worm trails. A lesson, perhaps, in fear.)
That churning within him still remains, heavy like stones and gnawing hungry like starved maggots as he steps away to set the tray aside on the small table tucked up against the wall. Does not make to touch it, merely turns away to let his eyes linger on damaged, wounded skin.
(Guilt, if he had known the name to it. Instead it is an uncomfortable, spiraling thing not unlike the shell of a snail, only it keeps going and going without pause. Without clear view of the bottom.
He does not like it.)
He folds his hands in front of him as his gaze strays to the glass. To the rabbits stilling under his stare. He imagines if he had his Hunter’s senses, their hearts would be thrumming like a dragonfly’s wings.
His thoughts drift, then, to the anger he had seen outside of his windowed room. To the people there and the way that they had stared as Doctor Hugh had led him along. To humans and all that they are capable of when they are afraid.
When his attention returns to Doctor Hugh, it is softer. Solemn.
“...I am sorry,” Cassius says after the silence stretches. “It is because of me, is it not? Why you were hurt. Because I am a monster.”
(Earth, maybe. Sure, he's had friends on the ship, but they weren't close. Didn't care overmuch when he came battered and bruised, only raised their brows and asked him what happened. They didn't fret. And when he'd become this, the vast majority of them had pulled away entirely. Cordial, short greetings and little smiles while passing in the halls that have very little eye contact attached.
Earth, probably. His father, soft-eyed and sorry after Hugh had come out of the latest row with his mother shaking from rage. There with a cup of his favorite tea - hibiscus and honey - and soft, comfy quiet out on the veranda, the open invitation to talk if he wanted to. His only real solid boyfriend, those cheap silver caps on his teeth glittering when he'd laugh and tell Hugh he didn't have to start fights over him at the bars, he already had him.
Earth. Down below, far away.)
Hugh blinks away a film of wetness he hadn't intended to let build, waits until Cassius turns to the table to do it. Thumb at the corner of his strange eye discreetly, the tears thick and murky there, sticky like oil. Takes in that solemnity with open surprise, forcing up a bark of wet laughter he doesn't feel. Shaking his head. If he keeps it moving, maybe the emotion won't translate.
"...They don't like me, here. Not the vast majority of them." A quiet admission. A little slump to his normally broad, straight shoulders. Hugh's eyes settle on Cassius' hands and stay there, his own hanging loose at his sides now. "Just - looking for a reason, really. You're not the cause, only an excuse. They don't--"
A beat. They don't like monsters here. That's true enough, but it also isn't the entire truth, is it. He starts again, softer.
"The thing... that made me. Into what I am. It did a lot of damage to these people, Cassius." His hands flex emptily. He studies the lines in his palms as he has done for hours, obsessing over every little line and nick and pale scar. Looking for any sign of something awful, something strange. "I never really told you what I am, did I? That I wasn't always like this."
Oh, Cassius thinks. It is that look again. The one filled with heavy thoughts. The one that seems to wear down on Doctor Hugh’s kindness and warmth, tugging it down, down, down into something more…
(Haunted.)
They don’t like me here.
Cassius takes a step closer, and then another and another until he is close enough to touch Doctor Hugh if he so desired. If Doctor Hugh had been his Hunter, Cassius would have already piled himself, molded himself to the grooves of their side in the way he knows would comfort them. Steady them. Anchor them before they could drift away.
(When his Hunter’s thoughts get heavy, when the weight seems to crush them, they hide themselves away from the world, deep within his garden, where he can comfort them in a way only he knows how.
They call it a weakness, his Hunter. They forget that it makes them human.)
Doctor Hugh, however, is not his Hunter, and no matter how much he may want to, Cassius restrains himself. Casts a glance to the window instead, where the rabbits wait with teeth and claws and round, round eyes taking Doctor Hugh in, in, in the way he knows his Hunter would not like.
It did a lot of damage to these people, Cassius.
I wasn’t always like this.
Just like his Hunter, Doctor Hugh. A monster made, not born. A soul without sound forced to bear the weight of a song. A person burdened with more than they were meant to carry.
(Someone kind made into something dangerous.)
Cassius steps around Doctor Hugh, then, to the side facing the window. Pauses for a long, long moment to give the skittering rabbits a steadied gaze, before he turns and presses himself into Doctor Hugh’s side, as a comfort. As a shield. Doesn’t mold himself to Doctor Hugh, yet, merely rests his head against his shoulder, arm pressed against arm.
“I will listen if you wish to tell me,” Cassius says, the hum around him growing, drowning out the faint orchestra, giving their words a semblance of privacy. “But only if you wish to. You will remain Doctor Hugh to me either way, Doctor Hugh.”
It's sharp, that. Unbidden. A painful sound punched right out of him in the shape of a laugh with none of the softness, all the wrong angles. Too many points, too many edges. Leaning his side into Cassius helps a little, but not entirely. The effort to shield him from their prying stares, the drone that sets their teeth on edge and drowns out his words. It's a kindness he didn't expect. That he doesn't deserve.
(He put Cassius in a cage. Gold bars and Gatstronauts don't change the shape of it. Knows it's for his safety too, that Hugh didn't have a choice, but--)
You will remain Doctor Hugh to me either way, Doctor Hugh.
When's the last time someone saw him as Doctor Hugh and not so much else? That well-loved bastard Singh, probably, and even his looks edge into piteous sometimes. Unbearable sympathy. He'd rather be alone.
"There - there was this creature. YS, they call themselves." Eees, as he says it. His body language turns strange at the mention of it, tighter and tenser in on himself. "They were... we thought they were attacking the ship. Had these spores, you know, sort of - hooked into the brainstem and took control of people. Irreversible. I was the only one who could - would communicate with them. They were so..."
A pause. His words come softer.
"...Lonely."
And they were. Are. He feels it now more keenly for having had him. The strong, homemade liquor helps numb it in the dead of night when he has nothing else to think of.
"And I was there for them. I was there for them and they - they didn't want me to be human, as I was. To live, and to die. They can't die. Will never - die. They..."
Hugh drops a hand to gentle encircle Cassius' wrist, guide it up the back of his shirt at an angle where no one else can see. Feel all those little fluttering pits up and down his spine, the grooves of cool pearly carapace around them. In lines between his ribs. More spore pits, there. He's got so many of them now.
"Wanted. To make me something more. And now I can't stop it."
So the ship hates him. Fears him. Resents him. He doesn't think he needs to finish the thought for Cassius to understand what those feel like.
"I don't know what I'll be in ten years. Five." A wet noise in his throat. Mirthless laughter. "A hundred. A hundred thousand. I may not be Doctor Hugh anymore, at some point. And I--"
Cassius says nothing as Doctor Hugh speaks. Lets him guide Cassius’ death-chilled hand up his back along a spine that is not quite a spine anymore. To ribs with those same, smooth pits that mark him as inhuman. A monster.
They wanted to make me something more.
He does not withdraw his hand, merely uses it to draw himself closer into Doctor Hugh’s contour. Mold himself into it, just a little, shell caving and stretching to cover more of his surface.
It scares me, Cassius.
He does not know how to comfort Doctor Hugh through this. Has never had to comfort his Hunter through the terror of their Newness. They had come to him full of scars already healed, a cocoon already ripped open and hollowed of the fully formed thing that had called that burden a home. And Doctor Hugh -
Doctor Hugh is still New. Still struggling with this YS. Still struggling to cope with his Song.
(Because that is what YS is, is it not? A force older than humanity, plagued upon a vessel with soft flesh so it could be sculpted into its image.
It does not matter to Cassius if it was lonely. Doctor Hugh is lonely now, too, because of it. Hurting because of it. Weighed down and crushed by his thoughts because of it.
Doctor Hugh says it cannot die, but -
His Hunter has not failed a hunt yet.)
“...you are much like my Hunter, Doctor Hugh,” Cassius says, when Doctor Hugh’s voice lulls with the emotion hanging upon his words. “They were human, too, once. Until the Song sunk its fangs into them and they were made New. Much like you are.”
He pauses for a moment, settles into a squirm that he has found to ease his Hunter (tight circles, bodies going round and round in a slow and steady pace).
“They are not the same person as before they were remade,” he continues gradually, as if forming the words is difficult for him (as if he is putting all of his worm-shaped heart into finding the right thing to say), “but they are still the Hunter. Still – Caelan, despite the years that have passed. Despite all that the Song has carved away from them.”
He loops his free hand around Doctor Hugh’s own, (another point of contact, another anchor from the heavy thoughts), and is met with the fluttering swarm of a pulse. Two heartbeats at once, three. No wonder Doctor Hugh is so kind.
“You will always be Doctor Hugh,” said with surety, with unfaltering faith. “Your Song – your YS – can carve away at you, too, Doctor Hugh, but it cannot change your roots. Not if you let do not let them.” A squeeze at Doctor Hugh’s hand, a pale imitation of the gentle gesture he had given Cassius earlier. “My Hunter took the Song and made it into something that helps in a way only a monster is capable of. With time, I believe that you can, too, Doctor Hugh.”
That squirm against his side shouldn't be soothing. Should terrify him - disgust him, even. Remind him of sweltering summer and the stink of sunbaked dogs. Whatever is left of him in a human sense should revolt at the feeling of that human-shaped body molding around him a bit, like death-cold clay. All those little bodies inside pressing against him.
It doesn't. Hugh doesn't have it in him to be upset about that anymore. Not when it feels so... reassuring? Nice, if not warm in the general sense.
Hugh's hand finds one of Cassius', absently. Or his arm, or whatever else of him is in reach. His head leans into the body beside him, the weight of him pushing into Cassius ever so slightly. Tired. Needy, even.
"...Well. You are the expert, aren't you? I'll have to take your word for it," he says in hollow tones of mirth, the wilted aspect of it sticking stubbornly. "And I hope you're right. I really... hope. That you are."
After a moment, he adds on.
"...Caelan. Pretty name."
He feels like the owner is not pretty in the least. But nonetheless, there's a newfound, fluttering feeling of kinship there, isn't there? To know that someone else out there knows what it's like to be something and then forcibly made into something else.
Cassius does not move when Doctor Hugh leans into him, when he grasps back onto his hand with loose fingers not entirely there. Merely lets Doctor Hugh take from him what he so willingly provides (and Cassius, in his affections, is willing to provide more than he should. He does not know better. Will not know better).
“I would not lie to you, Doctor Hugh,” said in soft tones, a low drone against the louder squirm of him. A reassurance, rather than an accusation. He tilts his head, enough to catch sight of the profile of Doctor Hugh’s face, haunted as it is. Tired as it is. “You are Doctor Hugh, and you will always be Doctor Hugh.”
Cassius closes his eyes, then. Concentrates on the feeling of that fluttering double rhythm, bordering on triple. Mimics it little by little with his worms until their pulses intertwine in a living, beating duet.
“And if you begin to forget yourself, I will be there to remind you,” he adds a moment later, as if it is a given now. As if he has known Doctor Hugh for years instead of hours. As if he has no intentions of letting Doctor Hugh go. “We are monsters, Doctor Hugh, and monsters stick together. For as long as you will have me, I will be here, as will my Hunter."
Will not be alone. He's never done well alone, always... sought more out. Others. These past few years of isolation have done damage, he knows. Left scar tissue. It's almost strange to have someone offer him so much care, so much warmth. He'd nearly forgotten what it felt like.
His arm curls around Cassius more securely. Squeezes, there. The flesh beneath his fingers feels papery and fragile. Not like this Hunter, not resilient and invincible. Were it up to them - to Adamska, to his ilk, to most of the ship - they would see it burn to ash in the incinerator and be forgotten. Disposed of. They would find some way or another to destroy Cassius, he thinks.
Hugh will not let that happen.
"You're too kind for your own good, Cassius. Has anyone ever told you that?"
That's softer, gentler. One last tender squeeze before Hugh tears himself away gently, steps back and turns to be sure the onlookers can see that he's unharmed. Not any more infected than before. Not burrowed into, or eaten to pieces. They can't see him getting too close right away - not at all, probably, or they won't trust his judgment on Cassius-related matters. Might try to go over his head. Then he'll have to threaten the life support system. Things will get contentious and messy.
He can't afford that. None of them can.
So now he stands back just a pace, sets a hand on Cassius' shoulder instead. Smiles, paints on that keen look he likes to wear to keep other people from guessing what's going on behind those gold half-frames of his.
"I suppose I don't have a choice then, hm? You need a Doctor Hugh, and I'm certainly the only one that can provide one of my caliber." A crooked little smile. "Until we find your Hunter, I'll have to fill in. Then we'll see. But until then--"
A gesture towards the food tray.
"--not a fan of vegan chicken, I take it? That makes two of us."
Someday, he'll see Cassius moved into a proper room. Somewhere where they have privacy. Can talk freely, not worried about those prying eyes outside the glass. But until then, this will have to do.
When Doctor Hugh pulls himself away (gently, carefully, as if it will hurt Cassius to do so any other way), Cassius has to catch himself from following after his warmth. Has to keep himself in place as Doctor Hugh grasps at his shoulder instead (Cassius feels the loss of closeness like an ache) and offers him a smile.
(Cassius misses the warmth in that, too, even if he understands.)
He considers Doctor Hugh for a moment, before the squirming under his skin quiets, faint musical strings once more floating along in the background.
At Doctor Hugh’s gesture, Cassius glances to the tray, at the offering that does not look like any sort of meat that he is familiar with, cooked or otherwise. Did not smell like it either, when he had held the tray in his hands.
(When his fingers had brushed over bruised knuckles. Wounded warmth. It will not happen again, that. Not under his watchful gaze.)
“I do not know what a vegan is,” Cassius says after a moment, sounding almost apologetic, “and I am not sure how it relates to the chicken, but – no, Doctor Hugh. I do not think I am a ‘fan’, as you say.” His hands return to their folded position. “My diet – my Hunter usually provides.”
(Meat, of course. Corpses still warm from the kill, bleeding pools stretching underneath them like shadows. Very little are the times when the Hunter brings them to him live. Only when times are desperate, when the hunger causes his worms to turn on each other, when it is all he can think about.
Cassius does not like being driven to such hunger. Likes the desperation even less.)
He pauses. “Do not worry about me, Doctor Hugh,” he says as he tilts his head. “I am not yet hungry. I am sure that with your help, we will find the Hunter before it becomes an issue.”
This Hunter hunts people. Cassius has basically said as much, what with the oh, plenty of people here, they won't go hungry business. Cassius gets his food from this Hunter.
Oh.
Oh dear.
Oh yes, everyone, good news! The strange worm abomination, as you all call it, was rather polite about needing human flesh to supplement his diet. Probably for all the maggots inside him. Hungry little buggers, haha. Anyhow, can I borrow a corpse or two? He hears the strained tones of his own phantom voice behind his eyes, now, imagines himself standing in front of a firing squad of other department heads and higher ups trying to explain that the new stowaway that none of them trust only needs a little human flesh now and again. How they'll all look at him in the moments before they decide he's absolutely biased or absolutely insane, and then start plotting how to get rid of Cassius. God. God.
Hugh lets on to none of this. Tries not to, anyway, only folding his arms and tilting his head, trying to fight the anxious twitch of his mouth.
"Oh. I see. We should - find them soon. Then. Shouldn't we?" His foot is tapping a crooked staccato on beaten metal flooring. They tore up the carpet ages ago. Too unhygienic in the long run. Hugh brings a hand up to rub absently at his mouth, glancing off towards the glace for just a split second before tearing himself back. "Do you have any ideas? I'm afraid the intercom system has been broken for ages, so. No paging them to the front desk, I'm afraid."
Check check, one-two. Hunter to the front, come collect your worm boy.
Cassius refrains from asking what an intercom system is, bookmarking it for a later time as he focuses on the more important question.
“...if my Garden had place to take root, it would simply be a matter of planting it and letting my roses lead them home,” Cassius starts thoughtfully, observing Doctor Hugh a moment before slowly, stiffly crossing his arms like he had done. “But there is – no space for it here, no ground for it to settle into. It is…”
A concern. One that he will need to address, but. Eventually. Once he has found his Hunter. (Once he is sure that he will not leave them behind.)
He does not continue that thought, however, merely pushes passed it.
“My Hunter’s senses are sharp, Doctor Hugh, much like their teeth. Even without my Garden, they have never had trouble locating me.” He tilts his head, contemplating. “But this is not the Earth. This is a vessel filled with human scents, human emotions, human memories - ” A pause. Softer, “Human fear.”
It would be hard, he thinks, to discern his scent from the rest. To peel out his happiness from the layers of sadness and fear and anger that surely cloud this place. Doctor Hugh had said his Song had damaged the people here. The resulting scars would be deep. Deep enough that it would mask him easily from his Hunter.
An idea drifts to him, then. One that causes his arms to unfurl and the seam upon his hand to split open across his palm.
“But perhaps,” he continues, “all we need to do is make my trail more easily accessible to them.” He brings his eyes up to meet Doctor Hugh’s mismatched ones, and extends his opened hand to him. “May I?”
Fear. Yes. Hugh can't argue that - that the Protogonos is an enormous can of tinned emotion, little of it positive. So many of them still grieve what they left behind on Earth - homes, sights. People. Lives. So many dealt with the worst of the LEERA infected, saw them tear themselves and people and anything they could find apart. More still are scarred from what YS did, the wounds still fresh and hot and painful the way the others have begun to scab over. Should this Hunter smell emotion, the whole of this place must be absolutely thick with it. Cloying. Anger and sorrow and fear and furtive, dark impulses held fast in these steel walls.
This Hunter - they sense emotion? Smell it? Alarming. What exactly is this thing Cassius holds so dear to him?
But enough of that. Hugh starts just a touch at Cassius' outstretched palm, the split seams. Hesitates only a moment before he steps in, hands hovering at his sides half-lifted. As if he's not certain what it is exactly he needs to do with them.
"I - yes. Doesn't--" A beat. His voice isn't nearly so bold as usual. "Doesn't that hurt you?"
Cassius pauses at the concern, as if he has never had to think about it. His gaze drops to his opened palm, the rippling seams darkening at the edges like spoiled meat (like the unpleasant, dark thing wrapped around Doctor Hugh’s eye). Even now, the sensation of it is dulled, only really translated to him through the bodies underneath it.
“...this shell does not feel pain as you do, Doctor Hugh,” he says eventually, drawing his eyes back up. “It does not have the - ” he pauses. Struggles to find the word “ - the required components threaded through it for such a thing.” And then, said almost as an afterthought, “The things that hurt me are not physical.”
(Human rejection. His enduring Hunter, quiet and withdrawn from their memories. Kind Doctor Hugh, exhausted and afraid under the weight of his Song.
Cassius’ pain, as far as he has experienced, has always come from other people, monsters and humans alike.)
He reaches his unopened hand to Doctor Hugh’s own and winds cold, deadened fingers around it carefully. Pulls it closer to his damaged shell with just as much care. The mass beneath it shift in waves.
(A collective word, worms. Cassius is not just made of maggots, is not just made of things that slink through loosened earth. He is a hybrid of things, a constant metamorphosis between tiny, wriggling bodies. They crawl as easily as they squirm. Burrow as easily as they chew.
Can be thread-thin like the grass of his Garden, or long and coiled like the things he pushes down deeper into himself in favor for something with prolegs, something that can cling.)
Cassius lets out a small hum as the maggot (beautiful and plump and one of his largest) crawls out of the mass and onto his fingers. Waits with unnatural stillness.
“As I am in ‘decontamination’, Doctor Hugh, I cannot spread my presence for the Hunter to find,” he says, a serious, faint knit to his brow. “But you are able to move freely, Doctor Hugh, and it would - ‘make me feel better’ to know that I am with you, however small, in case -”
Correction, then - Cassius is not a collection of maggots. He's a collection of worms of every kind, Hugh thinks, from what little he can see through that darkened split - horsehair thready shapes, fat earthworm tubules, plump fishing lure grubs. His father used to use the latter for bait, a lifetime ago. Speared them through the middle and thrown them out into the cold deep. It had upset a child Hugh in some strange, quiet way to see them curl up on themselves around the hook, impaled on sharp steel, no matter how much he was assured that they don't feel pain like we do, Stasi. It's okay. Don't be upset.
(He thinks Cassius would feel pain if someone were to do that to one of his worms.)
So he opens his palm up for that little piece of Cassius, gentle in how he makes a path for it. Curled fingers to make a bridge, a palm to warm itself on.
"Of - of course. Healthy little thing, isn't he? Ah - it? They." God, he's stumbling. Swallows the rest of it in favor of a meaningful glance up, through his lashes. "In case of what?"
He thinks he might know. Knows Cassius sees the looks these people shoot him, knows that he is unwanted here.
“...in case you are hurt,” Cassius finishes at Doctor Hugh's coaxing, the maggot crossing over onto his companion’s waiting palm. Cassius gives a long, deliberate look towards the glass, then, heavy with a Hunter’s promise. He lets it linger for a moment longer before turning his attention back to his palm. He pinches the seam upon his hand closed, guides his worms into sealing it shut. “For whatever reason, Doctor Hugh.”
(He has seen the crack under the door. More than enough space there for a worm. A dozen. A million.
If Doctor Hugh needs him, he will be there. The humans will just have to adjust to having their decontamination process interrupted.)
When his seam has glued itself back together, he lets his hand drop, his gaze moving his maggot. It is now curled against Doctor Hugh’s thumb like a ring, hiding away blotted purple (comforting it in ways Cassius himself cannot), and absorbing as much of his heat as it can before it is inevitably moved.
(Cassius can faintly feel it, too, that heat. It makes him miss it all the more. Keeps him lingering in Doctor Hugh’s personal bubble instead of stepping back.)
He tilts his head, the thin layer of his eyes catching the overhead light. “But… please. Try to be careful, Doctor Hugh. You are not my Hunter.”
Hugh stares down at the worm in his hand - wrapped around his thumb like those silly little rings he used to wear when he was younger, less tasteful in his flashiness. When he still wore silver, not realizing how hard it clashed with his undertones. (Always gold, now. The warm fleshy tones of the maggot don't clash either.) He does not move it just yet. It seems comfortable. Cassius too, hovering in place. Hugh is comforted by both of their presences.
It's those words that has him looking back up, mouth pulling with - with something. Something aching and sharp and badly hidden by his smile, the straightening of his back.
"Honestly, you worry entirely too much. If I've managed to stay alive this long, I'm sure I'll manage it a little longer as well, you know. Although I appreciate the concern. Get so little of it these days."
Hugh cranes his neck, raises his voice at the onlookers. Some of them have left in the wake of Cassius' pointed glare.
"I'm talking to you, you ungrateful fucks. Oh yes, I'm talking to - that's right, start walking." Another couple are leaving now. Little bastards. Hugh glances back, raising an impeccably plucked brow. "See? I can manage myself. For the most part, anyhow."
A beat. The mirth eases.
"Now, your Hunter... this Caelan of yours. I'm not so certain." Gentler, now. "If they're attacking the crew, Cassius, that could cause... issues. For all of us. Are you certain this will work?"
A little huff of… something escapes Cassius as Doctor Hugh chases a few more of their observers away, their tails tucked between their legs. It lingers in the ghosting curl of his mouth. Fades at Doctor Hugh’s next question.
If they're attacking the crew, Cassius -
“...forgive me, Doctor Hugh,” he says, a slight crease to his brow, the squirming under his shell going tight. “I… have not explained properly, it seems. I have led you to believe that my Hunter is a danger to everyone upon this vessel. That is not the case. Not entirely.”
His skin rolls as he turns, takes a step, but thinks better of it.
“My Hunter does not hunt rabbits -” a pause, a slight tilt of the head “- those without blood on their hands.” He looks to Doctor Hugh, as if seeing his face will help the words weave from his lips. “My Hunter hunts those with claws of their own. Teeth. The monsters that hide themselves among the unaware. They – hunt those who would hurt others.”
His hands fold together, an uneasy hum to him. He knows that Doctor Hugh will not like what he has to say next.
“And it is not if, Doctor Hugh. They must. The Song is cruel in its demands.” His eyes drop to the maggot still wound around Doctor Hugh’s thumb (greedy in the way he does not move it himself. Even the faint feel of Doctor Hugh’s heat is better than none). “...the maggot will work. The Hunter will be drawn to its scent – just.”
A breathless sound. “Do not flee from them, Doctor Hugh. The chase is a dangerous thing.”
They won't care, Cassius. They won't care that they're only killing bad people. That's now how people work, here.
Hugh says none of this. It isn't pertinent at the moment, and besides that, he doesn't... want to. Want to explain to Cassius that the people on the Protogonos aren't - always the best. Are not always so rigorously moral. That out of most of the higher-ups, a few casualties here and there is acceptable. That Hugh thinks that himself, genuinely. Not active malice, but... acceptable apathy.
(Does that make him a bad person? A huntable person? He hopes not. It probably does.)
Do not flee from them. The chase is a dangerous thing.
He knows how appetizing fleeing prey can be. Has been with plenty of people who had those same tastes.
"Don't run, then. Just - let them pick up your... scent? Presence." Hugh nods, going to set his hand on Cassius' shoulder - and thinking otherwise, swapping to the hand without the maggot. This little fellow is going to have to go somewhere else - in his pocket, perhaps, or tucked somewhere warm that doesn't squash. With that free hand, he gives Cassius' shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Understood. I'll have your Hunter back to you in no time at all, Cassius. Back before dinner, so to speak."
A beat. Lingering, almost regretful.
"...I'll have to leave, soon. This ship - I'm the only one who knows how to keep it in one piece, you know. Been getting some mildly disastrous reports out of some very important parts of it I'll need to attend to tonight. Today. Whenever it is." Softer, now. "Will you be alright without me for a bit? They won't touch you, believe me. Too afraid of you for that, I wager."
The energetic hum is back under his papery skin - a low hopeful drone nearly drowning out the quiet symphony at the thought of being reunited with his Hunter. Before dinner, even.
(Cassius has no reason to doubt Doctor Hugh. Has no reason to have anything but absolute faith in the man, so when Doctor Hugh says it will be in no time at all, Cassius believes him.
Doctor Hugh, after all, has not lied to him yet.)
It’s that feeling that softens the sadness of departure. Keeps Cassius composed and doe-eyed instead of vibrating harshly against his shell. Lets him speak with confidence, even, instead of something full of yearning.
“Do not worry, Doctor Hugh, I will be alright.” His hand drifts up to brush stiff fingers against Doctor Hugh’s wrist. Twists to awkwardly hold it. “When this ‘decontamination’ has been satisfied, I will be free to join you in the future. I would like to see how you work - if that is acceptable, of course.” A tone bordering on something almost warmth. “Until then, I am used to waiting. Feel free to return to your duties without concern.”
"I would be delighted to have you along with me on a workday. God knows I could use some pleasant company."
And he means it, too. Can imagine how nice it might be to have someone on hand that actually wants to be there, rather than dragged in for some menial chore like handing him tools or checking switches or what-have-you, counting the seconds until they can leave. Actual conversation. It would be so nice.
Will be. Will be so nice. They'll find this Caelan and get everything under control, he'll make the rest of the ship see. Make them understand. Make them cooperate.
(Something inhuman itches behind his eyes. Some primal not quite thought of could make them could make them could make them that he has to push aside. The drive to be more than he is. To be at the center of something sprawling and grand and so very neat, a queen in a hive of obedient drones.
No, no, no.)
"Then I'll leave you to your... Beethoven? Wonderful choice." Hugh steps back, cupping his little worm to himself, against the warmth of his chest. "I'll check in again soon, when I have the time. Enjoy yourself, Cassius. And if you need anything, feel free to have this little add-on of mine do... something noticeable? You'll figure something out, I'm sure."
The door slides open. Hugh almost resents having to step through it, watching through its open space before it slides shut.
"Good night, Cassius."
He has a life support system to maintain, and then a Hunter to find.
(Once he's further away, that little worm is tucked safely into his breast pocket. It'll be behind his ear by the end of the day.)
Cassius watches him go until he is out of view (but not gone, not with that connection Doctor Hugh tucks away into his breast pocket). Lets his gaze linger on the exit for a little while longer before turning and taking a seat upon the bed.
Later, much later, when his observers have thinned and their eyes have grown tired, he will begin to thread his worms deep into the mattress. Will begin to carve out a place for him to grow and multiply away from fearful, rabbity gazes as he looks over covers and traces delicate fingers along letters and words he cannot read.
(Perhaps, he thinks, Doctor Hugh would be willing to read them to him. He has a nice voice, his Doctor Hugh.)
Until then, however, he will sit and he will wait.
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Hunt. Like a predator. Like a - monster. Cassius had called himself that so freely, hadn't he? And Hugh, in his infinite wisdom and capacity for ignoring red flags, had taken it as cutesy wording. A fun little self-title, like Doctor or Senior Engineer or abominable inhuman fucking thing. Because Cassius had been all big, dark eyes and little smiles, soft tones and the sort of pleasant drone that itches just right in the parts of him that aren't human anymore.
Hugh stills. Swallows audibly, eyes just a bit wider for it.
(Some part of him wants to say yes.)
"Oh - no, no. Not necessary. Adamska isn't worth the trouble, you know." There's the smile again, although it's not warm and soft - it's sharp and cocky, smeared on like paint. That glittery grin that goes crooked on one side, the one with a deeper line in his cheek. Like he wears this look often, this grin he doesn't feel. "How terribly thoughtful of you, Cassius. I'll remember that."
There are observers, of course. They shift restlessly at Cassius' quiet, earnest threat. A bit moreso when Hugh says that last line with a pointed look over his shoulder, heavy with dark promise. I'll remember it and I'll use it if I have to.
(He won't, not really. Doesn't want Cassius to make himself into the threat they so desperately want him to be so they can throw him away, or lock him up somewhere far smaller, far tighter and far worse. Treat him like a thing the way they wish they could treat Hugh.
But threats. Those are always useful.)
"I heal a bit quicker than the average human, it's really nothing. Far from the worst damage I've had done to me." He follows Cassius' line of sight down to his knuckles, laughing faint. A little shrug. "Far. From the worst. Honestly, you should see the other guy."
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“It does not make me feel better, Doctor Hugh,” he starts, voice soft like silk, that same barely-there frown upon his face. Cassius’ fingers move to trace over Doctor Hugh’s knuckles, easing the tray out of his grasp as if it is a burden to him that Cassius insists on carrying. “I would prefer you not to come to harm at all, even if you are the one to strike first. You do not heal as fast as my Hunter.”
Because his Hunter tears themselves open and mends themselves closed in heartbeats. Because his Hunter has had their throats slit, their body burned, their limbs torn, and come out of it without so much a scar.
Cassius cannot keep them from being injured, no, but there is at least a comfort in knowing that any wound will not take. Doctor Hugh does not have that luxury.
(If he had been there, Doctor Hugh’s assailant would have had his anger carved into his legs like worm trails. A lesson, perhaps, in fear.)
That churning within him still remains, heavy like stones and gnawing hungry like starved maggots as he steps away to set the tray aside on the small table tucked up against the wall. Does not make to touch it, merely turns away to let his eyes linger on damaged, wounded skin.
(Guilt, if he had known the name to it. Instead it is an uncomfortable, spiraling thing not unlike the shell of a snail, only it keeps going and going without pause. Without clear view of the bottom.
He does not like it.)
He folds his hands in front of him as his gaze strays to the glass. To the rabbits stilling under his stare. He imagines if he had his Hunter’s senses, their hearts would be thrumming like a dragonfly’s wings.
His thoughts drift, then, to the anger he had seen outside of his windowed room. To the people there and the way that they had stared as Doctor Hugh had led him along. To humans and all that they are capable of when they are afraid.
When his attention returns to Doctor Hugh, it is softer. Solemn.
“...I am sorry,” Cassius says after the silence stretches. “It is because of me, is it not? Why you were hurt. Because I am a monster.”
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(Earth, maybe. Sure, he's had friends on the ship, but they weren't close. Didn't care overmuch when he came battered and bruised, only raised their brows and asked him what happened. They didn't fret. And when he'd become this, the vast majority of them had pulled away entirely. Cordial, short greetings and little smiles while passing in the halls that have very little eye contact attached.
Earth, probably. His father, soft-eyed and sorry after Hugh had come out of the latest row with his mother shaking from rage. There with a cup of his favorite tea - hibiscus and honey - and soft, comfy quiet out on the veranda, the open invitation to talk if he wanted to. His only real solid boyfriend, those cheap silver caps on his teeth glittering when he'd laugh and tell Hugh he didn't have to start fights over him at the bars, he already had him.
Earth. Down below, far away.)
Hugh blinks away a film of wetness he hadn't intended to let build, waits until Cassius turns to the table to do it. Thumb at the corner of his strange eye discreetly, the tears thick and murky there, sticky like oil. Takes in that solemnity with open surprise, forcing up a bark of wet laughter he doesn't feel. Shaking his head. If he keeps it moving, maybe the emotion won't translate.
"...They don't like me, here. Not the vast majority of them." A quiet admission. A little slump to his normally broad, straight shoulders. Hugh's eyes settle on Cassius' hands and stay there, his own hanging loose at his sides now. "Just - looking for a reason, really. You're not the cause, only an excuse. They don't--"
A beat. They don't like monsters here. That's true enough, but it also isn't the entire truth, is it. He starts again, softer.
"The thing... that made me. Into what I am. It did a lot of damage to these people, Cassius." His hands flex emptily. He studies the lines in his palms as he has done for hours, obsessing over every little line and nick and pale scar. Looking for any sign of something awful, something strange. "I never really told you what I am, did I? That I wasn't always like this."
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(Haunted.)
They don’t like me here.
Cassius takes a step closer, and then another and another until he is close enough to touch Doctor Hugh if he so desired. If Doctor Hugh had been his Hunter, Cassius would have already piled himself, molded himself to the grooves of their side in the way he knows would comfort them. Steady them. Anchor them before they could drift away.
(When his Hunter’s thoughts get heavy, when the weight seems to crush them, they hide themselves away from the world, deep within his garden, where he can comfort them in a way only he knows how.
They call it a weakness, his Hunter. They forget that it makes them human.)
Doctor Hugh, however, is not his Hunter, and no matter how much he may want to, Cassius restrains himself. Casts a glance to the window instead, where the rabbits wait with teeth and claws and round, round eyes taking Doctor Hugh in, in, in the way he knows his Hunter would not like.
It did a lot of damage to these people, Cassius.
I wasn’t always like this.
Just like his Hunter, Doctor Hugh. A monster made, not born. A soul without sound forced to bear the weight of a song. A person burdened with more than they were meant to carry.
(Someone kind made into something dangerous.)
Cassius steps around Doctor Hugh, then, to the side facing the window. Pauses for a long, long moment to give the skittering rabbits a steadied gaze, before he turns and presses himself into Doctor Hugh’s side, as a comfort. As a shield. Doesn’t mold himself to Doctor Hugh, yet, merely rests his head against his shoulder, arm pressed against arm.
“I will listen if you wish to tell me,” Cassius says, the hum around him growing, drowning out the faint orchestra, giving their words a semblance of privacy. “But only if you wish to. You will remain Doctor Hugh to me either way, Doctor Hugh.”
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It's sharp, that. Unbidden. A painful sound punched right out of him in the shape of a laugh with none of the softness, all the wrong angles. Too many points, too many edges. Leaning his side into Cassius helps a little, but not entirely. The effort to shield him from their prying stares, the drone that sets their teeth on edge and drowns out his words. It's a kindness he didn't expect. That he doesn't deserve.
(He put Cassius in a cage. Gold bars and Gatstronauts don't change the shape of it. Knows it's for his safety too, that Hugh didn't have a choice, but--)
You will remain Doctor Hugh to me either way, Doctor Hugh.
When's the last time someone saw him as Doctor Hugh and not so much else? That well-loved bastard Singh, probably, and even his looks edge into piteous sometimes. Unbearable sympathy. He'd rather be alone.
"There - there was this creature. YS, they call themselves." Eees, as he says it. His body language turns strange at the mention of it, tighter and tenser in on himself. "They were... we thought they were attacking the ship. Had these spores, you know, sort of - hooked into the brainstem and took control of people. Irreversible. I was the only one who could - would communicate with them. They were so..."
A pause. His words come softer.
"...Lonely."
And they were. Are. He feels it now more keenly for having had him. The strong, homemade liquor helps numb it in the dead of night when he has nothing else to think of.
"And I was there for them. I was there for them and they - they didn't want me to be human, as I was. To live, and to die. They can't die. Will never - die. They..."
Hugh drops a hand to gentle encircle Cassius' wrist, guide it up the back of his shirt at an angle where no one else can see. Feel all those little fluttering pits up and down his spine, the grooves of cool pearly carapace around them. In lines between his ribs. More spore pits, there. He's got so many of them now.
"Wanted. To make me something more. And now I can't stop it."
So the ship hates him. Fears him. Resents him. He doesn't think he needs to finish the thought for Cassius to understand what those feel like.
"I don't know what I'll be in ten years. Five." A wet noise in his throat. Mirthless laughter. "A hundred. A hundred thousand. I may not be Doctor Hugh anymore, at some point. And I--"
A swallow. His voice is thick.
"It scares me, Cassius."
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They wanted to make me something more.
He does not withdraw his hand, merely uses it to draw himself closer into Doctor Hugh’s contour. Mold himself into it, just a little, shell caving and stretching to cover more of his surface.
It scares me, Cassius.
He does not know how to comfort Doctor Hugh through this. Has never had to comfort his Hunter through the terror of their Newness. They had come to him full of scars already healed, a cocoon already ripped open and hollowed of the fully formed thing that had called that burden a home. And Doctor Hugh -
Doctor Hugh is still New. Still struggling with this YS. Still struggling to cope with his Song.
(Because that is what YS is, is it not? A force older than humanity, plagued upon a vessel with soft flesh so it could be sculpted into its image.
It does not matter to Cassius if it was lonely. Doctor Hugh is lonely now, too, because of it. Hurting because of it. Weighed down and crushed by his thoughts because of it.
Doctor Hugh says it cannot die, but -
His Hunter has not failed a hunt yet.)
“...you are much like my Hunter, Doctor Hugh,” Cassius says, when Doctor Hugh’s voice lulls with the emotion hanging upon his words. “They were human, too, once. Until the Song sunk its fangs into them and they were made New. Much like you are.”
He pauses for a moment, settles into a squirm that he has found to ease his Hunter (tight circles, bodies going round and round in a slow and steady pace).
“They are not the same person as before they were remade,” he continues gradually, as if forming the words is difficult for him (as if he is putting all of his worm-shaped heart into finding the right thing to say), “but they are still the Hunter. Still – Caelan, despite the years that have passed. Despite all that the Song has carved away from them.”
He loops his free hand around Doctor Hugh’s own, (another point of contact, another anchor from the heavy thoughts), and is met with the fluttering swarm of a pulse. Two heartbeats at once, three. No wonder Doctor Hugh is so kind.
“You will always be Doctor Hugh,” said with surety, with unfaltering faith. “Your Song – your YS – can carve away at you, too, Doctor Hugh, but it cannot change your roots. Not if you let do not let them.” A squeeze at Doctor Hugh’s hand, a pale imitation of the gentle gesture he had given Cassius earlier. “My Hunter took the Song and made it into something that helps in a way only a monster is capable of. With time, I believe that you can, too, Doctor Hugh.”
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It doesn't. Hugh doesn't have it in him to be upset about that anymore. Not when it feels so... reassuring? Nice, if not warm in the general sense.
Hugh's hand finds one of Cassius', absently. Or his arm, or whatever else of him is in reach. His head leans into the body beside him, the weight of him pushing into Cassius ever so slightly. Tired. Needy, even.
"...Well. You are the expert, aren't you? I'll have to take your word for it," he says in hollow tones of mirth, the wilted aspect of it sticking stubbornly. "And I hope you're right. I really... hope. That you are."
After a moment, he adds on.
"...Caelan. Pretty name."
He feels like the owner is not pretty in the least. But nonetheless, there's a newfound, fluttering feeling of kinship there, isn't there? To know that someone else out there knows what it's like to be something and then forcibly made into something else.
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“I would not lie to you, Doctor Hugh,” said in soft tones, a low drone against the louder squirm of him. A reassurance, rather than an accusation. He tilts his head, enough to catch sight of the profile of Doctor Hugh’s face, haunted as it is. Tired as it is. “You are Doctor Hugh, and you will always be Doctor Hugh.”
Cassius closes his eyes, then. Concentrates on the feeling of that fluttering double rhythm, bordering on triple. Mimics it little by little with his worms until their pulses intertwine in a living, beating duet.
“And if you begin to forget yourself, I will be there to remind you,” he adds a moment later, as if it is a given now. As if he has known Doctor Hugh for years instead of hours. As if he has no intentions of letting Doctor Hugh go. “We are monsters, Doctor Hugh, and monsters stick together. For as long as you will have me, I will be here, as will my Hunter."
Quieter, certain. "You will not be alone.”
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Will not be alone. He's never done well alone, always... sought more out. Others. These past few years of isolation have done damage, he knows. Left scar tissue. It's almost strange to have someone offer him so much care, so much warmth. He'd nearly forgotten what it felt like.
His arm curls around Cassius more securely. Squeezes, there. The flesh beneath his fingers feels papery and fragile. Not like this Hunter, not resilient and invincible. Were it up to them - to Adamska, to his ilk, to most of the ship - they would see it burn to ash in the incinerator and be forgotten. Disposed of. They would find some way or another to destroy Cassius, he thinks.
Hugh will not let that happen.
"You're too kind for your own good, Cassius. Has anyone ever told you that?"
That's softer, gentler. One last tender squeeze before Hugh tears himself away gently, steps back and turns to be sure the onlookers can see that he's unharmed. Not any more infected than before. Not burrowed into, or eaten to pieces. They can't see him getting too close right away - not at all, probably, or they won't trust his judgment on Cassius-related matters. Might try to go over his head. Then he'll have to threaten the life support system. Things will get contentious and messy.
He can't afford that. None of them can.
So now he stands back just a pace, sets a hand on Cassius' shoulder instead. Smiles, paints on that keen look he likes to wear to keep other people from guessing what's going on behind those gold half-frames of his.
"I suppose I don't have a choice then, hm? You need a Doctor Hugh, and I'm certainly the only one that can provide one of my caliber." A crooked little smile. "Until we find your Hunter, I'll have to fill in. Then we'll see. But until then--"
A gesture towards the food tray.
"--not a fan of vegan chicken, I take it? That makes two of us."
Someday, he'll see Cassius moved into a proper room. Somewhere where they have privacy. Can talk freely, not worried about those prying eyes outside the glass. But until then, this will have to do.
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(Cassius misses the warmth in that, too, even if he understands.)
He considers Doctor Hugh for a moment, before the squirming under his skin quiets, faint musical strings once more floating along in the background.
At Doctor Hugh’s gesture, Cassius glances to the tray, at the offering that does not look like any sort of meat that he is familiar with, cooked or otherwise. Did not smell like it either, when he had held the tray in his hands.
(When his fingers had brushed over bruised knuckles. Wounded warmth. It will not happen again, that. Not under his watchful gaze.)
“I do not know what a vegan is,” Cassius says after a moment, sounding almost apologetic, “and I am not sure how it relates to the chicken, but – no, Doctor Hugh. I do not think I am a ‘fan’, as you say.” His hands return to their folded position. “My diet – my Hunter usually provides.”
(Meat, of course. Corpses still warm from the kill, bleeding pools stretching underneath them like shadows. Very little are the times when the Hunter brings them to him live. Only when times are desperate, when the hunger causes his worms to turn on each other, when it is all he can think about.
Cassius does not like being driven to such hunger. Likes the desperation even less.)
He pauses. “Do not worry about me, Doctor Hugh,” he says as he tilts his head. “I am not yet hungry. I am sure that with your help, we will find the Hunter before it becomes an issue.”
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This Hunter hunts people. Cassius has basically said as much, what with the oh, plenty of people here, they won't go hungry business. Cassius gets his food from this Hunter.
Oh.
Oh dear.
Oh yes, everyone, good news! The strange worm abomination, as you all call it, was rather polite about needing human flesh to supplement his diet. Probably for all the maggots inside him. Hungry little buggers, haha. Anyhow, can I borrow a corpse or two? He hears the strained tones of his own phantom voice behind his eyes, now, imagines himself standing in front of a firing squad of other department heads and higher ups trying to explain that the new stowaway that none of them trust only needs a little human flesh now and again. How they'll all look at him in the moments before they decide he's absolutely biased or absolutely insane, and then start plotting how to get rid of Cassius. God. God.
Hugh lets on to none of this. Tries not to, anyway, only folding his arms and tilting his head, trying to fight the anxious twitch of his mouth.
"Oh. I see. We should - find them soon. Then. Shouldn't we?" His foot is tapping a crooked staccato on beaten metal flooring. They tore up the carpet ages ago. Too unhygienic in the long run. Hugh brings a hand up to rub absently at his mouth, glancing off towards the glace for just a split second before tearing himself back. "Do you have any ideas? I'm afraid the intercom system has been broken for ages, so. No paging them to the front desk, I'm afraid."
Check check, one-two. Hunter to the front, come collect your worm boy.
Christ.
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“...if my Garden had place to take root, it would simply be a matter of planting it and letting my roses lead them home,” Cassius starts thoughtfully, observing Doctor Hugh a moment before slowly, stiffly crossing his arms like he had done. “But there is – no space for it here, no ground for it to settle into. It is…”
A concern. One that he will need to address, but. Eventually. Once he has found his Hunter. (Once he is sure that he will not leave them behind.)
He does not continue that thought, however, merely pushes passed it.
“My Hunter’s senses are sharp, Doctor Hugh, much like their teeth. Even without my Garden, they have never had trouble locating me.” He tilts his head, contemplating. “But this is not the Earth. This is a vessel filled with human scents, human emotions, human memories - ” A pause. Softer, “Human fear.”
It would be hard, he thinks, to discern his scent from the rest. To peel out his happiness from the layers of sadness and fear and anger that surely cloud this place. Doctor Hugh had said his Song had damaged the people here. The resulting scars would be deep. Deep enough that it would mask him easily from his Hunter.
An idea drifts to him, then. One that causes his arms to unfurl and the seam upon his hand to split open across his palm.
“But perhaps,” he continues, “all we need to do is make my trail more easily accessible to them.” He brings his eyes up to meet Doctor Hugh’s mismatched ones, and extends his opened hand to him. “May I?”
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This Hunter - they sense emotion? Smell it? Alarming. What exactly is this thing Cassius holds so dear to him?
But enough of that. Hugh starts just a touch at Cassius' outstretched palm, the split seams. Hesitates only a moment before he steps in, hands hovering at his sides half-lifted. As if he's not certain what it is exactly he needs to do with them.
"I - yes. Doesn't--" A beat. His voice isn't nearly so bold as usual. "Doesn't that hurt you?"
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“...this shell does not feel pain as you do, Doctor Hugh,” he says eventually, drawing his eyes back up. “It does not have the - ” he pauses. Struggles to find the word “ - the required components threaded through it for such a thing.” And then, said almost as an afterthought, “The things that hurt me are not physical.”
(Human rejection. His enduring Hunter, quiet and withdrawn from their memories. Kind Doctor Hugh, exhausted and afraid under the weight of his Song.
Cassius’ pain, as far as he has experienced, has always come from other people, monsters and humans alike.)
He reaches his unopened hand to Doctor Hugh’s own and winds cold, deadened fingers around it carefully. Pulls it closer to his damaged shell with just as much care. The mass beneath it shift in waves.
(A collective word, worms. Cassius is not just made of maggots, is not just made of things that slink through loosened earth. He is a hybrid of things, a constant metamorphosis between tiny, wriggling bodies. They crawl as easily as they squirm. Burrow as easily as they chew.
Can be thread-thin like the grass of his Garden, or long and coiled like the things he pushes down deeper into himself in favor for something with prolegs, something that can cling.)
Cassius lets out a small hum as the maggot (beautiful and plump and one of his largest) crawls out of the mass and onto his fingers. Waits with unnatural stillness.
“As I am in ‘decontamination’, Doctor Hugh, I cannot spread my presence for the Hunter to find,” he says, a serious, faint knit to his brow. “But you are able to move freely, Doctor Hugh, and it would - ‘make me feel better’ to know that I am with you, however small, in case -”
In case he gets injured again. Hurt.
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(He thinks Cassius would feel pain if someone were to do that to one of his worms.)
So he opens his palm up for that little piece of Cassius, gentle in how he makes a path for it. Curled fingers to make a bridge, a palm to warm itself on.
"Of - of course. Healthy little thing, isn't he? Ah - it? They." God, he's stumbling. Swallows the rest of it in favor of a meaningful glance up, through his lashes. "In case of what?"
He thinks he might know. Knows Cassius sees the looks these people shoot him, knows that he is unwanted here.
In case they hurt me.
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(He has seen the crack under the door. More than enough space there for a worm. A dozen. A million.
If Doctor Hugh needs him, he will be there. The humans will just have to adjust to having their decontamination process interrupted.)
When his seam has glued itself back together, he lets his hand drop, his gaze moving his maggot. It is now curled against Doctor Hugh’s thumb like a ring, hiding away blotted purple (comforting it in ways Cassius himself cannot), and absorbing as much of his heat as it can before it is inevitably moved.
(Cassius can faintly feel it, too, that heat. It makes him miss it all the more. Keeps him lingering in Doctor Hugh’s personal bubble instead of stepping back.)
He tilts his head, the thin layer of his eyes catching the overhead light. “But… please. Try to be careful, Doctor Hugh. You are not my Hunter.”
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Hugh stares down at the worm in his hand - wrapped around his thumb like those silly little rings he used to wear when he was younger, less tasteful in his flashiness. When he still wore silver, not realizing how hard it clashed with his undertones. (Always gold, now. The warm fleshy tones of the maggot don't clash either.) He does not move it just yet. It seems comfortable. Cassius too, hovering in place. Hugh is comforted by both of their presences.
It's those words that has him looking back up, mouth pulling with - with something. Something aching and sharp and badly hidden by his smile, the straightening of his back.
"Honestly, you worry entirely too much. If I've managed to stay alive this long, I'm sure I'll manage it a little longer as well, you know. Although I appreciate the concern. Get so little of it these days."
Hugh cranes his neck, raises his voice at the onlookers. Some of them have left in the wake of Cassius' pointed glare.
"I'm talking to you, you ungrateful fucks. Oh yes, I'm talking to - that's right, start walking." Another couple are leaving now. Little bastards. Hugh glances back, raising an impeccably plucked brow. "See? I can manage myself. For the most part, anyhow."
A beat. The mirth eases.
"Now, your Hunter... this Caelan of yours. I'm not so certain." Gentler, now. "If they're attacking the crew, Cassius, that could cause... issues. For all of us. Are you certain this will work?"
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If they're attacking the crew, Cassius -
“...forgive me, Doctor Hugh,” he says, a slight crease to his brow, the squirming under his shell going tight. “I… have not explained properly, it seems. I have led you to believe that my Hunter is a danger to everyone upon this vessel. That is not the case. Not entirely.”
His skin rolls as he turns, takes a step, but thinks better of it.
“My Hunter does not hunt rabbits -” a pause, a slight tilt of the head “- those without blood on their hands.” He looks to Doctor Hugh, as if seeing his face will help the words weave from his lips. “My Hunter hunts those with claws of their own. Teeth. The monsters that hide themselves among the unaware. They – hunt those who would hurt others.”
His hands fold together, an uneasy hum to him. He knows that Doctor Hugh will not like what he has to say next.
“And it is not if, Doctor Hugh. They must. The Song is cruel in its demands.” His eyes drop to the maggot still wound around Doctor Hugh’s thumb (greedy in the way he does not move it himself. Even the faint feel of Doctor Hugh’s heat is better than none). “...the maggot will work. The Hunter will be drawn to its scent – just.”
A breathless sound. “Do not flee from them, Doctor Hugh. The chase is a dangerous thing.”
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Hugh says none of this. It isn't pertinent at the moment, and besides that, he doesn't... want to. Want to explain to Cassius that the people on the Protogonos aren't - always the best. Are not always so rigorously moral. That out of most of the higher-ups, a few casualties here and there is acceptable. That Hugh thinks that himself, genuinely. Not active malice, but... acceptable apathy.
(Does that make him a bad person? A huntable person? He hopes not. It probably does.)
Do not flee from them. The chase is a dangerous thing.
He knows how appetizing fleeing prey can be. Has been with plenty of people who had those same tastes.
"Don't run, then. Just - let them pick up your... scent? Presence." Hugh nods, going to set his hand on Cassius' shoulder - and thinking otherwise, swapping to the hand without the maggot. This little fellow is going to have to go somewhere else - in his pocket, perhaps, or tucked somewhere warm that doesn't squash. With that free hand, he gives Cassius' shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Understood. I'll have your Hunter back to you in no time at all, Cassius. Back before dinner, so to speak."
A beat. Lingering, almost regretful.
"...I'll have to leave, soon. This ship - I'm the only one who knows how to keep it in one piece, you know. Been getting some mildly disastrous reports out of some very important parts of it I'll need to attend to tonight. Today. Whenever it is." Softer, now. "Will you be alright without me for a bit? They won't touch you, believe me. Too afraid of you for that, I wager."
no subject
(Cassius has no reason to doubt Doctor Hugh. Has no reason to have anything but absolute faith in the man, so when Doctor Hugh says it will be in no time at all, Cassius believes him.
Doctor Hugh, after all, has not lied to him yet.)
It’s that feeling that softens the sadness of departure. Keeps Cassius composed and doe-eyed instead of vibrating harshly against his shell. Lets him speak with confidence, even, instead of something full of yearning.
“Do not worry, Doctor Hugh, I will be alright.” His hand drifts up to brush stiff fingers against Doctor Hugh’s wrist. Twists to awkwardly hold it. “When this ‘decontamination’ has been satisfied, I will be free to join you in the future. I would like to see how you work - if that is acceptable, of course.” A tone bordering on something almost warmth. “Until then, I am used to waiting. Feel free to return to your duties without concern.”
no subject
And he means it, too. Can imagine how nice it might be to have someone on hand that actually wants to be there, rather than dragged in for some menial chore like handing him tools or checking switches or what-have-you, counting the seconds until they can leave. Actual conversation. It would be so nice.
Will be. Will be so nice. They'll find this Caelan and get everything under control, he'll make the rest of the ship see. Make them understand. Make them cooperate.
(Something inhuman itches behind his eyes. Some primal not quite thought of could make them could make them could make them that he has to push aside. The drive to be more than he is. To be at the center of something sprawling and grand and so very neat, a queen in a hive of obedient drones.
No, no, no.)
"Then I'll leave you to your... Beethoven? Wonderful choice." Hugh steps back, cupping his little worm to himself, against the warmth of his chest. "I'll check in again soon, when I have the time. Enjoy yourself, Cassius. And if you need anything, feel free to have this little add-on of mine do... something noticeable? You'll figure something out, I'm sure."
The door slides open. Hugh almost resents having to step through it, watching through its open space before it slides shut.
"Good night, Cassius."
He has a life support system to maintain, and then a Hunter to find.
(Once he's further away, that little worm is tucked safely into his breast pocket. It'll be behind his ear by the end of the day.)
no subject
Cassius watches him go until he is out of view (but not gone, not with that connection Doctor Hugh tucks away into his breast pocket). Lets his gaze linger on the exit for a little while longer before turning and taking a seat upon the bed.
Later, much later, when his observers have thinned and their eyes have grown tired, he will begin to thread his worms deep into the mattress. Will begin to carve out a place for him to grow and multiply away from fearful, rabbity gazes as he looks over covers and traces delicate fingers along letters and words he cannot read.
(Perhaps, he thinks, Doctor Hugh would be willing to read them to him. He has a nice voice, his Doctor Hugh.)
Until then, however, he will sit and he will wait.
And wait.
And wait.
(he is so very good at waiting.)