#Also yes I know you can take prodding as a double entendre but I'm using it as the title anyway

[wowbright]

Fic: Prodding

Klaine Advent 2022: recast

Words: ~ 3000 words

Rating: Teen and Up

Summary: Kurt gets surprising news from Mercedes.

I’m back with more vignettes from my Mormon!Klaine universe for Klaine Advent 2022! This vignette takes after Philosophies of Men.

My Mormon!Klaine Masterpost.

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“No!” Kurt shrieked from the kitchen at such an ear-splitting volume, Blaine almost cut himself with the razor. “This is not happening!”

Blaine went into emergency management mode. His heart pounded, but he made himself take deep, steady breaths. If Kurt had hurt himself, it wouldn't help to have both of them panicking.

“What happened? Are you okay?” Blaine asked as he rushed into the kitchen. Kurt sat at the table, staring at the letter from Mercedes. Ah, not a physical wound then, but an emotional one. That might be even worse.

Kurt looked up at Blaine, his cheeks flushing a ruddy pink. “Sorry. I didn't mean to say that out loud.”

Blaine sat next to him. “It's OK. Is it something you want to talk about?”

“You still have shaving cream …” Kurt pointed vaguely to Blaine’s neck.

“That's OK. I was almost done. If it's uneven, I can touch it up later.” Blaine grabbed the face towel that was draped over his shoulder and dabbed at his skin. “Presentable?”

“I'm not the right person to ask, Blaine. I always think you're presentable.”

Blaine felt the edges of his ears go hot. This felt like flirting. Was this flirting? No, of course not. Kurt was in the middle of having strong emotions. That's why Blaine was here. “Um, so I'm guessing Mercedes said something that upset you?”

Kurt set the letter down and buried his face in his hands. “It shouldn't. I don't know why it does.”

Blaine tried to think of situations in which that phrase could apply. He wondered if Mercedes was having a once-in-a-lifetime event—a wedding, a Broadway premiere—that Kurt couldn't be there for because he was here in Germany. Kurt would deny himself the right to feel sad about it, because missionaries were supposed to be happy to make sacrifices. “So, good for Mercedes, but bad for you?”

“No.” Kurt muttered through his fingers. “Good for me, and bad for Mercedes.”

Blaine drew a blank. "How so?"

“It’s … I swear, if I had any other mission companion than you, I wouldn't be able to share my disappointment with this. And maybe you won't get it, but ... I'll give it a shot.” Kurt had uncovered his face by now, but was looking away from Blaine, his gaze set on the kitchen window. His voice was full of foreboding. “She's meeting with the missionaries.”

Blaine didn't understand the sentence at first, it was so far removed from any of the terrible-type news he might have expected. He had to play it over in his head a couple of times before he processed it. “Wait. That's good, isn't it?”

“She's black, Blaine.”

“Right.” Blaine still wasn’t following.

“You're the one who woke me up to the church's problems with racism. How can I, in good conscience, support her investigating a church that sees her as less?”

Oh. Blaine knew the things he had told Kurt about Brigham Young had shaken him, but he hadn't realized how much. For Blaine, the racism of the second prophet of the restoration was disturbing, but it was part of a larger picture. Because Blaine didn't have blind faith in the leadership, even their worst actions couldn't harm his faith in the goodness of the church or its ability to bring people closer to the truth.

Blaine suddenly understood that, for someone like Kurt, who had spent his whole life thinking Brigham Young was as perfect as Joseph Smith or Jesus Christ, learning he wasn’t would make him question all his beliefs.

It was like those looms Kurt had shown him at the Deutsches Museum. There were ones that made fabric by weaving many different strands together, and others that did so by knitting a single strand into a sweater or an enormous piece of cloth. Blaine’s faith was like woven fabric—if you pulled out a single thread, the worst that could happen was a small gap in the fabric. And this wasn’t always a bad thing—sometimes clothmakers did this intentionally, to create texture and beauty in an otherwise monotonous design.

But Kurt’s faith was like a knitted fabric—if you pulled too hard on a thread, the entire thing would eventually unravel. There was no upside.

Blaine have never meant to damage Kurt’s faith like that. He'd meant to enrich it.

“I'm sorry, Kurt. I didn't realize how much that affected you. But Brigham Young's been dead for more than a hundred and thirty years. He said and taught horrible things and, yes, a lot of our members believed them far after they should have known better. But that doesn't mean the church is inherently racist—just that it’s made mistakes. Our leaders have flaws. That’s why we have the guidance of the Holy Ghost—to confirm or disaffirm the things they’ve told us.”

Kurt looked skeptical. He broke a cookie into quarters, but didn't put any of the pieces into his mouth. “It’s not just Brigham Young. Black members were kept out of the temple until 1978. The temple, Blaine. The place we need to go to be with our families forever.”

“And that's awful. But I think of those leaders before 1978 the same way I think of Brigham Young. They were wrong. And the thing I hold onto is that they eventually came to understand they were wrong, and they repented. Do you know about Bruce R. McConkie? As an apostle, he taught that black people were spiritually inferior to everyone else on earth. But when the revelation came ending the priesthood ban, he said, ‘Forget everything that I have said, or what President Brigham Young … or whomsoever has said in days past that is contrary to the present revelation. … We have … a new flood of intelligence and light on this particular subject, and it erases all the darkness and all the views and all the thoughts of the past. They don’t matter anymore.’”

“But they do matter, Blaine. Because those policies hurt real people. And racism is still a problem in the church. All these pasty missionaries from the Mormon Corridor who want to pretend they can't see color, the fact that we can't sing gospel music in sacrament meeting because it’s too ‘ethnic’—”

“Yes. And that’s bad. Of course it’s bad. But it’s a problem everywhere, Kurt, inside the church and out of it.” Blaine spoke from experience. He'd been made to feel inferior for not being one-hundred percent white by some church members, but he'd also been made fun of for it at school and in playgrounds, too.

Kurt scoffed. “Not in Mercedes’ church! Everyone there is black. At least, almost everyone. The first time I went there with Mercedes, after I got over feeling out of place, I started noticing how comfortable she felt there. Just—safe, you know? In a way I hadn’t seen anywhere else. She wouldn't get that at one of our wards. She'd be surrounded by white people, just like she is everywhere else.”

Blaine was struck with a sense of longing. He wondered what it would be like, to be in a place like that. He often passed as white, but that still didn't mean he felt one-hundred percent safe in groups of white people. There was always the risk, even among the seemingly nicest folks, that someone would start making ethnic jokes or ranting about immigrants. And while he didn't have to worry about that as much when he visited the Philippines, there were so many cultural nuances he didn't understand, besides the fact that his Tagalog was terrible and his English was so obviously American-accented. It left him feeling like he did much of the time in his early days in Germany, on constant alert.

If a sense of belonging was so hard to come by, it couldn't be the only thing you considered in choosing a church. “Look. If she feels a pull toward the gospel, then she feels a pull toward the gospel. I've been a minority in every ward I’ve ever attended. But the church still works for me. What did she say in her letter about it, anyway?”

Kurt looked down at the letter and huffed. “Not much. Just ‘In Chicago for an entire month! Met a pair of female missionaries on the L train and have talked a couple times. They gave me a Book of Mormon—sorry, Kurt I didn't bring the one you gave me in high school on tour with me.’ Then she put in a smiley face. ‘It’s interesting. I like the story about the tree of life. We should talk about it when you get back! We’ll be in Columbus…’ et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.”

“OK. Well, that doesn't sound like she's on the verge of converting. Maybe she's just bored. I understand those national theater tours can be grueling.”

Kurt scowled at his scuffed CTR ring, twisting it back and forth over his finger. “I don't even know if that's what I'm upset about. Maybe I'm just angry at myself. You know how much time I spent trying to convert her in high school? Because I thought this church was the best option for everyone. And because she was the only girl I could remotely see myself marrying, and if that was the case, she had to convert. I wasn't going to go through the sacrifice of marrying a woman unless it was a temple marriage. Which, honestly … how many lectures did we get in priesthood quorums about not objectifying the sisters? But isn't looking at a woman as a ticket into heaven objectifying, too? I never considered her feelings about it. If it was good for me, it was good for her. But now, thinking about her reading the Book of Mormon and reading some of the stuff in there—It makes me feel queasy, Blaine.”

Blaine thought he knew what “stuff” Kurt was alluding to. “You mean about the Lamanites been cursed with the skin of blackness? If she's talking to the missionaries, they'll explain it to her the same way we explain it to investigators. That it’s a metaphor, like when we say someone is having ‘dark thoughts.’”

“Do you really believe that, though? Because if Brigham Young was a racist, then maybe Joseph Smith was, too. Maybe he put some of his own opinions into the Book of Mormon.”

“No. First of all, Joseph Smith wasn't a racist. He ordained black men. Second of all, God’s not a racist, so the Book of Mormon can’t be racist, either. It’s the one that tells us God ‘denieth none that come unto him, black and white, bond and free, male female.’ Even the Bible doesn’t say that.”

Kurt studied Blaine dubiously, then picked up one of the long-abandoned pieces of cookie he'd left on his plate and popped it into his mouth. He chewed it completely before speaking. “I just can't stop thinking about when Elder St. James told me about the doubts Elder Thompson was having. It wasn’t just vague, generic doubts. Elder St. James went through this whole list of specific passages in the Book of Mormon and the Pearl of Great Price that Elder Thompson said were racist. And I've been reading over them since and … Blaine. If I take my believer goggles off, if I really look at the passages and take what they say at face value, without trying to find a reason they can't be as bad as they sound—they really do sound racist. I mean, the ‘skin of blackness’ passage sounds even more literal in German. In English, it says ‘because of their iniquity … the Lord God did cause a skin of blackness to come upon them,’ which—I mean, now when I read it? Interpreting that as  dark thoughts seems like a real stretch. I've heard the theory that ‘come upon’ means the same as ‘drape upon, and so ‘skin’ actually refers to ‘clothing’, and it all means that they were no longer allowed to wear the white temple clothes and were forced to dress in black once instead. But in German, it says ‘their skin became black.’ There's none of that idea of being clothed in something. And the German translation is approved by the brethren. So the whole idea of ‘skin of blackness’ being about clothes goes out the window.”

Blaine felt a little queasy. He grabbed one of the German Books of Mormon from the bookshelf and flipped open to 2 Nephi 5. “No, Kurt, that's wrong. It says ‘their skin became blackish.’”

Kurt sat back in his chair, his arms crossed. His mouth was closed, but Blaine could see his tongue moving under his cheeks and lips, probing his teeth. “And how is that any better?”

“Well, schwärzlich could also mean darkish instead of blackish, so maybe it just means their skin got dirty or … OK, it doesn't sound better. But it could still be a metaphor. Joseph Smith was translating from Reformed Hebrew. All languages have idioms that don't translate well. Maybe this is one of them.”

"Sure, maybe. Except that it keeps getting repeated over and over in the book of Mormon. Not just Nephi, but Jacob in Alma talk about good people’s skin being white and bad people’s skin being dark, and if skin means clothes in Reformed Hebrew, then why didn't Joseph Smith translate it that way? Or if it means countenance or spirit, then why doesn't Joseph Smith translate it like that?”

Kurt stood up from the table and began pacing, fidgeting with his CTR ring the whole time. Blaine hoped the jeweler would be done with his new ring soon. It would be much easier to fidget with. “When you or I translate the word ‘in’ from English into German," Kurt continued, "we pick a different word depending on the context. Sometimes it’s in, and sometimes it's im, an, auf, hinein, or unter. Der Hahn can be a rooster or a faucet, but if you're talking about a sink, you should translate it is faucet, not rooster. If Joseph Smith had the gift of translation, then he should have been able to translate things correctly. So either what was written on the golden plates was racist, or Joseph Smith translated it badly and in a way he knew would be interpreted as racist, because he was an American living in the 1830s. Which means he wasn't using his gift of translation to its full extent. Because I'm not gifted, Blaine, but I know that if a German says, ‘My grandparents live where the fox and hare say goodnight to one another,’ I can't translate it that way into English or nobody will understand what I'm saying. I have to say that their grandparents live in the middle of nowhere.”

It was a lot to take in. Blaine was all for Kurt questioning things. He'd been trying to get Kurt to do that for most of their time together, prodding Kurt to recast the beliefs that constrained him into ones that would lead to his liberation. But now, instead of Blaine being the one doing the prodding, it was Kurt. Blaine wasn't so comfortable being poked.

Maybe he could chide Kurt for spending his personal scripture study time scrutinizing passages that gave him doubts, instead of focusing on things that would help them with investigators. But that would be hypocritical, since Blaine had been spending his personal study time fawning over Song of Solomon and anything in scripture vaguely resembling a gay love story—not particularly useful for helping with investigators, either.

“Fine,” Blaine said defensively. “Maybe those passages really are racist. But that would still be a matter of men inserting their beliefs in place of God's teaching. Joseph Smith said that the Book of Mormon was the most correct book of any book on earth, not that it was perfect. And yes, Brigham Young was a racist and tons of our leaders have been racists. It was racism that kept the church from letting black members into the temple until 1978. And there are still people in the church like my granddad who lean on those false teachings, and people in the church who are well-meaning but insensitive, and maybe the leaders could do more to denounce teachings of the past.”

Blaine took a deep breath, gathering up the courage to prod back. “But I still don't understand why you think all these things make the church an unacceptable place for Mercedes. Because you’ve found a home here, despite all the terrible things the leaders have said about gay people, despite the cruel expectations they put on you. And I'm not saying you shouldn't be concerned about racism. What I don't understand is why the church’s racism is so bad that Mercedes shouldn't even be taking lessons with the missionaries, but the homophobia is so hunky-dory you can give your whole life to the church, no questions asked.”

Kurt stopped pacing. He looked like a deer caught in headlights. “That's different. Being gay is …” Kurt drifted off.

“A sin?” Blaine asked, even though it raised his bile just to speak the words. He didn't know if he was gay, but he knew what it was like to love another man. And it was the opposite of sin.

“No. Being gay isn't a sin.”

“But thinking gay thoughts is?”

Kurt shook his head. “I don't know. I don't think so.”

“Doing gay things?”

Kurt sank back into his chair and contemplated the surface of the table. “Maybe? I'm not sure. If you asked me a few weeks ago, I would've said ‘definitely.’ But if the church can be wrong about other things ... I don't know.”

“So,” Blaine said gently, “is it different at all?”

[ganymede-princess]

Vignettes | Robert Capa

Main fic

ship: robert capa X f!oc

warnings: sexual references/very VERY mild smut

summary: a companion piece to Entanglement Theory, this is a collection of scenes that serve as windows into Capa and Doc's relationship.

total word count: 2681

a/n: During the absolute madness and obsession that was the writing of Entanglement Theory, I imagined several scenarios that would not fit into the story. So instead of just letting them fizzle out, I've decided to write them out while I'm still in the depths of my obsession. Treat this as a fluffy little continuation of the previous story; less looming cosmic horror and more slice of life. There may be a sequel to this some time in the future. Also, while searching through Tumblr, I discovered a set of summarised backstories for each of the Icarus crew that were used during the film's production. They hit on the character's views on a few key subjects, so I decided to write one out for Doc.

written by @ganymedeprincess

Waiting Room - word count: 369

"You're nervous."

Capa looks up from his copy of National Geographic, studying me with an unreadable expression. Though the waiting room is slightly too warm, I still shiver at the frosty blue of his eyes as he peers at me through his glasses. I drum my fingers on the copy of Vogue in my lap.

"And you're not?" I flush.

Capa closes his magazine and purses his lips derisively.

"It's just LASIK. It won't hurt."

"I know, I'm a doctor, remember?"

"How could I forget?" The black frames of his glasses dominate his face, almost hiding the amusement in his eyes. I think I'll miss them when they're gone. "And yes, I'm nervous."

"Good. I don't feel so bad about it now."

He almost smiles as he goes back to reading.

"Your hair's getting longer." I bite my cheek.

"Mm." He looks at me from the corner of his eye, thumbing a lock of hair clinging to his neck. "I'm thinking I'll buzz it before departure so I won't have to worry about it haircuts for a few months."

"You'll look like Mace." I giggle.

"I hadn't thought of that." He looks up, narrowing his eyes.

"I wish you two got along better."

"He doesn't exactly make it easy."

"I agree, he can be quite antagonistic." My eyes fall on the fish tank across the room where a clownfish repeatedly prods at a closed anemone. "But you're both excellent scientists, and so interesting in your own ways."

"You like him, don't you?" His blue lantern eyes fall back to the magazine on his lap.

"Sure, he's a good friend." I skirt the obvious double entendre. Capa nods wordlessly. "You could just grow your hair out, y'know."

I hand him my copy of Vogue, folded to a photo of the actor Apollo Chalamet with his long black hair in a ponytail.

"I think it'd suit you."

He studies the page for a moment, and hands it back with a wry smirk.

"Maybe."

"Um, Met-roh-doo-rah?" A young woman in scrubs reads my name from a clipboard.

"Metrodora." I correct her with a smile. "See you after, Capa."

"See you, Metrodora." Capa's crystal eyes glimmer as he teases me. "Break a leg."

Caught - word count: 1990

Gunfire hails from all sides as I crouch run behind Harvey, covering his back as we seek shelter behind a small armored quad. Snow falls and piles up inside the hangar from the hole our magnet bomb ripped in the ceiling, slicking the floor so I have to take care not to slip as we run outside to meet the enemy tank that is rolling in, shifting the snow into dirty brown wakes behind it.

"I don't know why you don't play it in Simulation." Mace sprawls on the end of the lounge, munching a muesli bar. "You guys could afford to break a sweat more often."

"I just came from the gym room, Mace." I scoff as I unload a hail of bullets into the sprocket of the tank.

"Believe it or not, we don't all want the stress of actually being in a war zone." Harvey adds, scaling the side of the huge, silver vehicle with his grappling hook.

"You're not actually-"

"We know!" Harvey snaps.

"Are you just gonna sit there commentating or are you gonna pick up a controller?" Trey climbs up the other side, swinging across to drop a grenade into a porthole on the side of the tank, only for it to fall out of another hole, blowing him to smithereens. "Shit!"

"Nice." I giggle, and jog over to revive him. "You can have mine in a second, I'm gonna go make a cuppa."

Beside me, somebody settles on the arm of the couch. Enraptured by the action on the screen before me, I can't afford to look away.

"That you, Capa?"

"Yeah." His voice rumbles pleasantly, but I keep my eyes on the screen as I break the camera on the front of the tank with my armored forearm.

"Can you put the kettle on, please?"

"Yes, dear." He quips, wandering off.

I scoff, my face flushing with the keen awareness that none of the crew know about our affair. Trey makes a whip cracking sound with his mouth.

"Shut up, Trey!" I clumsily hand my controller to Mace. He snatches it from me a little too aggressively and I glare him down. "Hey!"

"Mmph."

"What's your problem?"

"Nothing." He scowls.

"Look, I don't know why you're so sour but you can't take it out on me." I frown, stalking out of the room.

"What happened?" Capa asks as I arrive in the kitchen. He is perched on the countertop holding a sleeve of saltines.

"What?" I avoid his gaze, knowing the instant I meet his eyes I will be powerless to look away.

"You're upset, what happened?" He taps the back of my leg with his foot. The warmth in his voice lures me into the snare of his vision.

"It's that easy to tell, huh?" His eyes cool the fire in my belly.

"Mm. I can read you." He puts down the saltines and holds out his hands in offering. "What happened?"

"It's Mace." I give him my hands sidle in between his knees. "He snapped at me for no reason."

"I'll kill him." Capa's jaw tightens.

"Thanks." I peck his cheek. "Do you know what's upsetting him?"

"You think it's my fault?" He frowns.

"No. I just thought you might know."

"Could be anything." He shakes his head, eyes sharp with annoyance. "I will kill him if you want me to."

"Mm." I smile, tuck my arms around him and lay my head on his chest, reveling in his warmth.

"Look at me." Capa rewards my obedience with a kiss.

It begins gently enough, his huge, rough hands cradling my face while his lips barely brush against mine. Greedily, I press forward to deepen the kiss, but he breaks away to look at me.

"I haven't seen you much today." He smooths my hair down. "I've missed you."

"Me too." I cradle his face in my hands and watch as he lets out a shuddering breath. "I wish we had more chances to work together."

"I'll see if I can move around the chores roster next week." He nuzzles my hand. "Hopefully we can line our break times up as well so we can go and hang out in the Earth Room."

"That'd be great." I press a kiss to the corner of his mouth and nudge his nose with mine, silently pleading him to kiss me again.

He takes pity on my desperation, kissing me deeply. I part my lips and his tongue slips into my mouth, swirling a heady vortex of sensation that reverberates through every inch of me. Helpless and at his mercy, I try desperately to push closer to him, to feel his taut muscles beneath his shirt and-

Somebody clears their throat.

"Jesus!" I leap back from him, sending my empty cup scuttling across the floor. "Searle, I-"

"Searle, it's not-"

Searle puts his hand up to silence us.

"Congratulations." He rolls his eyes, pushing past me to grab some decaf. "Just, don't do that in the kitchen, yeah?"

Desperately, I look to Capa who has surreptitiously covered his lap with a tea-towel and the Saltines. In spite of my burning embarrassment, I stifle a laugh.

"Searle, listen-" Capa begins.

"No, you listen." Searle pours his coffee. "I'm not going to tell on you, but I do want to have a talk with both of you about the implications of this situation. Now, I suggest you go have a cold shower, separately, and meet me in my office in thirty minutes."

Searle slinks away, leaving Capa and I in stunned silence. I bury my face in my hands and sigh. Capa hops down from the counter and rubs my shoulder then wordlessly guides me to the bathrooms.

****

Capa and I reconvene outside Searle's office. I wring my hands, avoiding his gaze.

"Don't be scared." He murmurs. "It's only Searle."

"I don't know why I feel like I've done something wrong." I confess, anxiety rising like bile in my chest.

Capa glances up and down the hallway, tilts my face up to look at him for a moment, then pulls me into a hug.

"I'm not feeling great about it, either," He admits, stroking my hair. "But we're gonna go in there and hear him out, then we'll decide what to do."

"I guess it was always gonna come to this."

"Mm." Capa breaks the embrace. "C'mon."

As we enter his office, Searle looks up from his book and places it face down on his desk. I notice it's old and tattered, and titled Children of Men.

"Glad you both could make it." He swivels his chair around as he greets us. "You look like a pair of kids in the principal's office. Try not to feel so tense, I'm here to help."

Capa and I sit down in silence. I want the comfort of his hand in mine, but somehow it feels wrong to do it in front of Searle.

"So, do either of you have anything to say, or will I start things off?"

Capa and I exchange a glance. I shake my head. Capa looks as if he is about to say something, but he bites his lip and stays silent.

"Alright." Searle raises his eyebrows. "I guess I'll just get it out of the way and say that I've known about you two for a while."

"How...?" Capa frowns as we exchange a glance.

"Well, you're not exactly subtle about it, are you?" He sculls the last of his decaf and winces. "God, I miss real coffee. Anyway, I know you're trying to hide it, but I don't know how long you expect that to last."

"We're just worried about how everyone's going to take it." I wring my hands.

"I wouldn't worry about that. Whatever tensions come up can be ironed out with a mediator." Searle's face softens. "But we need to think about whether you should tell anyone at all. I suggest you tell Kaneda, so he can work with me to reduce friction if things get hairy between the two of you."

"I can't imagine that happening." Capa says.

"Well, you think that now, but it's not always that straightforward. For instance, if this is just a friends with benefits situation, I think you ought to keep it to yourselves until it fizzles out; but beyond that, you should consider the risks. We're going to be stuck here for another two years at least, so it'll be hard on all of us if things go wrong between you two."

I look over at Capa and he offers me his hand. After a moment of hesitation, I take it.

"It's not like that for us." He assures him.

"It didn't just happen overnight." I squeeze his hand. "Well, it kind of did, but it was a long time coming."

"You're really serious about this, huh? I figured as much." Searle grins at Capa. "You've been smiling so much, it was kinda scaring me."

Capa rolls his eyes, a warm tint rising on his cheeks

"Doctor Aldrin," Searle addresses me directly, suddenly serious. "I want to make it clear to you that I don't doubt your ability to carry out your medic and psych duties under these circumstances, but I think it would be in everyone's best interests if you're no longer assigned as mediator in conflicts involving Capa."

"I agree. I'll be the first to admit I have a bias here. I guess I didn't take my training seriously enough."

"Training isn't perfect." He assures me. "You can try to rationalize your feelings away, but it won't work. It can't work. People are built to love. We do it to survive, so really, it's going to happen whether it's convenient or not."

I turn to look at Capa, feeling sunshine beaming into me from his radiant blue eyes. He offers me a smile and runs his thumb over my knuckles.

"So what should we do moving forward?" He presses.

"Well that's up to you. You can take people aside and tell them if you feel that's going to be beneficial, or you can just start acting like a couple and the crew will figure it out themselves. You could even call a meeting, sit everyone down real serious." Searle chuckles. "Either way, I imagine you'll get a little pushback to begin with."

"From Mace?" Capa asks.

"Yes, I expect he'll argue that a relationship between you two will distract you from the mission, but ultimately jealously on his and Cassie's part will be contributing factors."

"Cassie? Jealous?" I gasp.

I have worked with Cassie often during our voyage through the solar system, and over that time I've grown to enjoy our time together and to admire her free spirit. Despite this, I have sensed a distance between her and I, and now I know why. Mace, on the other hand, wears his heart on his sleeve. I have long known of his feelings for me, and for a time I tried to see him in the same light that he sees me. At the time, it seemed that my fondness for Capa was nothing short of futile, but even in my hopelessness, I knew that Mace and I would never work together.

"Yes, she's come to me several times to discuss her feelings for Capa." Searle frowns sympathetically. "I've done my best to help her cope without encouraging her. I feel that your relationship will be a tough hurdle for her to get over, but I think it will help her to build resilience. Same with Mace. It's quite tragic, really. They want you, and you want each other."

Feeling more than a little morose, I glance at Capa and squeeze his hand. He understands my signal and clears his throat.

"Thanks for the advice, Searle." The men exchange a handshake in mutual admiration.

"Thank you." I peck him on the cheek, earning a delighted grin. "Your opinion is invaluable."

Doc's Character Profile - word count: 322

Metrodora "Doc" Aldrin - Medic

Nationality - Australian

Doc grew up academically gifted, graduating from highschool at fifteen and moving to the United States to study medicine in the Ivy League at her parents' behest. Pursuing her childhood fascination with space, she went on to specialise in aeronautical medicine, eventually gaining a position in the same research lab as Searle where they became fast friends.

Doc was too young to accompany the first Icarus mission, but in the years following, she became obsessed with space travel and sought out a position on the Icarus II.

Seeing her passion and potential as an asset on board, Searle helped her mask her anxiety and depression during the psychiatric evaluation, vowing to help her overcome her issues in the years they would spend living together.

Doc holds a maternal view of her crewmates, despite being the youngest on board. She makes a point of fostering personal bonds with each of the crew, both to keep tabs on their health and because she craves human connection. She loves her crew like family and hopes that during the mission they with both grow as people, and grow to appreciate eachother the way she does.

Though she does not consider herself a natural conversationalist, she often draws closed-off people out of their shells due to her willingness to share personal feelings and experiences with people soon after meeting them. It is this mutual honesty that both Mace and Capa fell for, though Mace's feelings come from being listened to, while Capa's come from the act of listening.

Doc lives happily without religion, feeling comfortable that her success is self-made and her fate is in her own hands. The closest thing to God in her eyes is the life-giving power of the sun. As Icarus draws closer to the sun's surface, she wonders if this comparison is still metaphorical.

At night she dreams of the vastness of space, and of Capa.