space au.

[whatthefuckami]

Anne Bonny can never decide if she loves or hates docking in the Belt. Anywhere, maybe, but they're always in the Belt anymore; Earth's slipping away from her, everything from the wretched smell of garbage in the heat to the way the ground pulls everyone toward it, harder than anything out here. She's almost fourteen years old, married almost a year, and when she's off the ship, she doesn't have to worry about anyone on the crew cornering her.

She does, however, have to take care not to breathe too loudly, look too bored, eat too quickly, eat too slowly, slump in her seat--anything that'll set James Bonny off. Something always does, the one thing she doesn't think of, and he always makes her regret it. Today, it's fidgeting where she sits, trying to keep from putting too much weight on the burn blistering the side of one thigh.

"Fuck're you doing?" he snarls. They're in a bar, he with a bottle of what the Belters call rowm, she watching. Someone's supposed to meet them, a new job for the trawler to take up. Whoever it is, they're late, and her husband's pissed.

Anne stares at the table. If she talks back, it'll only be worse. She's done that--lived to regret it, too. There're things he can't do, here in public, but he's not above dragging her away somewhere he can, if he's mad enough. If he isn't, there's always the chance he'll go back to his beer and let her alone.

His hand lands in the matted mess of hair at the back of her head, yanking it so sharply that she yelps, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. "I asked you a question."

"Sorry." It's no more than breath--he's pulling her head back so hard there's no room in her throat for any kind of tone. It's walking a line of broken glass, knowing how much to answer and how much to disappear into the chair beside him, and right now, she can hardly manage either.

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[whatthefuckami]

Her muscles all stiffen when the stranger touches her, but he gets the idea pretty quick that she doesn't want to be touched. There's shouting, and people show up, and she has to make her fingers unwind from the gun--they're white with the effort of holding it, stiff when she finally lets go and a man from Star Helix takes it away.

She barely speaks when they take her statement, has to be told multiple times to answer the questions they set before her. She keeps forgetting to listen. All she really wants to do is curl up in a corner, someplace dark and tight and safe, and talk to nobody.

Anne's never killed anyone before. Stabbed someone once, with a table knife--lived to regret it, too--but never killed.

She notices that her leg's pained sometime after they have her put her thumbprint to a statement--in all the commotion, the blister on her thigh tore some, she'd bet. Wouldn't be the first time. She's sitting on a bench outside the station where all the Star Helix people have moved on to some other problem with a missing child, the good leg pulled up to her chest and the bad one stretched out. And the stranger's back before her, looking like he thinks she might shoot him, too. She doesn't have the heart to point out they took her husband's gun away.

(Some things, she learned even as she felt like she'd left her body and watched it from afar: his name is James Holden. He's not a pirate. He might've picked up bits and pieces about her--Anne Bonny, James Bonny, the Plague, pirates no one gives a damn about--but she's not sure.)

This means I'm a widow, she could say, or I don't know where I go now. Everyone knows what happens to a crew when the captain's gone--they pick a new one, keep going under new orders--but she doesn't know what happens to the captain's wife when he's dead. She doesn't want to know. She'll be damned if she ever goes back aboard the Plague, willingly or otherwise.

Lacking an answer that doesn't make her mouth taste like bile, she shrugs, looking up at him from behind her stringy red hair. He must want something, or he wouldn't be here--but she doesn't know what. Better off finding out before she says much.

[acreage]

He crouches down in front of her.

It brings him closer to eye level, but doesn't intrude in the way that sitting beside her might. He's not here to get into her space, or take anything else away from her. Of course she isn't okay; that's a stupid question.

What he says, softly, is, "I'm so sorry."

[whatthefuckami]

Her brows draw down hard over her eyes, mouth a tense little line as she regards him. It's a little bit suspicion, a little bit confusion. "Why?"

Because that's what people say when husbands die, you idiot. She can't remember the last time somebody apologized to her, though. Feels out of place, especially when all of this is her fault.

[acreage]

"For acting without thinking. For getting involved like that."

Not exactly for getting involved by itself, but. He could've done things better. There had to be a better way than what happened.

[whatthefuckami]

Oh.

She shifts, moving more of her weight onto her good side, her chin just about resting on her knee. Her gaze falls to her scuffed boots. "No one else ever did."

[acreage]

There's an anger that flares in his eyes, but he keeps it carefully off his face and out of his voice, or tries to.

"You should never have been put in that position in the first place."

Killing that man, or married to him.

[whatthefuckami]

Anne curls up tighter, then winces--her damn burn's chafing against the fabric of her pant leg. He's not angry at her, she's nearly certain of that, but he's angry. And that always puts her on edge, knowing someone's pissed and that she's the only thing within reach.

"He said--" Her throat closes up. She has to swallow before she can try to explain. Not defend James Bonny, exactly, but try to make that anger in this man's eyes disappear. Talking doesn't usually make things better, but that's because her husband hadn't liked to talk. This doesn't feel like that. "Told my ma he'd take care of me. Wouldn't matter about being undocumented, out here."