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It's been a few years since Captain Curly returned to Earth, stripped off his autonomy, his title, and a good chunk of his body.
It's been a rough road, but somehow, things are starting to settle. The days start to feel stable as he navigates his new life, half the man he used to be- If that.
Curly thought it'd be hard to socialize now. He thought starting over would be this impenetrable force he'd succumb to, secluding himself away from open eyes seeking his company.
He'd thought it'd be painful. He'd believed that everyone would look at him with disgust. He'd assumed he'd be shunned like a beast, too frightening to bare the sight of. He didn't expect the sheer amount of kindness he'd receive.
Everywhere he goes, people are sweet to him. Sometimes that sweetness comes with pity, but generally, they're nice. They talk to him and ask how he's doing if they recognize him. They apologize when they bump into him in public.
Some even talk to him as though he's normal, no matter how obvious his scarring and prosthetics are. There wasn't a lot that could be done past patchwork, but surprisingly, the distortion of his features and the differences in his body don't seem to make people look at him as less human.
Though he isn't quite sure how, he makes friends. Most of his new relationships stem from a support group for burn victims. His story doesn't quite align with the others, but it was the closest thing the social workers could find in their attempts to transition him back into normal life. It's nice to have people to talk to, but it doesn't actually help. Not in any way that matters.
He uses social media and integrates himself into the world around him. In time, he even goes on dates. They often follow the same routine.
His patchwork lips twist into a charismatic smile at each table. He's done this before so many times-- Sitting in the low, golden lighting of some restaurant with a body across the table from him.
The food doesn't matter. They managed to add enough muscle so he could swallow, but he doesn't have an actual sense of taste anymore. He barely feels when something too hot burns his tongue.
How many times had his words own been the deciding factor in his life? How many times had he talked someone into something, intentionally or not? It's like there's some craving in him, some need to connect himself to the world around him. Curly desperately wants to be wanted. He wants to feel something, but all that comes when he reaches out is emptiness.
Man and women. He'd never had much distinction between them romantically, even before that fateful last haul. It isn't like they aren't attractive, everyone he goes out with is absolutely beautiful. It's not like the sex he has isn't wanted. He wants it, he even initiates it on occasion. It's not a problem with the sex itself.
It's him.
It's that every time someone is above him and he feels the weight of their body pressing down onto him, he thinks of her body. When they moan, he wishes he was hearing her voice.
He can't touch, but he wishes he could feel her raven hair against his fingertips. He longs to meet her down turned eyes, wrinkled at the edge with crow's feet. He aches to know her taste.
Inevitably, he remembers her slumped body beside him, her sad, bloodied face.
This still, cold, unmoving ghost sitting in the upper right corner of his brain. In the back of his mind, she's always there.
Curly knows he'll never feel Anya's body against his, and that makes the sex feel worthless, no matter how many times he tries to get it right.
Everything blurs together into an unsatisfying amalgamation in his memories. He can't remember who he beds or how they felt. All he can think about is what they didn't feel like.
Curly hates himself for it. He hates how often he reduces her to sex. She deserves better than that, he knows she does! He knows what Jimmy did, the way he used sex to break her and recreate her in his own image.
He isn't trying to. It's something primal within him- Not violent, but a desperate, animalistic affection. He's filled with need for a partner and has an innate knowledge of who it should be, with no way to satisfy the urges that come with it. He'll never be satisfied, and he knows it.
Beneath it, it's easier for Curly to think about sex. If he doesn't think about sex, he has to regret everything else.
Curly spent years wanting to tell Anya that he was interested in her. More accurately, he'd wanted to grovel at her knees and plead for a chance to be hers.
Why hadn't he given in? Why hadn't he just told her?
When he dreams about Anya, he dreams about whisking her away. He dreams of taking her far from the Pony Express loading docks before she could step onto the Tulpar even once.
He dreams of them running away, leaving their entire lives behind. He dreams of a world where they lived on the road, nights laying under the night sky.
The world had seemed so big when he looked up to the stars instead of being among them. Even now, it looks empty.
Curly can't look at the stars without remembering. When his remaining eyes take in the night, he always feels Anya's absence. He remembers the warmth of her next to him, Insomnatic and sullen.
All of their bodies have been buried, now. They were pried from their resting places and tucked into sturdy, black body bags for their final trip home. Curly took the time to visit their gravesites, paying his respects as privately as he was able to.
Except for Anya. He knows she wasn't cremated. He knows where she lays underground, but he can't bring himself to see that place.
He wishes he was buried under the soil with her, his worn and damaged body decomposing by her side. He wishes that the worms would take in their skin and flesh, combining their rot into one. He wishes that in death, he could hold her freezing, stiff hand. He wishes he could've laid in her coffin and taken the place he'd always wanted, finally resting beside her.
Instead, he wakes up with something foreign occupying the space next to him.
They're just nice. They're all pleasant people. They treat him well. Sometimes, he even stays with them, weaving together some kind of relationship for maybe a few months. He tries until he once more realizes that he will never be able to love them the way they deserve. He will only be able to love one person the way she deserves, and he will never have the chance to show that to her.
Curly wonders if Anya ever knew. He wonders if she ever would've loved him back, especially after what Jimmy did to her. Could he ever prove himself to be more than Jimmy's accomplice? If he'd ripped out his claws and fangs, could Anya have seen him as more than the beast trapping her in a metal castle?
When he was young, fresh, Curly had thought the idea of soulmates was silly. He'd believed that the idea of having one person in the entire world you were meant to be in love with was ridiculous.
He'd been so stupid.