Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

His nerve endings are so much more sensitive than they used to be.  

Everything is...not at all different as in unfamiliar, but also completely different at the same time.  Sight, sound, smell, touch, taste - sensations are what they should be, but his reaction to them is extreme.

Things like the solid deck plates under his body when he’s back on Discovery, the vibration of a living ship buzzing in his head.  Smells suddenly reasserting themselves when the only scents in the network were the metallic tang of ozone and the resin he used as armor.  Or the rub of fabric against his skin when Paul throws aside his tactical vest and strips off his undershirt to cover Hugh’s nudity against Tilly’s blush.

Paul.

Looking up at that face he never thought to see again outside of his own increasingly fractured hallucinations, he sees fierce joy that ought to wrap his heart in warmth.  

Dimly, he hears Michael calling for medical support, hears her speaking on the comm to Saru and others.  

How many times had he comforted himself in that shadowy otherworld, desperately clinging to the memories of Paul’s smile, his laugh, the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his skin while he slept?  Tried to recall the sound of his voice whispering Hugh’s name while he fell asleep with his head in Paul’s lap on the couch?  He feels Paul’s arms around him, rocking him back and forth while tears splash onto his shoulders, knows that this one thing he’d yearned for in the - months? years? - he spent exiled in the mycelial plane should put his world back together.  

Large, warm hands cup his jaw, fingertips tracing his cheeks in a way that he knows shouldn’t feel like sandpaper.  Paul’s smile is blinding as he leans down and presses their mouths together, and Hugh-

Hugh barely manages to suppress the scream that tries to claw its way up and out of his throat.  The caress of hands transmuted into the sensation of being scraped raw has nothing on the nerve endings in his lips responding with an electric shock that his brain doesn’t know how to process.  Salt bursts across his tongue, burns across his tongue, trying and failing to catalogue the nuances of taste that he remembers associating with Paul but now seem completely foreign.

As Paul kisses his lips, his cheeks, his nose, each touch is so intense it hurts.  He knows he’s going unresponsive, but none of it feels right.

Beyond Tilly’s continued sobs and Michael’s soothing noises, he hears an unknown voice.  Male, deep, with the unselfconscious authority he’s always associated with command types, but also an undertone of good humor.  Whoever this person is, Tilly’s tears trail off into the occasional hiccup when he arrives.  

”Doctor Culber?”

That’s him, right?  He knows it is, but it sounds wrong.  Hugh blinks a few times, refocusing on a handsome man with grey-streaked dark hair and kind eyes.

”Doctor, I’m Captain-“

”Out of the way, sir.”

Tracy Pollard blows right past the stranger, professional mask shattering the moment she lays eyes on him.

”What’s going on, who is-” her jaw works but only a strangled noise comes out.  

She scrubs a hand over her eyes, then drops to her knees at his side, takes his unresisting hand In both of hers.

”...saints and angels, Hugh...oh, Hugh.”

Paul nods, tightens his arms around him.  He should feel safe, has always felt safe and loved in his embrace.

So why does he feel trapped?

Chapter Text

Tracy’s hands are cool and strong, squeezing his fingers so hard he can’t breathe, paralyzed.  It only lasts a few seconds though, and he’s not so far gone that he doesn’t recognize the moment her professional side reasserts itself.

”Commander Stamets.”

Commander?

The beep of her tricorder echoes in his skull and he brings both hands up to cover his ears, flinching at the high-frequency whir that he hasn't consciously heard in years.

"Hugh?  What's wrong?"

Paul shifts, and he becomes aware of the fact that he's half-lying over Paul's lap and shivering violently.  A glance down reminds him that he's also only wearing Paul's undershirt bunched up at his groin.  Hugh's never been self-conscious about his body, but right now the lack of barriers leaves him feeling extremely exposed. 

The spore drive bay is normally maintained at a temperature considered comfortable for the species on board, but he's so cold even as his skin prickles with hot needles of sensation at the gentle eddies of air current.  Paul tries to help (he repeats the phrase to himself like a mantra) by rubbing his hands over Hugh's arms, and he has to grit his teeth to hold back a cry of pain, which does nothing to remedy the shaking.  

“...Stamets, you need to let go of him.”

Tracy's voice is firm, nothing like the soft, wondering incredulity of minutes ago.  She's frowning at the tricorder screen, and an icy fist of dread settles in Hugh's stomach.  

He wants to shrink back, to get away from all the touching, and it wars with his instinct to press into the solid body beneath him.  Doesn't want anyone but Paul to touch him, but also doesn't want Paul's too-warm hands and breath on his skin.  The dissonance grows with each passing moment, and he can feel how close he is to hyperventilating.

”The tricorder can tell our vitals apart-“

"Doctor Pollard, Burnham, would somebody please tell me how this is possible-"

"Commander-"

Too many voices at once, too loud, too many emotions carried in their words.  Hugh's knees jerk upwards, pulling his torso away from Paul and curling into a ball.  Later, he'll want to apologize to Tilly as the shirt falls to the deck and her tear-streaked cheeks go beet red again.  Right now, he covers his face with his hands, squeezing his eyes shut and willing it all to stop.   

"Hugh..." Paul's hand lands in the space between his shoulder blades, "it's okay.  I'm right here, it'll be fine..."

He whimpers when he feels another presence inches away.

"Paul," Tracy is using her calm-the-next-of-kin tone, "please just let go of him for now."

Paul's fingers tighten, and he can see without opening his eyes the way he must be shaking his head, mouth set in a thin line.  It's an expression he's been on the receiving end of countless times when he tried to convince Paul to leave the lab or come to bed, yet the ferocity of refusal apparent in his response is jarring. 

"No.  I just got him back, I'm not going to-"

”We don’t know if this is actually him."

Silence.

Part of him wants to rise up in indignation, because who the hell else would it be, but just a tiny portion wonders, what if she's right?

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In Hugh’s memories, Paul’s mouth has only ever brought pleasure.

...kissing each other senseless on a blanket spread on the rocky ground watching a sunset on Deneva, lips and tongues teasing erotic delights.

...whispering “I love you” the first time they were reunited after a long separation, breath tickling Hugh’s ear.

...sucking him off under the covers in their quarters on Discovery, blue eyes full of mischievous lust.

Hearing his argument with Tracy increasing in volume though, is making his head throb.  

The Captain (not Lorca, and however that happened he’s grateful) is having a low-voiced, urgent conversation with Burnham and Tilly, hands gesturing and tossing glances their direction.  

Hugh ignores them all, focuses on Paul’s fingers squeezing the place where his neck meets his shoulder, carefully cataloguing the pressure.  His nerves are still refusing to cooperate, but maybe Paul’s touch isn’t precisely physically painful so much as somehow unfamiliar.  The space between their bodies should be comfortable - he used to be able to recognize the feel of his hand on the small of Hugh’s back in a crowded room without looking, could read his mood in the pattern of taps Paul’s thumb made on his knuckles while holding hands.  

He still knows these things, but can’t remember what they should feel like.

”...I know you want to believe it,” Tracy’s murmuring above his head, “but we need to make sure he’s okay.  And that means getting him into isolation in the medbay.”

”But I know him,” Paul is crouching over him like a protective, avenging angel, “he’s Hugh.  I can feel it.”

How can you be sure, Hugh thinks, what if something’s wrong?

”Paul, he looks fine, but I can’t tell from here what might be going on inside.  What if his immune system is compromised?  Or there’s some sort of neural degradation?  Who knows what that...mycelial space means.”

”You can’t-“

”Paul.” 

His voice is hoarse and quiet, but all other conversation in the room immediately stops.

”Paul, she’s right,” he forces his lips into what his muscle memory says is a smile, and it must work because Paul’s frown relaxes a fraction, “let her do her job.”

Biting the tip of his tongue between his teeth where no one can see it, he slowly reaches up to run his hand over where blond hair has come loose from its carefully set style.  The brittle crunch of gel feels like broken glass, but it makes Paul exhale and sit back on his heels.

”All right,” he sighs, turning his head to gently kiss Hugh’s palm, and he ruthlessly quashes the urge to pull away, “but please don’t make me let go.”

He catches Hugh’s hand, lacing their fingers together.  It doesn’t feel right, but if it’s giving Paul comfort, then he’s not going to say anything.

Tracy meets his eyes, and gives him a tight smile when he nods.

”Okay.  Captain, Commanders...let’s move this party to Sickbay.  Computer, site to site transport to Sickbay for all parties in this room, biobed two, authorization Pollard-delta-four-two-eight.”

The tingle of dematerialization is like fire, and Hugh screams.

Chapter Text

He knows he’s scaring Paul.  

Everyone else probably isn’t too comfortable listening to him scream right now either, but his brain doesn’t think they’re anywhere near as important.

As soon as the materialization is complete, Hugh’s hands are back over his eyes, trying to block out the lancing pain in his temples.  He’s on a biobed now, and the change in texture crawls over his skin.  Everything in the medbay is too much.  The lights are too bright, the beep of equipment too sharp, the smell of disinfectant overwhelming.  

He has to get away.

There’s too many hands touching him - Paul’s at his shoulders, holding him against his torso, Tracy’s trying to pry Paul’s off, and the Captain gripping his biceps as he tries to scramble off the biobed and his knees buckle. He manages to bring the volume down to a harsh whine that makes his aching throat burn, but at least he can hear what they’re saying over it.

”Hugh?  Hugh, it’s okay, shhhhhh I’ve got you, it’s okay-“

”Commander, I need him on a biobed to figure out what’s goin-“

”Whoa, hey, easy.  Doctor, I don’t think he’s-“

”Stop,” he whispers against Paul’s chest, lips moving against sweaty skin and the zipper cutting into Hugh’s cheek as he shakes his head.  The one-piece tactical uniform is still unfastened to the waist from Paul stripping off his undershirt, and Hugh buries his face in the exposed V of warm flesh, seeking but not finding the expected solace.  Paul smells like he should, woodsy with traces of musk, but it isn’t calming the way his instincts expect.  

”Stop, please...”

This time though, it doesn’t seem like anyone is listening.  His hands scrabble at the front of Paul’s uniform, unsure if he’s trying to push him away or pull him closer.  

”Captain, I’ve got him-“

”We have to get him calmed down, his vitals are all over-“

”Doctor Culber, please, we’re trying to help-“

”GUYS!  LET GO OF HIM!”

Tilly’s shout hits him with the force of a thunderclap, but the blessed silence that follows is worth it, as is the relief when four of the six hands on him move away.  

He peels open one eye, face still hidden over Paul’s pounding heart.  She’s pink-cheeked and shaking slightly - Michael has an unsubtle arm around her waist - but her mouth is set in a determined line.  Later, Hugh will realize with a sense of wonder that he saw a glimpse of the confident Captain she’s going to become.

”Ensign?”

The Captain’s voice is smooth, with a hint of a drawl, nothing like Lorca’s hard-edged growl.

”I’m sorry, sirs.  It’s just, I thought- I mean, Doctor Culber asked you all to stop but you couldn’t hear him because, because you’re all worried.  We’re all worried, except I saw, I saw...”

Tilly’s actually wringing her hands, knuckles white.  She glances at Burnham, who inclines her head at the Captain.

”Go on.”

”The more you touched him.  His heart rate went up when you and Doctor Pollard touched him.”

The statement is followed by an audible gulp, and Tracy’s thoughtful hum.

”Doctor?”

Tracy steps around the biobed to the display, paging back through the readings.

”She’s right, Captain.  Good observation, Ensign, he seems to be settling out.”

”He’s right here and you should probably be talking to him.”

Paul’s tone is annoyed on his behalf, and his brain tells him he should be pleased and maybe a little turned on at the display.  Hugh closes his eyes again, exhausted.  Sagging against Paul is still a discordant note in his mind, but it will wear off soon.

It has to.

Even with his eyes shut, he can still sense five pairs of eyes on him.  They probably won’t leave him alone.  They shouldn’t, a disused voice he’d nearly forgotten - the physician, gone dormant with the fight-or-flight of the network - reminds him firmly.

Still...

”I- I need the.  Facilities.”

He has to pull his face away to be heard, but he knows they can’t object to that request.

”Hugh-“

Tracy lays a hand on Paul’s arm, and he falls silent.  She nods slowly, and turns to Tilly.

”Ensign, could you please go fetch Doctor Culber some clothes?”

”Ummm...”

”Come on,” Michael tugs her elbow, drawing her away, “his specs should still be in the synthesizer.”

Paul takes a step back, still holding on as Hugh gets his feet under himself properly, and walks with him the twenty feet or so.  The Captain is hovering, and he resolutely ignores the man for the time being now that he’s not touching him.  He’s not Lorca, and he doesn’t deserve hostility, but Hugh is too tired to properly acknowledge him.

The door closes behind him, and he exhales hard.  Alone in the tiny space, sounds muffled, Hugh puts his back to the wall and breathes.  He has precious little time to himself - standard protocol - but he tries to take stock of himself.  

Still naked, he glances down the length of his body.  Everything looks as he’d expect it to, and he can move under his own power, so that’s one thing he doesn’t have to worry about.  His fingers open and close, toes wiggle on command, so fine motor control isn't noticeably impaired.  Nothing to explain why his limbs feel so heavy, as if gravity has been turned up.  

Maybe it’s just an after effect?

Steeling himself, he turns to face the mirror.  His reflection stares back at him, but it feels like a stranger looking through his eyes.  

Hugh raises a shaking hand to his own cheek, the smooth skin so wrong in place of the neatly trimmed beard he’s had for years.  (Paul always teased him about how baby-faced he was without it, how a clean-shaven Hugh with his sculpted body looked like Paul’s much younger trophy lover.)  Covering the lower half of his face with his hand doesn’t dispel the lingering sense of unease, so it’s not just a problem with his visual cues either.

What if-

“Hugh?  Are you okay?”

Paul. He opens his mouth, but can’t answer that question, even with a lie.

You never lie to him.  Do you?

”Sir?”

Tilly.

”I uhh, brought you some clothes.  Doctor.  Ummm, I’ll just leave them with Commander Stamets.”

Biting down on the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood, Hugh inhales deeply and rests his head on the mirror.

”Hugh?”

Paul again.  Why can’t they all just leave him alone?

Chapter Text

The clothes Paul hands him sit ill on his body. Physically, they’re indistinguishable from the workout pants and sleeveless undershirts that used to be in his dresser drawer.  On the other hand, he doesn’t think he’s ever been so aware of the individual threads catching on the fine hair dusting his legs with every step he takes.

Eventually, Tracy shoos everyone out - even Paul, with orders to shower and eat a sandwich before returning - except the Captain.  Tilly starts to reach for his hand, but stops herself and awkwardly pats the biobed instead before she and Michael depart.

There’s no avoiding the introduction any longer, and Hugh meets the Captain’s eyes.  They’re steely blue, but in a way that suggests strength and not unyielding dominance.

Tracy taps a few controls behind him (probably a deep neural mapping and DNA comparison) before walking away and ostentatiously closing the door to the office behind her.

”Hello Doctor Culber.”

“Captain.  I...apologize for not being at my best.  Just now.”

The Captain tilts his head, a hint of a smile in place.

”Given what I understand of your - well, Burnham would take me to task for saying ‘miraculous’, but - scientifically improbable return, I’m not inclined to hold it against you.”

He holds out his hand in a non-demanding fashion, clearly ready to withdraw it if needed.  Hugh swallows down the apprehension it evokes and carefully sets his palm against the other man’s.  His hand is large and quite warm, and the contact, now that he’s expecting it, doesn’t hurt.  He notices that he waits for Hugh to initiate the brief squeeze, releasing almost immediately.  It’s nothing like Lorca’s testing vise grip, and he’s grateful.

I don’t even know his name, but I already like him better than Lorca.

“Thank you, Captain...?”

”Forgive my manners, Doctor, for having you at a disadvantage.  Captain Christopher Pike.”

The surprise must show on his face, because Pike’s smile turns a bit wry.

”I’m sure you have an understandable load of questions, and I admit to having plenty of my own.  But, I’ll let Commander Stamets bring you up to speed when he returns.”

”Sir?  What about Captain Lorca?”

A shadow passes over those open and friendly features, and Hugh is oddly comforted by the reaction.

”Lorca’s...not who we all thought he was.  Suffice to say, a lot has happened in your absence, but rest assured you won’t have to worry about him again.”

“That sounds rather final.”

Pike sighs, staring into the distance for a few seconds.

“I should let your friends fill you in, they were the ones that experienced it.”

The monitors beep, and Pike glances over his shoulder as Tracy emerges from the office.

”In any case.  I’d say welcome back, Doctor Culber, but I suspect that’s a poor consolation for whatever you’ve been through.  I’ll let Doctor Pollard continue since it looks like she’s about to pitch me out.”

He flashes a boyishly charming smile her direction and Hugh is surprised when Tracy isn’t apparently immune to it, chuckling in response.

“Thank you.  Captain.”

Pike nods at him, then he’s gone as well, the doors swishing shut behind him.

”Hugh.”

”Tracy.”

She sets down the PADD, arms crossed in front of her.

”Stamets says it’s really you, and preliminary test results concur, but how...?”

”I don’t exactly know how to explain.”

”Hugh, I-“ she blinks rapidly a few times, “I did your autopsy report.  You were-“

”Dead.  I know.”

He stares down at his hands for a few seconds, giving her the privacy to manage her reaction.  The medbay is silent, and he focuses on the texture of his pant legs under his fingers.

”I don’t want to cast aspersions on your partner,” she gives him an odd piercing look when he flinches minutely at the reminder, “but there’s a few tests I’d like to run besides the ones the computer is doing.”

Hugh thinks he would be doing the same if their positions were reversed.  

“You want me to tell you things only the real Hugh Culber would know.”

”Yeah.”

”Where should I start?”

”Med school.  Third year.  Why did I fail my first xenosurgery simulation?”

For the first time since he opened his eyes on the floor of the spore drive bay, Hugh considers smiling.

”His name was Joshua Ellis.”

Chapter Text

Tracy continues working as they talk, and Hugh half wonders if it's meant as a distraction.  It's a tactic he's used himself, but regardless of the readouts, Tracy is watching him closely.  He doesn't know if he seems different to her, or if what he's seeing reflected is what happens when someone studies a person so familiar they haven't really looked in ages.

"M'Benga still tells that story on the message boards, you know.  I don't think he's ever going to let you forget it."

"It was his own fault," she rolls her eyes, "he never should have tried to BS his way through Boyce's class."

"The look in Boyce's face when you told him how you took over Geoff's practical and finished in record time was priceless."

"I'm never guest lecturing at 'fleet Med again.  Boyce is CMO on Enterprise these days," Tracy sets down the scanner and cants her hip against the side of his biobed, "glad to know that he's looking after Pike.  Well, usually."

"With a hypo to his ass if he's being stupid, pride of Starfleet or not."

That draws a genuine grin, and she very carefully takes his hand.

"It really is you."

"You're in a better position to tell me that, you know."

Tracy lets go of his fingers, but doesn't move away

"Saints and angels, Hugh, I missed you.  So goddamned much, and not just as the only other sane person on the ship who isn't running into danger."

He really can't wait any longer.

"Tracy, what the hell happened while I was...gone?  The Christopher Pike is captaining the ship, something happened to Lorca, not to mention all the promotions?  How long since I..."

"Since you died?"

She doesn't hesitate, and her steady calm is as reassuring as it's always been.

"Yeah."

"Months.  And to answer your other questions, it's complicated, Lorca turned out to be from an alternate universe, and Tilly got her commission.  Was a lovely ceremony really, although..."

"What?"

Tracy's shoulders sag and she hitches a leg up to sit beside him.

"You know I've never stuck my nose into your relationship."

"That's a total lie.  You grilled Paul the first time you met him, and I seem to remember you threatening him with a manual castration if he ever did anything you didn't like."

She waves a hand, dismissing but not dismissive.

"Not that.  Just... Paul's really had a hard time, and I don't know how he's going to react.  You would know better than me, but I just-"

"Trace, he's just going to be Paul."

"That's what I'm worried about.  Aren't you the one that said he had the emotional intelligence of a Vulcan?"

"He'd just forgotten our anniversary, I was a little upset."

"Hugh.  All I'm saying is, grief is complex.  His more than others, and if you want me to keep him away for a while, I can."

It's an extremely tempting offer, but Paul won't understand.  The broken look in Paul's eyes when they were in the network - was that even real? - just after Hugh told him he was dead, and again a few hours ago when it seemed like it wouldn't work... he can't do that to him, no matter his own discomfort.  He's still feeling a little off (and Vulcan is a little hot), but seeing Paul happy again will fix it. 

It has to.

"It'll be fine, Trace."

Her raised eyebrow speaks volumes.

"All right.  But if-"

The medbay doors swish open, the person behind them coming through almost before they've parted far enough.  Paul's clearly freshly showered, hair flopping in his eyes in a look that he almost never shows in public, and he's smiling so widely it makes Hugh's cheeks hurt.  

Objectively, it's a good look on him, always has been, and Hugh barely has time to process before Paul's hands cup his face and he leans in for a kiss.  

I should kiss him back.

He's never had to actively think about that before, and Hugh clamps down on a surge of panic.  His lips should know what to do, but he feels clumsy, uncoordinated.  Paul is oblivious, both to his awkwardness and the relief he feels when the kiss ends. 

And honestly?  He's not sure if he's grateful or worried.

Chapter Text

After Paul arrives, he spends another three hours parked at Hugh's side while Tracy runs through every test she can think of.  He pulls up a chair, sitting close enough that Hugh can feel every breath on his skin, and can't seem to stop touching him, moving back for Tracy with extreme reluctance every time.    

Paul's hands are as large and warm as he remembers, curled securely around Hugh's own, and the hand-holding is pleasant - leaving aside that it should be far more than just nice.  Hugh stares down at their joined hands resting on the biobed, Paul's pale skin pinkened with the flush spreading over his throat, the contrast in tones with his own more slender fingers.  It's aesthetically pleasing, but there's something missing, something in the way that he always thought he could feel Paul when their palms came in contact.  Now, it's as though his sensation stops at the skin, and the sense of isolation in his own body doesn't make sense.

Not that he's going to try and explain it out loud.

More than that though, Hugh no longer knows how to react to the adoration in Paul's gaze, the almost reverent joy in his eyes.  Before, he would have teased Paul about it gently, inhaled the feeling and wrapped it around himself to save for days when his partner was working late and Hugh needed a reminder that he was actually a priority in Paul's life.  And if their mutual friends and Paul's younger sibling are to be believed, he mirrored that intense devotion right back.

Whereas in the past the two of them could sit in comfortable silence, Paul seems compelled to fill the space between them with talk.  It's less a conversation and more of a narrative, and Hugh is grateful that all he really needs to do is nod at appropriate moments and make the occasional thoughtful noise.  

Lorca being from an alternate universe is bad enough, for starters.  Meeting the alternate version of Paul was more jarring on a personal level, looking at a man physically identical to but not seeing his Paul.  He can only imagine the depths of ruthlessness Lorca kept mostly hidden, the kinds of violence he must have enjoyed inflicting.  The bitter vindication of knowing his instinctive suspicion of the man was valid hardly stands up to the fact that if Lorca hadn't programmed the jump back to his universe, Paul would never have been trapped in the network.  And if Hugh hadn't been preoccupied by his condition, he might have recognized the warning signs in Ash Tyler's scans, paid more attention to his shifty behavior and called for backup, not let himself be caught alone with him.  

Might not have died.

Granted, the whole situation resulted in saving the mycelial network, and really, he's not self-centered enough to rank his own comfort over the survival of the multiverse.  He's not resentful of Paul.  Not in any way, for this.  But it's still all tied up in his death and time in the network, and what he'd like is some time to quietly break down over it all.  The fact that he wants to do so without Paul is...disturbing. 

He's glad to know that Tilly's well-deserved commission received the recognition it deserved, and is genuinely pleased with Paul's promotion.  Paul may have been perfectly content as a lieutenant tucked away doing his research, less career-driven than Hugh, but he more than earned the new pip.  Hugh can't stop staring at it though, the tiny black dot taunting him with all of the things he missed.  

Captain Pike taking command, the red bursts, Tilly's injury, symbiosis with May (he can't think about her as a disembodied jahSepp spore), abduction, and mutual subsequent rescue would seem too fantastic a tale if he hadn't lived through it, in a manner of speaking. His head is spinning with the sheer volume of information being stuffed back into it, never mind the whole dying and being resurrected part (it's an honest relief to see that his inner snark is still intact).  

Eventually, Paul explains his theory about how he could have brought Hugh into the network, and it hardly seems impossible given everything else.  Mostly, he’s just glad that Tracy walked away during the part about a “two way co-incidence of mingled genetic material that made it recognize us both” maintaining a link that ferried his consciousness across the dimensional plane.  He does wonder how much detail of it will make it into a report somewhere, mentally cringing at the discomfort Paul's going to have in referencing their sexual activity when they've always been intensely private beyond a certain point of intimacy.  The whole situation is scientifically and philosophically fascinating, but the concept that it resulted from being murdered with a sufficient quantity of Paul's own DNA inside of him is something he’d rather his colleagues didn’t hear.  Ever.  Tracy apparently did the autopsy, so she technically is probably well aware of the condition of his body, but still...

Thinking about sex at all right now is making him squirm, and not in a titillating way.  If he concentrates, he's physically aware of that part of his body, but there's no stirring of arousal even when when he recalls some of their most intense moments.  

Paul's eyes are full of affection and contentment, but what about later?  They've always been in tune with each other's sexual needs, including that last night together before...before.  Falling asleep connected like that was an extremely rare treat, and not one they normally would have indulged in on a night before they had alpha shift.  Dealing with the stress of the jumps and worry for Paul in the aftermath while spending hours with, frankly, semen leaking out of his ass, isn't an experience he cares to repeat.  Especially when the thought of sex doesn't seem appealing in the least right now.   

Distaste he might have expected, as part of the recovery from trauma, but indifference?  What if he got put back together wrong, and isn't even capable of arousal now?  Or doesn't find Paul attractive?  The last part is more terrifying than anything else.  Years of loving him, knowing him, what if that's changed?  Kissing him earlier was okay, but what if he wants more?

Paul continues on, seemingly oblivious to Hugh's inner turmoil.  He can't tell him, not when he's so happy. 

Hugh should be happy too. 

Why isn't he?

Read Paul and Hugh’s last night together in chapter 38 of We Go Together

Read Paul’s theory on how he saved Hugh in chapter 35 of We Go Together 

Chapter Text

“...for lack of a better word, pristine.”

Tracy is talking, and Hugh tries to listen.  Truly.  

There’s nothing wrong with his hearing; in fact, it’s sharper and more clear than he can ever remember, even as a child.  He can hear everything - the wonder in Tracy’s voice, the shuffle of her boots on the deck plates, Paul’s breathing.  

Paul is, of course, delighted.  And Hugh ought to be as well, not only alive but better than ever.  No more stretch marks on his thighs, or slightly crooked lower teeth.  His ears aren’t pierced, and his scars- 

His scar is gone.

It’s a tiny loss in the grand scheme of things, but it’s emblematic of what he’s feeling.  This body didn’t tumble down the cliffs of Cabo Rojo, or tear his rotator cuff on an away mission.  Hadn’t danced salsa at his cousin’s wedding back home in Puerto Rico, or kissed Paul on the staircase of the Met.  Never argued with him over working late, or made love with the stars streaming by outside the viewport with the ship at warp.  It’s not the body that Paul rocked in his arms after he was murdered, the one that was almost surely consigned to the family plot beside his grandparents.

He looks like Hugh Culber, thinks like Hugh Culber, but everything that made him who he was, every experience and scar and injury, is missing.  So what does that make him now?

Paul and Tracy are smiling and laughing, and he tries to join them.  It must work, because neither of them seem to notice how ill at ease he is.

He dresses in the fresh set of clothes Paul brought with him, a pair of slacks and a black sweater.  They look identical to the ones he bought on shore leave on Deneva, but they can’t be.  All of his things should be in storage, or recycled, shouldn’t they?

Stepping into their quarters, Hugh tries to shake off the lingering unease, hoping that familiar surroundings will click.  Calling seeing Ash Tyler a shock doesn’t do justice to the magnitude of wrong he feels, the sudden flash of sense memory, of hearing his own neck snap.  

The setting is familiar indeed. Briefly, he’s impressed that Paul managed to recreate it exactly as it had been, but it’s too perfect.  Not a thing has changed, and it takes a moment for him to realize just why that strikes him as odd.  All of his things are as he left them, not even his stack of Kasseelian opera data solids has been moved off the coffee table.  

This isn’t right.

He tamps down the irrational surge of anger it produces, at Paul for clearly not going through the mourning process.  Even if he felt an attachment to Hugh’s things as extensions of his memory, they should be used or otherwise collected in a manner suggesting remembrance.  To have them as they were left suggests Paul never quite accepted that Hugh wouldn’t be coming back to use them.

Anyone else might assume it to be a good thing, a sign that his partner never gave up hope.  To Hugh though, it means Paul never progressed beyond denial, and that’s far from healthy.

He nods at whatever Paul says, lost in thought.  Beside him on the couch, Paul fidgets for a few seconds, then draws Hugh into his arms again.  It feels awkward, like he doesn't know what to do with his elbows and knees, and he squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for it to pass. 

It doesn't. 

Paul's face is buried against his neck, nuzzling his throat and humming in satisfaction.  No, it's more than that - sensual fulfillment?  Contentment?  Or maybe it's happiness.  He recognizes the sound, but his body no longer knows how to react.  Hugh does the only thing he can think of and angles their bodies together because he's supposed to, should want to pull Paul to lie on top of him, should be craving the sense of being grounded and safe.  Maybe he’s just not trying hard enough.  

Paul’s always been a tactile lover, affectionate and attentive, but he doesn’t remember ever feeling this overwhelmed by it.  His longing is palpable, telegraphed by the way he’s keeping their bodies in contact in as many places as possible.  Hugh remembers this mood from many reunions after a long separation, the way Paul loses the ability to even speak, needing to touch and kiss and taste.  This feels amplified a thousandfold though, hands moving restlessly with a frantic edge to their motion.

Despite anything he might be uneasy with, Paul needs comforting, and Hugh returns the embrace.  The heat feels nice, as does the sense of solid presence, and he finds himself making gentle soothing noises.  Except...

There’s a half-hard erection pressed to his thigh.

He must make some sort of noise in reaction, because Paul pauses in his quest to re-map every inch of skin under Hugh’s jaw and looks up with a lopsided smile.

”Can you blame me?”

Yes, Hugh thinks, immediately followed by an overwhelming sense of guilt.  

Even on nights when one or the other was too tired or sick for that kind of intimacy, they defaulted to cuddling or took care of things solo.  Times where an exhausted Hugh curled up against Paul's side, sharing slow kisses and making sleepy, encouraging noises while his partner shuddered through climax under his own hand or with the help of one of the toys in the bedside table.  Or Paul, barely awake after a double shift, yawning and inviting Hugh to rub off between his thighs.  It’s never been a cause for concern beyond a rueful apology, in tune enough with each other’s needs that the ebb and flow of their desire is generally mutual.  

Hugh frowns again.  There's a sense of fond indulgence and quiet intimacy that he always associated with those occasions, but even though he thinks it, his body isn't reacting with a flush of heat or brush of affection over his skin.  It's like looking through a viewscreen, like a holo shot in first person - he's always hated that perspective, disconnected from the narrator's reactions - and seeing his own life that way is deeply disturbing.

“Is everything okay?”

Paul’s voice is lower than usual, pleasantly so, but the solicitous concern is stifling.

”Sure.  Yeah.”

What other answer is there?

He shudders, trying to keep his breathing steady.  Paul must interpret the shiver of disquiet for something else because he tilts his head to the side and pulls Hugh into a kiss without any hint of hesitation.

It would be easy to distract Paul with sex.  He knows exactly what he needs to do, where to touch, what to say to have him mindless and desperate to come.  That’s not the difficult part.  The desire to do so is barely present, and the more he panics and looks for it, the further away it slips.  

He isn’t aware that he stopped kissing back until Paul gently separates their lips, peering at him with nervous concern.

”Hugh?”

Chapter Text

“I- I guess I just feel a little off.”

”You’re shaking,” Paul’s brows draw together in a tight frown, “what’s...are you okay?”

Hugh presses his lips together, is aware that he’s curled the hand around Paul’s waist into a fist.  He deliberately relaxes it, but the tension doesn’t abate even a little.  It’s not going to get better until they talk, he supposes, but he’s not sure how to approach the subject without hurting Paul’s (despite what others thought, extremely vulnerable) feelings.

”It’s just...” he draws back a little, letting his hands fall to rest on Paul’s thighs, “this is all a bit...much.  Right now, I mean.  And it’s right, but it’s not and I don’t- I don’t know.“

Paul’s frown deepens, and he can see the building apprehension in his eyes.  Should he stop?  He’s clearly making him uncomfortable, and that’s not going to be the best basis for conversation.  

The air between them is filled with a brittle, anxious silence.  Paul’s thumb starts rubbing circles on the back of Hugh’s neck, something he’s never minded before.  Right now, it’s making his skin crawl even as he wants to lean closer.

Honesty.  That’s what their relationship is built on.  He needs to be honest.

”Paul, I-“

The tension in Paul’s expression twists into a forced brightness.

”Oh!  I bet you’re hungry.  Yes, that’s it.  You’ve been-“ his voice catches oddly, “-gone.  Definitely something that would make you a little shaky.”

“Paul-“

(Why has he flinched a little with each use of his given name?  And why can’t Hugh seem to call him ‘love’ or ‘sweetheart’?)

“I’ll just...go get dinner.  Yes.  Stay right here!”

He’s on his feet seconds later, turning for the door even as his hands are reluctant to slip off Hugh’s arms.  The fake smile makes Hugh grit his teeth.

”Paul, wait-“

”Back in fifteen!”

As the doors swish open, Paul pauses, and for a moment Hugh thinks he’ll acknowledge the situation, will come back in and sit down and listen.  Instead, he presses the side of his hand to his own lips, then gestures vaguely in his direction.

”Don’t go anywhere.”

The doors shut behind him.

Chapter Text

He stares at the door for a couple of minutes, half in hope and half in resignation.  

Paul has never been great at addressing problems, particularly those that require him to examine his own behavior, so why should now be any different?  (Calling his death and resurrection a problem is vastly understating the situation anyway.)  Hugh’s spent years being frustrated by Paul’s lack of understanding of how the nuances of his actions impact others, but he’s surprised by the acute pinch of bitterness the thought brings.

That's not fair, he reminds himself, he does try.

Hugh’s a gifted physician because of his ability to surpass his medical training alone, innovating and understanding how to create solutions. He’s always been able to ride out chaos around him, able to calm and center himself to solve the problem at hand.  There’s nothing in his medical training to address the unique situation of a loved one returning to life, not in these circumstances.  

He's never felt so hamstrung by his own internal sense of balance being so off.  More than off, it's nonexistent.  Without that compass, thoughts and feelings swinging wildly as the proverbial needle unable to find north, he's not sure what to do.  Instinct and experience tells him that Paul is his north star, that all he needs to do is hold him, feel his heartbeat, immerse himself in his voice and use that to steady himself.  But when Paul's very presence is the opposite of soothing...

Maybe a shower will help.

Shaking his head as if he could physically clear it, he toes off his shoes, nudging them under the table.  He wonders if Paul will even comment on it, the way he used to complain that Hugh left his shoes for him to trip over.  it would be a wonderful bit of normalcy, to help them forget the situation for a few moments.

He glances at the bed briefly, then stops for a longer look.  It’s made with the kind of precision he used to tease Paul about when his own tendency was to leave it unmade and clothes strewn across it.  The linens though, aren’t fresh from laundry, small creases littering the pillowcase and sheet on one side.  Paul’s side.  

Something presses heavy and cold against his sternum when he sees that the pillowcase on the opposite side doesn’t share those tiny signs of use.  There’s perfectly good reasons why it might not - Paul spilled his morning coffee on it and just changed it today or something else equally innocuous - but it doesn’t sit right with him.  Even if Paul was working extra shifts and coming back only to pass out, he’s never been one to stay in one place while asleep.  He should have rolled across the entire expanse of the bed without Hugh’s body in his way.

Hugh considers checking the nightstand, but decides he’s not brave enough right now.  It’s ironic, that it would take steeling himself to look in the drawer, wondering if Paul’s even been in it.  There’s a small case in the back - he can picture it more clearly than almost anything - wrapped in an old t-shirt, the contents of which would have told Paul something if he had found it.

Not now.

The lights come on in the bathroom as he crosses the threshold, shedding his clothes.  Naked, he stares at himself in the mirror.  His quick inspection in the medbay bathroom confirmed that his body seems to be how he remembers it, so he ignores the physical details.  Instead, he slowly raises a hand to his own cheek again.  Under his fingers, a hint of stubble is evident, but that's not the problem.  Even watching himself do so, it doesn't feel like his own hand or his own face, although he physically registers both points of contact.  It's almost like the phantom sensation of touch in a dream, his body foreign.  Disconnected.

Shower.  You came in here to shower.

Stepping into the cubicle, he's not surprised to find that his usual bodywash is still on the shelf.  In fact, it also looks like the same half-empty bottle he vaguely remembers dropping, one edge dented and the lid screwed on crookedly.  Dropped because Paul grabbed his ass, he remembers with a jolt.  They’d shared a shower that night, then gone to bed and made love-

Not helpful.

He opts for a water shower after the first hum of the sonics sets his teeth on edge.  The water sheeting over his skin is intensely hot, and he jumps back in surprise.  He checks the control panel, expecting to see that he’s misprogrammed it, but no, it's the same setting he's used since medical school.  Dialing it down several levels helps, and Hugh concentrates on the sensation of falling water, individual droplets lighting up his nerves in ways he can't recall ever noticing before.  A shiver skates across his skin, tingling, and he can’t decide if it’s pleasant or not.  

Raising his arms under the spray, he lets it wash over his face before cautiously running a hand down the opposite arm.  He’s aware of the firm muscle under his hand, biceps flexed and the contours of his forearm.  Following the veins up one shoulder, he traces his collarbone to the notch before fanning his fingers out.

Hugh dedicated hours to his body, building a strength and physique he enjoyed inhabiting.  He’d loved the feeling of power in lifting weights, the rush of satisfaction in an exhausting workout.  Now, cupping the swell of a pectoral, he wonders what would happen if he didn’t maintain it, unsure whether he’s willing to venture into the gym past everyone’s stares.  The Hugh of before wouldn’t have been self conscious about displaying his body, but right here and now, that seems impossible.

He reaches for the shampoo and hesitates, attention caught by an empty space.  The waterproof lube stashed behind the bottle is curiously absent, which isn't in keeping with everything else seemingly untouched.  It does make him think about something else though, and he forces himself to look down again.

Dusting of hair over his chest and the ridges of his abdominal muscles, normal.  

Defined cuts at the v-line leading down to powerful thighs, also normal.

As for the rest...he slides his hand over his stomach, then sucks in a breath and drops it lower, testing.  

The first careful slide of fingers over his dick makes him almost withdraw his hand at the lightning sensation.  He sucks in a deep breath, and it comes out almost as a humorless laugh. Hugh remembers exploring his body as a teenager, learning what felt good and how to touch himself to bring the most pleasure.  This feels like that all over again, but with more than the fear of his parents walking in on him in his room at home.  

The reactions are there, prickles of sensation when he rubs under the head, growing in intensity when he wraps his fingers around the shaft and strokes.  Before, a hand on himself and time alone in the shower meant reliving some of his favorite moments with Paul, working himself up slowly to be ready to pounce as soon as his partner returned home. He tries to clear his mind, waiting to see where his thoughts will go.  

So many memories to choose from.  Licking chocolate from each other’s lips after finishing dessert on their last anniversary, the kiss growing deeper until he was in Paul’s lap, grinding their hips together.  Paul beneath him, eyelashes fluttering as Hugh drove him over the edge, hands slipping in the sweat on his shoulders.  Sucking each other off in a second round an hour later, the taste of Paul in his mouth, the weight on his tongue.

The seed of fear in his belly begins to take root.  He can see each moment, played back with the same clarity of recall he’s always had.  There should be emotions, physical memories attached, but they’re nowhere to be found.  It’s like being doused with cold water and the weak erection fades almost immediately, barely hard enough to register.  

He stares at his traitorous body, wants to cry out in confusion and anger and loss.  Those are his memories.  They belong to him.  Every moment, every kiss and sigh and sweet sense of satisfaction.  Years of playing each other’s bodies like a well-loved instrument, so comfortable they didn’t need to focus on just the physical anymore.  

Hugh fights down the stab of resentment directed towards the man he’s loved for so long.  He couldn’t have known this would happen, rescuing him from certain eventual annihilation.  It doesn’t make sense, the anger, and he bites his lip hard to push it away.  In its wake, panic rises up again, all obtuse angles and knotted anxiety.

What if this is the price he has to pay for returning to life in this reality, a stranger to himself?

What if he’s permanently broken?

How can he even tell Paul?

What is love without feeling?

Chapter Text

For a few heart-stopping seconds, Hugh can’t breathe at all.  The world narrows down to the pulse in his ears, staring at his own hands in front of him, shaking violently.

Shock.  You’re trained for this.  Slow breath in.  Slow breath out.

Air rushes into his lungs on a ragged inhale, the long-ago voice of the physician on call when he was just a med student witnessing his first major trauma case.  He clings to that memory, recalling her calm tone even as she was rapidly assessing the patient’s condition.  

A shuttle accident, nav computer malfunction sending it spiraling into a ravine, the pilot pulled from the wreckage of her craft barely alive.  None of the simulations or practicals could truly prepare him for the sight of shattered ribs and amputated leg, the metallic tang of blood in the air.  He’d recovered and snapped into the detachment needed to assist, helped save the pilot’s life, but never forgot that first moment of panic.

Reaching out, he shuts off the shower and retrieves a towel, patting the water from his skin, too hesitant to try the vigorous toweling off his hands want to perform. The oversized towel is whisper-light, and he huddles under it while the steam clears.  (Paul couldn’t care less about certain creature comforts, but bath linens fell outside that category.)

Paul.

He’s probably going to be back soon, and Hugh needs to dress. He shouldn’t be bothered, but seeing his naked body under the vanity lights leaves his shoulders tight with unease.  Exposed.  Vulnerable.

Before, he’d have cheerfully walked naked from the bathroom, or invited Paul to join him in the shower like they had for years.

So many times.

Rubbing off against each other under the spray, bodies slippery with suds.

Languid, sleepy morning kisses, propped up by the wall, Paul’s hands on his waist.

Paul’s head thrown back in ecstasy, thighs squeezing tight around Hugh’s sides as they fucked against the shower door, moans and whimpers and pleas filling the enclosed space.

Hugh waits for a feeling, any emotion - affection, desire, disgust - but that part remains empty.  Biting his lip, he turns away from the mirror, in search of something to wear.

A brief glance through the drawers reveals all of his clothes still folded alongside Paul’s off-duty wear, but the thought of putting any of it on seems wrong somehow.  Even a stranger’s clothes would feel less foreign, and he opts to dress in the same sweater and pants from earlier.  

Pacing doesn’t burn off any of the restless energy building under his skin, and eventually his feet carry him back to the bathroom threshold.  He stares at the wet footprints on the floor, watching them slowly vanish.  There’s a certain kinship he feels to those water droplets right now, laid on a solid surface until they evaporate, carried away into condensation somewhere else with only the memory of their old shape.

He’s just worked up the courage to meet his own eyes in the mirror when the doors behind him open.

Chapter Text

Dinner is completely wrong.

He remembers his abuelita and uncle shooing everyone out of the kitchen at birthdays and other celebrations, bent over the stove cooking comfort food.  Remembers the smells drifting out of that almost sacred space, Tío David inviting him in to taste.  Remembers being allowed to watch the preparation as an adult, then his grandmother guiding him to take the family recipe and make it his own.  Remembers making it for Paul on their third date after they'd returned to his flat from the Met, utterly captivated by the look of wonder spreading over Paul's face at the first bite.  

The asopao isn't the problem, not really.  He can taste the bite of oregano and garlic, the texture of the chicken and rice.  There's nothing wrong with his tastebuds, flavors bursting over his tongue like bright pinpoints of exclamation.  The dish isn't missing anything, executed with technical perfection. 

But...

It's a very object metaphor for the situation, something that should be familiar and wanted, but instead leaves him more empty than before. 

Everything, the music he used to have to beg Paul to dance with him to, a clearly romantic dinner laid out with care - none of it is right.  Paul's solicitous hospitality grates on his nerves, the artificial cheerfulness no more his Paul than he feels himself right now.  It's a thin veneer over what he can sense is mounting fear, anxiety hidden under chary concern, too afraid to misstep.  

He needs Paul to say something sarcastic, to express a sense of frustration or annoyance.  Anything is better than this forced lightness, even to break down into the tears he's been suppressing, to acknowledge the stalled grieving process.  He wants him to make a comment about how Hugh's recipe is too heavy on the salt, take him to task for leaving his shoes out, make a terribly unfunny joke that Hugh will roll his eyes at.  Paul was never an indifferent partner or deliberately insensitive, but Hugh thinks if he lashed out now, Paul would shrink back and take it, would apologize for things out of his control instead of pushing back.

Would do anything for Hugh if he asked.

Before, the thought would have thrilled him, would have needed no time to come up with a list of desires - eating breakfast together slowly, no PADD in either of their hands; watching a holonovel together without Paul getting distracted and scribbling down annotations to his latest set of data; sitting down to discuss the sore points between them without deflection.  There's so many things, not even going into the more intimate services such an offer would entail (never cruel, always mutual, but for the decision on who was in control) that he could ask of him.

He doesn't want any of them right now. 

They've never hidden things from each other, not important things.  Not until Paul decided to inject himself with tardigrade DNA.  He needs to find a place away from the questions he can't answer, from the well-meaning people pressing their emotions on him, stifling with their unconscious need to have their responses validated.  Needs to have space to think, to try and feel at home in this body, figure out just who in the universe Hugh Culber even is when this body didn't exist a day ago.

If he asked, Paul would protect him from all of them, but he could never protect him from himself.

The mounting anger isn't rational, but he can't stop it.  Paul wants to wrap him in his love - he knows this as a truth, unshakable even in his doubts, that this man loves him completely - but he's smothering Hugh.  Paul should be Hugh's anchor against freefall, his safe haven, their love the one universal constant.  He can feel him willing Hugh to be all right, pinning his own fragile hope on the fact that everything could go back to the way it was before, their puzzle pieces slotting together again seamlessly.   How many times in the network did he envision this moment, dreaming up the perfect setting of their reunion, only to have it torn away?  Hugh's furious with himself for resenting Paul for risking everything, the fate of all of the lives on Discovery and the integrity of the mycelial network hanging in the balance, to bring him home. 

He's trying to explain, but Paul isn't listening.  Clearly, the only thing he can see is on the surface, this Hugh-shaped vessel of uncertainty.  The assertion that they know who he is, is like a blow to the gut, one of Rhys' roundhouse kicks he didn't avoid.  

Paul reaches out, grips his knee, sets what's obviously meant to be a reassuring hand on the back of his neck.

Air rushing by as Tyler-who-isn't-Tyler steps behind him.

Hands gripping his head, twisting.

Snap.

The last threads of his control shatter.

Chapter Text

Years of small hurts, paper cuts from Paul staying late in the lab and breaking promises for dinner, from lying about the spore jump side effects, channel themselves into a single outburst, a stab deep enough to cut into Paul's easily-wounded heart.

The worst part is, Hugh knows he's out of control.  It's not that he's helplessly standing by, unable to stop himself.  He's choosing to let it out instead of holding it inside, because there's just not enough room in his head for one more thing.  Not in the middle of all of this.

Part of him is horrified as he raises his voice, as he shoves silverware and dishes onto the floor. 

Part of him is reveling in finally finding an outlet for the confusion and conflict that have been brewing ever since he opened his eyes in Engineering, things that he'd kept from escaping at every touch, every loud noise and bright light.   

Hugh Culber 1.0 wouldn't have lashed out at Paul like this.  Ever.  There's less than a dozen times in their long relationship that he ever lost his temper - mostly since Discovery - but that anger was hot, burning out soon after, and Paul was pushing back himself with anger of his own.  And if it didn't look like they would be able to resolve it then, Hugh would have excused himself to the gym, run laps, gone a few rounds with a training simulation.  By the time he went back to their quarters or Paul returned from his lab, they both would have apologies or explanations to offer.  Misunderstandings, stresses...they worked it out.  Mostly. 

Right now, the rage is ice cold, gripping his heart tight.  Frozen, a solid barrier with no way for Paul to cross it, even if he had stopped acting so...wrong.  

"Why are you so angry with me?"

For a moment, Hugh wavers at the small voice, because Paul truly does not know. 

He can see exactly why Paul's behaving this way, understands it but at the same time can't comprehend how such a brilliant scientist is unable to observe what's staring him in the face because he's so blinded by the shock of something that shouldn't have been possible.  

It's the single most selfish act Paul has ever committed, barricading his own pain and unresolved grief with a false sense of normalcy, to a normal that never actually existed.  And it's done out of love.

The love that's trying to surround him, loudly proclaiming itself, so that even his off-kilter senses realize it as truth.  Hugh thinks he should stay, to give in and let go of the anger, to tell Paul everything.  He can't.  Not with his instinct to comfort and protect the man now standing so vulnerable before him.  No matter what he is now, who he is now, that single directive is etched on his heart in indelible certainty.  Even before knowing himself, that drive is as much a part of him as the DNA used to rebuild his body.

It's terrifying. 

Putting Paul Stamets back together will take more than he has to give right now, maybe ever.  So he does the only thing left:  

"You know what, Paul?  That's a very good question," he snaps, storming by and out of the cabin before Paul or his own impulses can stop him.

Chapter Text

Hugh walks without a destination in mind, head down and avoiding eye contact.  Some of the crew brighten on seeing him and make to approach, but draw back when his expression and body language scream leave me alone.

He’s halfway to the gym before he even realizes where his feet have carried him, and he laughs without humor. 

“What the fuck am I doing?”

Thankfully, it’s an empty corridor, and he steps into the recesses of the viewport at the end, hidden from a casual glance.  Closing his eyes, he slides down the bulkhead to sit on the deck, knees tucked to his chest and arms wrapped around himself protectively.  

Hugh is a discordant note in the symphony, the aria gone off-key.  He knows this place, these people, but at the same time it’s like being thrust onto an alien world where everyone knows who he’s supposed to be when he can’t remember.   There’s a flare of ire that quickly dissolves into despair - his body automatically knows to take him to the gym when he’s this worked up, but it can’t tell him how to properly respond to Paul’s touch?

It doesn’t make sense.  Voices sound wrong, food tastes different, contact hurts.  He’s trapped in his own body, and it doesn’t even seem to belong to him.  The rush of warmth in his chest is missing when he thinks about watching Paul sleep in his arms, and yet he wants to crawl into bed beside him and be held until he feels safe again.

How can he remember loving him, but not feel it?

Somehow, he needs to go about re-forming the connections it’s taken over four decades to accumulate.  Except, if he can’t even find comfort with the man he planned to spend the rest of his life with-

Oh.

The despair sharpens into a razor’s edge of fury.  By killing him, Ash Tyler - or the Klingon hiding inside of him - took away everything that made Hugh who he was.  

He deprived Discovery of their CMO, of Burnham and Rhys of their friend.  

He’s the reason Paul can’t grieve properly, when his partner was taken from him so senselessly.  

Ash Tyler robbed them both, and yet he’s still walking free.

Unbidden, his hands clench into fists and he’s already walking to the nearest interface before his brain catches up.

”Computer, location of Ash Tyler.”

”Ash Tyler is in the Mess Hall.”

He pivots to leave, but turns back.

”Computer, location of Paul Stamets.”

”Paul Stamets is on deck four, section C.”

Far enough away.

Hugh wipes the dampness from his face and heads off to confront his murderer.

Chapter Text

People look up as he enters the mess hall, their incredulity and shock and wonder deflected by the wedge of purpose he has striding past them.  There's a flash of fiery red curls to the left - Tilly - but otherwise his field of vision narrows down to a table in the middle of the room and its lone occupant.  He's dimly aware of the scrape of chairs being shoved back, everyone else retreating from the confrontation.

He kicks a chair aside, swipes the tabletop clear, cutlery and tray flying off to collide with the wall.  There's utter silence in the room, save for the sound of the glass spinning and clattering to a halt on the counter under the viewport.  

"I'm sorry. I don't expect you to understand, but it wasn't really me."

Hugh's arms come up in front of his chest, as if he could contain the rage building inside, hand rubbing his neck unconsciously.  The memory of hearing it break echoes in his ears.

"It was Voq."

"Yes."

Behind Tyler's expression, he can see contrition, regret, guilt.  He hears the sincerity in his words, but it doesn't matter.  It should, but it doesn't, doesn't change anything.  Hugh leans forward, planting both hands on the table even as part of him shrinks back inside at the sheer menace of his posture.  To his credit, Tyler doesn't retreat, sits perfectly still; the lack of reaction, rather than helping, only fans the flames of anger.   

"Bring him out."

He doesn't recognize his own voice.

"It doesn't work like that."

Hugh knows he's telling the truth.  Paul didn't address it, but Tracy had answered his questions about what had happened with sober, clinical terms.  A Klingon body, reshaped and mutilated to fit into a human form.  A mind grafted in, the real Ash Tyler long lost to wherever they discarded his remains (his body, buried on Earth).  That psyche solidified, tied back in, contained in a vessel that is mostly indistinguishable from the original (rebuilt from the DNA outward, modeled after the Hugh Culber that was).  The parallels hadn't escaped him, but he can't bring himself to care, Hugh's compassion and empathy cast aside by horror at his own situation.

"I can find him."

He pushes the table aside, watches Tyler finally stand, hands held up placatingly. 

What am I doing?

This isn't you.

The assertion rings false in his head.  The gentle, kind Hugh Culber never would have solved problems with physical violence before.  Never would have let anything get this far, would have used exertion directed at a practice dummy to defuse his own anger, waiting until his temper cooled to make any decisions.  And when he did, it would have been dealt with more or less calmly, with a level of restraint that befitted both his rank and usual manner. 

Of course, that was before he was murdered by a Klingon sleeper agent.  Before his death broke Paul.  Before he spent an eternity battling for his survival and sanity - maybe he lost a little of both along the way?  In this moment, staring at the cause of it all, he makes a decision.

Maybe this is who he is now. 

Fury boils up from the pit of his stomach, fills his lungs, heart racing in fight-or-flight.  He shoves Tyler hard, both hands on his chest, waiting for a response.  Instead of rising to the provocation, Tyler pushes him back with only enough force to remove Hugh from his personal space.

"Stop it."

The finger he points is an accusatory insult, as if Hugh were the one who committed murder. 

Fear.  Loss.  Pain.  

He launches himself back at Tyler, catching him square below the diaphragm with his shoulder.  The momentum throws them onto an abandoned table, rolling off entangled.  He scrambles to his feet, and even now Tyler is yelling for him to stop, backing off.  Defensive, like he's a victim.

All around, their friends and shipmates stand frozen in horrified fascination, no one daring to stop them.  

Paul's broken sobs over his dead body.

"Bring.  Him.  Out."

He swings a chair at Tyler's head, punctuating each word he spits out.  Hears it colliding with Tyler's hands and forearms until he loses his grip, then swipes at him with full force, nothing like the precision blows of clean hand-to-hand training with Rhys.  Still, Tyler blocks, deflects, uses Hugh's own energy to lift him in a judo sweep, slamming down onto a table.  It knocks the breath out of him, and he looks up into Tyler's eyes.  He's holding him down, fending him off, but won't fight back.

Coward.

Hugh brings his leg up and kicks Tyler hard in the stomach, on his feet again a moment later.  He swings a roundhouse punch with his off hand, growling as Tyler turns into it as well, gripping him from behind.  The extra inches of height give him leverage over Hugh, and they struggle until he breaks free with an upwards elbow to Tyler's chin.

One, two, three blows are deflected.  Arms trapped between them, two stags with their antlers locked, panting hard.  Over Tyler's shoulder, he catches a glimpse of Paul, his face set in helpless shock.  

Paul.

Suddenly, the anger drains out, leaving only empty numbness.

"I don't even know who I am anymore," he hisses, sees the moment Tyler understands.

"Who do you think you're talking to?"

Chapter Text

The statement hangs in the air between them, filling the negative space created by a roomful of people holding their collective breath.  

Tyler’s tense, shoulders squared and warily waiting for Hugh’s next move.  Before coming here, in his secluded turn of corridor, he was poised on the edge of a cliff and looking down into the bottomless crevasse separating him from who he should be.  Unable to find a bridge, confusion spiraled into frustration, into panic, into rage.  He latched onto that sharp burst of intent, despite knowing at his core that it wouldn't fix anything at all, and now he's left staring into eyes that are full of torment. 

Hugh's not fully trained in combat, and there were multiple openings Tyler could have taken to bloody his nose or incapacitate him with a blow to the groin.  Instead, there was no hint of Klingon aggression or any attempt to harm him despite the ferocity of his attack.  No reciprocal outrage either, Tyler moving to contain and avoid rather than actively disable.

They're close enough that he can just smell a hint of soap or shampoo, and that cuts through the aching heat in his chest.  It's a small thing, a common recipe from the ship's synthesizer that half the crew probably uses, but it's distinctly familiar.  His brain finally catches up with his body, the urge to observe and analyze reinstating itself and forcing him to accept the truth.  

There's no one here to blame.

The unvarnished understanding he sees gives fury no target, nothing in the slightest that can justify continuing to attack.  Without that anger and adrenaline driving him, he’s aware of how heavy his body feels, weary and drained.  He sucks in a lungful of air through his teeth, tastes the metallic sting of blood from a bite to his tongue that he doesn't even remember.  Everything that he's ignored in his headlong rush to put action to the wrong inside trickles back into his senses - the aromas of a dozen interrupted meals assault his nose, the sting of his abraded knuckles making itself known.

They’re no longer grappling so much as holding each other up now, and Tyler's words finish sinking in.  It's written over his face, in his eyes: he's suffering too, for more than Hugh's murder alone.  Nothing he can do or say would torture the man worse than what he's already inflicting on himself.  There's no comfort in the thought, but even if he can't bring himself to ever feel compassion, for Tyler or anyone else, he has to acknowledge the pain present.  Admittedly, there’s also a little bit of sadistic satisfaction that the budding romance between Tyler and Michael has been destroyed.  Michael was - is - his friend and he doesn't take any pleasure in her being hurt, but if it means Tyler is experiencing just a fraction of the loss...well, there's no one to sit in moral authority over him to judge the thought unkind. 

Unfathomable loss.  

Whatever else Tyler may be guilty of, he's just about as human now as Hugh feels.  

Chapter Text

It's difficult for him to loosen his grip despite the realization, body aching for a physical release.  The past two minutes were the most alive he's felt since opening his eyes in the spore drive bay, pain and exertion and visceral impulse filling the empty space inside that used to house his sense of self.   

And yet.

He shoves away from Tyler's now-unresisting form and stumbles over to a chair, limbs uncoordinated and heavy, collapsing onto it like a puppet whose strings have been cut.  The standard post-adrenaline crash enhanced with his own emotional turmoil is taking its toll.  Sounds blur together, the pulse pounding in his ears replaced by a dull roar.  Saru's voice penetrates the fog in his head in snippets, distorted, as if through several feet of water.  He thinks he's ordering people out, but can't summon the energy to raise his head from where he's staring downwards. 

Broken glass, crushed underfoot in their struggle (it's not really a fight, is it?) mixes with the contents of upended plates.  He finds himself fascinated by the light refracted by the shattered edges, glimmering like a starfield against the utilitarian gray of the deck.  If he leans a little further forward, he can just make out his reflection in the concave surfaces of a few larger shards, image as fractured as he feels inside.

Minutes, or perhaps hours later - time has no meaning, not anymore - the room is silent save for the quiet anti-grav hum of the automatic cleaners moving across the floor, whisking away the debris and sanitizing surfaces.  When they're done, there will be no sign of what took place.  Anyone who walks in and looks at the floor afterwards will see nothing out of the ordinary. 

Pristine, just like his body.  Wiped clean, but he knows what happened here.  

Despite the stillness of the room, he doesn't have to look up to know that he's not alone.  He may not fit into the Hugh-shape of this body, but nothing has dulled the sense of Paul's presence nearby.  There's no sense of victory in being proven right, not when it means turning back into the same agonizing situation that he fled from not thirty minutes earlier.  He exhales and closes his eyes, counting the footfalls as they approach, the scrape of chair legs over the deck.  Paul's movement sounds wary, cautious, as if he isn't sure how to approach.

Hugh doesn't exactly blame him.

A rustle of fabric as Paul sits next to him, within the circumference of personal space that he's not thought about in years but now seems both too close and not close enough.  He raises his head slowly, sitting up but looking no higher than the insignia on Paul's chest, the empty circle of his new pip reminding Hugh of how much has changed.  The universe moved on without Hugh Culber, even if Paul Stamets hasn't. 

The silence drags on long past awkward.  Paul fidgets, the rub of thumb against index finger so familiar that he almost reaches out to take his hand and soothe the tic away.  Paul notices the aborted twitch of motion, inhaling sharply, which almost makes it worse.  He clasps his hands together to contain any more gestures, his body betraying the magnetic pull to the man beside him, wincing as the pressure on the raw skin of his knuckles makes them throb.  

"You should at least...at least you get your hand checked out."

He's doing the thing that Hugh always hated when Paul couldn't figure out what thoughtless thing he'd done to annoy him, focusing on some mundane detail to try and pull a normal interaction out of him.  Trying to demonstrate that despite whatever action he had or failed to commit, Paul Stamets is Paying Close Attention To His Partner.  This time though, he can't release his ire in the face of Paul's tentative solicitude. 

"Why?  I can feel it.  I'm not letting anyone fix things I can feel."

He sounds sullen and resentful to his own ears, which means he can only imagine what Paul hears.  

"Look, just come home-"

Paul squeezes Hugh's knee awkwardly, and he doesn't bother to hide the flinch it evokes.  Looking at him, listening to his voice...things that he yearned for in the eternity he'd spent in hell become suffocating.  This gently entreating man isn’t his Paul.  Neither of them are themselves in this moment, and he’s not sure they ever will be again.  What he does know, is that if he gives in to instinct and follows Paul back to his quarters, forces the negative feelings back inside, nothing will change. 

"I don't want it to change.  I want it to be the way it was."  

Paul will never accept it, never acknowledge the truth that his death is a point of no return, and the denial will destroy them both.

"Please, just let it be the way it was."

"It's not my home anymore, Paul.  That version of me, that called your quarters home-" he clenches his jaw against a sudden wave of tears threatening to spill at what he's about to say, "- that version of me is dead.  And I'm not going back."

They can't go back, why doesn't he understand?  And yet, if Paul would react to the anger being directed unfairly at him, give some sign that he acknowledges all of the things that are so very wrong in this moment, Hugh thinks they might be able to take the first step back towards each other. 

Paul's next words destroy that notion.

"Is it because you don't want to, or because you don't know how-"

Breathing in, he picks out the one undertone that he hadn't singled out before - beneath the shampoo and traces of cologne, there's a subtle note of balsam.  Hugh knows that scent, knows it means Paul drenched his hands in lotion the same way he always did before offering Hugh a massage, and the smell alone used to simultaneously relax and arouse him.  He doubts Paul's using it to try and manipulate him, but the implication that he prepared himself on the assumption that he would get to touch Hugh... It sets off a deeper sense of fury than confronting his own murderer, because he should want Paul to touch him, and he doesn't.

"What difference does it make?  Would you please just move forward, and let me do the same.”

The sharp words linger, harsh and understandable, but cruel all the same.  His pulse pounds in his ears again, nausea rising up and warring with the blaze of resentment and self-preservation.  It doesn't matter that he's died and suffered and been resurrected.  He made a promise to himself that he would never, ever, deliberately hurt this man, and Paul’s current lack of expression tells him everything.  He’s retreating inside, shutting down his emotions to protect his own heart.  It’s too late and too little, because Hugh can see the gaping wound his actions and words have left.

No going back.

"I uhhh...okay."

Blinking rapidly, Paul opens his mouth to say something else, but the sound of the comm cuts through the tense air.

"Commander Stamets, please report to Engineering."

Whatever he was about to say, he doesn't try again, can't even seem to look at Hugh.  Without another word, Paul goes, leaving Hugh alone with his bruised knuckles. 

Swallowing down the grief is excruciating, but if he starts crying he's afraid he'll shake apart.  He's finally, truly alone, but it doesn’t feel like a victory or a relief.

Chapter Text

He's been pacing in his new quarters for an hour, measuring the distance of deck from stem to stern in strides and heartbeats, anything to stay in motion because if he stops he might collapse.  Saru had quietly offered him reassignment without question, a PADD with the information waiting in the grip of a nervous Cadet standing outside the mess hall.  It's empty and impersonal, but for the moment it's his, walls and a door between him and anyone else.  

The black alert signaling a spore jump comes, and he braces himself on the bulkhead, closing his eyes against the dizzying distortion of the stars outside of the viewport and not opening them again until they snap back into normal space.  He should have asked Tracy if Paul has had any other ill effects from using the drive now that his Mirror Universe counterpart isn't interfering.  Hugh doesn't know if Paul is properly maintaining the augments, if he's remembered to inject himself with the compound Hugh developed for recovery, something to re-balance his overexcited neurons and protect against the white matter hyperintensity caused by navigating a starship using his mind.  He's at the darkened console before he can even think about it, until flexing his hand sends a bright flare of pain across his nerves and he freezes, remembers. 

He remembers why he's not comming Paul from Medical or waiting outside the spore cube for him with tricorder and medkit standing by.  Why he isn't dressed in crisp white or off-duty loungewear, lying on the couch with a PADD in his lap.  Why he isn't going to press a hand to the side of Paul's neck to check his pulse and temperature the old-fashioned way in an excuse for contact to reassure himself that his partner is whole and unharmed.  

He's no longer your patient.

You're still allowed to worry about his well-being.  

He's clearly still alive after jumping all of those months without you to fuss over him.

You're worried that he isn't taking care of himself, that no one else is looking after him the way you can.

The conflicting reactions in his head leave his hand hovering with indecision, poised over the controls.  Inhaling deeply, he squeezes his fingers into a fist, focusing on the burning ache it causes and forcing aside the worry.  He needs to do something, but speaking with Paul isn't it.  The console lights up at his touch, offers him the usual options he would find on any communications hub in the ship.

"Computer, access medical records for Stamets, Paul."

"Access denied.  Medical record for this individual is restricted."

"Okay...access mission logs following the loss of Captain Gabriel Lorca."

"Access denied.  Mission logs for this period are classified."

"Computer, medical override, authorization Culber-one-seven-one-four-epsilon."

"Access denied.  Mission logs are restricted, level ten."

It was worth a try, he supposes.   Interestingly enough, the computer locked him out not because it didn't recognize his clearance, but because his security level isn't high enough.  Level 10 is starship captains and up the chain of command, beyond even what his CMO's privileges would have given him.  He's not brave enough to find out if he can still override the restriction on Paul's file with his personal security code.  Would it be worse to know that Paul never took Hugh's clearance as his partner off his file, or if he did?

"Computer, identify me."

"Culber, Hugh.  Lieutenant Commander."

"Computer, access personnel file for Culber, Hugh.  Visual display on interface, no audio."

The Starfleet delta flashes on the screen, processing his query. 

>> Accessing Starfleet personnel file for Culber, Hugh

>> Working...

Name: Culber, Hugh

Species: Human

Planet of origin: Earth, Sol III

Date of birth: December 27, 2210

Degrees: M.D. (specialty: trauma, general medicine, xenobiology)

Commissioned: 2236

Current rank: Lieutenant Commander

Assignment: Chief Medical Officer; U.S.S. Discovery, NCC-1031 (2256)

Commendations and honors: Graduated magna cum laude (2236); Albert Lasker Basic Medical Research Award (2244); Helene D. Gayle Infectious Disease Research Award (2250); Starfleet Medal of Honor (posthumous) (2257)

Next of kin: Stamets, Paul (Lieutenant Commander, Chief Engineer, U.S.S. Discovery)

Partner: Stamets, Paul (Lieutenant Commander, Chief Engineer, U.S.S. Discovery)

Date of death: 2256 (Mission classified)

Current status: Recovered 2257 (Mission classified)

ATTACHMENTS: 

- Starfleet Medical transcript & clinic record

- Medical license (issued 2236, status: active)

- Starfleet registration of partnership (cross-reference file: Stamets, Paul)

- Publication record (cross-reference files: Frontiers of Medicine/author: Culber, Hugh)

- Autopsy report (Medical officer: Pollard, Tracy) (Mission classified, redacted) (cross-reference files: Mission log, U.S.S. Discovery, classified) 

>> Personnel file paused

Well.  Apparently Tracy's already been in the system to change the DECEASED note in his file.  Of course she did.  She would have updated his charts and scans before he even left the medbay, he's not sure why the thought surprises him.  Tracy though...

>> Accessing autopsy report for Culber, Hugh

>> Working...

>> Transcript and original notes available

Hugh lets out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.  Reading his own personnel file with its dispassionate notation on his death and "recovery" goes far beyond unsettling.  He glances at his reflection in the screen on the tabletop terminal, wondering if the man he is now in any way resembles the photo in the file, notwithstanding the years in between.  It was taken in duty uniform the day after his promotion to Lieutenant Commander, face set in a mostly-neutral expression with just a hint of a smile.  There's the beginning of laugh lines bracketing his mouth and at the corners of his eyes, head tilted slightly to the right and jaw casting shadows over his neck on that side.  Shadows hiding the stubble burn and love bite peeking just over the stiff collar, left by Paul in celebration of his promotion the night before. 

(Paul, who endured a series of changeovers that made Hugh's head spin as he criss-crossed space to surprise him just before the ceremony, watching him with pride as the Surgeon General handed him his new badge.  Who took him to dinner at the Ritz-Carlton where they had to rush through dessert because Paul's wandering fingers couldn't stay still.  Who laid him down and slowly took Hugh apart one kiss and intimate caress at a time, before making love to him so tenderly, drawing it out for an hour until they both lay exhausted and smiling at each other amidst the tangled sheets.  Paul, who dropped to his knees in the shower the next morning, a wicked gleam in his eyes, asking if the Commander wanted to order the Lieutenant to suck him off.  Who kissed him goodbye hours later and left Hugh with a wrecked bed and a shirt that smelled of Paul, until their next reunion.)

His fingers are poised over the console, indecisive, but he ultimately forges ahead if only to stave off being assaulted by more memories he's not ready to face.

>> Accessing original notes, recorded audio only

>> Working...

"Computer, begin autopsy report for Hugh Culber, Lieutenant Commander, Chief Medical Officer, U.S.S. Discovery.  Stardate- (redacted) - Tracy Pollard, acting Chie- acting Chief Medical Officer, U.S.S. Discovery."

"Deceased was found at approximately 1930 hours.  Time of death estim- estimated as between 1500 and 1700 hours, unable to specify further as Medbay sensor log during this period has not been recovered."

"Cause of death appears to be cerebral ischemia by dissection of the vertebral and carotid arteries, and spinal cord trauma, resulting from catastrophic cervical fracture.  Deceased does not show any signs of... deceased does not appear to have sustained additional injuries which would contribute to death.  Physical examination and tissue scans are negative for defensive wounds on the hands or other parts of the body, suggesting that no struggle occurred.  If- had he been placed in stasis immediately following the trauma, it's possible...he...- computer, delete last."

"Scans do not reveal significant deviations in condition or health from deceased's last medical records on file.   Physical examination identified multiple superficial contusions in the region immediately above the clavicle and sporadically across the upper torso concluded to be unrelated to cause of death.  Traces of...of genetic material from Lieutenant Stamets detected at these sites and in...in recovered seminal fluid, are consistent with recent consensual sexual activity between the deceased and his partner.  I- oh Hugh...I'm sor- computer, pause recording."

"Re- resume.  Until sensor logs have been verified, I can only speculate as to the exact circumstances surrounding Hugh- surrounding the patient's death.  He was found in the company of his partn- of Lieutenant Stamets, who has been suffering- (redacted) - and has been confined with a restraining field until further evidence of his actions has been determined.  He has shown no practical signs of awareness, but was discovered two sections outside of the medbay, holding...he required sedation to relinquish the deceased's body.  Logs immediately prior to the interruption in recording indicate that the Lieutenant struck the deceased while in a dissociative state, corroborated by Cadet Tilly's recollection.  However, I...I do not believe the nature of their relationship or the Lieutenant's disposition would lead to violence were he conscious of his actions."

"Genetic material recovered from the deceased's head and neck belongs to two members of the crew, Lieutenants Stamets and Tyler.  Lieutenant Tyler is off the ship on an away mission without communication due to the sensitive nature of the mission.  When he returns, he will need to be questioned regarding any insight.  Acting Captain Saru does not- I do not concur with the Acting Captain, as transfer of genetic material from Lieutenant Tyler to these regions on the deceased's body is unlikely to be incidental in the course of their interactions.  Given the cause of death, we can't...while transfer from Lieutenant Stamets pre- and post-mortem is to be expected based on physical contact witnessed during discovery of the deceased, I cannot imagine that...there is no explanation for it.  Further information will be appended to this report on follow up."  

>> End of audio notes  

Chapter Text

Hugh sits back from the terminal, eyes open but unseeing.  He readily acknowledges the embarrassment that Tracy had to examine his naked body and enter into record physical evidence of his intimate activities, but it pales in comparison to hearing the anguish in her voice.  Raw, barely-holding-it-together behind the facade of a doctor's professional resolve, the sound of profound loss choking in her throat as she recited the facts and conclusions.  

On a philosophical level, it isn't abnormal to wonder what one's friends and loved ones would say in eulogy, a proxy to hear their perspective of one's best characteristics.  But for anyone else, it's hardly a practical concept, the kind of discussion to have over wine on a quiet evening or dark humor in the face of danger.  It turns out that facing the actuality of his own death isn't nearly as difficult as acknowledging the grief of those left behind.  

Being a trauma specialist hardly guaranteed safety in times of conflict.  He thinks of the worry in Paul's voice when he commed to say that he was headed to the front lines of the war while Discovery was still unfinished at Utopia Planitia, his experience needed to run the medical facility on Starbase 12, and the promises he couldn't make to be careful and safe.  Even in relative peace, a doctor could be exposed to deadly diseases and other biological hazards, could be harmed by a patient in the throes of delirium.  He'd done well at separating the fear of possible harm from the balance of good he could do to save lives, never truly considering what would happen if he died before Discovery's launch.  Late night worries of an accident in the lab or mechanical failure haunted him far more than thoughts of his own mortality when he was parsecs away from Paul, reasoning that being on the same ship would somehow mean they wouldn't ever be separated again.

There's no escaping the other part of Tracy's report either, the implication that Saru and presumably others believed that he had been killed by his own partner.  No one mentioned that they suspected Paul of his murder...

Why would they, he thinks, murder victims didn't usually come back to life to question the circumstances of their death.

It's some comfort that Tracy clearly didn't agree, despite what Tilly had seen when Paul lashed out.  His feelings regarding the man are a minefield, but he can't deny the sense of outrage that anyone would think that of him.  Paul could be emotionally oblivious, even self-centered, but he had never raised a hand against Hugh, rarely even his voice unless they were both angry.  On some level it would be ridiculous to think that Paul could physically overpower him, but if others thought him capable of violence then he supposes that's a moot point.  

A cold chill settles in Hugh's stomach - trapped in the network with limited moments of lucidity, Paul might not even have been aware of his surroundings during that time.  After all, he hadn't even known that Hugh was dead until they spoke in the facsimile of their quarters, thinking what he had witnessed wasn't real.  

Of course Paul wouldn't have been able to deal with it in a healthy way, not in the middle of a war on top of everything else.  

Hugh slumps forward, elbows braced on the console, and buries his face in his hands.

Waking up from that would have been far from easy.  Hugh had no reason to believe that wasn't their final farewell despite his words to the contrary, the last time he could give Paul comfort, and he remembers trying to put into that kiss the volume of things he would never have the chance to say again.  And in a way it was true, a goodbye from before his mind was ravaged by its feral existence on the mycelial plane, the old Hugh stripped away by pain and isolation once the illusion of the ship dissolved around him and the jahSepp pursuit began.  He's walled off from the instinct driving him then, an uninvolved observer, and he's not sure he even wants those feelings back when it hurts badly enough without them.    

Fuck, even now you can't just be mad at him?

It's ironic that late nights of going to bed alone wondering if he was a priority should be proven wrong with evidence of Paul's devotion in such a manner. 

Chapter Text

Beep.  Beep.

"What...?"

Hugh blinks back to awareness, the command line on the console flashing in cool blue under his elbows.

>> Do you wish to continue?

He's apparently been sitting long enough that the display idled.  Judging by the stiffness in his neck, it's been more than a few minutes of him running in tense circles in his head.  Every time he tries to empty his mind, something intrudes, and the harder he focuses on nothing, the worse it gets.  It's beyond the physical - as evidenced by losing track of time - and he can't decide if there's too much stillness inside or not enough.  

Sighing, he stands, grimacing as he rolls his shoulders to try and release some of the tightness between them.  It's about as effective as expected (not at all), and he taps once on the console to send the screen to sleep.  Without the blue glow, the room is filled with inky darkness, and he slides down to sit cross-legged on the floor facing the viewport.  

Meditation has been a part of his daily routine since med school, a way to clear his thoughts and at least attempt to have a fresh start at the day no matter how stressful the ones prior to it might have been.  It's a habit that carried over across the decades when he lost others along the way, a few moments of quiet somewhere between waking and going on shift to ground himself out before pulling Doctor Culber on over Hugh.  Staring at the wall in the shower after his morning workout, or turning his thoughts inward during a run, focused on breathing and the rhythm of his heartbeat as the soles of his shoes hit the deck. 

Other days, ones he had cherished for their rarity, he'd slide back into bed naked from the shower and pull a sleeping Paul into his arms.  Those were the easiest, warm and relaxed, imagining the flow of energy between them and using Paul's weight on his chest to remind himself of the boundaries of his own body.  Cheek pressed to a sleep-damp forehead, he’d put his thoughts in order for the day, safe in the calm sanctuary beneath the sheets.  Paul wasn't always as asleep as he seemed to be either, and Hugh never let on that he knew, content to pretend that he wasn't aware of being watched until Paul 'woke up' and claimed a kiss.

Thinking of him now, of course, isn't helping one bit in his quest for calm.  Blue eyes and a dimpled smile blur into Tyler's tormented understanding, becomes the sound of Tracy's voice breaking on the words "he required sedation to relinquish the deceased's body", and when he's successfully chased that away, it's only to hear "why are you so angry with me?" repeated over and over, seeing the look Paul gave him as Hugh took a verbal knife to his heart.

"Fucking...just leave me alone," he hisses, thumping his fist onto the floor. 

The duranium deck plates are unforgiving, the shock traveling back up his arm and setting his knuckles throbbing anew.  He shoves up off the floor, storming into the bathroom and wincing against the sudden glare of brightness when the vanity lights come on at his presence.  The Hugh in the mirror stares back at him, lips pressed into a thin line and nostrils flaring with barely contained emotion.  He's feeling something now, but unlike the physical ache in his hand, he wishes that it was possible for someone to fix this, to wave a dermal regenerator and give him a hypo of analgesic to fill the hollow void in his chest with anything besides the profound loss he thinks he could drown in.

If he were anyone else right now, he’d be advising himself to eat a comforting meal and get some rest, maybe comm a close friend to talk it out or indulge in a favorite holonovel.  The first option is clearly untenable, the disastrous attempt at dinner clearly illustrating the lack of comfort to be found in food.  He doubts very much that his family has even been notified - what sort of message would they receive, “Sorry to bother you Mrs. Culber, but it seems your son isn’t dead anymore” seems laughably insufficient - and everyone on this ship he was close to witnessed his altercation with Tyler.  They’d likely all treat him with awkward solicitude or fits of tears, and he doesn’t have the emotional fortitude to handle it.  Tracy wasn’t there, and might actually be able to help, but-

“Computer, time?”

”The time is 0042 hours.”

He still has enough manners to not comm her this late when she’s probably on alpha, and he has the sneaking suspicion that for all of her calm, Tracy is going to need some time to process as well.  

His opera solids are still on the coffee table in thei- in Paul’s quarters, and he’s nowhere near brazen enough to reclaim them tonight.  Not after everything, and not when despite it all, if he asked, Paul would probably open his arms and hold Hugh.  Would look at him with sadness in his beautiful eyes (it's an objective assessment) and chew his bottom lip the way he does when he's trying to not cry, would touch Hugh like he's something precious and sacred.  For a moment, he’s struck with a yearning that’s completely foreign but should be natural, before it flips into irrational anger at Paul for letting Hugh hurt him so thoroughly.  The flush of heat twists itself in his stomach, becomes icy cold fear of the unknown, because for the first time in the years since he sat down next to Paul in a cafe, he's not actually sure he would be welcomed.  It lasts less than a minute, the the storm of feelings at such diametric opposites, before passing in a sharp spasm of discomfort that leaves him exhausted, physical fatigue finally catching up.

Maybe getting some sleep isn’t a terrible idea.

He gives himself another look in the mirror, then deliberately averts his eyes from his own haunted expression, turning to move across the room to the synthesizer.  It takes a few tries to force his shaking fingers to input the appropriate commands, but he eventually manages to produce a toothbrush and set of pajamas.  The soft maroon fabric yields at his touch, slipping smoothly between his fingertips, soothing and not unpleasant.  He strips off the sweater and slacks, kicking them off with his briefs and not caring where they fall.  The sleep pants settle comfortably on his hips, draping fluidly as he ties the drawstring.  His arms are raised, sleeves bunched around his elbows and shirt halfway over his head, when another flash of memory intrudes.  

Paul watching him pull on his pajamas.

”You can’t keep doing this,” he hisses through clenched teeth, “everything doesn’t need to remind you...”

Paul waiting for him under the covers with a sleepy smile.

“Fuck.”

Paul's wordless, content noise when Hugh settles on his chest, beard catching on his shirt.

A moment later, he pushes the garment back into the synthesizer and jabs the RECYCLE control with more force than strictly necessary to activate the touchpad.  The environmental controls should be warm enough for him to sleep without a shirt, and he orders the lights all off as he sits on edge of the bed.

The sheets are crisp, fresh, and he holds very still for a few breaths while his brain processes their coolness under his back.  It apparently decides the feeling is acceptable, because his shoulders lose some of their tension and he lets his head sink further into the pillow.  He rolls onto his side, thrusting an arm underneath the pillow and curling the other around his midsection.  Hugh pulls his knees up, aware that the fetal position and rapid breathing are checking every box on the list of post-traumatic reactions.  The bed feels too big and too small at the same time, memories telling him that there should be a body spooning him, the sound of quiet snores into the nape of his neck.  

He turns his head, burying it in a pillowcase that smells of standard starship laundry products and exhaling slowly.  Closing his eyes is one thing, but forcing his thoughts to still enough for slumber is a losing battle.  Hugh loses track of the number of cycles he goes through, using the dozen breathing techniques he learned in med school, trying to build a visualization of a tranquil starfield.  Every time he manages to will himself into relaxing, the hum of the warp drive penetrates his semi-conscious haze and his eyes fly open again, checking that he's not surrounded by a buzzing cloud of jahSepp waiting to reclaim his flesh.

Eventually, he admits defeat, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingertips.

"Computer, time?"

"The time is 0319 hours."

Hugh rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling in the dark.  You can sleep when you're dead, he and Tracy always joked in med school, holding themselves up with sheer willpower and double strong espresso as they reviewed anatomy diagrams and procedures until the early hours of the morning.  He smiles without humor, because he can finally offer practical experience to negate the assumption.  Being dead wasn't nearly as peaceful as one might have expected, sleepless as he roamed the forests of mycelia, ever vigilant for attack or the odd fluttering in his chest that told him Discovery - that Paul - was passing through the network.  The only other thing he longed for was sleep, and now that he's safe, it seems so very impossible.

Reaching for the PADD on the nightstand, he thumbs the screen on and resigns himself to a long night.

Chapter Text

Footsteps.  Hurried, purposeful, and so familiar.

”...Paul?” he calls, barely daring to hope, “is that you?”

A hand touches his shoulder and he turns, sees a flash of disbelief in steel blue eyes before he’s pulled into arms he thought he would never feel again.  

“Hugh?  Oh gods, Hugh...” 

His voice is muffled, words breathed into the side of his neck as Paul rocks them back and forth.

”You’re alive- I’m sorry, so sorry, I-“

Hugh is balanced on the knife’s edge between laughter and tears, eyes squeezed shut to concentrate on just feeling.  

“Shhh,” he murmurs, kissing Paul's temple again and again, fingers tangled in his hair, “there’s nothing to be sorry for.”

”I didn’t want to, I've missed you so much...”

Abruptly, the forest disappears, transforming into a darkened room.  Hugh's curious about the change, but files it away as unimportant when Paul bears him down onto a bed that coalesces out of the shadows.  When he looks up, Paul's face is very, very close, breath gusting over Hugh's lips.  His weight is welcome, hips cradled between Hugh's thighs and elbows bracketing his head. 

Smiling, Hugh tilts his chin up and kisses him, little pecks that turn into a slow exploration of each other's mouths.  Paul's lips are clumsy, and he seems uncharacteristically shy, but Hugh ignores that in favor of immersing himself in the taste and presence of his partner.   Paul's fidgeting with something above Hugh’s head on the pillow, as if adjusting his sleeve cuff.  It’s an odd thing to be doing right now, but Paul’s always been prone to restless fingers and maybe he’s picked up a few new ones along the way, since however long it’s been.  

Since Hugh died. 

He doesn't pursue the thought further when a large, warm hand reaches up and curves around his jaw, thumb stroking his cheek almost reverently.  Hugh sighs and leans into the caress, setting his hand over Paul’s and lacing their fingers together.  A moment later, Paul lifts their twined hands over Hugh's head, finding the other and doing the same.  Hugh barely notices the motion, too lost in the kiss and the thrill of a rare demonstration of dominant behavior.  He's dimly aware that they're now both shirtless somehow, even though he can't remember removing any clothing - or what, if anything, he was dressed in before Paul arrived.

Eventually, they break the kiss for air, foreheads resting together.  

"Sweethe-"

The word catches in Hugh's throat at the sudden panic in Paul's eyes.  If he didn't know better, he'd say it almost looked like horror.  Maybe it's just the shock of their inexplicable reunion, but before he can say anything about it, Paul releases his hands and sits up, looking away. 

"Babe?"

Paul glances at the pillow next to Hugh's head, eyes distant before he refocuses.

"It's nothing." 

Hugh tilts his head to the side, setting his hands on Paul's waist and gripping the solid thickness of him.  The move makes Paul's breath catch, and he smiles again, feasting his eyes on Hugh's torso.

"I've missed this."

"I knew you only wanted me for my body," Hugh teases, thumbs tickling over the crests of his hips.

He flexes his chest under Paul's wandering hands, is rewarded with a brief pinch to his nipples that sends a bolt of need down to where desire is pooling hot and heavy behind his navel.  Paul keeps one hand occupied groping Hugh's chest while he traces the other down his torso, stopping here and there.  The further down he goes, a puzzled frown seems to be forming between his brows.  Hugh's distracted by the clever fingers flicking and rolling and tugging the sensitive nub, but doesn't miss the way Paul's eyes narrow when his fingers stop over the right side of his rib cage near his liver.

"Where is it?"

"...what?"

"Your scar."

Hugh smiles in confusion, wondering if this is one of Paul's awkward but endearing games, an excuse to touch him in more places.  He prefers if Paul announces the rules ahead of time so he can play along fully, but Hugh usually catches on fairly quickly.

"It's a good thing you're pretty," he murmurs, catching Paul's hand and kissing the wrist before guiding it to his left shoulder, "it's up here, silly."

He pushes up on his elbows, angling for another kiss, but he's abruptly thrust back down, Paul's hands shoving hard at his chest then forcing his wrists into an iron grip over his head.  

”You're not Hugh."

Hugh wonders if this is delayed grief, finally catching up.  It would make sense, after all, for Paul to think this is some sort of hallucination (Hugh's not fully convinced this is real either, but Paul feels too solid to be a fantasy).  Still, there's a mournful hardness to his eyes that speaks of more than just grief for Hugh's loss. 

“What are you talking about?  It's me," he pitches his voice soft and reassuring, "Sweetheart...”

Paul flinches hard at the endearment, jaw tightening.  There’s something off, beyond the improbable meeting in whatever plane of existence he’s been exiled to.  Hugh swallows, then really looks at him.  

His body tells him he knows this man, but the more he looks, the less certain he is of that.  There's tear tracks shining wet on Paul’s cheeks, catching on his stubble and highlighting an extensive network of tiny scars, slashes and scrapes that have to be years old.  Hugh knows every blemish on Paul’s face, the uneven texture of the half-inch gash under his jaw where he cut himself trying to shave with his grandfather’s razor when he was fourteen, the pockmarks in front of his left ear from a science experiment literally blowing up in his face.  Now, he has a thick line running from below his left ear nearly to his Adam's apple, as if- Hugh's mind freezes. 

As if someone tried to slit his throat.

There's also a knot of scar tissue just under Paul's collarbone on the left side, above his heart.  It's strangely regular, with neatly squared off edges.  And  Paul has never had the skill or strength to restrain Hugh by the wrists, not trained to work his thumbs into the pressure points and make his hands start going numb like they are now.  It's a hold Rhys taught him, relying on his medical training to explain the anatomical landmarks, but he was never able to get Paul to learn it correctly.  He shifts his hips a little, and Paul reacts instantly, spreading his own knees wider and leaning forward to prevent him from gaining any leverage with his legs.

Cold uncertainty twists in his chest, at the man holding him down who is simultaneously both more familiar than his own shadow and a complete stranger.  As he stares, the vague suggestion of sleep pants Paul's wearing blur into an unfamiliar uniform, the cut more severe and hearkening back to old-fashioned Earth military garb.  His hands are covered in black gloves, and Hugh doesn’t recognize the insignia on the odd leather overlay crossing his chest.  There’s also a dagger strapped to his wide belt, a holster at his thigh with a phaser, and the hardness against his inner thighs suggests he's wearing some sort of armor underneath his clothing.

And yet, he can see the fear in his steel blue eyes, the way his lower lip is trembling ever so slightly.  

”You’re not my Paul.”

He hadn't quite meant to put it that way, and watches that face harden further, open features closing into a a nearly impassive mask that doesn’t quite fully hide the vulnerability underneath.  

”And you’re not my Hugh.”

Paul sounds angry, but there's a well of sadness behind the words that Hugh can't ignore.

"I...don't understand."

The hands around his wrists clench even tighter, and he winces as the pressure turns from uncomfortable into pain.

"Paul...you're hurting me."

The man above him wavers, relaxing his grip just enough that Hugh can feel the pins and needles of circulation beginning to creep back into his fingers.

"Are you going to try to kill me if I let go?"

"What?  Why would I..."

Paul looks up at their hands and pales, the flush of heightened emotions draining from his face in a rush.  His mouth opens and closes a few times, then he's scrambling back from Hugh until he reaches the far side of the bed, back to the wall.  

"Go away."

Hugh sits up slowly, flexing his hands.  Nothing feels broken - do bodies even follow the same rules, have the same vulnerabilities in here? - and he has far too many unanswered questions.  

"Paul?"

"You're not my Hugh.  You're his."

As he watches, Paul pulls his knees up to his chest, arms wrapped around them in a move that screams self-protection.  

"I'm not sure I follow.  Actually, I have no idea where we even are, but-" he cautiously creeps a little closer, "-let's start with what you know that I don't.  Like who you are."

He recognizes his own tone of voice, the one he used to patiently talk Paul down from one of his flurries of scientific frustration, firm and gently inquisitive.

"Multiple quantum realities, all existing simultaneously, all variants of each other." 

Oh.  Paul had gone on at length about extradimensional travel and probabilities, but it had only been in theory.

"Okay, so that makes you...?" 

"I'm Paul Stamets.  And you're Hugh Culber.  But, from another universe."

Clearly one similar enough to his own that he and Paul were together.  It strikes him that this Paul even kisses the same as his, not enough difference for him to notice while they were engaged.  

"And you thought I was...your Hugh?"

"Yes.  Obviously, otherwise I wouldn't have-" Paul gestures vaguely between them.

“What happened?”

Hugh is within arms' length, but stops when Paul's elbows come up and he tenses.  The reaction feels twenty kinds of wrong, but he can't think about that right now.

“He died to save me.  And you know what?  He shouldn’t have.  Because living without him has been fucking hell.  The Empire is awful, but at least I had something clean.  Something beautiful.  And they stole it from me," Paul's voice, which had been spiraling upwards in anger, breaks.  "Just...get the fuck out of here.  Leave me alone."  

The bed vanishes, leaving them standing a couple of feet apart.  

Hugh bites his lip, considering.  Multiple universes, he could understand, the same people living slightly different lives in all of them.  Maybe in whatever universe he came from, human kindness and decency weren't that at all.  He's not his Paul, but he's still a Paul, still looks and feels and smells and tastes like the man he loves.  A nd that also means Hugh can read all of his tells, including the false bravado.  He can't walk away from him when it's so clear that he's slowly bleeding to death from an invisible wound.

Very slowly, he puts a hand out and rests it on a black-sleeved arm.  The other Paul doesn't flinch, but goes completely still underneath the gentle touch, and Hugh waits for his arm to relax before sliding his hand up to the armor on his shoulder.  He tugs, pulling him forward until Hugh can wrap his arms around him again, cheek pressed to his temple as Paul stares downwards.  When he starts to cry again, silently, Hugh doesn't comment.  

Eventually, he feels a the vibration more than he hears Paul's words mumbled into his neck.

"..'yit."

"What's that?"

"Say it.  Please."

Hugh cocks his head to the side, unsure what he's getting at.  Clearly whatever it is, it's important, but there's no clues 

"...I don't know what it is?"

Paul is staring at his chin, chewing his lower lip in a move so familiar that his chest aches with it.

"You- he used to call me that.  He made me feel...safe.  Special.  The only person."

Oh.

Hugh can't imagine the hellish reality this man must have come from, but the pieces slowly slot together.  Paul looked like he'd been stabbed in the chest when he said it before, and maybe that's a more apt metaphor than he even realized.  So many versions of them must exist, infinite possibilities, and yet, this Paul still loved his version of Hugh with a fierceness that's almost tangible.  

In the time he's taken to think about it, Paul must take as refusal or rejection, because he takes a half step back.  His face settles into an impassive mask, eyes resigned and mouth quirking into a half smile that holds no humor.

"Right.  Sure," he drops to his knees, spreads his thighs wide and arches his back to push his ass up, looking at Hugh through his lashes, "if you do this for me, you can have anything you want."

He reaches for the waistband of Hugh's pants and he can't move for a moment, frozen in shock.  The seductive pose is so completely artificial and wrong, and even if he believed Paul was suddenly taken by a fit of lust, his eyes tell a different story.  His pupils are dilated, but it looks more like a fear reaction, which means he thinks-

"Whoa.  Whoa, the hell-" he grabs Paul's upper arm and hauls him back to his feet, "no!  What made you think..."

He can't even finish the sentence, a sick sort of certainty twisting his stomach.  

"I..." Paul looks away, won't meet his eyes, "okay.  Should have known that wouldn't work."

"Damn right," Hugh snaps, "why would you even..."  

Paul shrugs.

"Not a big deal."

The move was so clearly practiced, meaning Paul had done it before.  What kind of fucked up universe did he come from?

"Look," Paul exhales hard, "from what I've seen, your universe is nice and clean and everything sure looks a hell of a lot different.  Where I come from, sex is sex.  Currency, just like anything else, and it's easier than killing someone when you want something."

"-killing someone?"

"Most of the time."

"'And you and me- him, your Hugh..."

Paul crosses his arms, hand on the hilt of his dagger even though it doesn't look like he's planning to use it.

"I told you.  He was different.  We were different."

"What happened?"

A bark of laughter, humorless and tinged with bitter resignation.

"You- he was always trying to help people.  Even when he wasn't getting anything out of it.  Said that he had to, couldn't stop.  And the Emperor found out, and it was too late."

"This Emperor killed him?"

"You could say that."

"I'm sorry."

"Shouldn't be.  It happens, that's life."

"It shouldn't."

Huffing, Paul shakes his head.

"Should have known.  Your universe is definitely something else."

"It's who I am.  And it doesn't sound like...your Hugh was much different."

"Doesn't matter now."

"I'm still sorry."

Before he can think better of it, he reaches for Paul's hand, and the other man pulls back as if burned.

"Would you be, if I told you I killed him? " Paul's nostrils flare, chin tipping up in a gesture that's chillingly familiar.  He's about to lash out, and Hugh wonders what ammunition he's planning to use.

"I doubt that's the whole story."

"Oh?"

There's enough sarcasm dripping from the single syllable that his Paul would have been proud.

"Your universe sounds awful.  But you had each other."

"Yeah?  Still think so if I tell you I st- strangled him after we fucked?  That I kissed him and put my hands on his neck with my cock still buried inside of him?  That he died in my bed, and I had to-I had to.  He was still warm, and I had to cut his body up, make it look like I'd fucked him until he bled and tortured him slowly to death.  Because Hugh fucking made me do it to save myself.  And he was right.  And I did, because-" Paul's openly crying, doesn't even seem to notice now, "because I loved him." 

Hugh's aware of his mouth hanging open in stunned silence.  Part of him is sickened by what he just heard, tells him to flee from this twisted, cruel mirror of his love.  Except under it all, there's anguish.  Whatever the circumstances, he can't help wanting to ease a little of that pain.

"Sweetheart."

Paul shudders violently, and this time he doesn't resist when Hugh gathers him up in his arms. 

"Shhh, I've got you."  

Hugh jerks awake, heart trying to pound its way out of his chest.  A metallic clatter makes him nearly jump out of his skin, too close and too loud.  For a moment he's completely disoriented in the dark, groping across the sheets for Paul's hand to seek comfort-

Oh.

" 'st a dream," he mutters, hating the way he sounds so uncertain to his own ears.  

Sitting up, he clutches the covers and wonders when it got so cold in the room.  

"C-computer, what is the temperature?"

Why do his lips feel so clumsy?  

"The ambient temperature is twenty-one degrees."

"...you're in shock," he mutters to no one in particular, "standard procedure...compensate- compensate for...”

A rushing sound fills his ears, and a wave of nausea sweeps over him.  He stumbles out of bed, flinching as the bathroom lights rise to a soft glow and moving forward until his outstretched hands collide painfully with the side of the shower cubicle.  Hugh grabs for the door, misses, falls to his knees.  He reaches up and slaps at the controls, feeling warm water begin to cascade down.  The tightness in his chest starts to abate, heart pounding in his throat, and he forces himself to silently count each breath.

Ten.

Twenty-five.

Sixty. 

Curled on his side on the floor, he blinks water out of his eyes, feeling the steam settle heavy on his exposed skin.  The sleep pants are plastered to his legs, and for whatever reason the sight of them, waterlogged and clinging, makes a nervous laugh break free.  One laugh leads to another, and he can't stop, even when it turns into sobs that grow in intensity until his chest aches.

Leave me alone.

Chapter Text

Eventually, the panel beeps politely at him to say that he’s been in the shower for half an hour.  He doesn’t respond, should probably get up and dry off, but he can't stop the memories parading through his mind.  

Backed against the wall and fumbling for the panel to silence the reminder as Paul crowds into him, lips locked.  

Sharing a morning shower, still yawning themselves awake, silently passing shampoo and soap back and forth.  

Hands on his back, rubbing the tension from his muscles after an intense workout.  

Accidentally elbowing the control during intense foreplay, Paul tumbling out onto the floor as the door opens behind him.

Bickering over whose turn it is to choose a holonovel on a rare date night, stepping out from under the spray for Paul to rinse his hair.

Watching Paul’s face go beet red when he realizes they’d left the lube on the shelf when Detmer, Michael, Owo, and Tilly were sleeping on their floor during an environmental control malfunction.

Echoes of emotions follow each, slipping from his grasp when he reaches for them.  Lust, comfort, contentment, all of them clearly labeled in his brain, but no visceral reaction at all.  Closing his eyes doesn’t help, but leaving them open isn’t much better, elusive feelings prickling at the edges of his mind.

When he finally re-focuses, the shower has shut itself off and he's lying in a cooling puddle.  His eyes are heavy, burning as he blinks, and inhaling makes his throat ache in a completely physical fashion.  He feels empty, but not quite in the same way as before - maybe he's actually cried himself out for now?  

Hugh pushes himself upright, peeling off the sodden pants, wrapping himself in a towel and going to the sink to rinse his mouth out.  Halfway through brushing his teeth, he works up the courage to look at his reflection and realizes that he's been standing on the right side, the left conspicuously empty.  He's too drained to react to that with more than a sigh, finishing up quickly after that and synthesizing a fresh pair of pajama pants.  Then he strips the sweaty sheets from the bed, remakes it with clumsy hands before climbing back under the covers with a shaky exhale.  

Sleep doesn't come.  The darkness in the room shifts between friendly and quiet to waiting and watchful.  He buries his face in a pillow and pulls the covers up around his shoulders tightly, seeking some sense of security, but the tingling in the back of his neck only increases.  

“You’re on Discovery,” he mutters, “get a grip, dammit.”

He shifts onto his side, hesitating before stuffing a second pillow under the covers behind him.  Hugh resolutely refuses to feel guilty for it when its bulk pressed up against his back makes the shadows recede just a little, and his pounding heart settles. 

Sometime around 0500, his eyes grow too heavy to keep open, and he lets exhaustion pull him into slumber.

If he dreams again, he doesn’t remember.

********

Beep.

He starts awake with a jolt, eyes wide open and body tense, waiting for an attack that doesn't come.  Instead, the comm panel beeps at him again, signaling that there's someone at the door.

"Computer, time?"

"The time is 0700."

So, he did manage to sleep for a couple of hours.  That has to help, clearing out the synapses, even if his brain still feels sluggish.

Beep.

Paul wouldn’t, after yesterday, would he?  In the past when Hugh was pushed to the point of snapping, he avoided him studiously, going so far as to switch shifts and even sleep in his lab the night they argued over the ramifications a week after his tardigrade hybridization.

(“It was the only way!" 

"I- I can't right now, Paul.  I can't.  You want to prioritize your work, fine.  I knew what I was getting into.  But don't make me watch you kill yourself for it." 

"Don't be ridiculous." 

"I'm not the one who injected himself with alien DNA.  Did you even try to find another way?  Did you think about what would happen if it didn't work- fuck.  Don't you get it?"

"Of course I thought about it, obviously.  I can't believe you're still upset about it."

"Still upse- hah!  No, I'm not upset, I'm just wondering if one of these days I'll be called down to Engineering because you've done something to yourself that I can't fix."

"That's not going to happen.  Haven't you been listening?"

"For fuck's sake, Paul, did it ever occur to you to maybe ask your partner who is an actual doctor what would happen if you did that?  No, of course not, you just went ahead and-"

"You know what?  Fine."

"Where the hell are you going?"   

"Somewhere else.  Don't wait up.")

Of course in that case, the next morning found Hugh sitting on the floor next to Paul when he woke up, tricorder idled in his lap.  They'd talked, apologized to each other, hadn't had another real argument after that.  Until yesterday.

The panel beeps again, sounding more insistent even though he knows the auditory cue is programmed to a standard frequency.  Hugh sits up, orders the lights to half and crosses to the door.  

“Computer, identify visitor.”

”Pollard, Tracy.  Acting Chie-“

“Door.”

“Hugh,” Tracy greets him from the other side of a laden tray, “you look like hell.”

That bit of blunt normalcy is such an unexpectedly welcome thing that the first urge to laugh is followed by his eyes prickling with the sting of tears.  Tracy’s had his back for the better part of twenty years, ever since they met over a training sim his second year at ‘fleet Medical.  How many nights had they stayed up together, reciting checklists and running through practicals?  They worked well together, her no-nonsense approach and encyclopedic knowledge a complement to Hugh’s passion.  

(“You’re holistic, Hugh,” she’d informed him once over a stack of PADDs on emergency burn treatment, “the whole being.  Not just their body and mind.  That’s not something you can teach or learn, you either have the gift or you don’t.  You don’t only practice medicine, it’s who you are.”)

Trust Tracy - after what he thinks was a brief spate of tears in her office - to be acting as if a resurrected friend and colleague was perfectly normal.  It’s a touchstone he hadn’t realized he needed, something from before that doesn’t feel wrong.  

Her appraising look takes in his bare chest and feet, and she shakes her head gently.

”Tra-“

Voices approach down the corridor.  After a brief glance over her shoulder, Tracy takes a step forward, nudging his unmoving arm with the tray.

”Take this."

Hugh accepts the tray and moves to set it on the low table in front of the couch as the door closes behind her.  The contents of the tray are a bit surprising - besides a carafe of orange juice and another of coffee, she's brought him a grilled cheese sandwich and roast pork with cucumber salad alongside the more traditional breakfast fare.  There's two sets of silverware and mugs so she's clearly intending to share, but unless her tastes have changed drastically, Tracy probably isn't going to eat off the first two plates.

He doesn't bother to put on a shirt; it's Tracy after all, and his skin feels more acclimated to the ambient temperature today.  She settles onto the couch a companionable distance away, pouring coffee with a generous amount of cream into one mug that she presses into his hands, then fixing her own.  Hugh blows the steam away, aware of her watching him openly as he takes the first sip.  It's just this side of too hot, the way he likes (used to like?) it, and he rolls the liquid over his tongue, taste buds picking out the slightly metallic taste that accompanies synthesized dairy and the robust depth of the dark roast.

When he doesn't do anything besides continue drinking, Tracy sets down her mug and starts loading up a plate.  She studiously ignores him while she piles on half of the omelette and all of the potatoes, adding toast and fruit.  Instead of speaking when she’s done, Tracy sits up and starts eating.  She's just outside of his personal space, not intrusive but simply there, present.  Giving him room to breathe, to decide how he wants to react.  The silence is undemanding, and he's grateful beyond words for it.

Hugh finishes his coffee.  Tracy is only halfway through her breakfast, for all intents focused on filling her fork with the perfect balance of spinach, cheese, and egg.  He picks up the second plate, deactivates the local stasis field over the other dishes.  Steam drifts up, and he pauses for a few seconds until his brain decides the sensation is acceptable.

Biting into the grilled cheese, he’s not sure if Tracy’s ordered it extra crisp, or if he just never noticed the way the bread breaks under his teeth.  The same with the tang of vinegar on the cucumbers, and hint of garlic on the sliced roast.  He catches himself reaching for the salt, just to experience its bite on his tongue.  If Tracy notices, she doesn’t say anything, pouring herself a glass of juice and spearing blueberries with precision.

It’s familiar, med school comfort fare, when he wasn't making one of his abuelita's recipes.  Those memories don't have the same weight, the sense of heavy trepidation when he looks at them.  Hugh lets his mind wander like flicking through a holonovel, considers his own reactions to it.  These are the things that made Hugh Culber who he was.  Is.  The desire to help is still there, but the confidence is gone.  He’s not sure how he could go back to healing others when he himself is so full of doubt.  

Tracy sets her empty plate back on the tray, and he watches her neatly fold the napkin onto it.  He’s eaten most of what was left on the plates while lost in thought, the feeling of fullness in his stomach the first not unpleasant reminder of the body he now inhabits.  She makes them both another round of coffee, spoon clattering against the china, before turning towards him and tucking one knee up onto the cushions.

”Ready to talk?” 

Chapter Text

Hugh opens his mouth to say About?, but Tracy beats him to it.

"I'm not here as Doctor Pollard-" she waves at her hip where the standard portable med scanner is conspicuously absent, "this is just me, Tracy, checking up on my friend Hugh."

He hadn't even realized he was tense until he feels his shoulders loosen.  While he doesn't doubt that Tracy is very much observing and cataloging, it's a relief after hours of scans and examination yesterday to try to make that distinction.

Yesterday.  

"Thank you."

He inclines his head towards the breakfast tray, but knows she understands it's for more than just the food.  Tracy cradles her mug in her lap, reaching out slowly and telegraphing her intent.  She pauses, hand inches from his, head tilted to the side with the same tiny frown between her brows as when she's performing a tricky surgery.  Hugh considers it for a long moment - again, undemanding, and not weighed down with an expectation of what that touch should feel like - then shakes his head a little.  She nods, letting her hand fall onto the cushion between them, palm up in invitation.

"Sorry."

"For?" Tracy props her other elbow on the back of the couch, "Being rightfully cautious about sensation in a body that's less than twenty-four hours old?  After spending god knows how long not touching anyone in wherever Stamets retrieved you from?"

Chagrin crosses her face when he winces.

"Hell.  I'm sorry."

She knows.  Of course she knows, that’s why she’s here and not there.  

He's not sure if he should be relieved or worried.  News travels at warp speed on a starship, people don't usually come back from the dead, and his confrontation with Tyler was the definition of public, but still...

Tracy's waiting for him to reply, and there's no use ignoring the proverbial sehlat in the room.

"Are you going to say 'I told you so'?"

She doesn't insult him by pretending to not understand what he's referencing.

"No.  Because I didn't, and that wouldn't be fair."

Her tone is mild, without reproof, but also lacking the solicitous concern that might have been present.  It's another reason to love her.

"Who told you?"

"Tilly."

Worry twists in his gut, and he leans forward (worry for someone, surely that's a good sign?).

"Is she okay?"

"Nothing the matter with her," Tracy stops him before concern can bloom into anything else, "I asked her to come back and see me so I could make sure that the wound on her hand wasn't contaminated.  We're still not completely sure how the alien managed to infiltrate her system, and I didn't want to take a chance on her being more susceptible to some fungal...something, getting back on board."

Completely logical, but it hadn't been his first thought at all.  He files that thought away for later, locking away the spiraling thoughts of whether forgetting basic medical protocol was significant, why he cares about Tilly, and not- not that.

"What did Tilly say?"

"I won't lie, she was pretty shaken up.  Relatively speaking, that is," she smiles wryly, "but in all seriousness, she was upset."

Despite the inner conflict, he does realize that tackling a crew member wasn't the best thing to have done, former Klingon or not.  He wonders if he's going to get written up for it, wonders if attacking one's murderer is a mitigating factor, and then wonders why the thought of breaking the rules doesn't bother him as much as it used to.

"I...hell.  Probably shouldn't have done that with other people around."

"I'm not telling you to make you beat yourself up about it, you know.  People care about you, and it's probably too much right now, but they do."

Hugh nods, picking at a loose thread on the couch cushion.

"Yeah."

“Seeing you up and walking around is-“ Tracy sighs before continuing, “having you back feels like something impossible.  And you know how I feel about impossible things.”

He wants to respond to the offer of levity, but the thought that's been haunting him ever since he opened his eyes to see Paul looking down at him bursts past his lips, finally given somewhere - someone safe to say it.

"I don't feel like me, Trace."

She stares off out the viewport for a few seconds, blinking slowly.  Part of him knows it's not fair to compare his...Paul’s reaction to that of a friend he's had since long before he even knew astromycology was a thing.  Yet, it's such a relief to be talking to her, for someone to be taking his concerns seriously and weighing them, considering their merit without placation.  

"Okay.  We've got no frame of reference for what's going on, but I'm pretty sure it's you in there.  And-" she holds up a hand to forestall his kneejerk reaction, "I absolutely believe that you don't feel right.  How could you?"

Hugh bites down hard on his lower lip for a few seconds, trying to organize his thoughts, but eventually gives up and just lets the words tumble out.

"...how am I supposed to go on when I know things, but they don't...there's no reaction.  I don't feel anything, or if I do, it's all wrong.  Last night...last night at dinner.  My grandmother's asopao, and I could taste everything, recognize the recipe, but everything else felt so empty.  And just being touched, I- it hurts.  It shouldn't hurt, the scans showed everything is functioning normally."

Tracy has her head tilted to the side, frowning at first, then nodding with increasing surety the more he says.

"Of course you don't feel like you remember.  You've had forty plus years to get used to sensations, for your hearing and eyesight to degrade.  Think about how an infant reacts to new stimulation, how we tell new parents not to expose their baby to too many things at once.  Your body only reacts to things it's experienced."

Put that way, it’s starting to make a little bit of sense.  And yet.

"Okay.  That's one thing, but I don't understand how that makes me not be able to connect what's in here," he points at his temple, "with what should be..." He trails off, fingers fluttering in front of his chest.

"You know i'm not a psych-"

"I don't need- okay, I might.  But I don't want a psychologist right now.  You know me, Trace, and I know you, but why can't I- about...other people."

"What are you feeling right now?"

"Literally?"

She fixes him with a look that Doctor Pollard definitely borrowed from Tracy's arsenal.  It’s the same look she uses to get cadets and Commanders alike to answer questions.

"Unsettled?  Frustrated."

Tracy rubs the back of her hand across the bridge of her nose, and Hugh hopes he isn't setting off a migraine for her.

"And when you think about me, you and I, our relationship?  Is it the same as before?"

"I remember everything.  Well, as much of it as I ever did.  And...I know you.  I know I can trust you."

"Okay, you know that.  But do you feel like you can?"

Well.

"...no.  I don't know?"

She doesn't look offended, just nods again.

"Then why are you talking to me like this?  As far as you're feeling right now, I could be any stranger with the face of someone you knew."

"I know you're you.  You...feel?" Hugh squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head once at the imprecision of language, "you feel safe.  And I just...know who you are."

"Sounds to me like you're using your memories to override your instincts when you don't have an emotional reaction."

"Why's it only with you though?  Why not P- why not anyone else?"

Tracy opens her mouth, then closes it abruptly.  He can almost see her combing through her encyclopedic medical knowledge, and he can tell she's coming up short.

"Sorry.  I don't expect you to, well, fix this."

She waves off his apology with a familiar three-fingered twitch.  

"All of this-" she makes a circling gesture that vaguely encompasses his upper body, "-you, for lack of a better definition.  Think of it this way, the Hugh parts, those haven't changed.  But they've all been poured into a new body."  

"Okay?"

"All of the things that make you, you.  Like pouring water into a new container.  It doesn't retain the shape of the old container, but it fills whatever space it gets put into next.  The water is the same, more or less, no matter where it ends up."

"That's a terrible metaphor."

Shrugging, Tracy pours herself another half cup of coffee.  She takes a few sips and sets it down again, pensive.

"I still don't fully understand it, you know.  But I'm glad whatever it was, did."

"Pa- he said something about my energy passing into the network."

Thinking about Paul is worse than an open wound, more painful than tearing his shoulder open in Cabo Rojo.  Actually, thinking about him is less about the thought and a whole lot more about the fact that he doesn't feel anything at all when he knows he should.  

"We've reached the limits of my understanding.  Science can't explain it, necessarily, but I'd say what happened to you proves that we're a long way from explaining what actually makes someone....someone."

"He..." Hugh's voice catches, but Tracy's expression doesn't change, "he held me.  My body."

"He got to you right after- after it happened."

"I thought the logs were corrupted?"

She frowns at him, closing her mouth with a snap.

"Who told you that?"

"I read it.  The report.  My...autopsy."

Tracy's eyes close on a long blink and she takes a deep breath, holding it and letting it out slowly.  

"Of all the things they prep us for in med school, they never tell you how to do the medical report for one of your friends."

The CMO's training does actually include a module on compartmentalizing in order to maintain professionalism in the face of personnel losses, with particular emphasis on separating out the responsibility of care for a crew, but it's not something he would wish on someone who didn't need to complete it.  That had been a grueling three days of lectures from counselors, and individual sessions with a panel of psychologists, physicians, and evaluators presenting increasingly more emotionally difficult scenarios ("What do you do if you have to choose between saving your Captain, versus a friend?  How do you choose?  Can you accept that you will not be able to save everyone?  Are you able to manage a staff who will also be struggling with these questions?  Where does the line of 'do no harm' stop?”).  

"Thank you, for- for taking care of me.  And I'm sorry."

"What in the world could you possibly be apologizing for?  It's not like you're an accident prone cadet out to make my day any more difficult.  And you hardly did it on purpose.  Although did you have to show up with hickeys everywhere?"

It's strained humor, but he feels his lips turning up to mirror Tracy's slight smile at the thought.

"Probably more details about my sex life than you wanted to know," he mutters, trying to lighten the mood.  

She doesn't roll her eyes, but it's close.

"I've walked in on you in the supply closet for goodness sake, Hugh, that's really not a problem.  I just...I probably shouldn't even be discussing this with you."

"Is there a reg somewhere I missed about that?"

"Funny."

"Seriously, Trace."

"According to- to his report, it took a two-way exchange of DNA for whatever process happens in the mycelial network for...translation?  Whatever you want to call it.  So I'm grateful for your sex life, all things considered.  And I was relieved that-"

Tracy cuts herself off and looks away out of the viewport again, clearly uncomfortable about something.

"What?"

She shakes her head.

"Not relevant."

"Tracy."

"When the scanner picked up a significant amount of genetic material that didn't belong to you, in that context, before I matched it, I thought- I was afraid."

"Of?"

She stands abruptly, pacing in front of the coffee table in the first show of strong emotion.  

"Hugh. My friend had just been killed.  His partner was mostly catatonic but had been exhibiting signs of altered behavior, and the sensor logs were missing.  I thought that whoever killed you might have-"

Oh.

Oh.

There's nothing he can really say to that.  Tracy's eyes are shining with unshed tears, and he wonders now how she dealt with it all.  So far, she's been even-keeled with the usual hint of sardonic humor, but he should have thought about how having this conversation would affect her too.  If her unshakable calm (he watched her performed a delicate spinal cord repair in the middle of a firefight going on a hundred meters away on a starbase) is cracking... On some level it's a twisted ego boost, knowing how much his death affected people, but seeing it is profoundly disturbing.

Hugh unfolds his legs from the couch, ignoring the pins and needles sensation of circulation returning to his left foot as he steps around the table.  

"Trace."

She swipes wetness from her face before turning back to him.  Hugh Culber was always compassionate, and even if he weren't so, he's definitely feeling it prickling at his shoulders and arms, urging him to move.

"...sorry.  You don't need me doing this now."

There's something he needs to do, and he hopes his body is up for it.  

"Hugh?"

He shakes his head and slowly raises his arms up, waist high and palms turned forward.

"You shouldn-"

"Shut up and hug me, Trace."

It's a much gentler hug than he thinks she probably wants to give him, and his nerves aren't sure what to make of the fabric of her shirt so rough against his chest, but he carefully closes his arms around her without hesitation.  

If he sheds a few silent tears of his own as she sniffles against his bare shoulder, she pretends not to notice.

Chapter Text

Tracy doesn't stay much longer after that, excusing herself once they've recovered from crying themselves out.  By that point, Hugh isn’t sure which of them is holding on more tightly, although Tracy lets go the moment he starts to lean back.

A moment later, he crosses to the synthesizer and returns with two glasses of water, condensation beading on the sides.  Tracy accepts it without comment, nodding at Hugh’s gesture to return to the couch.  This time, he doesn’t hesitate to take the offered hand, squeezing carefully.  They drink in silence, broken only by Hugh’s startled but fond laugh when Tracy retrieves her discarded napkin from the breakfast tray to loudly blow her nose.  

(“Inelegant,” Cadet Joshua Ellis deemed it, oblivious to Hugh’s scowl over a PADD in the dorm common room.  Two weeks and three finals after that, Tracy sent him packing and the term became yet another private joke between them.)

"I should give you some space,” she murmurs, releasing his hand and picking up the tray as she stands.

"You don't need to-"

She pins him with another look, one that's half understanding and half a gentle reproach.

"Hugh.  It's me, quit trying to be polite."

"...yeah.  Habit?  Or something."

"Well," Tracy pauses just before the door sensors pick up her presence, tray full of dishes propped on her hip, "unsolicited advice, but I think you should give yourself a break.  Try to get some more sleep or go sit on the observation deck, and comm me later if people won't leave you alone.  I’m not on shift till 1400."

"Thank you.  For...this."

One eyebrow rises, and Tracy purses her lips.

"You're welcome.  I still owe you for rescuing our final project at Med."

That’s an old argument, one that he doubts they'll ever settle and pulled out on occasion to deflect too much emotion.  It has the intended effect though, and Hugh waves her out with a “no you don't” that just makes Tracy roll her eyes.  

He stands there with his arms limp at his sides for a minute after she leaves, then sits down heavily at the foot of the bed.  Hugh stares at nothing for a while, counting the rivets in the deck plating (fifteen per square meter, eight round and seven raised) and trying to take Tracy's advice.  It's a lost cause, and she probably knew it when she said so, but does appreciate the reminder that he should be worrying about himself first.  One small piece of him does feel like it should now, and he tries not to examine it too closely, tries not to think about the second-longest history he has with someone else onboard.

”Not helping.”

His teeth feel a little gross after an hour spent talking with too much coffee, and he heads into the bathroom to brush them and take another shower.  It does help a bit, washing away last night's sweat.  With the door closed, surrounded by falling water, he can almost pretend that he doesn't keep noticing things like the 'missing' second bottle of shampoo or the control panel with only the standard routines programmed in.

The synthesizer offers up a generous selection of workout clothes and nondescript civilian wear, except what should be a simple decision takes too much energy.  He had been planning to see if he can slip up to Lounge H (well off the main thoroughfares, and no one eager to overlook an exhaust port) to stargaze for a while, but the thought of walking Discovery's corridors alone, no doubt to the stares and forced good humor of his shipmates, seems less and less appealing the longer he thinks about it.  Instead, he dials up a pair of loose shorts and the ubiquitous t-shirt emblazoned with the ship's nickname, settling back onto the unmade bed with a sigh.

The ship is at warp, and he rolls onto his side, wedging a pillow between neck and shoulder as he watches the star field stretch into a million points of light.  Hugh smiles a little as he recalls the first time he looked back down onto Earth from space, the wonder of the cosmos never quite fading from his mind.  So much chaos, stars being born and dying, planets forming and asteroids hurtling across the distant corners of the galaxy.  And yet, here they are, Discovery a tiny pinprick of existence in the midst of that.

He’s not sure how he feels about that anymore.

Chapter Text

Beep.

Hugh’s eyes snap open, disoriented for a few seconds as he tries to get his bearings.  He can’t remember falling asleep, but he must have dozed off for a while, drifting on the edge of consciousness before being roused by the sound of the comm Tracy left for him (he doesn't want to know how or where she managed to retrieve it, but it's definitely his).  

“Doctor Culber, please report to the ready room.”

When he hears the summons, his first thought is that he’s going to be reprimanded for the fight with Tyler.  The second thought is that “Doctor Culber” feels so far out of reach, the dedicated physician full of patience and calm wrapped in a white uniform.  Another lifetime.  

Literally.

He reaches up automatically to check that his uniform collar is fastened, is surprised when his fingers miss what isn't there to touch.  Tracy had made it clear that they would welcome him back, but he's not feeling steady enough to even review the most basic of protocols.

"I'm on my way," he sends his acknowledgement, looking down at his clothes.  He might be a civilian right now (is there even a way to classify someone who until very recently was dead?), but he can't head up there dressed like this. 

Chewing his lip, he scrolls through the synthesizer patterns again, selecting a dark grey button down shirt and slacks.  It's a little old-fashioned, but he's always felt comfortable in traditional Earth formal dress wear.  Doing up the buttons is oddly evocative of putting on armor, each one fastened bringing his scattered thoughts into focus.  He tucks his comm into his pocket, picks up the PADD - more out of habit than a notion that he would need it - and braces himself to walk through the door. 

The corridor lights are on day cycle, bright but not glaring.  He passes a few crew members along the way, who are clearly doing their best not to stare.  Many of them had been his patients at some point, whether for a routine checkup or having injuries treated.  Thankfully, no one tries to engage further than a smile or nod, and he breaths a sigh of relief when the turbolift doors close behind him.

"Ready room.  Direct, bypass Bridge."

He studies his reflection in a display panel.  The face looking back seems composed, but the laugh lines bracketing his mouth are creased with tension instead of levity.  There's nothing he can do about that now, not when it's all he can do to quell the rising anxiety.  

It's a half dozen steps from the turbolift to the side door of the ready room, and he's admitted almost immediately.  He crosses the threshold and pauses for a moment, unable to stop from glancing around the room.  Where Lorca's had been utilitarian and dark, the space is now bright and welcoming with an abundance of chairs and viewports fully illuminated.  It's no bigger than it was before, he's almost certain, but the hewn wood conference table and colorful patterned throws folded over the chairs broadcast an openness antithetical to their former captain.  Reputation aside, that more than anything convinces him that Pike is a very different sort of man: his choice of decor reflects a willingness to share something personal with the crew, and he finds a little of the tightness drains from his shoulders at the realization.

The Captain is sitting behind the desk when Hugh enters, but he stands without delay and silently gestures towards the informal seating area on the other side of the room.  There's a plush rug, and the chairs are comfortable, curved in a way that invites leaning back and relaxing.  This is the Captain though, and that along with the ever-present tension keeps his spine straight.

"Captain Pike."

Pike smiles at him, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, and Hugh recognizes the unspoken message that this isn't meant to be a formal conversation.  The next words confirm it.

“Relax, Doctor," Pike's smile settles into a quirk of the lips, still lingering in a dimple.

Hugh opens his mouth, then abruptly realizes that he's not sure what he should say.  It's not the first time he's been in the Captain's presence, but he thinks that being recently resurrected excuses him for not noticing all of the details.  In the confusing - and frankly, painful - few minutes he had with Pike, he'd picked up on the man's calm demeanor and inherent authority, but also self-deprecating humor and concern.  It seems to hold true, as the receptive posture doesn't change.

The Captain tilts his head to the side, glancing at a PADD sitting on the coffee table.  Hugh follows his eyes, and isn't surprised to see his own file open.

“I understand that you’re Commander Stamets’ partner?”

Hugh winces, and Pike picks up on it immediately, chagrin passing over his face.   

”...something I should keep my nose out of?”

”It’s...complicated, sir.”

”Relationships usually are, in my experience.”

It sounds like commiseration and compassion, not a trite platitude.  He's struck again by the sincere kindness and finds himself warming to the man a little further.

"I'd like to apologize.  For my behavior yesterday.  It was...not appropriate."  

His instinct is to say 'uncalled for', but can't quite bring himself to offer the proper response.

Pike waves his hand, shaking his head a little.

"I didn’t ask you here to lecture you on professional behavior.  I checked, and you don’t exactly have a record for physical altercations.  The opposite, if I'm being honest."  

He feels like he's being examined, but it's non-invasive.  Pike is studying him with an air of empathy, not the sympathy or awkward rote profession of understanding he'd been half expecting.

Hugh turns over a few possible responses before settling on a simple, "thank you, sir."

The Captain nods before standing, gesturing for Hugh to stay seated.

”Can I offer you something, Doctor?”

”Coffee, thank you.”

Pike pauses in front of the synthesizer.  

“Any in particular?”

”Sir?”

”When I was a lieutenant on the Antares, I learned that doctors can drink anything with enough stimulant to keep moving.  That being said, every ship’s doctor I’ve ever met since has had some very strong personal opinions on how they take their coffee off-shift.”

The story startles a laugh out of Hugh, which was probably Pike’s intention.  His mischievous smile invites him to share the joke, rather than taking offense.

”Café con leche, please.  Unsweetened.”

Pike returns a few moments later, and Hugh accepts the steaming cup with a nod of thanks.  He doesn’t really need the caffeine, isn’t even sure what his body’s tolerance is for it now, but the familiarity of the drink matters more.  Across from him, Pike is busy dumping several spoonfuls of sugar and a healthy measure of cream into his coffee, stirring vigorously.  

“I recognize that look.”

”Sir?”

”The same look my CMO on Enterprise gives me every time we have breakfast together.  I’m half convinced that Fleet Medical teaches all of its cadets how to very respectfully disapprove of their Captain’s habits.”

It’s said without criticism, and Pike clearly isn’t expecting a response as he deliberately spoons in more sugar.  Hugh huffs out another chuckle, using the excuse of drinking to process everything he’s just learned about the Captain.  It’s richer than what he shared with Tracy this morning, and he takes a moment to appreciate the velvety milk foam over his tongue, liquid just this side of too hot.

Coffee still in hand, Pike seems to be staring at the rim of his own cup.  Neither of them say anything for a couple of minutes, and Hugh lets his eyes wander a bit more.  There’s an impressive display of pottery (forcefield stabilized to prevent damage, he’s sure) on one wall, along with several items bearing some variation of Earth horses.  He also spies what appears to be a fully stocked bar, shelves of drink ware illuminated behind an archaic cart of bottles.  Pike is clearly someone who appreciates remnants of the past, and Hugh wonders how that contributes to his reputation as an innovator.

Setting down his empty cup, Pike waits for Hugh to do the same and picks up another PADD.

"All right.  A bit of business?"

Hugh nods, folding his hands in his lap.

“I’ve read the reports on yesterday’s mission, and while I can’t say I fully understand how it all works, Ensign Tilly and Doctor Pollard were quite thorough and adamant that you’re, well, you.”

”Tra- Doctor Pollard ran every test possible, and I reviewed the results too.”

”So I see. You two've known each other a while?"

He seems genuinely curious, and Hugh carefully sidelines every pre-conceived notion he might have had about Captain Christopher Pike.

"Yes.  We went to medical school together."

"She's been acting CMO in your...absence."

There’s a slight upward inflection on the last word, although it’s not quite a question.

"I-" Hugh looks down at his hands for a moment, then back up to where Pike is watching him without any sense of judgment, "I died, Captain.  It's...not necessary to refer to it as anything else."

"Necessary, no.  It's a bit of an unprecedented situation."

"That's an understatement, sir."

Pike inclines his head in acknowledgement, seems to be gathering his thoughts.

"In all honesty, I was expecting Commander Stamets’ report to accompany theirs with the same level of detail, but it’s rather sparse beyond all of the new theoretical connections between universes that he’s proposing.”

Oh.  There's an unfamiliar twisting pain in his chest that probably isn't physical at all.

“It was-“ he sighs, searching for a simple explanation, “-indescribable in a lot of ways.”

”When you feel up to it, I’d be interested in hearing about it, Doctor.”

Pike holds up his hand when he sees Hugh’s frown.

”Only what you’re comfortable with, and when you're ready.  I don't imagine you'll be going anywhere soon- unless, you aren't intending to stay aboard?"

He honestly hasn't thought about that.

"I...I don't know, Captain.  I haven't decided.  Or thought about that at all, really."

"No one's asking you to make any decisions right away, Doctor.  Least of all me.  I've heard from the crew how much they respected your work, including Doctor Pollard.  I'm sure you know better than I do that she doesn't seem to be prone to exaggeration."

"I appreciate that, sir."

Another thought occurs to him, and he figures he might as well ask.

”Captain...I was wondering.  My command codes, they’re still active?”

“Ahhh.  I had them restored yesterday, once Doctor Pollard finished her tests.”

Hugh’s eyebrows raise in surprise.  It’s standard procedure to permanently deactivate access for a deceased officer.  Even those considered MIA and later recovered, receive new codes when their files are updated.  

“As far as I’m concerned,” Pike’s voice is quiet but firm, “you’ve just returned from an abrupt and unanticipated period of extended leave.”

He blinks slowly, throat gone dry at this unexpected consideration.  The Captain seems to understand his silence for what it is, and continues.

"I'd be remiss in my duty if I didn't make the offer to have you back in a formal capacity if and when you're ready to do so."

“I- thank you, sir.”

”Take all the time you need.  And if there’s anything I can do in the meantime, you’re welcome to pull up a chair.”

The offer is genuine, not an empty courtesy.  Hugh can’t imagine Lorca - or any other Captain he’s met - speaking with the same sincerity.  

”Thank you, Captain.”

Pike’s expression is open, the honesty in his steel blue eyes reminding Hugh of someone else entirely.  He seems to be debating whether or not to say something else, searching Hugh’s face before nodding to himself.

"Again, none of my business, but I do hope that regardless of how complicated things may be with regards to Commander Stamets, that you'll make the decision you need."

“Paul is...a good man.”

“I don’t doubt that in the least, Doctor.  That doesn’t, however, mean you have to-“

"Captain Pike, sir, we've got the results from the debris analysis you requested."

Despite the knots in his stomach, Hugh can’t help the fond head shake - mirrored by Pike - at hearing Tilly’s excited voice. 

“Thank you, Ensign.”

He’s not sure if he’s grateful for the interruption, but it’s given him plenty to think about.

"Well," Pike sighs, "unfortunately, it looks like I'm going to have to cut this conversation short."

Hugh stands, nodding.

"Of course."

Pike offers his hand to shake, then makes an after you gesture towards the side door.

"Thank you."

"Doctor-"

Pausing, Hugh turns back to see Pike lingering just short of the sensors for the door leading to the Bridge. 

"Captain?"

The smile he offers is guilelessly charming.

“Welcome back.”

After the ready room doors close, Hugh finds himself hesitating in the short corridor, staring into the middle distance.  He debates heading to the observation deck, but he needs some time alone with his thoughts now that being alone is a choice.  There’s plenty to think about.

Chapter Text

The floor in his current quarters should be - is - identical in every respect to that in any other on Discovery, so it doesn't make sense that it should feel any less comfortable.  He does wonder if it has something to do with his brand new nerves still getting used to sensation, but this goes beyond that.

Hugh's sitting cross-legged on the deck, leaning back on the bed and staring out the viewport the same way he’s been for the last couple of hours.  His nerves aren't raw, precisely, but he can't shake the sense of being permanently off-balance.  Meditating isn't working, and part of him is seriously contemplating crawling back under the covers and not coming out again until he absolutely has to.

The conversation he had earlier with Captain Pike was both calming and unsettling: calming, in that the man's affable demeanor soothed his nerves, and unsettling in the reminder that he's going to have to tell people about him and Paul.  Of course, that means he has to figure out for himself exactly what that even means.  

They’ve been Paul-and-Hugh for so long, weathered ups and downs and being uprooted into a bloody war.  Tracy used to shake her head and tell him that their relationship was steadier than most people’s marriages without the fuss of a ceremony.  It's been years since they went through the process of formalizing their partnership for the sake of their Starfleet records, but it was exactly that: a formality.  Even without the official certificate or an elaborate celebration, they'd made their own commitment to each other that mattered more than anything.  Hugh had firmly intended to spend the rest of his life with Paul-

Oh.

Didn’t you?  

The rest of their lives should have been long, Hugh finally achieving the goal of being a CMO and Paul's research re-writing centuries of scientific foundations.  They were supposed to retire from starship life after a long career, settle down in San Francisco and teach at the Academy, spoil Hugh's nieces and nephews and finally get that cat Paul had always wanted.  Supposed to journey side by side into the twilight of their lives, and slip away peacefully when the time came, content and surrounded by decades of love.

...we deserved so much more time.

He closes his eyes, head tipping back to rest against the sheets.  Despite the constant danger, it had genuinely been a dream come true at first: fully unpacking into the drawers and cabinets, his belongings mixed with Paul’s, antique medical texts on the shelf next to Paul’s mycology compendiums and framed holos of them on leave together.  Coming home to be with each other permanently, getting ready for bed without counting down the weeks and days until they were separated again, lying beside Paul and watching him sleep.  Pestering Paul to eat more greens, watching Tilly bloom under his mentorship, complaining about the grey growing in their hair.  

At the best of times, they fell into a comfortable domestic routine of shared showers and goodnight kisses.  They ate dinner together in the mess hall with the kind of silent communication that made Tilly’s eyes grow wide and her cheeks flush.  Hugh went running in the morning and sparred with Rhys on the weekends, and Paul videocommed Straal from the couch with his head pillowed on Hugh’s lap.  He’d remind Paul to comm his mother, then temporarily disable the universal translator so he could carry on in rapid-fire Spanish with his own abuelita every couple of weeks.

And yet.

It hadn't taken long for that to shatter.  Driven by Lorca's pressure (and oh how Hugh would love to have an hour with that now-deceased impostor), Paul started spending nearly every waking hour in his lab, simultaneously obsessed with translating his previously theoretical work into practice and wracked with conflicted guilt by the thought of it being used to wage war.  Firefights and sudden Klingon attacks filled the medbay with the critically injured, seesawing wildly with quiet days full of routine checkups and the occasional duty-related minor injury, leaving Hugh emotionally exhausted.  They’d quarreled over the smallest things, Hugh’s concern making him snappish and Paul’s single minded focus casually neglecting their relationship.

Frustration aside, being light years away from him during a war would have been bad enough; knowing that he’d modified his own body to interface with the engines...Hugh couldn’t imagine not being there to take care of him no matter the emotional cost.  Paul injecting himself with the tardigrade DNA created a whole new set of complications, even as it made the gentler parts of his personality more accessible.  For him to go from withdrawn back to the sunnier disposition Hugh recognized from their early days should have been thrilling.  Instead, he’d watched warily, knowing that his hovering irritated Paul but unable to stop.  

At their worst, Hugh felt completely de-prioritized and wondered if it had been worth the effort to be stationed together, if they mightn’t have been better off dedicated to their separate careers and coming together infrequently to nourish the spark between them.  Those thoughts had been his companion when the other side of the bed was empty, another evening wasted waiting hopefully for Paul to come home.  The resentment always boomeranged back though, and he couldn’t hold onto the anger without being disappointed in himself for thinking ill of the man he loved.  

And then you died.

He can't go back to being who he was before, but he also has no idea how to go forward.  The words he’d snapped out aren’t a comfort, not when he doesn’t know how to follow them.

Is it fair to make a unilateral decision?

...isn't that what Paul did when he decided to experiment on himself?

The blank deck plating doesn't yield any answers as he stares.  

Beep.

Shaking his head, he reaches for the PADD on the nightstand.  He's lost more time, but it's not as if he has anywhere to go or anything to do.  The alert is for a set of voice messages from the alpha shift bridge crew, and he bites his lip before hitting "PLAY ALL".

[Detmer-Keyla-LT/OPS] Welcome back!  Come to Game Night this week?  There's a ton of stuff to catch up on.  Can't wait to see Stamets actually smiling again, he's been so miserable while you were gone.  Ummm, not that you probably needed me to tell you that.   That sounds weird, but really, I'm just really happy you're okay, Doctor C.  

[Rhys-Gen-LT/OPS] Hugh, so much to say.  I...ugh, I can't get emotional in the middle of my shift.  I totally get why you're pissed at that guy.  I can't believe he's...anyway.  If Stamets lets you out of your quarters, wanna go a few rounds later?  I've missed having someone who can actually muscle me over, and there's a new armlock I want to try out against you!  Comm me.

[Saru-CDR/EXECOFCR] Doctor Culber, please allow me to reiterate my well wishes on your return.  I do hope that you are feeling more settled.  If you'll forgive me, I do believe you are still troubled by certain things, and should you wish to speak of them, I offer my full discretion.  I shall extend this to Commander Stamets as well, although I do not wish in any way to disturb your time together.

He sighs.  Rhys and Detmer seem so...young right now, officers in their twenties eager to see the universe and carry out Starfleet's mission.  Exuberant.  It’s not something he thought on much before, other than a bit of ego-boosting pride that he could keep up with a group of people nearly half his age at the gym or martial arts mats, or bringing it up just to tease Paul about the age gap being more than sufficient for Tilly to be his daughter.  (“Unless you’re planning to have a chromosomal makeover, dear doctor, the only kids I’m gonna have are the fungal variety,” Paul scoffs, but Hugh can see his cheeks flush.) 

Hugh’s rarely considered how it feels to be a certain age, but he’s now cognizant of the way his body operates differently than he remembers and it can’t all be just nerves rewiring themselves. Once the weight of having a physical body on this plane settled out, he’d lost the heavy feeling in his limbs.  There’s a fluidity of motion, an ease in reaching for objects that’s just a touch faster than his memory tells him it should be.  Healthcare breakthroughs and the near-eradication of food insecurity on Earth meant that humans were living longer lives in comparison to their ancestors, but higher quality of life aside though, medical science could only do so much mitigate the effects of aging.  For all that he took care of himself, there were still tiny things that he had to get used to, things that didn’t even enter into conscious thought but he’s exquisitely aware of by their absence.  He’d seen it all - or didn’t see it, really - in Tracy’s scans: no wear on his joints, organs functioning at peak efficiency, even the callus on the side of his thumb from holding a stylus no longer present.  Going from a body he lived in for four and a half decades into this...

Listening between the lines, they all probably assume he and Paul are ensconced together, reuniting physically.  Then again, when he was fantasizing about an impossible reunion in the network just to hold onto the shreds of his sanity, he'd envisioned lying in bed wrapped around each other and kissing and touching for hours.  Pictured gazing lovingly into Paul's eyes and wrapping himself in the depth of affection found there.  Yearned to be pinned to the mattress under Paul's weight, stretched full and made whole and safe in his fevered embrace as they made love.  Thought about the kind of welcome home that involved reaffirming their connection at a primal level, then being so happily exhausted afterwards that he would have to carry Paul back to bed from the shower.  

Home.  Hugh doesn't try to stifle the bitter, humorless laugh at the concept.

The PADD beeps again, this time with a text alert.

[Pollard-Tracy-LT/MED] Hugh, you better not be sulking alone.  I mean it.  Comm me, or Rhys, or someone.  Don't make me come drag you out, because you won't like it.  Or- I'll send Tilly.  Don't think I won't.    

Tracy's message does make him smile.  He knows better than to disregard the warning and advice veiled in her friendly threat, and reaches for his comm.

"Culber to Pollard."

"Pollard.  Hugh - no, you're going to need the larger osteo unit, the portable doesn't have enough charge for that!  Aisha, go with him, and make sure the leg is stabilized before Collins tries to walk here on her own again - sorry."

"Busy?  Oh, hell, sorry Trace, I should have checked the time."

"Don't worry about it, my shift ended twenty minutes ago, just finishing up some paperwork.  You up for a late lunch and a chat?"

"I..." Hugh frowns, considering.  The thought of the mess hall alone is daunting, but Tracy wouldn't have suggested it if she didn't think it was doable.  "Sure?"

"Good.  Let me stop by my quarters and get out of uniform, and I'll come get you.  Fifteen sound good?"

"Yeah.  See you then."

"Pollard out."

True to her word, Tracy buzzes the door panel fourteen minutes after ending their conversation.  She looks him up and down briefly but doesn't comment, just steps back and lets him join her in the corridor.  

"So, how was-"

They round a corner, nearly running headlong into a group of engineers.  Hugh barely avoids a cadet whose nose was too buried in a PADD to see him coming, over-correcting and crowding into Tracy's side.  One of the party, a woman with dark hair braided around her head, stumbles back against the corridor wall.  The motion draws his attention as she was far enough away from the collision that no one bumped her, shouldn't have been anything more than a surprised step out of the way.  Hugh focuses on her face, recognizes her as one of Paul's team from Deneva - Lieutenant Harrington - and frowns as she pales rapidly, eyes growing large.  

"-sorry," Tracy is murmuring to his left, apologizing for the shoulder to the chest that she gave one of the other cadets.

"Sorry Doctor, no, we should have been looking."

"At ease, Kendall.  I do try not to send the crew to the medbay off hours, makes too much work for everyone else."

The dry delivery startles a snort of laughter out of the nervous cadet.  Harrington is still staring at Hugh, and there's something in her expression that he can't quite place that goes beyond shock.  He catches Tracy's elbow, her eyes flicking over to follow his glance.  Her lips press together, and she gives a quick shake of her head before turning and moving off the other direction with him still in tow.  She doesn't stop until they've stepped into one of the alcoves off to the side of the corridor, crammed together at one of the smaller observation ports.

"...Tracy?  What just happened?"

She closes her eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"Trace?"

"Harrington is the one who- she found you two.  After."

"After...oh.  Oh."

"Yeah."

Another group pass by the alcove, talking loudly, and Hugh shrinks back against the bulkhead.  He catches himself barely a breath later, but it hasn't missed Tracy's notice.  She sticks her head out into the corridor, seems to be estimating something, then turns back to him.

"Tell you what.  This isn't the place for it, and the mess hall is going to be crawling with people.  Why don't you head back, I'll pick us both up something, and bring it in."

"You don't have to do that."

"Hugh," her voice softens, "don't let me push you too hard.  I mean that."

She's being overcautious, but it's appreciated.  He nods, accepting her pat on his bicep before heading back the direction they came.  Thankfully, the only others he encounters on the way are too engrossed in discussing deflector maintenance to pay him any attention.  Then the doors close behind him, and he’s returned to blessed silence.

Tracy doesn’t take long to get food, depositing a tray on the dining table with a tired smile.  While the morning’s breakfast was comfort food, this meal is more functional - a couple of steak sandwiches along with sliced fruit and iced tea.  He’s surprised at how hungry he actually is after taking the first bite, but isn’t sure if it’s a quirk of the new body or his mind being too distracted to notice.

They eat in comfortable silence, and it isn't until he abandons the crust of his sandwich (doesn't have enough horseradish) that Tracy speaks.

"I thought you said you saw your report?"

She doesn't have to say which one.

"I did."

"So, you heard Harrington...?"

Hugh shakes his head slowly.

"I didn't see anything about that in the log."

"It was in the addendum."

”Wha-“ Hugh clears his throat, “what else is there?”

Instead of answering immediately, Tracy wipes her mouth with a napkin and stacks their plates.  She inclines her head to the left, suggesting the couch with a quirk of her lips, and he nods.  After relocating, she cuts to the chase.

”Harrington’s report.  And the recovered footage.  From the medbay.  Just after.”

His fingers are shaking, and it’s probably not only the sheer amount of caffeine he’s had.  Folding them over his upraised knee helps a little, but it also highlights his knuckles whitening with strain.  Caught at the crossroads of several thoughts, he automatically reaches for his glass to take a drink and is snapped back to reality in surprise when all he encounters are a few melting ice cubes.

”I want to see it.”

The steadiness of his voice seems to surprise them both.  Tracy stares hard at him as he sits there shredding the remains of the lemon slice from his tea, before reaching down to pull off her shoes and tuck her legs up onto the couch as he goes to retrieve his PADD.  She doesn’t comment on the fact that he sits down closer than before, just lays a hand on his wrist and squeezes once before letting go to accept the proffered device.

“Computer, access medical file for Culber, Hugh.  Open addendum to autopsy report, authorization Pollard-alpha-alpha-seven-four-nine.  Chronological order, index vitals.”

”Working.”

"Do you want me to let you-"

"No.  Stay.  Please?"

“Okay.”

“File ready.”

She passes the PADD back, turning her eyes to the screen.  The familiar feed from the medbay is slightly distorted by the corner angle, but he can clearly see Paul lying still in the foreground, and just past the foot of the biobed what must be his own white boots.

"You don't have to do this right now, Hugh."  

"I- yes, I do."

Pursing her lips, she blinks slowly a few times, then carefully leans in just enough that their shoulders are resting together.

"Okay."

Heart pounding, he taps the playback command.  

Doors swish shut offscreen, their sound seeming to rouse the man on the biobed.   Paul sits up, looking around in confusion, the vitals displayed on the right side of the screen indicating his neurotransmitter levels stabilizing.  

Hugh always hated seeing the medical smocks on him, not only because of what they implied, but how they gave his pale complexion a sickly pallor.

He turns to his left, focusing on the floor.

”Hugh?”

Paul jumps off the edge, barely waiting for the containment field to fall before he’s dropping to his knees next to Hugh’s motionless form.  

”Hugh?” Paul shakes his arm, leaning over to press a palm to his cheek, “Hugh!”

Paul slides his hands under Hugh’s shoulders, lifting him-

Fuck.  Even from the relatively small screen, he can see the way his head lolls too far to the side, bent at an unnatural angle.  Tracy inhales sharply beside him but doesn’t say anything.

“No!” Paul yells, pressing his fingers to the side of Hugh’s neck.  

He tears open his collar and checks the other side, cradles Hugh’s face in his palm.  Fumbles for his wrist, hand hanging limp and unresponsive in his grip.

”No, NO!”

He knows he shouldn’t, but he zooms in.

Paul looks around, snatches a tricorder off a nearby table and scans him, dropping it when the warning sounds for no vital signs detected.   He bends down, setting Hugh back on the deck, starts compressions on his chest.  

”Wake up.  Please, Hugh, you can’t- don’t leave me.  You have to wake up.”

Paul tugs Hugh’s mouth open, presses their lips together and blows air into his lungs before starting compressions again.

His body must have still been warm, and he thinks of the cruelty of the universe in allowing that glimmer of hope as he watches Paul continue the cycle three times, four, a dozen.  

He reaches for the scanner again, eyes gone wide as the alarm continues to sound before flinging it across the room, shaking his head violently.  

“Hugh- fucking damn it all, wake UP!  You can't leave me.  Don’t do this to me, don’t-“

He can see the moment it sinks in.

Sightless eyes, staring at nothing.  Blood starting to pool in his mouth and spill over his lips.  

"Please.  Please, Hugh..."

Paul gathers Hugh’s body to his chest, head in the crook of his elbow, rocking him back and forth and moaning in anguish.   Tears stream down his cheeks, and one drips off his chin to land on Hugh’s face.  It hits the bridge of his nose, rolls down and is caught in his lashes, almost as if he’s crying too.

”Please don’t go.”

Paul’s voice is hoarse, and Hugh feels his heart sink at the utter devastation in it, the broken plea when he presses their foreheads together.

“Please don’t go.”

Paul kisses the corner of his mouth.  

He reaches up to touch the same place, skin prickling with the ghost of his lips there. 

Between one moment and the next, Paul’s eyes film over again, his psyche being drawn back into the network.  His head whips back and forth, sensing something that isn’t there.  

“It’s not safe,” he mumbles, taking Hugh’s limp hand, “not safe for you.  Can you hear them?  C an’t stay.  Have to...not safe.”

Paul pulls his torso up against him, and Hugh’s clearly broken neck lets his head lie heavily on Paul’s shoulder.  

He hopes Paul doesn’t remember that.

Paul wraps both arms around his waist, lips still moving.

”...safe.  Keep you safe.”

He can’t stand, Hugh’s unfortunately literal dead weight too heavy.  Paul frowns, tugging a few more times, then he slides around and slips his hands under Hugh’s arms. With his own arms crossing Hugh’s chest, Paul struggles upright, embracing his torso. 

Hugh used to love Paul hugging him from behind.

Paul frowns when his shoulder bounces off the closed door before changing direction.   The main medbay door is sealed, and it’s easy to see why - the control panel is smashed, wiring pulled out.  It's slow going, but he walks them backwards until he reaches the other door, Hugh’s heels dragging.  

Tracy reaches over his arm and pauses the recording.  He can feel her looking at him even though her face is still turned towards the PADD.  

"Tracy."

"Hugh?"

"I need to finish."

"You- all right."

She squeezes his knee, then taps the screen to advance the records.  The next one loads up, a side view of Saru seated in what he recognizes as one of the auxiliary engineering labs.  Across from him, Harrington stares straight ahead, breathing slowly.

"Commander Saru, first officer, hearing a statement regarding the...loss of Chief Medical Officer, Lieutenant Commander Hugh Culber."

"R- report.  Lieutenant Saoirse Harrington.  Engin- engineering.”

“Please tell me what happened, Lieutenant.  At your own pace, there are no formal questions to answer.”

Harrington nods, fingers balling up and straightening the tissue in her hand.  She looks down at her lap, blinking rapidly, and takes a deep breath.

”...I found them.  Him.  There were electrical problems, and I was there.  I heard a noise, and followed it.  He- he was sitting on the floor in the section I was working on.  With uhh-,” Harrington looks away offscreen, swallowing convulsively. 

“Lieutenant Stamets was holding Doctor Culber.  His eyes were all wrong, all clouded over.  He kept saying ‘the forest’ over and over again.  He wasn’t saying it to Hu- to anyone. I tried to get his attention, I thought the way he had the doctor, maybe...like he was just...just sleeping.”

Saru nods.

“And what happened after that?”

”Commed the medbay.  I touched Stamets’ arm, but he didn’t react.  So I uhhh, I tried to get him to let go of Doctor Culber.  I thought maybe he was injured, there was blood on his mouth, but...he pushed me.  Stamets.  That’s when Doctor Pollard got there.  I don’t- don’t think he wanted to hurt anyone, but he pushed her too and she dropped her tricorder.”

Harrington breaks off, sniffling, pressing the side of her hand to her mouth.

Saru’s voice is gentler than Hugh thinks he’s ever heard it.

”You do not have to continue if it’s too difficult right now, Lieutenant.”

She shakes her head, eyes brimming with moisture.

“I- it’s important.  I don’t..don’t think Stamets was the one who, who...he would never.  Ever hurt Hugh,” her voice grows thin and high with the strain of keeping her tears at bay, “I know he wouldn’t.  Never.”

”The Lieutenant is not in his right mind, I’m afraid-“

”No, sir.  Commander.”

Her lips are pressed together, wobbling slightly, but she sounds adamant.

“By your account though, he struck both you and Doctor Pollard.”

“No sir, it was like he didn’t even know we were there. Doctor Pollard gave him something.  A sedative, she said.  He didn’t even notice, or fight back or anything.  It was only when...when I tried to help Doctor Pollard get him to let go.  But he, he...wouldn’t let us take him from him.  That’s whe- when Doctor Pollard scanned them.  Him.  Hugh.”

"I see."

”He wouldn’t have hurt Hugh.”

“I am...very sorry.  You must have known Doctor Culber well.”

”A bit.”

Saru gestures in a go on motion.

“I worked with Lieutenant Stamets on Deneva.  Hu- Doctor Culber visited a few times,” she smiles for the first time, tinged with sadness, “you know how Stamets is, sir.  But when Hugh was there, he’d...light up."

Harrington loses the battle and a sob makes it past when she's biting her lips, breathing gone ragged.  Saru doesn’t say anything while she gathers herself, although he makes an abortive movement as if he was planning to reach out and thought better of it.  He sits completely still, waiting.

Two minutes later, Harrington's eyes open again and she tilts her chin up.

”Please continue, whenever you are ready.”

“We- we had to wait until it worked.  And he kept saying...”

A tear breaks free, followed by another and another until they’re running down Harrington’s cheeks again.  

“He was saying ‘Safe.  Safe with me’ over and over.  Why would he say that if he- if he did that?”

This time, Saru does lay a spindle-fingered hand lightly on Harrington’s forearm in a gesture of understanding.

”I do not know."

She nods tightly, gazing down again.  

"Is there anything else you wish to add, Lieutenant?”

”No.  Sir.”

”If you think of something else, later, please contact me.  And do not worry about the time.”

"Thank you, sir."

"Computer, end recording."

Chapter Text

The file pauses, Harrington's haunted expression burning into Hugh's mind.  No wonder she reacted to him that way in the hall, he hadn't even considered that as a possible cause.  He remembers her from Paul's time on Deneva, quietly competent and a good fit for the team.  They never really exchanged more than a few words, pleasantries on the rare occasion Hugh convinced Paul to join his colleagues for a drink (because they had a terrible habit of not making it out of bed for however long he was staying, losing track of time snuggled together), but he can't imagine what she must have felt.

"Hugh?"

"I...yeah."

Tracy gently takes the PADD out of his unresisting hands, setting it on the coffee table.  Then she stands and pads barefoot across the room, tapping something into the synthesizer.  It whirs briefly, and she comes back with a steaming bowl and cup of coffee, pressing the bowl into his hands and keeping the coffee for herself.  

"What's this?"

"My gran's cure-all.  And since you look like you're about to throw up, it might help."

Oh.

He does feel lightheaded and sick to his stomach, but that feeling has been a constant companion since he...got back.  Hugh weighs the benefit of telling Tracy versus the cost of making her worry more than she clearly already does, and ultimately chooses to say nothing.  Instead, he focuses on the mystery drink in front of him.  The contents of the bowl are a grassy yellow-green, and his nose picks up something that smells vaguely of citrus with an odd herbal overtone.  He thinks back over their long history, trying to remember if she's ever mentioned it before, but seems to be drawing a blank.  When Tracy doesn't do anything but watch him blandly, he lifts it and takes a cautious sip, rolling it across his tongue.  

Lemongrass, he thinks, honey, peppermint, and-

"It tastes like burnt rice."

"Mmhmm."

The next sip isn't as surprising, and the third and fourth create a small pool of warmth in the knot his insides have become.  It does help, and he slowly drains the bowl.

"Were you always this nice to me before?"

He knows before he finishes the sentence that the attempt at humor is going to fall flat.  And it does, spectacularly, as Tracy's expression doesn't change when she sets down her now-empty mug next to the bowl before turning to face him fully.  

"I know you're a stubborn ass sometimes, but why the hell are you doing this to yourself?"

"I-"

"Look, I'm not a psychologist and neither are you, but we've both got enough training to recognize trauma.  And this, this masochistic need- for fuck's sake, Hugh, you died.  Give yourself a break."

He bristles at the implied reproach.

"I'm not-"

Tracy cuts him off again, holding up her hand.

"Give yourself time to deal with it.  We don't ask victims of violence to relive the attack until they're feeling steady and safe again."

"That's just it though.  What if I never feel that way?  Why should I wait?"

"Why shouldn't you?"

She arches a brow as he stops, mouth open and blinking slowly.  He's still trying to formulate a response when his PADD chirps on the table.  Tracy is closer and picks it up to hand it to him, but glances at the screen and freezes halfway through the motion.

"Trace?" he tugs on the PADD, still angled away from him, "what is it?"

"You know how you always said Paul had spectacularly bad timing?"

"...yeah?"

Sighing, she releases her side of the device. 

[Sweetheart (Stamets-Paul-LTCDR/ENGR)] Can we talk?

Seeing the nickname programmed in for Paul’s contact makes his stomach twist again regardless of the tea in it.  It’s such a small thing, but he remembers the way Paul looked at him the first time he caught sight of their conversations from Hugh’s side, the soft smile and his eyes filled with happiness.  He never thought twice about it once he started with the nicknames, not when Paul lit up like that.  

Chirp.

[Sweetheart (Stamets-Paul-LTCDR/ENGR)] Please.  Just for a few minutes. 

Chirp.

[Sweetheart (Stamets-Paul-LTCDR/ENGR)] You don't have to

The clipped communication is so uncharacteristic between the two of them, terse and short, and Paul is never sloppy with his punctuation.  He can hear the unwritten "but" where the missing period should be, and wonders what the second half of the sentence was before Paul deleted it.  Hugh reads the three lines of text again, then drops the PADD onto the cushions between them, bracing his elbows on his knees and covering his face with his hands.

"What do I do, Trace?  No matter what, I'm hurting him."

Tracy retrieves it, scanning over the second and third messages.  Her hand lands on his shoulder, not rubbing or squeezing, just present.

"I think you should be thinking of yourself for once."

"Sure," he mumbles into his palms, "if I knew who I even am."

"Does he know you feel that way?"

He lets out a frustrated groan.

"I tried.  He wasn't listening."

"You didn't mention that this morning."

“How much do you know?”

”Tilly said you and Tyler got into a fight, then Saru kicked everyone else out so you and Paul could talk.  He showed up in engineering later, and nearly took off Reno’s head for asking what he was doing there.  She seemed pretty convinced that it was bad.  And judging by everything, I’m inclined to believe her.”

“She’s a good kid.”

”She is.  And you’re changing the subject.”

Tracy's tone is neutral but curious, and he sits up again because there's no comfort to be found behind his eyelids in the memory from yesterday.

"He...he brought me ho- to our old quarters.  All of my things were there, like he hadn't moved them at all.  Hadn't moved on.  He brought dinner, put on music, and acted like everything was fine.  Like he was pretending none of this, me...dying, didn't actually happen and he wanted to go back to the way it was before.  Except he wasn't being Paul at all.  I tried to tell him, but how am I supposed to do that when I don't even know what I'm doing?  He wouldn't stop pushing, and I just couldn't, Trace."

"So-“

Hugh's already shaking his head, 

"I- I did the one thing I swore I'd never do."

"...what?"

He blinks back a sting of tears, but plows forward, can hear the self-recrimination in his tone and doesn’t really disagree.

"I hurt him.  On purpose.  I told him the old Hugh was dead.  And to move on so I...to let me too."

Tracy mutters something he doesn't quite catch, but it sounds pained.

"I promised myself I would never do that.  And I could have stopped, but I didn't.  What does that make me?  When I never would have done that before?"

The question trails off into the air.  He can see her thinking, but for once isn't quite sure how she's going to react.  When she finally re-focuses on his face, her response is nowhere near what he expected.

"You know," Tracy looks him square in the eyes, "for the last twenty years I always thought you were pretty level headed, but right now all I'm seeing is you punishing yourself for the same things you don't want other people to do."

"I- what?"

“You said you were angry with Paul for expecting you to be exactly who you were.  So why turn around and expect that of yourself?  You can't possibly not be yourself, even if you think you wouldn't have before.  The old Hugh?  Didn't experience dying and living in another reality.  I can't imagine what it was like, but I do know you don't come out the other side of that unchanged.  Was he wrong to react that way?"

It might be a rhetorical question, but all he can offer is a defeated shrug.  When it's clear he isn't going to say anything, she continues.

"After everything...you said it yourself, he was going to be Paul.  I'm not saying he was right or wrong, or that you were either, but would you just take a minute to think about you?   This isn't him forgetting your anniversary or not picking up the hint that you weren't in the mood for listening to him go off about his mushrooms.  The guy who doesn't do so well with feelings when they're literally staring him in the face over coffee.  The same emotionally repressed idiot you fell in love with."  

He drops his face into his hands again, chewing his lip.  There are words that want to burst out, but he's only whispered them in his mind, hasn't even considered speaking them aloud as if he could hide them away.  But this is Tracy, and who else would he say them to if he's ever going to deal with it?  

It still takes three tries before he can get them out past his lips.

"Trace, I know I loved him.  I know I should.  But I don't feel it anymore.  I think about him and remember things, but there’s just nothing else.  And that scares the fucking hell out of me."

He can feel her slouching down on the couch next to him.  They sit in silence for a few minutes, nothing but the hum of the ship around them.  Eventually, Tracy must come to some sort of conclusion, because she nudges his arm with the back of her hand.

"You're coming at it from having experienced all of that, whatever it was, in one continuous line.  But he lost you.  To him, you were gone forever.  He broke, and he still hasn't figured out how to put himself back together, and so you know what he's going to say and how he'll say it."

He nods, scrubbing his hands over his face and leaning back.    

"So talk to him," Tracy's voice is quiet, "whatever it is you need to say.  Maybe he'll listen now."

"Maybe."

"Look, Hugh, I know I've given you both a hard time, but at the end of it all-"

She looks away, blinking, and his skin prickles at the sudden visible emotion on her face.

"...what if I-" he swallows hard, whispering so softly that she has to come closer to hear, "what if that means it's without him?"

"It’s not about him right now.  This is about you.  And if you're not ready to talk to him yet, just tell him that.  Otherwise you're going to tear yourself apart in the meantime.  I'm not saying this to push you into anything.  You know that, right?"

The PADD is still on the cushions, three lines of text seemingly mocking him with their curt communication.

"I know."

“Right now, maybe the two of you need to figure it out on your own.  Or maybe you need to do it together.  Either way, he loves you.  More than I've ever seen anyone else love.  And I would think that won't change no matter how much time or distance is between the two of you, if that's what you decide to do next.  But you can’t let his reaction dictate what you need.  And I think you know that.”

"Doctor Pollard to Botany Lab Four."

They both start at the summons, Tracy looking indecisive.

"Hugh-"

"Go.  I'll figure this out."

She searches his face for a few seconds before nodding and flipping open her comm.

"Pollard, I'm on my way."

Tracy stands, rolling her shoulders and shoving her feet back into her shoes.  She's out of uniform, but given it's her off shift, Hugh doesn't think they'll fault her for arriving at whatever incident it is without it.

"I can be back after, if you want?"

He's already taken too much of her time as is, even if he knows better than to say so.

"I'm okay.  Thanks, Trace."

Once the doors swish shut behind her, he goes back to staring at the PADD.  Fourteen minutes later, he works up the nerve to thumb it back on and type out a short message of his own.

[Sweetheart (Stamets-Paul-LTCDR/ENGR)] Can we talk?

[Sweetheart (Stamets-Paul-LTCDR/ENGR)] Please.  Just for a few minutes. 

[Sweetheart (Stamets-Paul-LTCDR/ENGR)] You don't have to

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED)] Yes, I do.

Chapter Text

Hugh talks himself into and out of leaving his quarters twice before he's actually successful.  He's never been someone who shied away from what needed to be said or done, but nothing in the past really compares to this. It's a struggle to keep his face neutral so that those passing don't read the conflict inside, and thankfully it's at a time when there's less traffic.

It's just Paul, he thinks as he pauses the turbolift, and he deserves an explanation.   

His breathing goes shallow, heart pounding the closer he gets to Deck Nine.  There's another alcove not far from his destination, tucked around a corner.  He steps in, taking refuge for a few minutes to stare out at the sliver of the cosmos visible through the narrow viewport, tries to bring his breathing under control.  The bulkhead is cool at his back as he leans out just enough to look down the corridor, taking in the row of neatly spaced identical doors between the structural supports.  

"This should look pretty familiar."  

It does and it doesn't, but that's not something he can change right now.  The weight of the comm in his pocket feels out of proportion to its size when he pulls it out, flipping it open to read the message string again.

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED)] Yes, I do.

[Sweetheart (Stamets-Paul-LTCDR/ENGR)] Where?

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED)] I'll go there.

[Sweetheart (Stamets-Paul-LTCDR/ENGR)] Okay.

It's such a terse exchange, nothing like before, and he knows if he scrolls up, he'll find their history still faithfully saved.  Now though, the mundane conversation throughout their shifts, the flirtatious messages and reminders to come home, read like the script to someone else's life, like waking from a dream.  He sees the responses he gave when Paul broke yet another promise to have dinner or come home at all, but instead of re-living the frustration and loneliness he remembers feeling while sending them, he sees a passive-aggressive sharpness to them.  So many things shoved just under the surface, as he made excuse after excuse on Paul's behalf to himself, his refusal to explain just what he was upset with Paul about because he should know, shouldn't he? 

When did we stop being honest with each other?

Hugh knows the answer to that, and knows it's not entirely Paul's fault.  

You're stalling.

He straightens, drops the comm back into his pocket and wills himself to walk the ten meters.  It seems to stretch far longer than that, and he feels oddly numb, thoughts turned inward.  The privacy message on the door panel draws his attention, a discrete "do not disturb" strip of orange just under the red indicating locked personal quarters.  

>> 9-G-4 <<

Stamets, Paul (LTCDR/ENGR)

Culber, Hugh (LTCDR/MED)

The crew manifest would have been updated accordingly, but he hadn't been paying a whole lot of attention yesterday.  Hugh would wonder if Paul ever took his name off of it, save for the fact that he used to be first.

(“Looks like Starfleet decided you’re on top.”  

“Oh my god, that’s awful even for you.”

“You love me and my puns.”

”And since when do I come before you?  Other than alphabetically.”

“Want a demonstration?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”)

At the end of the corridor, three people exit the turbolift and start heading his direction.  That more than anything propels him forward the last half-step, because he doesn't want them to wonder what he's doing standing outside and staring at the closed door.  Before his hand can reach the panel to request entry, the doors swish open automatically in front of him.  

The interior is dim, just the desk light and the lamp next to the couch on.  After the brightness of the corridor, he steps just out of range for the doors to close behind him.  Things he never would have noticed before, too used to their presence, invade his senses.  Hugh can smell standard laundry detergent, hints of coffee and the bathroom disinfectant in the air, and he blinks as his eyes finally adjust to the lighting. 

There's a tumbler with melting ice on the coffee table, jarring in its incongruity.  Paul was never much of one for alcohol in times of stress, preferring to save it for occasions of celebration.  The last time he can remember otherwise was after Straal's death, snapping at Hugh's gentle concern vehemently enough that he had gone for a run, unwilling to stay and start the argument his partner was so obviously trying to provoke.  Grief was never kind to Paul Stamets, and he'd returned to find him drinking Saurian brandy straight from the bottle, eyes red and the fight gone out of him.  He'd been withdrawn after that, not protesting when Hugh took the bottle away and wrapped him in his arms instead, had to be led across their quarters and stood in silence as Hugh undressed them both and coaxed Paul into the shower.  That night ended with him crying himself to sleep, mumbling apologies into the front of Hugh's shirt.  

It hits him low in the gut that Paul must have needed a drink today because of him. 

Who knows what he did after you died?

Paul has his back to him, standing about two thirds of the way across the room.  It’s an odd place to be, but he knows Paul was probably pacing, a slow path between the bathroom doorway and bed and back again.  He’s in full uniform, boots and all, and - unusual for this time of day - hair damp and clearly freshly styled.  When he turns, the expression on his face is completely unguarded, a flash of the adoration of yesterday shining in his eyes.  He inhales sharply, lips parting, and the lights paint his skin in warm gold.  For a split second he’s so beautiful that Hugh can’t help but be drawn to him, taking a step forward without realizing.

His scent is overwhelming, and between one blink and the next Hugh is very far away as he breathes in woody, musky citrus and hair gel.  It’s familiar and identifiable in its components, and he waits for the rush of warmth that always filled his chest.  There’s nothing other than icy emptiness though, and that fragile feeling of enforced calm in his chest cracks a little further as he catches himself before he can move any closer.  Telegraphed body language or not, his trepidation is obvious to them both. The hands raised waist-high, automatically reaching out for Hugh, stutter and drop.  A crease forms between Paul’s brows, and he can see the exact moment that reality re-asserts itself, when joy turns to sorrow.  

Talk to him.  

Hugh swallows, wetting dry lips, and says the first thing that comes to mind.    

"Hi."

Paul gives him a brief upward quirk of the lips that tries and fails to be a tight smile, fingers splayed wide at his sides in a tell more illustrative than fidgeting or clenched fists.  They stare silently at each other, and Hugh almost thinks he can hear the echoes of yesterday’s angry words.

When did we ever not know what to say to each other?

“Are...how are you?”

It’s far from an empty pleasantry, and he hopes Paul knows that.  He doesn’t seem to have been expecting it though, tripping over his words.

”Fi- fine.  Thank you.  I’m...can we sit?”

Hugh nods, settling on the far side of the couch, posture painfully upright and not the casual sprawl the cushions invite.  He waits as Paul positions himself at the edge of his personal space, unsure if it’s too distant or not far enough away at all.  Neither of them speak, and he takes the time to really look at Paul properly.  His skin is duller than even months aboard ship should leave it, more strands of silver in his hair and shadows heavy under his eyes as if he hasn’t slept.  Not for the first time in the last twenty minutes, Hugh wonders if this is a mistake. 

Paul reaches out as if to rest his hand on Hugh's knee, but seemingly thinks better of it and lets it fall to his own leg instead.

”I- okay.  Yesterday.  I know you’re mad that I never did it before, but I just want to make it up to you.  All of the times...every time I wasn’t a good partner, and I’m sorry I didn’t see it then.  But I want to do it over and do it right.”

His eyes are wide with entreaty, and Hugh doesn’t doubt for a moment that he’s being honest with his intentions.  He also wonders how long Paul rehearsed that in his head.

"I..." Paul closes his eyes, taking a deep breath before continuing, "I thought about it, and I understand why you were angry with me."

I wish you did.

"No Paul," he tries to gentle his voice, "I don't think you do."

The hands resting on his thighs twitch, Paul's fingers curling in to grip the fabric of his uniform pants.

“Please...just talk to me.  Whatever you’re thinking or feeling or- I’ll listen.”

"I can't just flip a switch and act like nothing's changed."

"Nothing has to change, if you don't want it to."

“It’s not that easy.”

”It could be." 

He wants to believe Paul as badly as Paul is trying to convince himself.  Before, he would have backed off, might have made an attempt to disagree but ultimately wouldn't have pressed.  Examining why doesn't do either of them any favors though, and he forcibly pushes the thought aside. 

"It's...do you think the way we were was working?"

For all of his innovative thinking as a scientist, Paul was always a creature of habit, of routine.  Someone who approached unfamiliar situations with wariness, only at ease when the variables were catalogued and happiest when things outside of the controlled environment of his lab were predictable.  Hugh had treasured how much trust it took for Paul to let him bring so much unknown at the beginning of their relationship, saw how Paul took comfort in him being a known quantity as the years went on, how much more he fell in love when the novelty wore off.  That reliability served them well, but it also meant that upsetting the routine by trying to address problems was beyond difficult.

"I...yes?  I know that...that you weren't happy with me before, but I'm going to do better."

"It's not just that.  I was.  Some- most of the time.  But you can't just think that pretending nothing happened is going to work.  That's not...not now."  

He probably shouldn't have jumped right in, but there's no point in talking around it.  

"That's not impor- it shouldn't matter.  You're here now, and we can make it better.  Moving forward.  Like you said."

Paul's speaking quietly, but he can hear the tightly-strung tension behind the false lightness, the way his voice wavers.  

"Would you please stop acting like this?"

"...I...like what?"

"This," he waves a hand, "this isn't the Paul Stamets I knew."

"I...I don't know what you mean."

"You're treating me like I'm made of glass, like I'm something you want to wrap up and put away behind a forcefield so you don't leave fingerprints.  It's like you can't remember what we ever argued about, and you want me to tell you what to do so you can make yourself into it.  That's-" his voice falters, half unsure what he's even saying but the words won't stop, "I don't want that.  I never wanted that.  Neither did you.  Not like this.  I died, Paul, and nothing either of us can say or do changes that.  And right now, I don't know what in the hell I'm supposed to do, but stepping back into the person I used to be?  That isn't it."

"I promise I’ll do better.  Whatever it is, just tell me and I’ll fix it.  This- we get a second chance, Hugh.  You and me, we can start fro-“

Hugh shakes his head, exhaling hard.  

“That’s the thing.  Is there a ‘we’?”

“I- what?  Of course there is," Paul tries to smile again, but it's so patently forced that Hugh cringes, "the war is over, Lorca's gone...there's the red signals or whatever they are, but it won't be that way any more.  I'll be home every night, I'll stay.  We can have dinner and..."

“That’s not moving forward, Paul.  That's not fixing the things that need fixing, it's pretending they never happened.”

Paul opens and closes his mouth a few times, but nothing comes out.  

"Look, I..." he stares at the far wall, trying to get his thoughts together.  "I need you to understand.  All of this.  It looks like me, and all of the scans say it is, but I really don't feel like me.  Not the way I should."

“You’re yourself to me.”

“How can you be sure?”

”You...” Paul reaches out slowly, jaw tightening when Hugh flinches as their fingers touch but not retreating, “I know you.  How you feel, your voice, the way you smell.  The- the way you taste.  You're all here, this is you.”

His fingers are shockingly warm as they curl against Hugh's palm, thumb gently stroking over the back of his hand.  He remembers those hands, large and deft and careful, but there's still something unsettling about the touch even though he knows it should be as natural as breathing.

“I have all of the memories.  But I can’t feel any of them.  And the harder I try, the more yo- people push...”

“Memories make us who we are.”

”Memories and experiences.  This body,” he gestures at his chest, “this body didn’t experience any of it.”

"We- maybe you just...just need some more time to rest.  And then it'll come back the way it should."

He stands abruptly, rooted to the spot but unable to keep sitting.  Paul's not understanding him, and it hits Hugh like a punch to the stomach that he can't make sense of.  Raising his voice yesterday hurt less than seeing this now, and it's torment to see the man he remembers loving running scared from his own feelings, in denial of them. 

Was it always like this before?

“You never even put my things away.  They’re all still right where I left them.”

”I tried.  I did.  But I couldn’t, not when they were all I had left of you.”

Paul’s nearly whispering now, struggling against whatever torrent of emotions he has dammed up inside.  Hugh stares at the empty glass on the table, condensation beading on the sides.  There’s the faintest hint of it on Paul’s breath, even though he’s completely sober, and it's as if that glass symbolizes the gulf of distance between them now, all of things he's missed.  

When Hugh doesn’t look up, Paul drops to the deck, kneeling at his feet.  He cradles Hugh’s hand in both of his, like it’s something precious, and it just feels so wrong, and Hugh doesn't know what to do to make it right.

“Can’t we find out together?  Please Hugh, I- I’ll do anything.  Anything.  Just tell me what you need.”

Silent tears are running down Paul’s cheeks, dripping into his collar, but he doesn’t even seem to be aware that he’s crying.  Seeing him on his knees like that, face upturned and begging...Hugh goes lightheaded for a moment, swaying on his feet.

Whatever you do, you're going to hurt him.  

”...I love you.  You know that, don't you?”

"I do."

And that's what makes this so hard.

“Paul, please- I just-“ his chest aches with the pain in Paul’s eyes, the pain he caused, “I can’t right now, with you.  With me.  I need to figure this out.”

"Okay." 

Paul is quick to acquiesce, too quickly for it to be real understanding, and he confirms it with his next words. 

“How long do you need?”

”I don’t know.”

”Hugh-“

”I’m sorry.”

Hugh pulls his hand away, tries and fails to not hate himself a little for the way it makes Paul’s breath hitch.

“I- what if I promised not to touch you?  Not until-“

”That’s the thing, Paul.  What if ‘until’ is never?”

"Please don't say that."

"...I just can't.  Not like this."

Paul's shoulders stiffen as if he's bracing for a physical blow.

"Is...are we- I..."

"I don't know."

Paul scrambles to his feet as Hugh steps back, arms wrapped around own torso as if he could physically hold himself together. 

"Hugh..."

"I can't, Paul."

“Do you...not-“ Paul looks away, blinking rapidly, eyes shining with tears, “do you not love me any more?”

His voice trails off, question barely audible, but Hugh hears it more loudly than anything else could sound.  Paul’s broken, and it’s his fault, and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it right now without hurting him further.

“I remember loving you.  So much.”

There's a glimmer of hope in Paul's eyes, but mostly they're full of fear.

"You-"

"I died, Paul," he swallows hard at the way Paul recoils from the word as if burned, "and you still can't say it."

"That doesn't-"

"I need some.  Distance."

"What...what does that mean?"

"Don't you think if I knew, I would tell you?"

Despite the sharp words, his voice comes out brittle and exhausted.  He’s not sure what he’s planning to say next, and is saved from it by a PADD on the table chirping a notification.  Paul ignores it, but Hugh seizes on the opportunity.  

You need to leave before you keep hurting him, he tells himself, even though he knows he's running away.

"I...Saru gave me quarters.  On Deck Four."

"You don't want to come home."

Yes seems impossible, but no is just as cruel.

Paul stares over his left shoulder, cheeks stained pink with barely contained emotion.

"Should I...do you...do you want your things?"

They're not mine, he wants to say, but Hugh knows if he says no, Paul will latch onto it as a sign that Hugh is going to come back.  He still doesn't understand.

"I- ," he forces himself to try to smile, but it probably just comes off as looking as sick as he feels right now, "you've been looking after them.  It's okay."

That's not an answer, is it?

"Hugh..."

"Tilly to Stamets.  Commander, can you come down here?  There's a problem with-"

Without looking away, Paul fumbles for his comm on the coffee table.

"Tilly.  I- I'll be right there.  Stamets out."

He holds out his hand, but Hugh pretends he doesn't see it.  It's a weak excuse, and he knows that Paul knows he knows it.

"I...I'll leave you to it."

"Hugh-"

"I'm sorry, Paul."

"When will you...what-"

Instead of answering, Hugh shakes his head and backs up until his motion triggers the doors.  

"I don't know.  I'll...I'll comm you."

Leaving Paul standing there is the most cowardly thing Hugh has ever done.

Chapter Text

The walk back to his quarters is a blur of colors and sound, and Hugh is just grateful that he makes it back inside before his knees give out and he sits down hard on the deck next to the door.

"Breathe," he mutters to himself, bracing his elbows on his knees. 

The hunched forward posture and hands over his face aren't making that action any easier, but sitting up straight, much less standing and walking over to the couch or bed, seems impossible at the moment.  There's too many thoughts running into each other in his head right now, all clamoring for attention.  Most of them revolve around the look on Paul's face just before the doors closed between them, hand still outstretched and eyes heavy with heartbreak.  Watching the recording of the aftermath of his death and Paul’s anguish hurt less.  At the same time, the distress wars with the small part that’s relieved to have had a catharsis of sorts, at least as far as speaking aloud his feelings.  Or lack thereof.

What in the hell am I even doing?

Eventually, his hips protest his position on the cold floor and he drags himself back to his feet, leaning heavily on the back of a chair.  He considers another shower, except there's no washing this away like a bad day of work.  Tracy is probably back from whatever emergency interrupted them before and would almost certainly have time for him again, but it's unfair to burden her with everything right now.

He ends up lying down on the unmade bed again, PADD at his hip.  Hugh holds his left hand up in front of his face, tracing over the lines and creases with his eyes and trying to think if he could even reliably remember the exact details of what his hands looked like before.  Minus all of the scars and calluses, he can't say they seem any different other than the enhanced sensitivity in his fingertips.  All over, really, and he thinks about Tracy pointing out that his nerve endings are brand new.  It does make sense, barring the fact that his resurrection shouldn't have been possible.  What’s less clear is how long they’ll be like this.  There’s plenty of literature available, studies done on signaling and sensation in re-enervated tissue and neural grafts, but certainly not to this extent.  The closest parallel might be integration of an artificial limb, but even that relies on careful calibration of the sensors transmitting signals back to the patient’s existing nervous system.

Sighing, he uses the fingers of his right hand to pinch the webbing between his thumb and forefinger, concentrating on the sensations.  Besides heat and pressure, the skin feels completely smooth and more delicate than it ought to be.  He turns his hand back over, runs his finger across the knuckles, wincing at the residual soreness.  It's a reminder of yesterday, uncomfortable but undeniable.  Hugh isn't still possessed of the flash of rage when he thinks about Tyler, but it's not something he really feels up to examining at the moment.

Find something else to think about.

Tracy had left another PADD with "the latest protocols, if you're feeling up to it", meaning a curated list of whatever had come through the official channels and probably a few journal articles that she thinks he might be interested in.  It seems as good a distraction as any, and he retrieves the PADD before laying back down, unbuttoning his cuffs and kicking his shoes off.  

The first article is a series of bulletins from Starfleet Medical, summarizing minor changes to treatment protocols, and he flicks through that in just a few minutes.  The second is a slightly longer read, Tracy’s annotation of a review done by the Vulcan Science Academy on biofeedback, but it’s nothing to keep his mind fully engaged.  He scrolls past items three through eight, detailed case studies that require more background than he’s willing to research right now.  Much as he appreciates having them, this probably isn’t going to do what he needs.  

Before, he would have filled empty hours and restlessness with a visit to the gym or a run.  That’s far too many people he might have to face now, and isn’t going to work either.  Sleep also seems out of the question, as does entertaining himself in other ways.

Accessing the ship’s data core, he scrolls through the list of holonovels available, choosing one at random.  It’s a documentary on ancient Bajoran textiles - not a topic he knows anything about - and Hugh very deliberately shoves everything else to the back of his mind before settling in to watch.

At least it’s not a love story.

********

Incoming transmission

Hugh surfaces from learning about the different weaving patterns on Bajoran religious vestments, blinking as his field of focus shifts from the PADD in his lap to the personal one on the nightstand.  

Incoming transmission

”Acknowledged,” he yawns, not tired but his joints are protesting an extended period of immobility.

The frequency scrolls across the bottom of the screen, and his heart races.  If there's one other person he could stand to talk to right now... Hugh blows out a long breath, piles the pillows against the headboard, and hits Accept.

Professor (emerita) Aida Echevarría’s gaze is still sharp even at one-hundred and three, time and wrinkles unable to diminish the affection in her soft amber eyes.  

“Hugh.”

He hasn’t seen her in person since before shipping out on Discovery, a very literal lifetime ago.  She'd kissed his cheek, pulled Paul down to do the same, and sent them both off with a swat on the arm and a reminder to comm their mothers.

"Oh, mijito," she murmurs, blinking rapidly, fingers reaching out to touch the screen.

The smile on her face mirrors his own, and some of the sense of wrongness weighing on him drains away. 

"Abuelita." 

He chokes up on the last syllable, tries and fails to swallow his own tears, overwhelmed with the intensity of relief.  There's no doubt or confusion tugging in his chest, the surety in his stomach even stronger than the sense of trust he has for Tracy. 

Hugh had (has?) a good relationship with his parents, never hidden anything in his life from them.  While they’d been loving and supportive of everything he did, his grandmother was the one who held him while he refused to cry over his first broken heart at fifteen.  She’s the one who arranged the celebration after he completed medical school and was commissioned, insisting on dancing with him despite her recent hip replacement.  He commed her, not Tracy or any of his other friends, when he lost his first patient, sitting in the pouring San Francisco rain behind Starfleet Medical’s shuttle pad.  And early on in his relationship with Paul, she listened to his worries about maintaining a long-distance relationship before suggesting he invest in a good quality pen and actual old-fashioned paper.  

She’s the reason Hugh started writing love letters.

It takes a couple of minutes, simply sitting there and crying together across hundreds of light years, before they're able to continue.  The rush of emotion leaves him reeling, but more importantly, tells him that he's still capable of reconnecting at least some of his memories with who he was.

"I...oh Hugh...you've truly come back to us."

He still can't quite speak yet, nodding and wiping his face with the back of his hand.

"Are you- are you all right?"

"More or less," his voice is shaky and tight, "considering." 

It's so easy to disable the universal translator and slip into Spanish, his grandmother's voice rough with age and more welcome than anything else he could think of.

”I didn't believe them at first, but your mother showed up on my doorstep with the letter.  We're so- I don't think happy is enough.  Our prayers- you're here, my sweet one...”

"I probably need to comm them."

"Yes," she levels a gently reproachful look at him that's so familiar and normal he almost starts crying again, "you probably should.  But you don't need to tell them I did first."

"I will," he promises, "I just..."

Her eyes narrow a little, happiness dimming as she studies his face.

"What's wrong?"

"I- nothing.  Settling back in," Hugh attempts to deflect, knowing it probably won't work.

"I know that look.  It's not just this...miracle?"

Hugh bites his lip, worrying it between his teeth.

”It is...unprecedented.”

Aida nods, and he almost thinks he can feel her calm through the screen.  

"At the very least."

"It's just...a lot.  I'm still not really sure how to explain.  Everything is so-," he stumbles over the words, clears his throat and forges onward, "so new, even things that shouldn't be.  I shouldn't be here, but I am."

Aida sits back in her chair, pushing a stray bit of white hair back into its bun.  

"We can talk about the science another time, when you're ready.  There's no rush."

He nods, hearing what she's not saying.  Before retiring, she was a professor of genetics, and he doesn't doubt that she understands his situation as much as possible from whatever information his family might have been given.  It also means very little escapes her notice, despite age and their emotional greeting.

"I...it's good to see you."

"You're going to make me cry again, if you keep on with that."

It's said with such fondness that he can't help but smile.

"You haven't cried since my graduation."

"I was much younger then, there's less excuse now.  But I think seeing my favorite grandson again is reason enough."

"I won't tell Mama."

She reaches for a tissue, dabs at her eyes.  It's late afternoon back on Earth, and he imagines the sound of the waves outside her front window, the cliffs of Cabo Rojo visible in the distance.  

"Will they let you come home soon?"

"I'm...not sure?  Everything has been, well...there's been a lot.  There's a mission, and I- to be honest, I hadn't thought about that yet.  I'm sorry."

"Of course," she laughs a little, "forgive me the questions, I'm just an old woman thinking her baby is the most important thing in the universe."

As quickly as it appears, the smile vanishes and she seems to be looking past his face on the screen.

"What is it?"

"You're not- where is your novio?  Starfleet didn't tell your mother much, but I know I will never be able to thank him enough for bringing you back to us."

He'd brought Paul home the first time years ago, nervous for him to meet his family.  The Culber household was a bustle of activity around the holidays, a cacophony of conversation and laughter.  Distracted by helping his mother with dinner, he didn’t even realize that he’d lost track of Paul until he turned to share a joke and he wasn’t there.  His glass of wine still sat at the counter, a polite few drops left in the bottom, but the man was nowhere to be seen.  His mother had shoved him out of the kitchen good-naturedly, not bothering to hide her amusement when he immediately took up a search for his errant lover.  He was nowhere in sight in the living room with his younger brothers or cousins, nor with his aunts and uncles on the front porch.  

Eventually, he'd found Paul outside on the back deck, staring off into the mountains beside his grandmother in the fading dusk.  As Hugh watched unnoticed from the doorway, she’d lifted an age-worn hand to his chin, gently turning Paul’s face towards her.  Whatever she’d said next made him duck his head and blush wildly, trying to look away again.  Hidden in the shadows of the house, Hugh had watched with a smile and warmth in his chest as two of the most important people in his life finally had a proper meeting.  He hadn't doubted for a moment that they'd probably talked about him, and he suspected his grandmother would have thoroughly questioned Paul as to his intentions.  

Aida had sometimes commed while he was still on shift, and he'd come home to find her chatting with his partner.  Paul always gave a mock-frustrated groan when they switched from Standard ("I know you're talking about me." "And?" "You sound hot as hell when you speak Spanish, but thinking that when you're on comms with your grandmother is really, really weird."), knowing it wasn't to keep him from eavesdropping.  He'd always been happy that Paul had gotten on so well with his family, shaking his head in sympathy when their other friends didn't have the same.  Now though...  

"I- I'm sorry, he's not here."

"He ought to be with you right now.  Is that what's upsetting you?  Don't tell me that Starfleet hasn't given him time away from his work, after everything."

She's as perceptive as ever, and it won't change anything to hide it from her.

"...not exactly."

Aida leans forward again, all traces of good humor gone.

"Hugh.  What's happened?  Nothing seemed wrong yesterday morning."

"Yesterday?"

"He left a message, asking after your asopao recipe.  I didn't see it until after.”

"Oh.  He...he did."

Was that just yesterday?

"Has he done something to upset you?"

"Yes.  No.  I...I don't know?  I don't know."

"He hasn't...there isn't someo-"

She’s frowning in a way that he knows all too well, and he can see her coming up with the wrong conclusion.  Aida had never pulled her verbal punches when it came to family, and as angry and confused as he is with Paul right now, the last thing he deserves is Hugh's grandmother's wrath.  

"Abuelita, it's not like that.  He just...it was too much.  Everything."

How can he explain it to her when he can't even figure it all out for himself?  Something of the struggle must play out over his face, because she sighs deeply.  

"Oh Hugh," she murmurs, tone full of compassion and worry, "it's not going to be easy, then."

"It's not just him...but he didn't- he never sent my things back to Mama.  He acted like, like I was some sort of miracle.  As if everything was suddenly normal again, but nothing is normal.  It was so wrong, and I tried to tell him, but he wouldn't listen.  He wasn't my Paul, and I couldn't.  I can't right now."

"That man loves you.  Truly."

"He loves who I used to be."

It hurts to say, but he can feel the truth as he speaks.

"You're more than your flesh and blood.  Your heart and soul, those don't change.  They can’t be written on DNA.  Those are the things people love about you, Hugh.  Do things seem like they're...missing?"

"...no.  All the pieces?  Are here.  But they're all jumbled up.  I remember who I was, but things...they're clear in my head, but I don't feel them.  What if-" he whispers, fear gripping his spine again, "what if I'm not me?"

Aida doesn't say anything for a minute, gaze gone distant over the top of the screen, and he wonders if she's looking at the framed holos of the family on the wall across from her desk, or if she's somewhere else entirely.  He wraps his arms around himself, aware that the gesture speaks volumes, but there's no one in the universe he feels safer with.

Except Paul.  Before.

At last, she refocuses on him.

"Hugh.  You are yourself, no matter who that is.  What did I always tell you?  You must know yourself before you decide on others.  Paul will understand."

"He wanted me to come home and and pretend that everything was all right.  And I can't hurt him like that, I can't."

Her frown relaxes a little, although he's not sure why given what he's just said.

"Abuelita," he pauses, swallowing down the lump in his throat, "he asked if I didn't love him anymore.  And I didn't know how to answer that.  I remember everything, but if I can't feel it, what am I- how do I..."

"You take care of yourself.  First.  You've always taken care of others, but this time, you must come first.  Not your ship or your mission, or Paul.  Give yourself time.  You have it now," she smiles gently, "you have all the time ahead of you."

Beep.

Looking down at the corner of the screen, Hugh blinks in surprise.

"Hugh?"

"Discovery's subspace transceiver.  I have to go, they need to take it offline for maintenance."

"Ahh.  Promise me you will be kind to yourself, mijito?"

"I promise."

Aida nods, leaning closer.

"We lov-"

System offline

Chapter Text

Hugh goes back to staring out the viewport, trying to absorb what his grandmother said.  They're still at warp, and he watches the stars streaming by, keenly aware of the decades of service aboard ship where he enjoyed the view and marvelled at the vastness of space but never before questioned his own place in it. 

He and Paul had waxed philosophical on more than one occasion about existence and the connections between all living things.  Well, Paul talked and Hugh listened, offering an opinion when warranted but mostly just taking in Paul's theories on the actual boundaries between the sciences being far thinner than the traditional disciplines would like to admit.  He had always loved the way Paul became so animated, punctuating sentences with his hands and gesturing widely (sometimes knocking over a wineglass), in his element with no trace of uncertainty. Those discussions used to fill him with affection, made him smile and want to kiss Paul, gave him a proprietary sense of pride that his partner was simply that brilliant.

Hugh presses a hand over his stomach now, missing the not-quite warmth that ought to be settling there at those memories.  There's a distant sense of fondness, but it's more akin to the nostalgia of re-watching a beloved holonovel from his youth than the quiet, steady well of love he remembers. 

Chirp.  

His comm comes to life with a text notification, bringing his focus back outwards.

[Rhys-Gen-LT/OPS] Hey Hugh, feeling up to a run tomorrow morning?  Completely get it if you don't want to, but I'll be out at 0630 like usual and can meet you somewhere on the Loop.

"The Loop" is the common moniker for Deck Three of the main corridor circling the innermost side of Discovery's outer saucer.  Not a terribly creative term, but it was fairly illustrative.  Most starships had a corridor or two that had more traffic from runners, but the lack of overt distinguishing features - no odd bends or asymmetrical cross-corridors - meant that it was easy to lose track of one's relative position, and the Loop definitely gave the impression of running on a Möbius strip. Others found it disorienting, but Hugh always enjoyed it because he didn't have to pay much attention to anything other than avoiding other runners, regulating his breathing, and the feel of the deck beneath his feet.   

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] Maybe?  Not sure.  

[Rhys-Gen-LT/OPS] You know you want to hear the latest on everyone.

Rhys was an amazing source of information.  Something about his fresh-faced, guileless manner meant people didn't think twice about gossiping in front of him, seemingly unbothered by him overhearing or unworried about him doing anything with what he heard.  They were half right on that account: Rhys was staunchly honorable and would never stoop to breaking a confidence or starting rumors, but he also wasn't above sharing the more entertaining tidbits with Hugh and their other friends.  

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] Are you on alpha?

[Rhys-Gen-LT/OPS] Beta.  How about breakfast?  I can come by if you don't feel like going out, as long as Stamets doesn't mind.  Speaking of, he looks like he's about to rip everyone a new one over the spore drive.  It's that or he's just in a hurry to get back home to you :)  Lucky.

Hugh pauses with his thumbs poised to type a reply.  Of course Rhys wouldn't know anything otherwise; even when they were having an argument, Paul never deliberately broadcasted their personal business to their shipmates.  No one was witness to their conversation last night, and he winces again thinking of the fight in the Mess Hall and his own angry words.  

Is it really a fight if just one person was attacking?

Gossip did spread faster than warp ten, but only if the information actually went beyond those who would keep their mouths shut.  Besides Tracy, he suspects Tilly is perceptive and concerned enough to pick up on anything Paul might let slip or at least knows him well enough to read behind the facade ("Umm.  We had five simulations fail today and Lieutenant Stamets was really frustrated and locked himself in his lab.  I know it's not my business Doctor, but uhhh, maybe you could you know, talk to him?  I don't think he took a break at all today."), and despite her awkwardness could be quite discreet.    

Between his conversation with Pike that morning, watching the logs with Tracy in the afternoon, seeing Paul again...it feels like years dizzyingly squeezed into the space of a little over a day and a half.  Time might be relative, but this is something else.  He considers and discards four responses with varying degrees of explanation.  None of them are quite right, and trying to condense it into words on a screen just isn’t going to do.  Rhys is a friend as well as a colleague, and he deserves to hear it directly from Hugh if he hasn’t found out otherwise.  That rules out telling him to meet him in his current quarters, but thought of going to the Mess Hall and trying to eat with all of the bustle and probably eyes on him doesn’t seem like a much better alternative.  Although...

Hugh picks up his PADD and checks the reservation system.  Unsurprisingly, the space he wants is open, and he doesn’t think twice about blocking out an hour starting at 0700.

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] Nah.  I should get out of here for a while.  Lounge H 0700?  

[Rhys-Gen-LT/OPS] Sure.  Probably too many people at breakfast anyway.  Should I bring food?

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] And coffee.

[Rhys-Gen-LT/OPS] Wouldn’t forget!  See you then.

Snapping his comm shut, Hugh bounces the device in his palm a few times before closing his fingers around it, feeling its smooth contours and the texture of the grating pressed into his skin.  He sets it back on the nightstand, pensive.  Mentally calculating the time difference, he admits to himself that he’s been putting it off long enough already.  

Hugh starts to pick his PADD back up, but changes his mind and heads into the bathroom instead.  His reflection stares back, still mostly clean-shaven although there’s a shadow of stubble starting to show.  He can’t procrastinate by doing his hair for the same reason, but takes a moment to straighten his collar and wash his face.

Quit stalling.

He carries the PADD to the couch, settling with his back to the arm and knees pulled up to rest it on.  All of his personal contacts are properly programmed in, but he taps in the comm frequency from memory.  Hitting the connect command, he takes a deep breath and summons up a small smile that hopefully won’t look like a grimace.

Request denied.  System offline.  

Frowning, he repeats the command, wondering if he’d input the wrong sequence.  It fails again, and he tries from his contact list just to be sure.

System offline.

Hugh pulls up the maintenance log to check when whatever work is being done is scheduled for completion.

Repair estimate unavailable.

That's odd.  As a science vessel, Discovery had received the top of the line for communications equipment.  Hugh doesn’t really know enough about the transceiver array to have an idea of what the problem might be.  He could probably message Bryce, except if it’s a major issue he’s probably busy dealing with it, and ‘Hey I know I was dead but I’m back, by the way can you tell me when subspace is working again so I can comm my mom?’ isn’t going to be a high priority.

He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, adding in a request for an alert when the system is operational.  That done, he sets the PADD on the coffee table and stands, takes two steps and realizes that he’s not sure what to do next.  There aren’t any patient files for him to review and catch up on, and while there’s still the list of articles Tracy left to read and the second part of the Bajoran textile documentary is queued up, neither of those options appeal to him right now.  The wall stares back at him, no answers to be found on its smooth metal surface, and he sighs again.

Before, possessed of restless energy, he would have gone to the gym, swam laps or done a session of weights.  If he wanted company, he might have asked Rhys if he was up to spar or commed Aisha and Detmer to see if they wanted to play a few rounds of Velocity.  Or he’d have let his feet carry him down to Engineering to sit quietly in Paul’s lab or the cultivation bay with a PADD, tried to eke out a little more time with his partner even if he didn’t come home for the night.  And if Paul was busy, he could at least count on a short chat with Tilly, as much enjoying seeing her interact with Paul as a genuine fondness for her earnest honesty himself.

It’s probably late enough for him to take a relatively undisturbed walk, save for the fact that the thought of interacting with others is exhausting in itself.  It’s a far cry from the Hugh who was completely comfortable in social situations, easily seeking out company.  He’d always needed time alone or with Paul to recharge eventually, but hadn’t minded being around people at all.  Now...

Tracy is fine, but he’s known her for almost half of his (former) life and she fits right back in with unsurprising ease.  He’ll be seeing Rhys in the morning, and probably needs to return Detmer’s and Saru’s comms at some point as well, even if just a thank you for checking in on him.  He spends a few minutes seriously considering taking Captain Pike up on his offer to speak more, but ultimately decides against it.  It’s not that he doubts Pike’s sincerity in the least, but it doesn’t seem like the right thing to do until he’s had a chance to sort through more of the situation.

So do it.

Hugh is well aware that he’s avoiding thinking about the conversation with Paul.  There’s no way around it, no putting it off until he "feels better", particularly when his standard coping mechanisms aren't available.  He can hear Tracy saying that he needs to give himself a break, but he owes it to Paul to not leave him without an answer.  The problem is, he doesn't know if he has one.  There's no precedent to set this against, nothing for the physician in him to compare the situation to and adapt a protocol or therapy plan. 

Tracy had rightfully pointed out that a psychologist isn't a bad idea, but she hasn't foisted one on him yet.  He's not sure if that's because she's waiting for him to ask or some other reason.  Either way, he ought to see who's assigned, if only to check if it's someone he might have known from Medical.

"Computer.  Access crew manifest."

>> Working

>> Crew manifest available

"Send it to my PADD."

He scrolls through the list quickly, sorting by department and function.  When he reaches the bottom without finding who he's looking for, he starts again, clearing the filter for active personnel only.  Still nothing.

"Computer, who is Discovery's counselor?"

>> Position vacant

Hugh's frown deepens. 

"Current status of the prior occupant?"

>> Working

Current status for Robbins, Jaya, Lieutenant Commander: Inactive - rehabilitative medical leave, end date unknown.

"Computer, show me the list of active and temporarily inactive Starfleet personnel and current assignments.  Medical only."

The roll is extensive, and while he expected to see quite a few injured medical personnel on it given their position during the war, it doesn't explain why Starfleet is sending ships out without at least one person on the medical staff with some psych training. Actually, the list itself seems rather short for the lack of personnel assigned ship duty...

"Computer, show me the list of ships designated for Starfleet Medical." 

>> Begin list of medical vessels

U.S.S. Hiawatha (NCC-815), medical frigate.  Current status: Destroyed, 2256 

He swallows hard, forcing himself to expand out the list of ships lost.  On and on, medical frigates and hospital ships damaged, destroyed, missing.  Ships sent on missions of mercy to evacuate the wounded to the medical facility on Starbase 1, twenty thousand patients and doctors and nurses lost when the Klingons attacked...

His lips are numb with shock, unable to comprehend the scale of destruction.  He'd known how bad the war was getting, but this is so much worse than he could have imagined.  Had the Klingons been deliberately targeting them, or were they just unlucky collateral? 

...Destroyed, 2256

...Missing, presumed destroyed, 2256

...Damaged, drydock repair, 2257

>>End list of medical vessels

His eyes sting, the prickle of tears barely registering as he sets down the PADD and sits, still trying to process.

Three-quarters of Starfleet's medical vessels destroyed or extensively damaged. 

Hundreds of medical personnel killed or injured or resigned, the trauma of the war and injuries sustained too much.

No wonder ships are going out without counselors, they're lucky to have a full staff in the medbay at all.

Tracy hadn't said a word about it, but he doesn't think it's a deliberate omission.  So many of their fellow physicians - T'Vala with her steady hands and knack for pediatric rehabilitation, Lucas the neurosurgeon and aspiring CMO, Devon from the other end of the hall in their dorm who took over for Hugh on Starbase 12 when he joined Discovery - all gone, lives extinguished by senseless violence.  It's ironic in the worst possible way, that he could easily have been one of them, had he not chosen to follow Paul. 

Shaking his head, Hugh wipes a hand over his eyes, willing back the grief.  He fumbles for the PADD fallen to the cushions, pushes himself unsteadily to his feet and moves back to the bed.  It takes a couple of tries to get his shoes and clothes off, but eventually he makes it under the covers, pulling them tight around his shoulders.  

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] I saw Med's casualties.

[Pollard-Tracy-LT/MED] I meant to tell you.

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] I know.  I didn't mean it like that.  I'm sorry.

[Pollard-Tracy-LT/MED] It doesn't seem real most days.  

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] Trace, is there more I should be reading about?

[Pollard-Tracy-LT/MED] Not right now.  I'm off shift in half an hour, should I come over?

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] I'm in bed.  Meeting Rhys for breakfast tomorrow.

[Pollard-Tracy-LT/MED] All right.  Comm me if you need me, Hugh.  Or if you can't sleep.  I mean it.

Hugh stares at the blinking cursor for several minutes, indecisive.  Part of him wants to pull up a full report on the war, like tearing off a field dressing to absorb the full impact of whatever wound it will leave.  Survivor's guilt is really low on the list of issues he has to deal with though, or at least it should be.  The lives lost aren't coming back, but it feels like he's done a disservice to them in being unaware. 

("Worry is illogical," T'Vala declares, running a regen over a crying Andorian child's broken elbow, "and expends needless resources.  The facts will not change, Hugh." 

" I still wish there was something I could do." 

T'Vala quirks a brow, setting the regen to repeat the cycle and nodding to the cadet holding the child before moving to join Hugh at the central workstation. 

"I believe it is human custom to find such empathy laudable.  However," she tilts her head, a note of understanding in her dark eyes, "perhaps you would be best served by directing that concern into our present situation, as that is something you are able to affect.")

T'Vala was right a decade ago, and that hasn't changed.  Except, he wouldn't have found out had he not been thinking about the ship's counselor and his own situation, and it still doesn't leave him any closer to an answer on that front.  

Exhaustion - emotional and physical - wins out, and he calls up the second part of the documentary he started earlier.  The narrator's calm voice begins to explain the significance of different threads discovered in surviving fragments, brightly colored bits of tapestry appearing on the screen.  He closes his eyes three thousand years ago on Kendra Province, and is asleep two hundred years later.  

Chapter Text

Hours after nodding off with the PADD on his chest, Hugh’s sleep is fitful at best.  While the hyper vigilance of the prior night has faded somewhat, he still jerks awake at 0100, legs trapped and ankles bound together.    

Get it off!

He can hear the buzzing of the jahSepp growing closer and flails blindly, kicking out, but whatever it is only grips him more tightly.  Hugh keeps struggling until he's teetering on the edge of whatever surface he's lying on, then there’s the stomach-dropping vertigo of free fall.  It lasts only a moment before his shoulder collides with something solid and his back hits the ground, knocking the wind out of himself. 

There's several heart-stopping seconds before he can draw in a ragged breath, and it burns his lungs.  Dazed, he holds very still and takes stock of his surroundings, wondering if he's escaped his pursuers.  Except, it doesn’t feel like the network.  The air smells too clean, no trace of ozone, and the raw pain of never-healing scrapes on his left side is gone.  He’s not wearing a shirt either, the gritty feeling of tree sap and dried sweat missing from his skin.      

Where-? 

His brain finally catches up, reminding him of where he should be, but he can’t be sure, unless-

“Computer, lights!”

The darkness vanishes, replaced by the sleek lines of Starfleet furniture and dull grey deck plating.  His captor turns out to be nothing more menacing than the sheet tangled around his legs, the nightstand digging into his shoulder suddenly completely innocuous.  Hugh slumps back on the deck, forcing himself to unclench his fists. 

Safe.

One breath.

Two.

Three, deep and slow.

After identifying the hum of his neighbor’s sonic shower as too close to the hissing of the jahSepp pursuing him, it takes less time for him to calm down (without a panic attack) tonight.  Eventually, he rolls onto his side, wincing as he pushes himself upright and the pain in his shoulder makes itself known.  That’s going to turn into a spectacular bruise if he doesn’t use a regen.  There’s a light duty one in the bathroom for everyday scrapes and contusions, but he still feels a little too unsteady to chance standing.  

"Babe?"

He can’t believe he didn’t wake Paul by falling out of bed like that.  He’ll be grumpy about it, but surely he won’t mind being asked to go grab the regen. At least it's not as bad as the time early on in their relationship where neither was used to sharing the bed and Paul received an accidental knee to the groin when Hugh rolled over.  

"Can you-"

The other side of the bed is empty.

Oh.

His thoughts stutter to a halt, and he deliberately blanks his mind as much as possible, concentrating on slowing his breathing again.  

Don’t go there right now.

He leans against the nightstand and stares at the ceiling for several minutes until the numbness in his lips recedes.  Even after climbing to his feet, the sense of paranoia still lingers at the edge of his peripheral vision, and he checks the corners of the room before righting the covers and getting back in bed.  He gets up again to use the regen, and ends up leaving the bedside light on at five percent just to feel safe enough closing his eyes, wondering if he might as well give up trying to sleep.

At 0210, the barricade of pillows at his back grows from one to two, their solid presence a reassurance that releases some of the knotted tension in his spine.  He wraps the duvet tighter around his shoulders, shivering despite the warmth.  Exhaustion lowers his mental defenses and the thoughts he’d pushed aside earlier come crowding back in. 

Pillows are fine, but admit it - you wish it was Paul.  

Yes. 

He adds a third pillow behind his knees, and definitely isn’t remembering the way Paul would tuck his ankles between Hugh’s calves to keep his feet warm.

No.

Paul would let you in if you asked. 

Of course he would.  

I’m perfectly capable of sleeping alone.  

Paul would answer the door with sleepy eyes and his hair in disarray, pajamas creased and feet bare.  

You wouldn’t need pillows if you were sleeping next to him.  

Of course he wouldn’t. 

He'd make you feel safe. 

Hugh might not know what to do with his elbows and knees, awkward and unsure how to fit back together, but Paul would remember.  He'd throw back the covers, cradle Hugh to his chest.  Paul would be wrapped around him tightly with a hand over his heart, thumb drawing circles over his shirt and pressing kisses behind his ear.  He'd be humming his contentment into Hugh’s skin, probably wouldn’t even roll away in the middle of the night like he always did when it got too warm.  Would stay there, solid and real and strong. 

Memories bombard him, of being soothed to sleep with Paul's heartbeat under his cheek, Paul's hand slipped under the collar of Hugh's shirt and idly stroking the scar on his shoulder.  Paul’s arms holding him close, Hugh’s breath feathering over the fine hairs on the back of his hands as they crossed over his chest.  That desire for physical affection was something Hugh used to love, telling him what he needed to know when his partner couldn’t find the right words. Their bodies always communicated even when their owners weren’t speaking.  So many times the apology for an argument had come in Paul’s hand creeping across the sheets, hesitant fingers brushing his and waiting for a response.

He’d give you anything.  Do anything.  Isn’t that what you wanted before?  

The yearning for comfort wars with the skin-crawling fear of anyone near him right now.  Those same thoughts that kept him going in the endless twilight of the network almost feel like they’re mocking him now. 

What if Paul starts to nuzzle his neck and caress his arms, wants to touch bare skin?  Their mutual attraction hadn’t faded over time, was one of the things others commented on.  Hugh’s body used to respond without prompting to Paul’s scent, to his touch, his nearness.  Cuddling could so easily turn to absentminded fondling - had, on so many occasions, when Paul’s wandering hands made intimacy melt into intimate activities.  Even if it’s understood there’s no intention of sex, he’s not sure if he could handle Paul’s self-recrimination if it happened while it wasn’t supposed to.  Or what his own reaction might be.

The caresses and nuzzles, everything that communicated affection, could be exchanged for simple platonic physical contact if he asked, couldn’t they? 

Talk to him.

Hugh squeezes his eyes shut, thumping his fist against the mattress. 

He isn’t listening.

That soothing touch might turn stifling as Paul clings to him, fingertips digging in to hold him captive.  And Hugh wouldn't struggle, would force himself to hold still because he doesn't want to be responsible for hurting Paul, again.  Wouldn't be able to make him understand that he can't breathe.  

Suffocating under Paul’s love.

That’s not his fault.  You went and died on him.

He never got past me dying.

How could he?  Do you want him to be over you?

He never finished grieving.

You just ripped his heart out again.  Why can’t you just let him love you?

Paul would accept any conditions, would be absolutely sincere in respecting his limits, but Hugh can’t do that to him.  Not when he doesn’t understand himself and especially not when he might wake up in the middle of the night literally swinging.  Not when he's running hot and cold between extremes from one moment to the next, when he might welcome contact and then be completely averse to someone even breathing near him.  Too much conflict to subject Paul to, not when Hugh can’t stop seeing that wounded look in his eyes.

“Fuck,” he mutters into the duvet, “what the hell am I even doing?”

The bed linens offer no answers.

********

He wakes feeling less than refreshed, rubbing at the juncture of his neck and shoulder automatically before realizing that the expected crick in the neck from sleeping with his head between the pillows is more of a rapidly-fading twinge of discomfort.

New body has to be good for something, right?

Yesterday’s shirt and slacks are where he left them on the floor.  While he’s brushing his teeth, he considers tossing them in the refresher to wear again, but they’re too conspicuous if he’s trying to not attract attention.  Any more attention than he’s already likely to get, at any rate.  After scrolling through the synthesizer patterns twice, he ends up in the standard DISCO t-shirt and a pair of loose pants.  Even if he’s not planning on a run, blending in with the early morning joggers probably isn’t a bad thing.

He marvels a little at the luxury of clean clothes after an eternity in the ragged remains of a uniform. Biting his lip, he runs a hand down the length of his arm, feeling the raised veins and muscle under smooth skin.  There's no trace of the scrapes and open wounds that had been his constant companion in the network.       

The fabric slides cool over his bare torso, crackling a little with static as it settles into place.  Hugh's reflection is much as it ever was, shirt stretched tight across his chest and around his biceps.  It's difficult to reconcile the sense of space he takes up when the air isn't heavy with otherworldy weight.  It's also feels too early to think about whether the physical body he inhabited on the mycelial plane felt more like his than the one he's in now.

There’s a message waiting for him when he goes to check his PADD again for status updates on subspace communications.

[Pollard-Tracy-LT/MED] I’m not on until this afternoon.  Let me know if you need a rescue from Rhys.

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] I don’t deserve you.

[Pollard-Tracy-LT/MED] No, you don’t.

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] Should be fine.

[Pollard-Tracy-LT/MED] Famous last words.   Seriously, Hugh.

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] I know.  It’s just Rhys though.  

[Pollard-Tracy-LT/MED] Mess hall?

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] Lounge H.  I’ll comm you later?

Tracy’s response is to send him a link to an article on laser scalpels.  It’s an old joke, one that would seem like a complete non sequitur to a third party, but it makes him huff a small half-chuckle.  He'd been worried about Tracy after her breakup during finals week, bringing her cups of tea and making it clear he was available if she needed him.  His hovering had been well meant, but she wasn't ready to deal with the emotional fallout until after exams.  As a result, when he found her aggressively taking inventory in the supply closet - something the second year students she was overseeing should have been doing - he'd barely gotten out a "Are you oka-" before Tracy rounded on him with a fierce scowl. 

"No, I'm absolutely not okay," she ground out, "and yes, I appreciate your concern, but damned if I'm letting him get between me and my badge.  So, I love you Hugh, but would you shut up and hand me the laser scalpels?"

Once he'd closed his mouth, they'd both taken one look at how he was holding the crate like a protective barrier in front of his hips and burst out laughing.  It was tinged with slight manic edge, running on too little sleep, but it broke the tension immediately.  After, references to laser scalpels out of context had come to mean "not fine, but okay" between them, and he appreciates her trusting him to know his own limits.

Shoes on, he pauses at the door.  Anxieties aside, he doesn’t like to be late, but...

"Computer, is there anyone in the corridor outside this room?"

No personnel within one hundred yards. 

Nodding to himself, Hugh tucks his comm into his pocket and heads out of his quarters.  

********

His back is turned when the door swishes open at precisely 0700, watching the sliver of starfield visible past the exhaust manifold.  Hugh had been walking so fast he arrived before his reservation, finding the lounge empty and quiet.  It was unlikely that someone else would have been in the space anyway, but it did allow him privacy on the off chance anyone randomly wandered in.

”Hugh!”

"Gen.”

Rhys sets the tray down on the nearest table with a clatter of plates and utensils before crossing the remaining distance between them, arms outstretched.  Hugh clasps the proffered hand, controlling a flinch when Rhys leans in to press their shoulders together, free hand flat on his back in a half-embrace.  He must not have hidden it all that well, because the hug is over in a few seconds. 

”It’s-“ Rhys steps back, shaking his head, “hell.  It’s good to see you.  I just...yeah.  Can’t believe it.”

He’s wearing a grin that Hugh wishes he could return, settling on a smile that seems to satisfy.  

“Tell me about it,” he mutters, trying for levity to stave off any awkwardness. 

Luckily, his stomach chooses that moment to make itself known, and Rhys laughs before retrieving the tray and moving it to one of the tables closer to the viewport.  Rhys’ martial arts training means he can probably read Hugh’s body language easily, and he appreciates the lack of comment on his skittishness.  Hugh summons up a smile that’s nowhere near the toothy grin of before, but it puts Rhys enough at ease that he picks up his fork and digs into his eggs.

“So tell me what I’ve missed.”

It's an easy opening, and Rhys takes up the thread of conversation with enthusiasm, meaning Hugh only has to nod and smile or frown at appropriate intervals.  He uses the excuse of having his mouth full to avoid doing a lot of talking, gesturing for Rhys to continue as he exaggerates chewing.  (It also means he drinks about three cups of coffee, hiding behind the mug as well, and he wonders in the back of his mind whether that much caffeine is going to be a problem later.)  

Trying to remember how he would have acted is exhausting.  Before, Hugh wouldn't have had to think about whether he was laughing hard enough at a funny story or struggled so much to keep a pleasant expression on his face.  Rhys is a good friend, but he's not Tracy, and Hugh is reticent to let on just how disconnected he still feels.  He lets Rhys fill the space between them with stories for half an hour, and there's a lot to take in. 

Rhys quickly covers what happened after their return from the mirror universe (and Hugh wonders if he's technically supposed to be telling someone who wasn't there), including the absolutely insane decision to jump Discovery into an underground cavern on Q'onos.  And Rhys being Rhys, he does tend to focus more on the tactical elements of things - weapons and shields enhancements while Discovery was being repaired - in addition to the other events. 

Hugh is genuinely pleased to hear about Michael's reinstatement.  Ever since she'd called him in to examine the tardigrade, he'd respected her intuitive understanding of the universe, enjoyed seeing her intellect in action.  He senses some sort of...something with regards to Lorca and Michael, but Rhys doesn't elaborate beyond explaining the deception from his perspective.  It does paint a far more vivid picture of the cruelty and totalitarianism than the limited information he was able to glean from the files.  He doesn't have to feign interest in hearing how the former Emperor had been brought back by Michael and was apparently now roaming the galaxy freely wearing the face of Captain Philippa Georgiou.  He'd never had the pleasure of meeting the real captain of the Shenzhou, but her reputation had been one of calm strength and well-considered actions.  It's difficult to imagine what it must have been like for Michael, or someone like Admiral Cornwell who by all accounts had been close friends with Georgiou.  He deliberately doesn't think about his encounter with the Paul Stamets from that universe, shunting the thought aside and covering his wandering focus by getting up to synthesize another pot of coffee.

Hearing about Captain Pike and his determination not to risk any more lives - even to save his own - when they encountered the dark matter asteroid is in keeping with the man Hugh had met yesterday.  The same good humor while on the bridge speaks well for his character, particularly when Lorca never seemed to care about the crew or allowed dissenting opinions.  He's also not surprised at Tilly's apparent crush on Pike, shaking his head alongside Rhys as he recounts her nervous rambling while confirming his identity.  

The ancient sphere is particularly intriguing, and he wonders how much medical knowledge might have been amassed.  Surely amidst observing civilizations rising and falling, stars being born and dying, it would have recorded something of value for a physician?  He'll have to ask Tracy about that-

”Hugh.  Are you going to tell me what’s up with Stamets?”

Oh.

Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later.  

”Yeah.  I...what do you know?”

Rhys blinks at him, mug of coffee halfway to his mouth.

”Ummm.  Nothing?”

...or not.

”Then-?”

He sets the mug down and pushes his plate to the side, giving Hugh his full attention. 

”You keep getting this look whenever I say his name.  And it’s not the ‘shut up Rhys I want to go jump my partner’ look.  So what’s going on?”

That's a very good question, isn't it?

”...it’s complicated.”

Rhys snorts.

”What did he do?”

”Okay, why is everyone sure he’s the one who’s done something?”

”Who’s everyone?”

”You and Tracy.”

”Ahh.”

”Gen...”

”It’s Stamets.  How many extra sparring sessions did we have because you’d done something wrong versus being mad at him?  Yeah.  Also,” Rhys’ eyes flick up and down, taking in Hugh’s body language and lingering on the way he's clutching the mug in both hands, “you’re never this uptight after getting laid.”

Hugh grimaces and trades the mug for a piece of toast, shredding the crust.

"Also?  He seemed super weird about things this morning."

"...this morning?"

Half-sentences seem to be the theme of the last couple of days.  He doesn't like the feeling of being permanently behind in the proverbial shuttle race, but there also doesn't seem to be a way to catch up on it all that doesn't involve talking to people besides Tracy.

“Ran into him on his way back to the medbay after- when we got you back.  You know I’ve never seen him without his hair done?  Anyway, he was grinning so much I figured the engineering crew’s heads were going to explode.  And humming.  Nilsson said-“ Rhys shakes his head, clearly trying to stay on topic, “anyway.  Figured we wouldn’t be seeing either of you for a bit.  But I was out early today and it’s on the way anyway, so I stopped at your quarters.  Stamets looked like he hadn’t slept, but not in the fun way, and he seemed like he was in a hurry to get rid of me.  You weren't there, so, what gives?”

"Where should I start?"

Rhys shrugs.

"Tilly wouldn't spill and I still don't know what's going on, so start wherever it makes sense."

"Wait, you already asked Tilly?"

"She and Michael were running.  Bumped into them on the way here."

"Ahh."

"Hugh..."

“He brought dinner back.  With music."

”So what’s wrong?  I thought you always wanted him to do romantic stuff."

"Sure.  But I'm not-" Hugh sighs, shaking his head.  

How much do I tell him?

"I promise I won't tell anyone if that helps?"

That's not the problem, even if he could explain what's going on.  

Stick to something simple.

"I'm not feeling like myself right now.  And Paul isn't...isn't being Paul.  I needed some space."

There's silence as Rhys seems to process.

"...did you two break up?"

He sets down the half-eaten slice of toast, wiping his fingers fastidiously as an excuse to delay a few seconds longer.  

"Honestly, Gen?  I don't know."

Whatever Rhys thought he was about to say, it's clear that isn't it.  They lapse into an awkward silence, Hugh staring down at his hands in his lap and Rhys frowning out the viewport.  Eventually, he draws in a breath and addresses the top of Hugh's head.

"It's not my place, and I'm sure Pollard already told you, but man, Stamets took it hard when you were gone."

Looks like Paul isn't the only one who can't say "dead".

"Yeah."

"I'm your friend first, but I think...he loves you.  I know I used to give you a hard time about it, but your relationship?" Rhys smiles, and it's tinged with a little confused sadness, "Detmer and Owo, we used to say, we were all waiting for someone to look at us the way Stamets looked at you."

Hugh nods, still unable to look up.

"So like, whatever's going on, I know you two can figure it out."

He sits up again, takes in the concern on Rhys' face and the sincere belief in what he's just said.  It’s moments like this reminding him once more of the nearly two decades between them.  Hugh remembers being twenty-something, hard working and convinced that finding love meant everything that had plagued his past relationships would work itself out.  Remembers the idealism, the heartbreak, the things he wouldn't have understood until he experienced them.  There's no way to say that that doesn't sound - and isn't - patronizing, and he knows Rhys has the best intentions in the universe.  Add to that the whole dying and being rebuilt part, and it's too much to try and explain.  

So...

"Yeah.  I hope so."    

Chapter Text

Hugh doesn’t find out about Talos IV until after the fact, hours after their arrival and standoff with Section 31.  Without an active commission in the system, he doesn't receive non-emergency automatic notices pushed out, not seeing anything amiss other than the extended subspace relay maintenance period.  

It's strange to be so unaware of the details of the ship's mission.  In his current state, it must be what it's like for the crew who aren't working crucial stations, aren't senior staff or bridge officers or medical.  The cadets and ensigns and non-commissioned crew carrying out experiments, tucked away in their labs on board or performing maintenance of ship's systems, might not even know about Discovery's brush with danger until they read the first officer's daily bulletin or hear about it from their section chief.  He empathizes with them now in a way Doctor Culber couldn't have before.  Even in his earliest days as a newly-minted MD, he was always privy to alerts immediately.  Later, as CMO himself, he followed the example of his experience and ensured that those not currently on duty were notified as they might be called in at a moment's notice.  On days off, he had still dutifully checked his PADD with every message for the same reason, always aware of Medical's role in supporting ship operations. 

That's all hindsight, though.

********

After breakfast, Rhys had given him another hug that Hugh managed to return with minimal awkwardness, but he could tell that Gen was restraining himself from a tight embrace.  Hand-to-hand practice meant they used to be comfortable and cognizant of each other's personal space, but he can't remember if he was ever quite this demonstrative before.  He considers it the whole walk back to his quarters: Rhys and Detmer and Tilly were always fairly free with casual touch, and Doctor Culber had never hesitated to lay a reassuring hand on someone's arm or let them cry on his shoulder after a difficult diagnosis.  And alone with Paul, their propensity for constant physical affection meant they exchanged a hundred tiny touches in the course of a day as easily as breathing, now made significant by their absence.

Leaning over Paul to retrieve his comm in the middle of the night when Tilly sends a report and Paul doesn't wake to the alert, Paul's shoulder under his chest.

Sharing a shower, Paul's hand smoothing away the soap suds Hugh missed rinsing off his back.

At the mirror getting ready in the morning, elbows bumping while Paul gels his hair and Hugh shaves.

Eating breakfast, ankles crossed over each other's under the table.

Hugh's hand at the small of Paul's back as they avoid others in the corridor.

A quick kiss goodbye in the turbolift, a proper eighteen inches between them as soon as the doors open.

Exhausted, he kicks off his shoes as soon as he gets back and lies down on the couch, limbs heavy even as his mind can't seem to stop. 

Hugh pestering Paul with scans after a spore jump, two fingers pressed to the side of his neck to take his pulse.

Having lunch with Tilly and Tracy, Paul engrossed in his PADD while Hugh chats away. 

Hugh's hand on Paul's knee, ready to tap three times if he needs to join the conversation.

The sentiments associated with those moments are frustratingly just out of reach.  It's like grasping at them with his fingertips as they melt away, visible but unfelt.  

A kiss hello at the end of the day. 

Sitting on opposite sides of the couch reading medical reports and drive performance logs, Hugh's bare feet resting on Paul's thighs.

Watching a holonovel together when they're done, Paul's hand under Hugh's shirt. 

Stealing Paul's towel after he showers, thumbs tucked into the curve of his hips and playfully kissing the tip of his nose.

Snuggling under the covers in the dark, reaching for each other across the sheets.

Eventually, his eyes close and the barely discernible vibrations of the ship lull him into a dreamless sleep, until a text message on his PADD wakes him hours later.

[Detmer-Keyla-LT/OPS] Hey Dr. C, coming to Game Night?  Rhys said you weren't feeling too good, and I hope it's nothing bad. 

[Detmer-Keyla-LT/OPS] If you want, it's the same time and place, if not, don't worry either.  We'd just love to see you again for a bit.  You can even bring Stamets if he promises to at least pretend he's having a hard time at tri-D with Bryce

He's a bit ambivalent about Game Night, but focuses on writing the right mix of response and humor that should satisfy Keyla without her realizing that he's not replying to everything.  It takes significantly longer than it would have before, stopping to re-read and wondering if it "sounds" like him instead of simply typing and sending.  

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] Hi Keyla - thanks for checking on me.  Things are still settling back into place, but I do want to know everything I've missed.  Had breakfast with Rhys, still don't know how eats and manages to talk at warp five at the same time.     

[Detmer-Keyla-LT/OPS] I don't know if he told you, but Jo went on her first away mission, with the Captain and Michael!  

[Detmer-Keyla-LT/OPS] Need to get back on shift, hopefully see you soon :)

It's probably bad form to be relieved that he can leave the conversation there and not feel guilty about not replying.

You’ll have to tell her and everyone else at some point.

Tilly either hasn’t figured it out yet (possible), or is respecting his privacy to the point where she hasn’t actually blurted it out to anyone, because it would be halfway around the ship by now if she had.  Rhys’ word is good, so he won’t share without Hugh’s permission, but sooner or later someone will notice that he’s not eating lunch with Paul or coming to Engineering to check on him.  Or maybe they’ll see him leaving his new quarters, five decks away from where he ought to be sleeping, and come to the wrong conclusion entirely.  

“ ‘Hey Keyla’,” he mutters to himself, “ ‘Oh by the way, I made Paul cry because I can’t stand being touched by the man who loves me.  Don’t worry, I have no idea what the hell I’m doing.’  Sure, that’ll work just great-“

Beep.

He starts, hand jerking and nearly dropping the PADD to the floor when the door signals a request for entry.  Cursing quietly, he fumbles the device onto the coffee table and runs a hand over his rumpled shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles.

"Computer, identify visitor?"

"Pollard, Tra-"

"Acknowledged.  Door."

Tracy's still in uniform, although she unzips her jacket almost immediately after setting down the tray she’s carrying, hanging it on the back of a chair before dropping onto it with a barely audible groan.  He recognizes the sound of relief after a day spent on one's feet, and it makes him smile just a little.  

"Hugh."

"I should probably give you full access."

"If you want," she offers a half-shrug, "I understand the need for boundaries though.  Right now."

Their long friendship meant Tracy had always been able to use her code to enter his quarters no matter where he was stationed, and vice versa.  It was a sensible choice since they both lived alone, and meant he didn't have to interrupt whatever he was doing to let her in, or that he could easily stop by her flat when she was off-planet to retrieve whatever she'd forgotten and see that it was sent ("And so I can check that your date didn't kidnap you." "Not funny, Trace.").  The practice only really ended when he started sharing quarters with Paul on Discovery.  Her override would of course have worked in an emergency, but she'd respected his privacy once the space wasn't exclusively his.   

We'd never had a place to call our own before, he thinks, not where someone wasn't shipping out again.

He nods, moving to sit on the end of the bed so that Tracy won't have to twist awkwardly around in the chair to talk. 

"How's the hand?"

Her scanner is still in its holster at her hip, but she doesn't make a move for it.  This is Tracy asking then, not Doctor Pollard.

"Seems to be fine," he holds it up with his knuckles facing her, flexing his fingers into a fist and splaying them back open again, "doesn't hurt."

“Well, you don’t have to worry about him for a while at least,” Tracy’s voice is drier than Vulcan at noon.

"Who?"

"Tyler."

"Oh."

There's no angry heat in his stomach, the flare of rage he'd felt seemingly as out of reach as the rest of his memories.  Instead, it's been replaced with a dull sense of frustration and confusion mixed with a surprisingly large dose of pity.  While it's distinctly not sympathy - and if that doesn't make him different from the Hugh of before, he doesn't know what would - it's also not hate or revulsion.

"Hugh?"

Some of his thought process must be playing out on his face, because Tracy studies him for a few seconds before pursing her lips.

"You still with me?"

"Yeah.  Sorry, I just..."

"It's fine," she murmurs, "I can't say I get it, but I'm not going to expect you to apologize."

He quirks the side of his mouth up in something that isn't quite a smile, but it's close enough.  Tracy pours herself a glass of juice, eyebrows raised in silent question when Hugh shakes his head to decline.  Back to the issue at hand, then.

"Why don't I have to worry about him?"

"How much do you know about what he's doing here now?"

Huh.  He wasn’t expecting her to answer his question with another.

"P- Paul said he's here on some kind of mission.  Just before they...went into the network.  Black badge."

“He’s with Section 31.”

That makes him straighten, re-working a few things Rhys had said into a clearer picture. He’d always assumed the whispers of intrigue and espionage were based in fact but grossly exaggerated, understanding that Intelligence needed its operatives despite his own aversion to such work.

"I'm not technically even commissioned right now, Trace," he hastens to say, "don't break protocol just for me."

Tracy gives him a look over the rim of her glass, draining it before speaking.

"It's my discretion, and you know it."

It is, but the semi-mythical Section 31 doesn't fit into the usual protocols for patient privacy and confidential mission details. 

"Still."

"I don't even have the full story, but apparently the Captain thinks he's the one that sabotaged the spore drive.  Corrupted the duotronics in the hub, though I'm not sure how he could have done that.  Tilly and Airiam didn't catch it until we tried to jump."

Hugh's breath catches in his chest even though he knows Paul is fine, knows there hasn't been a black alert since he spoke with him last night.  Wariness tempers the pity he'd assigned to Tyler.  The man is still dangerous then, and Hugh doesn't want to think about what might have happened if he'd done more than just make the drive disengage.

"So..."

"Captain confined him to quarters.  Can't say I feel too sorry for him if it's true."

There's nothing that Hugh disagrees with in that statement.

"That's not the important part though."

"What else is there?"

Tracy unzips her boots, kicking them off and wiggling her sock-clad toes before launching into it.  Her explanation is as concise as delivering patient notes, and he finds his eyebrows climbing higher with each successive sentence.  And it's a lot to take in.  Apparently he managed to sleep through the ship dropping out of warp, orbiting a restricted planet, taking a shuttle back aboard, then jumping into warp again.  

"...so technically, we're harboring known fugitives."

"And unofficially?"

"Section 31 pulled a fast one and tried to use a memory extractor on Lieutenant Spock.  Burnham got him out of there, took him to Talos for some sort of healing.  Captain wasn't heavy on the details, and there's nothing in the Federation database on it other than a mission there by Enterprise a few years ago that reported a previously advanced culture destroyed by nuclear war.  The restriction is supposedly for safety reasons - I imagine whatever it is is pretty powerful, enough that Starfleet doesn't want people going there without permission."

Once she's done with the recap, Tracy falls silent, giving him time to process.  The ship is well underway to wherever they're going next, then, and not with Starfleet's blessing.  It's telling that someone so morally upright and ethical as Captain Pike would willfully risk the entire ship and her crew in defiance of Leland's threatened disciplinary action.  It's a gray area - Tracy mentioned that the subspace transceiver damage has almost been repaired, but even if Discovery is able to reach Command, they chance being given a direct order to stop.  Despite the bridge crew's assent, the crew at large might not know the details, but nonetheless would be implicated if they didn't lodge a protest once made aware.  He's not too sure about Section 31's authority, but he'd like to think that the 'fleet (minus the admirals who seem to have fallen into the depths of paranoia) would be far more forgiving of Pike protecting his officers from a perceived threat than disobeying the chain of command.  

While he's thinking, Tracy refills her glass and starts uncovering dishes on the tray.  She deposits a plate unceremoniously on his lap and he's about to protest when his stomach reminds him that he hasn't eaten since breakfast, so he takes the hint and picks up the napkin.  Tracy doesn't comment, just starts in on her bowl of pasta while he works on his sandwich.  He notices she's steered away from anything reminiscent of the Culber family recipes for all of the meals they've shared; on one hand, her thoughtfulness is so very Tracy, but he's also annoyed with himself for needing that sort of consideration.

As he's finishing the last part of the crust, she starts speaking again.

"For what it's worth, you might be interested to know that the Captain came by today complaining that he pulled a muscle in his back at the gym."

It's a non-sequitur as far as Hugh can tell, but Tracy usually has a point.

"...okay?"

"While I was scanning the mysteriously moving source of pain, he very casually brought up the fact that the crew thinks highly of a certain Hugh Culber, and oh, by the way, he'd heard we went through 'Fleet Medical together.  I wonder where he could have heard that?"

"Errr."

"He also asked if I thought you might decide to leave Discovery."

Pike doesn't seem like the kind of Captain to interfere with anyone's decision or be digging for some sort of gossip, so he's not sure what to make of this sudden interest.  

Other than someone who was dead coming back to life being onboard his ship.

"Umm, what did you tell him?"

Tracy raises an eyebrow.

"I told him that he really ought to ask you that himself, but if he wanted my professional and only slightly biased opinion, Doctor Culber was one of the finest physicians in the 'fleet and there's not a single person on the medical staff who wouldn't welcome him back."

He opens his mouth, closes it when no words seem to be forthcoming, and frankly stares at Tracy.  Her bland expression doesn't change, and she's never been one to assign significance where it's not due.  

"Oh."

Her eyes soften as his silence continues, leaning across the distance to retrieve his plate and stack it back on the tray.  Tracy pulls on her boots and stands, shrugging her jacket back on and picking up the tray.

"We're heading somewhere for a rendezvous.  Captain didn't say who with, but it'll take a couple of days to get there.  Given the direction we're headed and Enterprise still undergoing repairs, I'm guessing it's either one of his connections in Command or Ambassador Sarek."

"Sarek?"

"He might be best served offloading Burnham and Spock to their father's custody so he can extend his diplomatic immunity to them.  If Sarek informs Command that he requested Pike do so-"

"...it could serve as a reason for why he didn't take Discovery to Starbase 11 like Leland demanded."

"Exactly.  And that would transfer the sanction to the Ambassador, who doesn't have any obligation to respond."

It makes sense, although from what Rhys said it seems unlikely for the Captain to pass off responsibility for his actions.  

"I guess we wait and see."

Tracy nods, using her hip to gently bump him out of the way so she can pass and head for the door.

"Trace..."

"Hugh."

"I...what you said-"

"I meant every word.  Aisha nearly had my head for not calling her in to see you, and everyone else feels about the same.  I told them not to bother you though, until you're ready."

"I- thanks."

"We missed you," she gives him a half smile, "but don't push yourself."

He snorts.

"Yeah, we both know how good I am at that."

She rolls her eyes, turning to go, but stops again a few feet from the door.

"There's no rules and regs on how to handle this, Hugh.  Give yourself a break."

"Detmer asked if I was coming to Game Night."

"And?"

"I don't know yet."

"Make the decision later then.  I need to clean up, going back for gamma tonight, but-"

"But you should be sleeping now.  I'll be fine."

Tracy nods, then she's gone and he's left alone again.  

Chapter Text

Hugh ultimately skips Game Night, pleading general fatigue, and he can tell that Detmer's disappointed despite her acceptance of the excuse. 

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] Hi Keyla, I don't think I can make it to Game Night this week.  Pretty tired still, and probably wouldn't be much fun right now!  

[Detmer-Keyla-LT/OPS] That's okay.  We'll miss you - we're just so glad you're back!  Jo says to tell you that she has some new operas if you want to borrow them, just let her know.  

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] Tell her thank you for me please?  

[Detmer-Keyla-LT/OPS] Sure :)  We're going to be here till 2200 if you change your mind though.  And comm me anytime if you want to play Velocity or something.

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] Thank you.

He sets down the PADD and tells himself he’s not hiding. 

On one hand, Doctor Culber's reasonable voice pushes for some sort of routine, something to structure his days around.   It's the course of action he'd recommended to trauma patients, easing back into socialization with their trusted friends who would support their recovery.  Seeing Tracy and Rhys hasn't been too bad, after all.  By most logic, he might be best served reconnecting with people whose company he enjoyed - Detmer, Owo, Michael, Rhys, Bryce, Airiam, and Tilly ought to be familiar faces.  He's sure they would welcome him back, surround him with smiles and conversation.  Except, the part of him that sounds most like Hugh as he is now, speaks the loudest and urges caution above everything else.  It points out that with the best intentions in the world, they'll go out of their way to act normal, which is vaguely ridiculous because deliberately trying to act in the same ways they had when they weren't thinking about it is completely impossible.  Things will turn awkward, the burden of "normal" a demand on them all, and he'll try to pretend it's not bothering him and the potential for panicking or turning snappish is too high when they don't really deserve that from him.

Paul didn't deserve it either.

And frankly, eventually someone will bring up Paul because they don't know any better, and he still doesn't know what to tell them.  It's incredibly tempting to ask Rhys to do so on his behalf, but that's probably a terrible idea.  

If you can’t figure it out on your own, maybe you should talk to the other person involved.

Thinking about that feels like running up against a forcefield, so he shelves it for now and goes back to staring at the inside of his eyelids.  Ten minutes later, he still feels wound as tight as Tilly's ponytail.  He glances around the room to no avail, as if something might have changed on its own to capture his attention.  The neutral gray furniture stares back blandly.

Sighing, he pushes himself to his feet and crosses the room, dropping his clothes on the floor outside the bathroom doorway.  He doesn't look at his reflection in the mirror as he passes, just heads into the shower and turns it to steam.  It'll make his nose run, but at least it's a change of scenery with the potential to give him space to think since not thinking isn't working out too well.  Hugh gives himself a quick wash, more for something to do with his hands than any perceived need for cleanliness.  The awareness of his own limbs doesn't quite feel like he remembers, but it's less of a jolt to his system when he lathers soap over his arms and chest.  He watches the suds roll off his skin and down the drain, wishing that it was that simple to shed everything that happened to him while in the network.

All of the reactions he’d acquired to survive in there will take unlearning.  It doesn’t take a psychologist to tell him that suppressing the reaction to trauma is only going to make it worse.  Some things, like the touch sensitivity while his new nerves acclimate, are going to be fully dependent on time and careful exposure to limited stimuli.  That has a perfectly reasonable biological explanation.  He hopes the paranoia resolves as well - knowing he’s safe on Discovery and feeling it are two vastly different issues.  It’s already better in the limited space of his quarters, but the rest of the ship is another story, at least until he can stop expecting an attack to come from nowhere.  That too is a subject extensively covered in the medical literature, exercises he can do to remind himself that there's nothing to fear.  It won't be easy or comfortable, but there's a path to follow.

Other parts aren’t as simple to unpack.  

Spending time with Tracy has helped a great deal in terms of remembering who he was (is?), as had speaking with his grandmother and, to a lesser extent, Rhys.  He has to admit that even with Tracy, there’s not the same depth of connection despite the familiarity of their banter and the way she’s always treated him.  He's not going to worry about that now when it seems trivial in comparison to the way his stomach clenches at the thought of interacting with anyone else.  The only person that's completely neutral is with Captain Pike, simply by virtue of it being brand new and Pike's non-threatening demeanor, but he can't quite fit that into something to build off of.

The desperate loneliness is still very much a part of him.  His existence in the network felt like eons, no way to keep track of the passage of time without some sort of physical reference.  The cognitive tests he'd taken verified his mental functions were just as sharp as before, that he'd somehow maintained his sanity despite the constant fear.  Still, even as he is enormously grateful for this protected space away from others, it's the unseen links that he's missing, the profound sense of being adrift.  He hasn't yet worked up the resolve to decide what to retrieve and if it would help, unsure if he even wants reminders of his old life.  It's like he’s facing a painting, a finished product: Doctor Hugh Culber, shaped and formed by forty-five years of experiences, son, brother, lover, and friend.  He knows what the painting should look like, but he’s not sure where to begin the layers to build up to that point again on a blank canvas.  So many others had wielded a brush, their strokes a part of the whole, some painted over and some carefully preserved.  Taking the metaphor a step further, is making himself match that image of a man who he wants to be now? 

Maybe he ought to go home, to Earth.  His family would doubtless be overjoyed for him to return, even if it's only for a while.  They would surround him with their love and laughter, the same as they had ever been, and it could help him start to feel more like himself.  Over two decades of being in Starfleet meant the apartment he nominally kept in San Francisco was rarely used, the majority of times posted on a ship or station or even planetside.  He doesn't even know if it's still his, actually, but that's not important right now.  "Home" had always conjured up his parent's living room or his grandmother's study, sitting in the windowseat working on homework as a child while Aida prepared for her next day's lecture at the solid mahogany desk.  It was the smell of oregano and garlic, the sound of voices speaking Standard with the occasional Spanish thrown in for emphasis, the hush of waves breaking over the shore.  Those things had been "home" without question, until he met Paul.  

Where is home now?  Where do you even belong?

Chapter Text

Clothes and his medical texts, that should be simple enough.  And maybe his opera solids.  Not a lot to ask, but he's been sitting with his PADD in his lap for over fifteen minutes working up the nerve to do something about it.  

First though, he needs to do something else.  Maybe 'need' isn't the right word.  Thinks he should do it.  The screen has gone to standby multiple times due to inactivity, and every time he thumbs it back on again he has the same reaction, heart pounding in his throat.  His finger hovers over the Delete command again, hesitating.  It's just ten letters, so why can't he seem to do it?

>>Contact information for Stamets, Paul, Lieutenant Commander, Engineering

>>Message ID [Stamets-Paul-LTCDR/ENGR]

>>Contact name (Sweetheart)

>>Confirm: Reset contact name?  Message history unaltered.

He closes his eyes and breathes out hard.  When he opens his eyes, he taps the screen before he can change his mind.

>>Reset complete

>>Contact name (>none<)

It's a start at least.  That's really not the issue at hand though, just a small piece that he has control over.  And if it's this difficult just to do that...

"Get a grip," he mutters to himself, "and send a message."

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] Hi.  Are you busy?

Hugh cringes at the clichéd line, deleting the text almost as soon as it's typed.

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] I'm sorry I took so long to comm.

That sounds too casual, almost disrespectful given the circumstances.

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] Would it be okay for me to come get some things?

There.  That's simple, straightforward, and will let Paul know immediately why he's messaging him.  He hits Send and stares at the screen, watching the status go from Delivered to Read almost immediately.  His back aches from sitting ramrod straight, but the thought of relaxing right now feels so very out of reach.

Ch-chirp.

Two messages arrive in rapid succession, the notifications overlapping.

[Stamets-Paul-LTCDR/ENGR] Hi.  Of course.  

The reaction to seeing Paul's name without the endearment is...ambivalent.   

[Stamets-Paul-LTCDR/ENGR] Just tell me what you need?

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] Clothes and the medical books.  Operas too, if you can find them?

His fingers can't seem to type 'my' in relation to anything.

[Stamets-Paul-LTCDR/ENGR] Okay.

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] Is anything in storage?

It's a bit of an inane question, given that he saw his clothes still folded in the drawers before everything blew up.  

[Stamets-Paul-LTCDR/ENGR] Everything is where you left it.  

[Stamets-Paul-LTCDR/ENGR] I could bring it to you?

It's ironic in the extreme that he's hesitant to have Paul in his quarters, given how overjoyed he had been to finally be sharing permanent space with him.  And it's not as though he doesn't want Paul to know where he is - the information is in the ship's manifest for anyone to see.  Instead, he admits that he's reserving the ability to physically walk out.  He's sure if he asked Paul to leave he would, but thinking about it doesn't feel right.  At all.

"Oh, so that's the first thing you're positive about?"

The cursor blinks up at him from the screen.

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] I'll come get them, if that's okay?

[Stamets-Paul-LTCDR/ENGR] Of course.  I'm on alpha tomorrow, but any time you want.

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] Can I come now?

He grits his teeth against the memory of those same words used in a very different context with Paul on more than one occasion.  There's a delay in Paul's response, although the status is Read.  It's long enough that Hugh starts to wonder if Paul's been called away to Engineering, or if he's about to change his mind.  When a new message appears though, it's hardly telling.

[Stamets-Paul/LTCDR/ENGR] Yes.

********

Chapter Text

Chirp. 

Hugh's eyes are swollen and sore, and he only opens them the bare minimum to retrieve the PADD from the nightstand.  He’s been awake for hours already, still in yesterday’s clothes and chilled despite the covers pulled up around him, but hasn't been able to summon the necessary energy to even get out of bed, much less respond to what he dimly acknowledges is hunger and thirst gnawing at the pit of his stomach.

It feels like an eternity before he's able to fumble the PADD upright, leaning it on his pillow, and taps the screen on.  Who could be trying to reach him at this hour-

Oh.

[Stamets-Paul-LTCDR/ENGR] Hi.  I have everything packed.  You're probably asleep, but Tracy just commed to say she's coming to get it.  Let me know if I forgot something.

He feels like a coward for hiding behind her, but reasons that he's probably the last person Paul wants to see right now.  And he certainly doesn't deserve this kind of consideration from him.  He'd sent her a message last night before breaking down, declining her offers to come over but asking for help 'later'.  Steady, reliable Tracy hadn't pressed the issue, just agreed to take care of things for him.  

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he checks the chrono in the corner of the screen and winces.  0645.  He hadn’t expected her to act so immediately; Tracy knows Paul was never a morning person, so unless that's changed...

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] Thank you.

The PADD falls onto the sheets, too heavy to hold up any longer.  There's so much more he could and should say, but he gave up that privilege yesterday, quite possibly forever.    

Tracy lets herself in at 0710 with three boxes in tow on an antigrav, parking them next to the coffee table before walking over to where Hugh is staring blankly at the viewport.  Offering a sad smile, she sits down on the edge of the bed and wordlessly holds out her hand, waiting while he examines it as if he's never seen it before.   She seems surprised when he sits up and lets her draw him into a hug, but doesn't say anything.  There's no tears today, not when he thinks he cried himself out enough for the rest of his life last night, mourning a life that was and wasn't ever his.   

"Thanks," he whispers once they separate, watching her expression grow even more concerned at his scratchy, raw-sounding voice. 

"Did you sleep?"

He shrugs.

"A bit."

The answer clearly doesn't satisfy her, but she lets it go.

"I'm on shift at 0800," Tracy murmurs, "but I can ask someone else to cover."

Hugh shakes his head.

"Are you sure?"

"No."

"Should I send Rhys?”

"I-" his voice is firmer, but still wobbles on that single syllable, “...I need to be alone.”

“Hugh...”

He lays down again, burrowing under the covers.

”Leave it, Trace.  Please...I just...can’t.”

She sighs, tugging the duvet down enough to be able to see his face.

”I don’t think being alone is a good idea.”

”Why?  It’s not- hah, not like I’m going to hurt myself.”

His bitter laugh makes her grimace, lips tightening.  She's still gripping the bedlinens, so he closes his eyes against her undeserved concern.  He can feel her staring at him, and it’s unusual for her to not simply say exactly what’s on her mind.

"All right.”

The words are reluctant, but her weight lifts off the bed again and he can hear her moving back to the table.  He watches through his lashes as Tracy deposits the boxes onto the floor before deactivating the antigrav and tucking it under her arm.  She dials up a glass of water from the synthesizer to leave on his nightstand, squeezes the covers vaguely near his shoulder, and is gone again.  

Chapter Text

Time slows to a crawl, the never ending star field of the ship at warp flying by unseen.  

He turns his back to it anyway.

In other circumstances, he would consider the shadowy space under the duvet cozy, or at least a sense of closeness that suggested safety.  Right now, it isn't any more a haven than attempting to retreat into the darkness behind his eyelids.  His surroundings matter less than what's going in inside anyway, the jumble of thoughts and emotions swirling through his mind.  It's a bit like a child's game of trying to chase holographic ribbons, where each time he successfully captures one thought and stops it from moving forward, there are two or three more skating past which distract him enough that the first tugs itself free.  Attempting to stop them is pointless when they're all headed towards an inevitable destination anyway, no matter what path they take to get there:

Look what you've done.

Regret isn’t something that Hugh Culber subscribed to before his death.  He believed in living life fully, being present mentally and emotionally, and taking chances so long as they put no one else in danger but himself.  It’s what led him to hike Cabo Rojo alone at sixteen, leading to the fall that catalyzed his desire to help others into pursuing medicine, the brush with death hammering home a lesson about calculated risk in a way that nothing else could.  It’s what led to a string of broken hearts over the years, pouring himself into relationships where his effort ultimately wasn’t reciprocated, because he couldn't not try.  It’s what made him so terrified of somehow getting things wrong with Paul in the beginning and reminded him of his abuela's words on the rare occasions they truly fought, compelling him to say 'I'm sorry' when he was at fault no matter what his pride demanded.  And it's the tenacity that allowed him to weather years of long separations.  

Their limited time together pushed them to savor the hours and days and weeks, not just in physical pleasures, but shared experiences and seeking the intimate non-sexual connection that buzzed through every point where skin touched skin.  Hugh was always aware of his surroundings, but everything was so much more intense when he was with Paul in those stolen moments.  Colors seemed more vibrant, sounds richer, feelings deeper.  They tried not to waste time in arguments, setting them aside by mutual unspoken agreement.  

Life on Discovery, much as there had been good things, introduced Hugh to regret.  It stalked him in between fighting for his life in the network, in moments of lucidity not driven by fear and pain.  Haunted him.

Wishing that he had pushed himself harder on those nights when Paul hadn't come home, so that he confronted the issue instead of turning away in sullen silence. 

Anger at himself for not formally reaching out to his superiors at Starfleet Medical when Lorca's actions ran counter to his carefully honed sense of ethics and compassion, instead only referencing his objections in reports.  

Grief at sometimes forgetting how it was before, taking for granted being together, becoming too used to falling asleep and waking up together.

Regret because he shouldn't have been waiting for the right time, should have gone ahead and asked him-

Doesn't matter now. 

He watches condensation beading on the sides of the glass of ice water, sees individual drops rolling down to join the puddle at the glass's base.  Inevitable.  Were the ugly things said just that?  Hugh wants to think he could have controlled himself, could have thought twice instead of letting his words be driven by misplaced anger.  Or maybe that's only him trying to justify his actions, the paradox of berating himself for control when that's just an excuse to hide the fact that he's nothing like the man whose face he's wearing, whose memories he's carrying.  And the Hugh living in those memories rails against him now for his actions, beating his fists on the intangible walls of his emotions, pleading with him to somehow make himself better, to feel again the right way. 

He's fairly certain a trained counselor would take one look at his inner conflict and speak to him in that voice that all medical professionals reserved for cases needing delicate handling because of their volatile nature.

Medical professionals. 

Right.  

He drinks the water Tracy left, if not for his own sake but because worrying her is one more thing heaped on his plate, and he wouldn't put it past her to slap a bio-monitor on him if she doesn't think he can be trusted to take care of himself.  The pain lancing through his temples would be lessened by eating something, but he dimly thinks he probably deserves that discomfort.  There's no escaping reality, no matter which way he turns.  He buries his head under the pillow, clutching it against his ears.  It’s a futile action - all he succeeds in doing is blocking out the background hum of the ship and making it even more difficult to breathe past his sore throat.  

His skin itches in places, dried sweat and tears leaving salty shadows of their passage.  Paul's tears, smeared down his cheek and the side of his neck, soaking into his shirt, and his own cried into the pillow.  Hugh had always paid close attention to personal hygiene, the psychological benefit of washing himself clean just as powerful as the physical act, but the thought of something so mundane as a shower seems laughable now.  

Chirp.

[Rhys-Gen-LT/OPS] Hey, not sure if you're awake, but if you want to lift I'm not on till beta?  

The PADD doesn’t quite make it back on the nightstand far enough, teetering before dropping to the floor with a clatter.  Replying requires more energy than he has, and he's not sure what he'd tell Rhys anyway.  Rhys and Detmer and Owo and Tilly with their generally positive outlook, their sincere belief in the mystical power of love, would look at him with confusion and disappointment.  Or worse, with empathy.

He has to sit with this, because he earned it.  All of it.  

Seeing Paul now wracked with guilt felt so wrong simply because Hugh had long ago thrown caution out the airlock, committed himself fully to loving that man.  To think that Paul might not have given just as much in return...whether perceived failure or actual fact, neither would give him peace of mind.  There’s plenty of irony in the fact that he said he didn’t want anyone to fix what he can feel, and now he wishes more than anything that it could be somehow possible.  Fix what he'd gone ahead and broken.  

The laugh that forces itself out of his throat is harsh and mirthless.  Hugh Culber was supposed to be a healer, someone who mended hurts, not inflicted them on others.  

It's better for him this way.

Is it?

Yes.

Or is it easier for you to do this because you're afraid of the pain in finding yourself again?

I can't hurt him like that.

He wouldn't agree.

He would let me hurt him.  

Is that choice really just up to you?

Paul would never protect himself from Hugh.  And he can’t let that happen.  Again.

If he went down to Deck Nine, he could probably still walk right in.  If they'd had last night's confrontation in front of everyone in Engineering, everyone on the ship, Paul Stamets would still open his arms and take him back because that's who he is. 

Or maybe he’s not.  Maybe his betrayal of that intimate trust last night went too far, hurt Paul so deeply that he is no longer that man.

”There’s nothing left to lose.”

He can still perfectly hear how Paul’s voice had caught on the last word.

How much of it is actually his to lose, and how much belonged to the man whose neck was snapped by a Klingon spy?  Paul looks at him and sees his partner, the man he spent fourteen years in a relationship with.  Laughed and cried with, loved.  Even when he wasn't really looking, Paul always saw Hugh.

He rolls until his head is on a pillow, opens his eyes and stares at his hand again.  Skin the color of golden honey, smooth and unmarked, calluses gone.  Healthy pink nailbeds, even his cuticles are nearly untouched, no ragged edges from chewing at them absently while reading.  It’s a perfect facsimile, and yet there’s something more to it.  He turns his hand over and studies it closely.  Everything is where it should be, down to his fingerprints and the biometric data cross-checked with his file.  The creases in his palm are in the same places, but they don't run as deep-

That's it.  Everything is there on the surface, shaped and faithfully recreated into Hugh Culber's form, but he's missing the depth that only came from years of living.  The blank canvas metaphor comes to mind again, and he still doesn’t have a conclusion.  He’s thinking in circles, not trapped by a force field or anything external, but by the confines of his own body.

It’s not even mine.

Whose is it?

They buried my body.

If those aren’t your memories, then that body wasn’t either.   

But this doesn’t feel right.

You can’t have it both ways, it has to be one or the other.

This isn’t me.

Who, then?

I don’t know who I am.

He pulls the covers back over his head and tries very hard not to think.

********

The change in harmonics as the ship drops out of warp penetrates the haze his mind has sunken into.  He opens his eyes to see the sudden shortening of the stars back into pinpoints of light, coalescing abruptly into the looming mass of an unfamiliar planet.  

Where are we?

He rouses himself enough to retrieve his PADD and check the chrono, sweeping his hand clumsily along the floor at the side of the bed until his fingers collide with a hard edge.  It’s well after noon, not that he has anywhere to be.  The sensation of hunger has receded, which isn’t a particularly good sign, but the synthesizer across the room might as well be a light year away.

There’s a series of messages waiting for his attention, time stamped beginning about an hour ago.

[Pollard-Tracy-LT/MED] Eat something.  

[Pollard-Tracy-LT/MED] I’m in surgery on Nilsson’s elbow, but I can get Rhys to bring you something.

[Pollard-Tracy-LT/MED] I left my gran’s recipe in your library if you don’t want food.

[Pollard-Tracy-LT/MED] Done. You’re either ignoring me or asleep.  I know you hate being doctored, but I’m worried about you.

[Pollard-Tracy-LT/MED] At least acknowledge when you wake up, please?  

[Pollard-Tracy-LT/MED] You’re too damn heavy for me to lift if you go hypoglycemic.

The sigh he breathes out barely makes a sound.  There’s a tiny curl of amusement at Tracy’s last salvo, she’s clearly working from every angle to get a reaction.  It’s sufficient motivation for him to tap the acknowledgement command.  

There’s just enough time for it to send an alert through the system and for someone to pick up their PADD before the message in progress status pops up 

[Pollard-Tracy-LT/MED] Okay.

It’s Tracy, so he forces himself to type an actual reply.

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] Scalpels.

[Pollard-Tracy-LT/MED] It’s okay to not be.

He can’t think of anything to say that isn’t a denial (which isn’t true), but agreement doesn’t seem right either when he’s brought this on himself.  Hugh sends another acknowledgement before letting the PADD slip out of his fingers onto the sheets.

Of course I’m not okay.

Chapter Text

It takes another two hours, but he does eventually drag himself out of bed.  It’s a drawn out process, one that requires multiple attempts to convince his body to move while he fights the urge to give up, at least until his better judgment (or Tracy) makes him do otherwise.  He's been lucky to have her at his worst in the last twenty years.   

(Tracy is at his door on emergency leave less than 48 hours after receiving Hugh's SOS, sent after he walked  in on his boyfriend of three years in bed with someone else, and who then turned around and blamed it all on Hugh.  She brings food from his local Jewish deli and physically drags him off the couch to make him shower.  They stay up until dawn, and she uses her unique combination of humor, biting sarcasm, and years-long knowledge of Hugh to listen and talk him through the betrayal and anger, offering firm counterpoints to his self-recrimination for not leaving sooner.) 

Getting over that truly vicious breakup before meeting Paul really wouldn't have happened without her, but he's not sure this is something even she can fix.  That disaster of a relationship reminded him how important honesty was, and it was a principle he'd taken with him when he sat down next to a man in café who felt the same way, when things started to become serious.  

Admit it, it didn't take long for things to get serious.  You knew by the third date.  And that scared the hell out of you.

Hugh had taken his heart in his hands and stepped off the edge into freefall, overjoyed to find Paul just as scared and determined as he was.  So many years ago now.  A literal other lifetime, one he can’t reconcile when his heart and mind and body haven't been on the same side of the line for long in the past four days. 

Only four days.  It feels like weeks.

He’d never in all that time doubted his own feelings for Paul.  They were an immovable fact, a solid foundation to build from, something he knew down to his core.  And while he has that memory now, all of the memories of joy and affection and tenderness, the place in his heart marked “Paul” seems to be locked.  It's like waking up as the protagonist in a holonovel where he knows the plot and the people and what the character himself has done, but he has no idea how to act beyond the script, surrounded by people who know what his role is as he stumbles forward blindly.  He can watch it all play out in his mind perfectly, remember how he felt, but he can't get through the screen to touch it.     

Do you want to unlock that door again?

As much as there are good memories, there are difficult ones as well.  Their infrequent but painful fights, the carefully controlled terror when Paul hybridized his own DNA, the moment he realized Paul had let untested machinery leave six gaping wounds in his torso.  Hugh's own struggle to cope when his partner grew more distant and distracted, consumed by work and never enough time together, was perhaps the worst of all.  He remembers telling himself that part of his unease was only due to comparing those same actions in past relationships where the cause was far different, knowing despite his frustration that Paul would never hurt him like that.  Mostly, he remembers the endless despair and desperate yearning that was his constant companion in the network, lingering despite his sense of purpose now missing.

I don't know.

He’s had internal arguments before - difficult medical diagnoses, intervening in a quarrel between friends, and so on - but none have risen or, more appropriately, sunk to this level.  The covers feel too hot and he kicks them down, pulling a pillow over his face.   

"Fuck."

Starfleet pillows are designed to prevent accidental suffocation, unfortunately.

You're not going to figure it out lying here.  Get up.  

It's a bit like moving through molasses, but he finally swings his legs over the side of the bed and sits up, glancing down.  Yesterday’s shirt and pants are a mess of wrinkles and sweat.  Untangling the shirt where it's twisted around his waist, he can smell himself in dire need of a shower, or at the very least fresh clothes to wear.  Tracy's glass of water a few hours ago isn't enough to ward off the pounding in his temples, and despite staying silent on the subject when asked, he also knows he needs to eat something.  It's beyond tempting to bury his head under the pillow again and try to will himself into oblivion with only his dreams to haunt him. 

Of course, being acutely aware that he’s exhibiting the classic signs of depression is one thing; forcing himself act on it is something else entirely. 

You'll end up back in the medbay if you don't take care of yourself.

That's probably not the best motivation, but he'll lean on it for now. 

The deck is cool under his bare feet as he walks around the bed, shedding his clothes and recycling them before going into the bathroom.  His reflection isn't terribly different than yesterday, albeit with more dark circles under his eyes.  He runs his hand over his cheek, thankful to at least see a shadow of his beard creeping back.  Without it, this face looks unsettlingly like it did when he was thirty, a mismatch with the exhaustion in his eyes.  Hugh wonders if he's going to wear the new body down with negative things, etch in frown lines in place of laughter that will tell a story different than the one before.  

The sonics still make his jaw hum, so he takes a quick water shower, brushes his teeth and dresses in a new t-shirt and pants.  He lingers awkwardly in the bathroom doorway after turning out the lights, indecisive, but eventually finds himself in front of the synthesizer.  His legs ache with however long he's been standing there lost in thought, staring blindly at the menu options scrolling by.  The synthesizers in crew quarters aren't programmed with the range available in the mess hall  - possibly a good thing because deciding feels like a gargantuan effort - and in the end he just picks the simplest thing available.  

He flinches when the legs of the chair drag over the floor, shoulders gone tense, and nearly drops the plate before sitting down with a frustrated sigh at his own nerves.  The toast stares back up at him from the plate, innocuously browned and lightly buttered.  Hugh has no appetite to speak of, but he determinedly picks it up and takes a bite before setting it back down again, trying to process the sensations.  Inexplicably, the bread that seemed to delight his mouth with texture and flavor just a couple of days ago now tastes unpleasantly burnt and chewing feels like gravel tearing at his tongue. 

I can't believe I'm sitting here intimidated by a damn piece of synthesized bread.  

Hugh manages half a slice before his lack of hunger turns into disgust and he abandons the mission.  Apparently hypersensitivity isn't going to be consistent, because that would be far too simple. Groaning, he shoves the mostly-full plate back in for recycling without a second thought.

Add another problem to the list.

The nagging sense of responsibility for taking care of himself makes him try something else. The drink Tracy programmed in isn't much better in terms of flavor, but his stomach loosens as the warm liquid fills it and it's one less thing to think about.  Not that there aren't a hundred others rushing in to fill its place.

"Computer, time?"

"The time is sixteen twenty."

Well. 

He has a few options - he could go back to bed and try to hide, comm Tracy and ask for company, or reply to Rhys with an apology for ignoring him earlier.  Rhys will be on shift now, but there's no reason not to other than the fact that even that level of social engagement is beyond his current ability.  Even if he was up to it, until whatever sabotage is repaired, subspace is going to be down for a while so he can't call his family either.  The gym maybe?  He could reserve a private suite so he's alone, but it's all the way on the other side of the saucer section and the corridors will be full of beta shift activity.  He laughs humorlessly at the irony of always needing to be physically active to shut out his thoughts while simultaneously being unable to summon the mental motivation to do so.    

Grudgingly, he comes to the conclusion that the one thing he's actively avoiding considering should probably be his next task.  He stands from the table, eyeing the duffel on the floor at the foot of the bed as if it were explosive ordinance.  Bending to pick it up, he sets it on the duvet and untangles the strap.  Hugh traces his fingers over his name spelled out on the side, remembers being eager to pack it the last time it was used on an overnight shore leave with Paul.  Then, it was mostly empty save for one set of civilian clothes, an emergency medkit, and a bar of real Earth chocolate, no plans beyond a picnic and stargazing.  They'd fallen asleep outside, curled together on an unzipped sleeping bag, and woke the next morning with clothes soaked in dew.  When Hugh opened his eyes, he'd found Paul watching him with one of those looks, and-

He deliberately puts the thought out of his mind and exhales hard.

Pretend you're on a short assignment, unpacking for a couple of weeks.  It's just clothes.  

Abandoning the bag for a moment, he opens the wardrobe door and the top dresser drawer.  There should be plenty of room for everything, and once he's done, the satisfaction of accomplishment will at least be something positive.  Should be.  He reaches inside, pulling out a handful of briefs to toss into the drawer along with socks from the outer pocket.  Unfortunately, the rest of the clothes are packed too tightly to shift as is.  It's only zipped half shut, and his fingers move on automatic to open it further.  The zipper won't budge, and he wiggles his nail under the edge to free whatever it's stuck on- 

"Owww."

He pulls his thumb back, sees a bright red bead of blood forming, and frowns in confusion.  There shouldn't be anything sharp at all on it.  Sucking on the injured finger, he sees the broken zipper, and his heart leaps into his throat.

Fuck.

Hugh is across the room before he realizes he's moving, tossing the bag into the darkest corner of the empty wardrobe.  He slams the door closed again, the protesting squeak from overriding its friction track discordant and painful to hear.  His pulse is pounding a staccato tempo in his neck, and he leans his forehead on the cool metal, trying to slow his breathing down while his head swims. 

You are not having a panic attack over some clothes.

He's definitely having a panic attack over some clothes.

"Breathe," he mutters through clenched teeth, dropping to kneel on the floor and forcing down the nausea.  There's sweat breaking out at his hairline, and for a few terrible seconds, he thinks he might actually pass out.  

Breathe.  In.  Out.  Clear your mind.

He can count on one hand the number of panic attacks Hugh Culber had in forty-five years, and he's already had two in less than a week.  The annoyance at least gives him something to focus on, and slowly the tightness in his chest abates until he's able to draw in a lungful of air that isn't immediately gasped out again. 

It takes longer than he'd like to feel steady enough to stand again, avoiding the bed and lying across the couch instead.  They're still in orbit around a planet.  He could look it up in the database, but doesn't find that he cares much where they are.  Before, he'd always enjoyed learning about new destinations, but the thought of querying the computer for something as mundane as even the name of the planet holds no interest.

Leaving his quarters now seems even more out of the question, when he can't be sure how he'll react to something as simple as a crew member accidentally bumping his arm in passing.  He rolls partway on his side, enough to be able to see out the viewport over the back of the couch.  At rest, the pinpricks of light from a billion stars form patterns in his vision, outlining shapes and figures.  Wherever they are, there aren't any familiar constellations to use as guides, but he doesn't feel any more off-balance with that realization than anything else in the last few days. 

Across the room, his PADD chirps at him, but he ignores it.  

Breathe.

Chapter Text

>>Unread messages

18:00 [Pollard-Tracy-LT/MED] I'm off shift.  

19:03 [Rhys-Gen-LT/OPS] Hey, did you want to have breakfast again tomorrow?  Detmer wants to catch you up on all the gossip I apparently don't have.  She won't tell me what I don't know, so I need you to come because I want to hear it!  Seriously though, let's get together and go lift or something.

19:12 [Pollard-Tracy-LT/MED] At least tell me you've eaten.  

19:25 [Pollard-Tracy-LT/MED] Or don't.  I'm worried about you, which is going to make you say not to, but I am.

19:42 [Detmer-Keyla-LT/OPS] Dr. C!  I told Rhys I had some juicy gossip to share, but I actually just want to have breakfast.  Can you not tell him?  

20:31 [Saru-CDR/EXECOFCR] Doctor Culber, I wanted to again extend an offer of assistance in any way.  Doctor Pollard has mentioned that you are feeling off-balance, and while our experiences are not at all similar, I do understand what it is like to not feel yourself.  Forgive me, this is not intended to be self-centering, but an expression of support.  Please contact me if you feel there is something I can help with, or if you simply wish to speak while someone listens.

20:44 [Pollard-Tracy-LT/MED] Tilly came in earlier because she hit her head on a console.  Completely fine, but she asked if she could talk to you about something.

20:46 [Pollard-Tracy-LT/MED] Tilly might comm later.  She won't say what's bothering her.  

21:01 [Rhys-Gen-LT/OPS] Just found out that Detmer was lying.  I won't tell her though, I think she just wants to see you.  Made her promise not to tackle-hug you too.  

22:55 [Pollard-Tracy-LT/MED] I hope you're sleeping, but if not, wake me up.  We can even listen to that horrible rendition of La Bohème you used to like in med school.  Door code hasn't changed.

23:00 [Tilly-Sylvia-ENS/ENGR] Hi Dr. Culber.  I know it's late but Dr. Pollard said you might be awake?  I don't want to bother you and Stamets, but maybe tomorrow if you have time could we talk?  Just a few minutes, I promise.   

Chapter Text

”I, Hugh Culber, swear...”

The words of the physician’s oath are familiar, carefully memorized and practiced in anticipation of today.  He’s fairly certain he could recite it in his sleep, which is a good thing given how numb his lips feel while his heart threatens to beat out of his chest.  In front of him, the Surgeon General waits with an air of patient, proprietary pride as each new doctor stands before her to be commissioned. 

”...within my power to preserve the lives of those in my charge in accordance with and respecting their wishes and customs.  Above all else, I hold the following sacred: I swear to do no harm.”

His last word rings out over the hush in the auditorium, and Hugh swallows down his nerves when the Surgeon General nods with solemn dignity. He can see the audience over her shoulder, easily picking out his parents and grandmother amidst the sea of brightly colored clothing in contrast to the crisp white uniforms.

”On behalf of Starfleet Medical, upon completion of coursework and training with high honors, I witness and accept your oath and hereby commission Doctor Hugh Culber at the rank of Lieutenant Junior Grade.”

She carefully removes the cadet insignia from his dress uniform, handing it to an aide who approaches with a small tray.  Light glints off the smooth surface as she attaches his new badge and steps back, extending her hand.  Her grip is firm, voice warm in response to his tremulous smile.

“Congratulations, Doctor Culber.”

********

Darkness. 

Something rough under his cheek, and the telltale stiffness of having slept somewhere other than a bed.  

...what?

Hugh opens his eyes, fingers involuntarily clenching against the surface in front of his face. 

Oh.

He's still on the couch, face wedged awkwardly into a corner and neck protesting the lack of a pillow.  Shifting against the cushions reveals a numb right arm, and he winces at the pins and needles when he rolls onto his back to give the limb circulation.  The lights are still down, and he scrubs a hand over his face, wiping away grit from his eyes and perspiration.

"Co-" he breaks off to cough, throat dry, "Computer.  Time?"

"The time is eleven-thirty."

By some small miracle, at least he doesn't specifically remember having any nightmares despite being asleep for almost eighteen hours.  He wonders if subspace is back up again, or if they’re within range of a relay to at least get a message out.  Hugh turns his head towards the coffee table, frowning when he realizes that the PADD and comm are both still on the nightstand.  

Right.

He slowly stands up, mindful of the change in position, but there’s nothing more than the slight heaviness of oversleep tugging at his head when he makes his way over to the bed.  Sitting on the edge, he reaches for the PADD and thumbs on the screen before wincing at the number of unread messages and their timestamps.  After reading through, he’s surprised to not find Tracy waiting - he sweeps his eyes around the room just to be sure - or having left a tray on the table as a pointed reminder.  

His stomach clenches at the thought of eating, but he's able to identify it as nothing more than simple hunger.  Time aboard the ship is relative, although it's set to mostly align with Starfleet HQ in San Francisco.  Since he's not working around a shift and sleeping schedule, there's no real reason for him to have to start with breakfast.  Not that he was obligated to follow any rules on food before, but it was good for one's body to establish as much of a routine as possible in the absence of an actual solar day cycle.  Paul's propensity for too much caffeine and not enough by way of actual food used to drive him to distraction, and aside from the pleasure of spending time together, syncing their schedules so they could share meals meant he was at least able to encourage his wayward partner to eat what was on his plate instead of ignoring it in favor of whatever was on his PADD.  A sharp ache that has nothing to do with hunger accompanies that thought, and he wonders if that will ever fade.

Start with something you can fix, he can almost hear his grandmother's voice, feed your body and mind first.

Based on yesterday's failure, he skips anything involving toasted bread and sits down with coffee and a bowl of fruit.  It's not terribly substantial, but there's enough nutrients engineered in that it should suffice.  Food as a language all its own is at least still familiar.  A smile tugs at his lips when he thinks of how much Aida approved of Tracy on principle, particularly since she didn't seem at all intimidated accompanying Hugh on a day-trip home their senior year.  Instead, they holed up in Aida's study discussing the implications of synthetic replacements for joint cartilage on the body's ability to repopulate the matrix with their own cells, leaving him to worry that he'd just given them both an ally against his stubbornness when Tracy demanded to know why he'd never cooked anything Puerto Rican for her.

With Tracy in mind, he picks up the PADD again and types out a message.

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] Sorry, I fell asleep on the couch.  Just woke up, eating.

It's the middle of alpha, so he's not expecting an immediate answer and sets it aside to concentrate on eating.  The sliced fruit seems more acceptable to his tastebuds, although he has to trim away the bitter apple peels and contend with a few other new reactions (strawberry seeds are fine, but the texture of the grapes makes his skin crawl).  Hugh's halfway through his coffee when the PADD chirps at him.  

Surprisingly, it's not from Tracy.

[Tilly-Sylvia-ENS/ENGR] Hi Dr. Culber, it’s me again.  I’m sorry to bother you now, but it’s important and I don’t know what to do about it.  If that’s okay, can you comm me please? 

He surprises himself by finding no immediate excuse to avoid responding to Tilly when he hasn’t yet returned Rhys or Detmer’s messages.  Objectively, he’s closer friends with Rhys, but there’s something about Tilly that makes it impossible not to love her just a little.  Maybe it was partly because the honesty reminded him so much of Paul, or that his partner clearly had a soft spot for the cadet, but Hugh had certainly enjoyed her company and fresh perspective.  If there’s an issue that Tilly wants his advice on - he can’t imagine what it might be - it’s at least something positive he can focus on right now.

Dishes recycled, he settles back on the couch with his comm in hand.

”Culber to Tilly.”

There’s minimal delay before it connects.

”Tilly here.  I’m ummm really sorry to bother you, Doctor.”

Judging by the echo, he thinks she’s probably in the cultivation bay, but can’t be sure.  He redirects his thoughts away from the next logical thing related to the bay, biting his lip before realizing that the silence has probably turned awkward.

”No, you’re not bothering me.  Is- are you all right?”

”I’m fine.  I promise, really-“ her voice fades out for a moment as he hears other people on the background, “nothing the matter with me.”

Her repeated reassurance is, in itself, reassuring as a slice of something he remembers fondly.

”Great.  What can I help you with?”

”Well, sir, it’s not really helping me.  I mean, yes it will end up helping me sort of, but that’s not why I’m asking.”

He can’t tell if she’s being deliberately cryptic or not.

”See...“ she breaks off again as more voices approach.

”If now’s not a good time for you, Tilly-“

”No!  No it’s good, I’m off shift now, just checking some readings.  Can we uhhh maybe talk in person though?”

“Do you want to meet me in my quarters?“

The words are out before he thinks about it, and he realizes with a jolt that he hadn’t hesitated before inviting her into his space.  (Tracy is practically family, but Tilly is somehow next on the list of people he’s okay seeing?). Hard on the heels of that revelation is a sudden sense of dread - telling her to come here is definitely not how he wants her to find out about the current situation if she doesn't already know.  He opens his mouth to backpedal when her reply interrupts him.

“No, if that’s okay?  It’s uhh, not that it’s weird, I just...It’s sort of a private thing and you probably don’t want to talk about it in the mess hall or something, and I really don’t either but...I'm not doing a very good job of explaining this am I?  I’m going to stop talking now.”

Hugh can imagine the trepidation in her expression, and carefully masks his own relief at her reply.

”How about Lounge H?  I think-“ he checks the PADD, “yes, it’s open.”

”Oh!  Yes, that’s a good idea.”

“I’ll meet you there in...fifteen minutes?”

That should be enough time to change clothes and make his way across the ship.  He’s not looking forward to the press of bodies in the corridors, but his focus sharpens on helping her with whatever it is.  

That’s who you are, isn’t it?

“Great!  Tilly out.”

********

He's nearly there, aware that listening for approaching footsteps around the next bend in the hall is hardly normal behavior, nor is constantly checking over his shoulder.  Luckily everyone he passes seems too busy to notice his strange behavior, but he doesn't relax until the side corridor leading to Lounge H is in sight.  Hugh exhales in relief, preparing to cross the last junction, when a cough from the small observation port to his left makes him nearly jump out of his skin.

"Whoa, Doctor- I didn't mean...I'm sorry-" 

A hand lands on his arm and he swats it away, staggering backwards and pressing himself into the bulkhead behind him.  For a few heart-stopping seconds, he's unable to see what's in front of him as blood pounds in his ears, cringing away from the anticipated buzz of jahSepp coming to attack.  

“...Doctor Culber?”

The voice cuts through the impending panic, and he blinks until his vision clears.  

“Sir?”

The offending hand is back, this time hovering a few inches away.  He takes in the open palm, eyes travelling up the outstretched arm until they land on a tumble of fiery red curls and wide blue eyes. 

"Hugh?"

Tilly.  You’re safe.

He takes a shaky breath, nodding, and realizes that they’re still standing in an open corridor.  Despite knowing there aren’t any lurking threats, it still feels far too exposed.  He doesn’t trust his voice yet, but Tilly clearly understands his shaky gesture and follows him into Lounge H without further comment.

The doors swish shut behind them, cutting off any external noise.  His shoulders sag and Hugh leans on the back of a chair, aware of the sweat now dampening his palms.

”Do you maybe think you should sit down, Doctor?”  

Tilly’s tone is tentative but not patronizing, and he does so, grateful when she brings him a glass of water before taking the seat across from him at the small table.

“I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He looks up from the tabletop, taking in her contrite expression and the grip she has on her own glass.

”Old habits,” his smile is shaky, “no apology needed.”

Tilly looks confused, obviously attempting to reconcile the statement.  It reminds him that time spent in the network and in their universe are two radically different things.

”I don’t unde-“ she shakes her head and starts again.  “All of this, coming back, must seem...weird for you.”

”Weird is one way to put it.”

The cool water feels good on his dry throat.  He watches her over the rim of the glass as he drinks, chewing her lip.

”I mean, I only spent a few hours there, and it creeped the hell out of me, you know?  Like it was so cool but scary, and I...” Tilly cuts herself off, “of course you know what I mean.”

"I'm sorry you had to go through that."

"I'm not."

It's said with an un-Tilly-like confidence, and it's a another reminder of how much time has passed that he has no idea if this is normal now.  

"That is-" Tilly bounces her leg, suddenly indecisive again.

Not too different, then.  Before, Hugh would have probably smiled a reassurance at her, offered a gentle 'take your time' or other encouragement.  Now, he just nods and waits.

"-umm.  It sucked in terms of being kidnapped and brought to another plane of existence, but uhhh, other than that part.  I mean," she catches a lock of hair between her fingers, twisting the curls, "if May hadn't brought me to the network, we wouldn't have found you.  So it’s absolutely worth it.”

The firmness of the statement wraps itself around the lingering sense of unease, steadying something inside.  He might be unmoored and questioning his own existence right now, but regardless...

”Thank you, Tilly,” he says quietly, “I can’t remember if I said it before, but I should have.”

”Oh!  Umm, you’re welcome?  There was a lot going on and all, you don’t have to thank me.”

Hugh finishes his water and sets the glass down, finger idly tracing the ring of condensation on the table’s smooth surface.

“What did you want to talk to me about?”

"Sir..."

Tilly presses her lips together and shifts awkwardly, and it takes him a moment to catch on.  

“I’m not commissioned right now, you...” he trails off, weighing the words and deciding they’re not just a pleasantry, “you’re welcome to use my name.”

"Umm.  Okay?  Okay.  Can I ask you something?  About Commander Stamets.”

Here we go.

He braces himself, unsure what’s coming next.  

"Sure."

She looks down at her hands, seems to be gathering her thoughts.  He can’t quite read her expression when she meets his eyes again   

"What- okay.  Umm.  Wow, this is weird, I uhhh never thought I'd be asking this, but, are you mad at Commander Stamets?  I'm not sure.  I mean, before, you...before he lost you.  He'd uhh, I could tell when you were mad at him.  I wasn't trying!  I swear.  But I could tell, because he'd get this umm, this look.  You know," Tilly does a passable imitation of Paul's critical frown, and it dredges up the ghost of a smile from Hugh, "but ever since we got back, he's been really...weird."

Tilly pauses for breath, side-eyeing him and probably wondering if she's overstepped some invisible boundary.  Not that he has any idea what Paul might (not) be telling people, but Paul was never able to compartmentalize very well.  For all of her quirks, people tended to overlook exactly how perceptive and observant she was, so it doesn’t come as a surprise that she’s picked up on it.  Beyond Tracy, Tilly is probably the person who saw him and Paul most often outside of work without any assumptions.  At the time, he'd been gently amused by her starry-eyed looks and secondhand embarrassment, but it’s added up to more than just that.

Seemingly encouraged by his lack of reproach, she inhales slowly and continues.

"Look.  H- Hugh.  I'm probably not making any sense and you probably already know all of this or I'm totally not right and it's none of my business, but...I know you just got back and things are weird, so I probably shouldn't be telling you because you've got enough to deal with, but yeah."

It takes a moment to parse her run-on sentence.

"But what?"

"See, he snapped at Reno.  More than usual.  You probably haven't met her yet, she's really pretty cool, but she likes to get on his nerves.  At least I think she does.  I think they actually probably like each other, but anyway, that's not what I was trying to say.  She asked why he was in Engineering and not with you, and I don't think he's okay.  He’s probably just super overwhelmed, but he’s been in his lab nonstop and I- I don’t know.  Something’s off and I’m worried.”

Hugh opens his mouth, realizes he has no idea what to say, and closes it again.  

Tilly must think that Paul is hiding stress from Hugh by physically hiding in his lab.  He’d done the same when they argued before, so it makes sense that’s the conclusion she would come to.  She probably imagines him coming home to Hugh all smiles, couldn’t possibly guess what had transpired.  Now, Tilly must be expecting him to reassure her that everything is fine, perhaps thank her for bringing it to his attention.  It does her credit to be so concerned, but there’s no way around it. 

If only it was that simple.

“I- we...we.  Aren’t.  Anymore.”

He squeezes his eyes shut against the sudden prickle of tears, willing them back before looking at Tilly again.

"What do you me- oh my god,” her face goes perfectly blank for a moment, “what- no, no you didn't-"

Tilly shakes her head slowly, then faster and faster.

”That can’t be- no.  I’m jumping to conclusions, right?  He’s being Stamets and I’m butting in.  He- you two are, he...whatever he did, I’m sure he’s sorry.  He loves you so much, and needs you to- to be...

“Tilly...”

Her eyes are wide and panicked with disbelief, a child being told her parents are getting a divorce, a patient receiving a terminal diagnosis.  This is so much worse than the anger or disappointment he had feared.  To her, he’s the same Hugh Culber that was lost, ought to fit right back where he was before, physically and emotionally.  Of course Tilly and Paul would have grown closer in his absence for her to be speaking with such certainty about his feelings, and that makes things even more difficult.

Where does he start explaining it?

Chapter Text

Silence reigns between them, heavy and thick.  Tilly is holding very still, nervous fingers gone quiet (Paul was prone to fidgeting, and Hugh knew the significance of a moment when he stopped moving).  Her wide-eyed panic has given way to a deep frown, eyes narrowed and lips pursed.   Watching Tilly’s brain work was a true a pleasure before, but it also means he knows exactly how intelligent she is which doesn’t make explaining easier at all.  He can almost see her fitting the pieces together, comparing her own observations against his unspoken implication. 

Sighing, he turns his focus inward.  Laying it out in his own head is complicated, more so now than when he talked to Gen over breakfast two days ago.  It doesn’t help that he’s examining each action, has been for the majority of his time awake since, conscience clearly pointing out what’s indefensible.  Tilly doesn't need to hear that part of it, but he's not sure he can explain without it. 

She deserves the truth, as much of it as she’s comfortable hearing.

Hugh traces restless circles with his thumb on the tabletop, spreading the condensation into smaller and smaller droplets until it’s fully evaporated.  He needs to move and give an outlet to the internal conflict itching under his skin before it bursts out, but there’s something about Tilly’s silent processing that he’s not willing to interrupt.  Pacing probably won’t help either of their nerves right now, so he picks the next best thing.  She starts a little when he stands, eyes darting up to watch him retrieve a pitcher of water and refill their glasses.  Her gaze is non-judgmental, thoughtful in a very Tilly way, as he drains and fills his glass twice more.

Tracy would be happy you’re hydrated.

Tilly clears her throat softly, drawing his attention back outwards.  Her quiet statement pierces the stillness in the room, voice hesitant but in no way small.

“What...happened?”

It’s telling how focused Tilly is that she doesn’t add any of her usual self-effacing disclaimers, just asks the question.  

“I'm not completely sure.  He- we...” Hugh grimaces, “no, that’s not true.  I know what I did.”

She opens her mouth to say something, probably about the self-recrimination dripping from the statement, then seems to change her mind and closes it.  After a few moments, she nods to herself.

”You don’t have to tell me, but if it helps, I promise I won’t tell anyone else.  Not even Michael.”

Her sincerity stings, because he’s not sure he deserves the compassion behind it.

“I’m guessing you don’t know any of it.”

It’s not really a question, but Tilly shakes her head anyway.

”No.  I don’t think so?  Just Commander Stamets being...off," Tilly shifts, tucking one foot up under the opposite thigh, ”I know he was really excited to bring you home from the medbay, he said he was going to have dinner ready, and...”

She frowns again, seems to be struggling with something.  He waits for whatever conclusion she comes to, stomach twisting itself into tighter knots.

”Well.  We ummmm, we talked.  When he was- when you were gone."

It's not surprising at all.  The only other person he might have expected would be Tracy, but he's willing to bet that Paul would have avoided her doubtless gentle urging to seek a counselor.  

”You and Paul...talked about it?  Me, I mean.  Us.”

A nod, curls bouncing.  She captures a lock of hair between her fingers, twisting and untwisting.  The gesture - rubbing thumb and forefinger - is so familiar that it aches. 

”A bit.  Stamets, he...he said he needed to hear someone say your name.  Needed to talk about you.  It’s funny sort of, umm, when that happened actually.  Not funny funny, but...yeah.  See, it was this awful day.  And someone had- someone had Kasseelian opera playing.  He just got this, this look.  And he locked everyone out of the bay.  Well, not me, but I didn't know that at first.  But everyone else, Nilsson and Harrington couldn't even get in.  I was glad, you know?  I mean, that doesn’t sound right, but I was, that he wanted to talk about you, because I don’t think- I don’t know who else.  And it sounds really conceited, but I felt like it meant something for him to think I was okay to talk to.”

He remembers the look Paul gave her when Discovery was trying to shake itself apart around them, the mycelial plane threatening to engulf the entire ship, the pure trust he had in her that convinced him to let go of Hugh's hand in those final moments.  Hugh might not know who he is now, but there is something he's completely sure of.  

”Paul adores you, Tilly.”

For a brief moment, her face lights up, unease falling away.  

"I- really?  Not that I don't believe you.  I just...I'm- if I ever thought, whoa.  Umm, thank you."

She presses the back of her hand to her mouth as if to physically halt the nervous flow of words, tilting her head to the side in consideration of something on the tabletop.  He follows her gaze, watching as she reaches across the table and gently lays a hand on his wrist.  His muscles tense at the contact, but he doesn't flinch away.  Hugh's not sure if it's more for her benefit or his because Tilly's not applying any pressure, not trying to hold on, just seems to need the touch.  

There's something else he needs to say too, something he means every word of no matter how things turn out for him and Paul.

"Thank you."

"...for?"

"For being there.  For Paul."

Tilly's smile is small and a little sad.    

"I'm glad I could help.  He...really missed you.  He said if he somehow had a second chance, he would change all of the things that got in the way, and make sure you knew how much he loved you.  Did he...?”

”He did.”

”That’s not what you- did he do something wrong?”

”No.  Yes. I- he...I don’t know.”

He drinks another glassful of water just to give himself a few more seconds to think.

“I don’t understand.  I thought...you wouldn’t, I guess I just...I don’t know.  Sorry, I should stop talking.”

”It’s okay.”

”No it’s not?”

He exhales slowly.  Tilly compels honesty, not that he would lie, but dissembling won’t help and he's never been anything but forthright when talking about Paul.  He doesn’t want to paint himself as anything but responsible for his own actions.  Hugh wonders if she’s going to look at him with disdain when he tells her.

”No, it’s not," he agrees, "but I- couldn’t recognize him, Tilly.  He was pretending to be happy.  No, he was happy, but it wasn’t right.  He wasn’t my Paul.”

Heat rushes up over his face, but he’s not sure if it’s frustration or tears.  They're lingering at the surface and struggling to break free, and it feels like an eternity before he shoves the emotions away enough to speak.  

”I know- I knew him, every part, knew exactly what he was going to do in any given situation.  You know what I mean, he’s...”

”Predictable?”

The upward lilt suggests she doesn’t think it’s quite the right word either.

”Habitual, I guess, would be the way to describe him.  But he-“ Hugh breaks off, forcing the lump on his throat back down, "he wasn’t being the Paul I knew for the last fourteen years.  Everything...he was being so- so agreeable.”

”Well, he’s not, I mean, I always thought you two didn’t argue over much.  Not seriously anyway.”

”Not that way.  It was like he wanted to pretend nothing happened, and pick up right where we left off.  He kept all my things, he never moved on.”

Tilly’s frown is back, but she doesn't interrupt him.

"He brought dinner, and I just- he kept looking at me like I was some sort of miraculous thing.  Kept- kept touching me, but it was all wrong.  And every time,  I remember everything, remember what I should feel, but I can't connect with it.  He touched me and I couldn't feel him, Tilly.  Nothing.   And he wouldn't listen.  He didn't want to hear it."  

Hugh can't continue, hiding his face in his hand as he loses the battle and a tear breaks free, searing hot.  He has no idea what Tilly must be thinking right now.  Hugh chokes down a sob, because if he starts he doesn't think he can stop, and he's not looking for sympathy.  The hand on his wrist disappears and for a moment he wonders if she's going to flee, but then her fingers return and carefully fold around his own.

"I'm sorry."

Squeezing his eyes shut, he pulls in a shaky lungful of air.  His chest burns, whether holding his breath or maybe something else entirely.  He needs Tilly to understand it’s not all Paul’s fault, but the words stick in his throat in response to her concern.  From behind his damp palm, he can't see her face, but her voice is full of compassion.  Not sympathy or false reassurance, just the sound of another person bearing witness to his pain.  It's oddly comforting in a way he can’t describe, and he draws on that strength to continue.  

“You all see me, and I look like me, and physically sure, but this-“ he raises his head to gesture vaguely at himself, “it’s not me.”

Tilly stares off into space for a few breaths while he struggles to find his composure.  

“It sounds like he thinks he needs to do- to make up for the past because he feels guilty.  Not because you need him to make up for it.”

”Ye- no.  I don’t know.”

”So you’re mad he’s doing it out of guilt and not thinking about what you need?”

”I’m not mad.  I mean...okay, yes.  I did.  Was.  I...it feels like he’s trying to be perfect for the me that died.  Like he only remembers the good parts.  He’s not seeing me now.  He always saw me."

"What if...would he listen if you tried again?"

The guilt Paul's carried and nurtured alongside his obviously unresolved grief is driving him, but that's not all of it either.

"I can't."

Tilly winces, and Hugh realizes he’s squeezing her hand hard enough that her nails are digging into his palm.  He immediately loosens his grip on her fingers, but she doesn’t let go.

“Can I...can I say something?”

He nods.

”I- I meant what I said to May.  When we were trying to get you out of the network.”

It’s his turn for confusion.  Admittedly, he hadn’t exactly been paying much attention to the others.  She takes his silence as it’s meant, waiting until he raises his head to continue.

“Maybe part of it- okay.  He...he lost everything when he lost you.  He almost left Discovery, like he couldn't be here without you.  And he told me to just pack up the spore drive equipment, before we really knew what Captain Pike and the red signals meant, and I just-"

She stops to sniffle, eyes gone red.   

"He was going to leave.  And he didn't care about the spores or the drive or anything else, anything that he's spent his whole career obsessed with, because you were gone.  It broke him, and you know that, of course you do, but what I’m trying to say, is...is-“

Despite the rushed delivery, there's something about Tilly right now.  

“I’m not trying to tell you what to do with your relationship, because I mean look at me, I’m not exactly the greatest at them.  Like at all.  And I’m not saying any of this to try and make you feel guilty, because let me tell you, I know all about guilt trips and they’re not fair.  Ma- maybe he wasn't acting right, but I know couples fight.  And I know you did sometimes.  But you, you were together so long, and before, before when I saw you two together, I saw it."

The flow of words is still a bit choppy, but she's no longer stumbling over them.

"I was scared of Stamets because he was really not happy with Captain Lorca and I wanted him to like my work so he'd keep me on the project, but he was different with you.  I remember, we were in the mess hall, and I wasn't sitting with him, but I saw when you walked in.  And it was a really shitty day, like I thought he was going to actually punch Lorca, and he was so frustrated because the drive tests all failed, but when you sat down with him, he changed.  Like all of the things were so heavy, but he could let go of them.  And I thought, okay, I thought that what you two had is something most people never ever get.  I understood who you were to each other.  He didn't used to share super personal things, not before, but the way he looked at you, I knew it."

He shakes his head, eyes stinging, still unable to speak.  She seems to be done talking, waiting with an un-Tilly-like lack of impatience while he gathers himself.  Tilly's optimism rolls bittersweet over him, spurs on his confession.  

"It's not that simple.  I wish it were.  I hurt him, Tilly.  I knew what I was doing and I hurt him."

She’s winding her hair around the fingers of her free hand again but stops mid-twirl, expression unreadable. 

"What..." her voice drops to barely above a whisper, "how?"

His shoulders slump further, leaning more heavily on the table as if he could protect himself from the truth of it.

"I can't be who he needs.  Not now.  Paul, he-" Hugh chokes on a bitter laugh, "he'd be so happy if I went back to him, but I can't pretend to feel something that I know I should feel when I don't.  I can't do that to him.  He deserves better than that.  I...he wasn't listening when we talked again, and we argued, and I swore I would never use our history to hurt him, but I did.  I did, and he still would take me back."

"I don't- he...?"

Distilling that emotional tempest down to a few words is a massive oversimplification.  It seems insufficient, but despite how well Tilly seems to know Paul, he's broken his trust enough already.  The exact details aren't going to change the facts.

"Paul still loves me.  After all of this.  He was willing to risk everyone's lives for me, and I- I can't love him back the same way.  I can't be who I was.  I- it's not enough," he whispers, feeling paradoxically like he's the twenty-something again who needs advice from someone older, "I can't be...I don't feel like me.  It doesn't feel the same.”

Tilly's chin jerks up sharply, eyes narrowed.  She catches her lips between her teeth, jaw working a few times, and he braces for what she might say.

"Of course it doesn't."

He pauses with his mouth open, unprepared for her agreement. 

"Earlier.  When you got here...I'm umm not an expert, but I think you probably don't really want to be around people right now.  Like, I'm super familiar with freaking out, but that was way more."

Hugh can't see where she's going with this, and his confusion must show.  Really though, he should know better by now that she understands so much more than it seems.

"You died," Tilly doesn’t shy away from the word, "and I don't know what happened in the network.  It looked...awful.  But this now, May built you from the cocoon so it's not your body, but it is.  And it's really different and everything, but the part that makes you you?  That wouldn't have changed.  Scientifically, I mean.  That energy that Stamets transferred into the network and May brought back out, that's you, that’s who you are.  So if you need some time to figure it all out, he'll understand.  He has to.  And maybe he needs it too, to be able to...to realize that you don't want him to feel that way, and he just doesn't know it.  And maybe you don't feel exactly the same, but you're not even used to being in this body yet, and being around all of these people who don't get it - and I'm not saying I do either, but...I think maybe you're wrong.  About not being yourself.  And I think Commander Stamets knows you enough to see that."

Tracy.  His grandmother.  And now Tilly.  Three women he trusts, each wise in her own way, and each telling him some variation of the same thing.  Each of them someone he’s willing to talk to, isn’t hesitant to see.  Tracy and Aida were a given, but he wasn’t expecting Tilly.

Everyone else - Paul, Gen, Keyla, even Saru - expects you to be you, but Tilly isn't asking you to be someone for her.

"And so...I just wanted to say," her momentum has slowed from a minute ago, and she's biting her lip again, "I need to say.  You...you can’t pretend nothing happened, or that if he was being awful, that it was okay.  And he needs to know that.  And that's not my business.  But what you two had together, that has to count for something.”

Her wide-eyed expression implores him to believe her, and part of him wants to even though it seems too simple.  Too easy.  He gets the feeling that she knows he isn't convinced, but doesn't try to argue her point any further.  Tilly squeezes his hand again before letting go and settles back in her chair, somewhere halfway between this new self-possessed confidence and the self-consciousness he remembers. 

"It'll be okay.  It has to, right?"

Chapter Text

The stars aren’t particularly visible past the exhaust port, but Hugh faces them anyway.  His jumpiness from earlier has settled into the low level of unease that’s rapidly become a new baseline, and he feels safe enough with his back in the corner of a couch, the lounge door secured against uninvited access.  Tilly left hours ago, too much understanding in her eyes despite what he feels about his own behavior with regards to Paul.  Their conversation and her matter-of-fact empathy seemed to fit another piece of him back together inside, warring with the painful description of Paul's grief and uncertainty about his own actions.  She’d also left him with an open offer of assistance, although she didn’t specify for what, casting concerned glances back over her shoulder on her way out.  

The cushion is a little too soft under his head, but his eyelids are heavy and he lets them fall closed against the glare of the lights.  If Tilly and Tracy and his grandmother all believe that the compendium of intangible things that made Hugh Culber who he was are still present, that in itself should be more than enough reason to listen to them.  Should.  On the other hand, reconciling it against his perceptions is much easier said than done.  And if he doesn’t fit back into the old mold, how will he know if what he’s doing is right?

Hugh can’t remember the last time he felt so lost without a clear sense of purpose.  Possibly never, at least not since Dr. Kashkooli was done stitching up his shoulder, keeping him conscious with a detailed explanation about reattaching limbs (meant to reassure him that he shouldn’t worry about his arm) until the emergency flitter arrived to take him to the trauma center in Mayagüez.  She’d stayed with him until his parents got there, explaining how the scans showed his concussion wasn’t serious and why the osteoregen itched while it was knitting his broken collarbone back together.  Once he was back home - and after receiving a stern lecture from his grandmother about risk that he actually couldn’t disagree with - he’d lain awake for hours, wondering what it would take to become a doctor himself.    

He hadn’t doubted his path for three decades after that, studying obsessively and graduating near the top of his class at Starfleet Medical, pursuing his desire to help others.  It took him on medical missions and standard starship duty, to a conference on Alpha Centauri where he annoyed a blond stranger who was far too serious and far too handsome for Hugh to forget.  That dedication helped him weather months apart from the man he fell in love with, kept him calm when war broke out and the starbase whose medical unit he was overseeing came under attack.  And it made it possible for him to transfer to Discovery with his first real CMO posting, to be with Paul and bring their separate lives together for good.

He knows he’s not certifiably fit for duty right now, no matter how much Tracy might have praised him to Captain Pike, so there isn’t anything to structure the foreseeable  future around, no routine or schedule to fit.  Sinking further into the couch, he opens his eyes enough that the room around him resolves into vague shapes, holding his hands up yet again.  The dissonance of watching himself reach out to touch something and not knowing how it will feel is less nauseating today but still very much present.  As a doctor he’d been proud of his steady hands, unshaken except in the most stressful situations.  He wishes he knew if they still have the ability to heal. 

Paul had loved his hands, been fascinated watching him practice microsurgery sims.  His partner might have been overly confident in his own scientific prowess on occasion, but he also equally respected skills and talent in others.  And if that professional interest sometimes became indistinguishable from what Hugh had laughingly recognized as a competency kink, well, he thoroughly enjoyed the opportunity to leave Paul both impressed and aroused.  

Chirp.

The buzz of the comm in his pocket startles his eyes open all the way, and he fumbles it before finally answering.

”Culber.”

”Oh, so you are awake.”

Tracy’s dry tone almost conceals her concern, but he’s known her too long to be fooled.

”Sorry, Trace.  It’s been...yeah.”

”Hmm.  Do you need space, or dinner?”

That’s a good question.  He probably downed a couple liters of water with Tilly, but hasn’t considered eating since this morning.  The sensual pleasure of eating had always coupled well with keeping his metabolism active, and it's a marked difference in this body where he isn't feeling hunger as strongly.   

"Dinner probably.”

”Oh good.  Want to open the door and let me in?  This is getting heavy.”

He glances at the wall panel, but there’s no request for entry lit up.

”Where are you?”

”In the hall outside your quarters.”

Tracy’s response is bemused, the end of the sentence lilting up in question. 

”Oh.  Umm.  I’m actually in Lounge H.”

Silence, followed by the sound of conversation as people must be passing Tracy in the corridor.

Then, “Well, it’s a good thing I’ve got stasis on the tray.  Am I going there or are you coming here?”

Hugh doesn’t have to think about it for long.  Overall, the lounge has been a welcome escape despite the difficult conversation, but he's ready to be back somewhere less...open.

“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” he stands, stretching the stiffness out of his legs as he hears Tracy entering her code for access, “sorry.”

”For what?” 

There’s the sound of doors swishing shut and a clank of china and cutlery.

“Not being where you thought I was?”

Out loud, it sounds vaguely ridiculous, and he knows Tracy hears it too because she laughs quietly.

”Last I checked, I was the one who suggested you go for a walk or something.  You’ve got ten minutes to get here or I’m eating all of the mango pudding.”

Hugh snorts.  

”You wouldn’t dare.”

He pauses at the door panel to end his reservation, only hesitating a moment before checking the section for other occupants as well.

”Watch me.”

The panel beeps confirmation as he cancels the limited access and the doors swish open.

“Do you want to keep the line open?”

It’s a deliberately casual inquiry, and he considers it as he steps into the dead-end side hallway outside the lounge.  Part of him urges accepting the offer, but he also knows he can’t continue clinging to Tracy like a safety blanket.  

“No.  I...I’ll be right there.”

“All right.  Pollard out.”

Snapping the comm shut, he pockets it and takes a deep breath, fighting down the hypervigilance.  He sticks his head around the corner to confirm the lack of other “traffic”, squares his shoulders, and heads off towards the nearest turbolift at a brisk walk.  

Breathe.

Chapter Text

It's not that difficult to avoid anywhere Paul might be at any time he might be there, considering he's only ventured into the mess hall twice - both times with Tracy and at odd hours - and stays off the Engineering deck completely.  Discovery is a large ship, but he still finds himself tensing at the sight of blond hair in his peripheral vision or when he thinks he hears a familiar smooth timbre.

He's left his quarters a few times, using gamma shift to encounter the least amount of others, and people have stopped staring. 

Mostly.

He's not exactly getting used to the looks he gets in the corridor, but he does his best to offer back a polite smile to their well-wishes. It doesn't seem fair on any level, even though the Klingon plot to infiltrate Starfleet may have failed and the war ended, when the hundreds of thousands who died in collateral damage to xenophobia and aggression aren’t coming back.  Only Hugh.  Only him, and not completely. 

Realistically, he can only use the excuse of fatigue and recovery for so long to put off being with those whose company he used to enjoy in his off-hours.  Saru accepts thanks for his concern (and only the vaguest implication that Hugh might take him up on the offer) with his usual grace, but while his relationship with the first officer was always cordial and characterized by mutual respect, he'd never felt particularly close.  Detmer and Owo seem to understand his hesitance as well, at least as far as he can tell with text messages, although he thinks Keyla in particular seems disappointed.  He's not sure if either Rhys or Tilly has filled them in on where things stand between him and Paul, but he sets that thought off to the side to deal with another day.

Sparring with Rhys two days ago was more for his benefit than Hugh's, because it would take a cold heart indeed to deny the look of excitement when Hugh tentatively suggested it over breakfast.  It had set his nerves on edge, frustrated at his inability to make one motion flow smoothly into another, hating the way he automatically shrank away from touch when they grappled.  Gen had of course denied it, but Hugh could see how shaken he was when an accidental touch to the side of his neck left Rhys sprawled over the mats and Hugh literally backed himself into a corner.  The adrenaline spike was followed immediately by mortification as Rhys blinked up at him in shock, breath knocked out by the kick Hugh had landed in his stomach.  Although he'd tried to make light of the situation ("Finally got that one mastered!"), Rhys' overabundance of caution in avoiding anywhere near Hugh's neck and head after that left him telegraphing his moves to the point that a second-year cadet with no self-defense training probably could have easily avoided all of his strikes.

Sitting on the floor of the shower nursing sore muscles afterwards, he almost succeeded in not thinking about the kind of wrestling he and Paul used to indulge in, the bites and groping as they pulled off each other's clothes and tangled the sheets in a playful struggle for dominance.  He definitely wasn't remembering the times he'd let Paul win, looking up at his triumphant face and pretending to fight the grip on his wrists, or his feigned reluctance at performing an intimate 'forfeit'.   

He'd met Aisha in her quarters for tea yesterday, and hadn't done a very good job of masking his unease when she opened her arms to him.  Her smile hadn't dimmed though, taking his hands instead and leading him over to the couch.  The honeybush and rooibos tea itself was an interesting experience, surprising himself with a new appreciation for the earthy flavors as Aisha recounted lighthearted stories and gossip from the medbay staff.  He was grateful for her perceptiveness in not pressing him to speak much, appreciating the trouble she went through to find only humorous or entertaining tales in what could only have been the hellish final weeks of the war.  And he was genuinely pleased to hear about her successfully publishing a paper on the use of Vulcan biofeedback as a complementary treatment along with chemical vasopressors in cases of acute trauma, listening with interest as she refilled their cups and detailed the methods and outcomes.

Gripping the mug tightly, Hugh absolutely wasn't recalling unremarkable mornings spent drinking café con leche while he scanned the logs from the overnight medbay shift and Paul yawned into his own café au lait beside him, sleep-rumpled and drowsy. 

The juxtaposition of his memories of mundane domesticity with the tense, artificially cheerful Paul isn't any easier to handle now as it was a week ago.  There’s still an immovable barrier between him and the echo of feelings attached to those moments, no matter how hard he tries otherwise.  All of the things that used to define him - practicing medicine, his body, his sense of self, his relationship with Paul - are gone, casualties of that same senseless conflict, and his coping mechanisms and stress relief have been stolen as well. 

Hugh tries to seek some sort of normalcy, reserving a private suite at the gym and forcing himself to not check around every corner for threats.  The physical exertion that used to focus his mind no longer works though, as evidenced by his session with Rhys.  He's clumsy, nearly fractures his kneecap fumbling a hand weight, can't regulate his breathing when he tries to work out alone.  Running the Loop is completely out of the question for so many reasons, his drive to burn off the restless prickling under his skin overridden by the fear of what might happen if he's surprised.  Panicking had been bad enough with Tilly, and he doesn't think he could stand the looks of pity from others.

He tries turning down the lights and putting on music, closing his eyes and seeking the stillness of meditation.  Listening to Kasseelian opera is aesthetically pleasing, able to hear the harmonies in more detail with his new eardrums, but there's no rush of feeling as the soprano hits a high note, no tightening in his chest at a mournful low.  Hugh goes against his better instincts and replays the entire suite from the one and only time Paul sat through a whole performance with him, waiting expectantly for a reaction like prodding a wound to see if it still hurts. Instead of smiling and reliving the magic of the orchestra that night, the overture to the second act leaves him dissatisfied.  And the soaring solo reminds him of Paul’s fidgeting and obvious boredom, not the massage and cuddles he apologized to Hugh with later that night.  Failure, yet again.

The thought of taking refuge in socialization is now laughable.  Hugh from before never minded random casual conversation, was the first to help spot and correct someone's posture in the gym, bumped shoulders in the corridor without more than a passing apology.  He'd been completely unconcerned with taking his shirt off and displaying his body because no matter the appreciative glances, he'd be going home to offer it to Paul.  Only Paul.  Now, the possibility of eyes watching makes his shoulders tighten and it seems completely foreign to walk naked in his quarters, too exposed to be comfortable.  

Tracy is so far the lone exception, and he thinks if his grandmother were here, she'd be the same.  Maybe it's duration and depth of relationship, the fact that Tracy and Aida have been a part of him for so long.  It doesn't completely add up though, not when his routines of old now strike a discordant note.  And he hadn’t had too much of a problem with Tilly or Aisha holding his hands once he got past the initial urge to cringe back.  He mentions it to Tracy, but all she can do is suggest that it's psychological rather than the touch itself and point him towards the same literature they both have read.  Until they manage to complete whatever offshoot of the mission the Captain is taking them on, he can't do more than access the databanks, much less reach out to a trained professional counselor.   

He’s beginning to understand trauma on a visceral level.  It’s everything doctors were classically trained to recognize in the medical texts, and it’s nothing like that at all from the inside.  Hugh had always been full of compassion and empathy, but no training sim or patient case study could have prepared him for this.  The after effects of his time in the network are relentless, creeping up on him in moments when he thinks he might actually be making progress.  He still has to leave the lights at five percent to be willing to close his eyes at night, tenses and recoils when he hears certain frequencies of mechanical noise inherent to starship life.  In bed, he grits his teeth and stares at the inside of his eyelids or watches something mindless until the PADD drops to his chest, unable to physically stay awake any longer.  Sleeping is difficult, either plagued with nightmares and broken or so heavy that he’s barely able to drag himself out of bed, and being awake isn't much better either in terms of feeling like himself.  It's exhausting. 

Worst of all, sometimes when sleep is just falling away, he almost forgets that anything is out of the ordinary and reaches across the bed to find it empty. He feels almost physically sick imagining anyone touching him, let alone the desire for contact, but part of him yearns for strong arms around him and a heartbeat under his cheek.  

Make up your mind.   You don't get to miss him after what you've done.

The barricade of pillows behind him has grown to four, enough that they’re a noticeable presence and don’t shift when he leans on them.  He’s not in denial so much that he doesn’t recognize what they’re a substitute for.  

It’s better for him this way.  I can’t put him through this.

The half-unzipped duffel is also still lurking in the back corner of the wardrobe, taunting him with its presence.  He hasn't needed anything inside of it - uniforms and casual clothing - but he's painfully aware of it each time he passes.  It feels more than a little ridiculous to be intimidated by a broken zipper, no matter what he was doing when it happened, and he tells Tracy as much over dinner.  

"What about your other things?  I know you had crates in storage from Earth."

"What about them?"

Hugh pushes the remains of his pasta around on the plate with his fork, more for something to do than any interest in finishing the food.  

"Maybe they'll be easier to connect with.  Older memories, less..." she frowns, searching for the right word, "less complicated."

"Maybe."

"It might at least brighten this place up."

Tracy looks around the room pointedly, eyes flitting from standard issue furniture to the utilitarian grey bedding.  

"Honestly?  I'm not sure I even remember what's in storage."

"What about that blanket your grandmother gave you?  Or, I don't know, whatever else is down there."

She does have a point.  There's a slim chance that Paul would have offloaded Hugh's crates back to his family, but he doesn't think it's likely.  

"Yeah.  Maybe.  What if it isn't any better though?"

Conceding the point with a quirk of her lips, Tracy nonetheless has a counter.

"Won't know until you try.  At worst, you can pack it all back up and toss it out an airlock."

"You know I won't do that."

Tracy stacks their plates, folding neat creases into her napkin.    

“You don’t have to do this alone.  And I know-“ she cuts off his protest, “I know you know that.  But since you would never ask, I’m offering.  If you'd like help going through it.”

"Can I tell you tomorrow?"

"Whenever you decide.  I'm not going anywhere, and neither are the contents of the hold."

He huffs a dry laugh.

"All right.  Not to change the subject-" he exchanges a look with her acknowledging that it's exactly what he's doing, "any idea where we're going?  Or can you not talk about it."

"Not Earth or Vulcan, so there goes that theory.  If I had to guess, I'd say we're trying to find a relay that doesn't immediately bounce back to Command.  Captain Pike mentioned Admiral Cornwell, though I'm not sure what she has to do with this all."

The carafe hisses as she pours (decaf) coffee, drowning out his thoughtful hum.  Tracy waits for the cloud of steam to dissipate before continuing.

"So at this point, your guess is as good as mine.  Pike polled the senior staff and section heads when this all started, and no one's voiced objections.  The opposite, actually.  He's still being tight-lipped about Talos too, although Lieutenant Spock seems to be recovered from...his condition.  No, I'm not being evasive, no one can seem to explain it fully."

She shrugs, although he can tell she's still bothered by the lack of diagnosis.  It would have driven him up the wall as well.  If it's Vulcan-specific, they could always ask T'Vala-

Fuck.  No, we can't.

"Hugh?"

Tracy's careful tap on his wrist startles him, and he wonders what his expression must have looked like.

"Sorry."

"What were you thinking about?"

"I was going to say we should get T'Vala on consult, but..."

He swallows hard, the sadness in Tracy's eyes only too clear.

"She'd probably tell us that it's not logical to prefer the opinion of one person when the literature doesn't suggest a solution."

They lapse into silence long enough that Hugh's coffee goes cold, and he drains the cup with a grimace of distaste.

"Do you ever wish you'd signed up for a nice, predictable survey mission or diplomatic courier vessel?"

"Sometimes.  But," she sighs and sets down her own mug, "I am glad to be here now."

There's not much he can say in response to that that he hasn't already voiced.  He doesn't want to imagine this...whatever he's doing, without a touchpoint as steady as Tracy.  

"I am too."

Chapter Text

It takes another couple of days for Hugh to work up the resolve to retrieve anything from storage, and oddly enough, it's Tilly who gives him the final push to do so without even trying.

Time is flowing strangely, minutes feeling like hours, hours seeming like seconds when he actually sleeps and wakes feeling as though he's only just closed his eyes.  Hugh's adrift and undefined, at the nexus of too many things coinciding, any one of which would be overwhelming.  

This morning is no better than any preceding, but it's also no worse. He's lying on the unmade bed, listless motion returning him there after showering and brushing his teeth, staring at the stars again when his PADD chirps.

[Tilly-Sylvia-ENS/ENGR]  Hi Dr. Culber.  I hope you're doing ok?  I know it's early, but I was wondering if you wanted to have breakfast?  You can come here or I can meet you somewhere, the mess hall is probably really packed.

Well.  Tilly doesn't seem like she'd be bad company, and at least her presence would provide a welcome distraction from his own thoughts.

[Culber-Hugh-LTCR/MED] Morning Tilly.  Sure.  

He hesitates over sending a thanks for her consideration in not suggesting they eat in public, but figures it's probably better said in person.

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] Want to meet me in my quarters? 4-D-15

[Tilly-Sylvia-ENS/ENGR] Great, I'll be there in a few minutes.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he pushes himself upright and stands slowly.  Surveying the room, he glances down at himself and decides his relationship with Tilly isn't comfortable enough to expect her to have breakfast with him wearing only a pair of boxers.  The thought does bring a hint of a smile to his lips as he remembers a handful of times Tilly showed up at odd hours (looking for Paul, his mind needles at him, because he was naked in bed waiting for you) and her wide-eyed expression at encountering him in a similar state of undress.

There's just enough time to pull on clothes and make an attempt at straightening the bed before the door chimes.

"Door."

"Good morning!"

Tilly and Hugh both wince at the volume of her greeting, but he just nods and waves her in.

"Morning, Tilly."

She sets the tray on the table, waiting for him to sit before taking the seat across from him.

"Coffee?"

He pauses and really looks at the tray when she passes him a steaming mug, taking in the multiple dishes and double set of utensils, and does a quick calculation.  Given the amount of traffic usually in the mess hall between 0600 and 0730, there's no way she could have stopped by on the way up from her quarters and made it here in anything less than fifteen minutes.

"Thank you," he murmurs after they've both taken a few sips, "you didn't have to go through all this trouble for me."

"Oh, it wasn't a problem.  Michael was supposed to have breakfast with me, but she and Saru are working on...something...and so I ummm..." Tilly breaks off as if suddenly realizing that she's admitting Hugh is her backup option, "-I thought maybe you'd like it?"

"I appreciate it."

"Ummm.  You're welcome.  I- yes."

Hugh spreads a napkin over his lap before wrapping both hands around the warm mug again.

"So, what do we have?"

Tilly lifts the lids off the plates, steam billowing up in plumes.

"Just...eggs and salsa, because Michael is after me to have more lycopene, and some oatmeal.  Oh, and I have green juice, but Michael usually drinks this Vulcan tea, so there's that, although I think it tastes kind of weird.  I mean, the Vulcans like it so it must be healthy and good for the, uhhh, logic and all, but I don't.  And I'm talking too much, aren't I?"

That evokes a genuine smile.

"No, you aren't.”

She smiles back, wiping her fingers on her own napkin and stabbing a straw into the lid of the green juice.

"Most people say I don't shut up enough.  Not that I'm saying you're like most people, Doctor."

He chews and swallows a forkful of fluffy eggs - the synthesized salsa is decent, but nowhere near as good as his grandmother's - before replying.

"You know, it's okay to call me Hugh."

Tilly stops mid-sip, lips pursed around the straw and gives him one of her wide-eyed slow blinks.

"...uhhh, right.  Umm.  Do yo- would you prefer I used your name?"

"Only if you're comfortable.  But I wouldn't mind if you did."

Setting down the cup of juice, Tilly wipes a bright green drop from her lower lip and frowns thoughtfully.

"Well, I mean I always want to call people what they want to be called by.  But...you're a doctor, and that seems sort of...I don't know, disrespectful?  It was, Commander Stamets wanted me to say it, and it took a while, but you weren't there, you know?  And you're like twice as old as me, so there's that-"

She closes her mouth with a snap, reddening.  The whole exchange draws an unexpected chuckle from him, and he can't exactly deny the truth of it.

"It's an open offer."

"Okay."

Tilly's halfway through her oatmeal and Hugh's just polishing off the eggs when she speaks again.

"So.  How are you doing?  I mean really, not just being polite."

He shrugs one shoulder, setting down the fork before picking it back up again just for something to do.

"Honestly?  I don't know."

She nods, expression serious.

"I get that."

Strangely, he believes she does understand it.

"When...after we got back from the network.  After I took like three showers because that was really gross, I was just sitting there and I thought I was fine.  Then Michael just sort of looked at me, and everything went all weird, and I started crying.  Like, I don't even know why exactly, but it was all so much.  And I didn't even go through everything you did, so yeah."

You don't have the monopoly on aftereffects.

"Is that what they're teaching in the Command Training Program?" he asks, trying to cover how much the axis of the world just shifted under his feet.

"No.  Not really like that, you know?" Tilly's frowning again, playing with the straw in her empty cup, "Just...ummm, I can not talk about it if you don't want."

"It's fine," Hugh surprises himself with how much he means that, "I don't really have the words to describe it.  Everything."

I died, almost died again in another dimension, was resurrected into a body that isn't mine, broke up with and broke the man I remember loving.  

"It must be really difficult.  Umm.  You said you don't feel like you're yourself, and then all of...this."

"Yeah."

"How about...everything else?"

He sighs, folding his napkin back onto the table and focusing on the shadows cast on the table by their mugs.

"It's funny.  You're with someone so long that you don't even remember what it's like to not be."

Tilly's smiling a sad little smile, tinged with some of the wistfulness he remembers seeing when she was with him and Paul.

"You were happy though, right?"

He's not sure he has the ability to explain it all to her, falling into routines and beginning to take for granted what was originally novel and special, the thousand and one tiny quirks and habits that annoyed each other.  Being comfortable enough to complain and critique, but also to be at their most vulnerable physically and emotionally.  He remembers them arguing, angry.  Remembers stuffing the vault of his heart marked 'Paul' with moments he smiled at Hugh in the mornings, his laughter, the water droplets clinging to his eyelashes in the shower.  

That's not what Tilly asked though, is it?

"Yes."

If she notices the way the word catches in his throat, she has the grace not to mention it.

"I'm sorry.  I keep talking about stuff you probably wish I wouldn't."

"Your heart's always in the right place, Tilly."

The happiness in her eyes is worth it.

"Umm.  Thank you.  But uhh, actually, maybe this isn't totally just me?  Err.  I mean, I really did want to see if you wanted to have breakfast, but that's not the only thing."

"...I don't follow?"

"Keyla and Owo and Rhys and Airiam and Michael, they all want to see you, and they asked me- actually, that's not true, Michael didn't ask me, but I know she would- they just want you to know.  That you can, any of us, any time, just...we're here."

Her last word is firm despite the slightly unsteady delivery.  She swallows a couple of times, and he's struck once again by her gravitas.  It stands out from her usual nervous energy, like it did in the medbay, and he imagines her in the center seat on a bridge with the same sort of critical thought tempered with her instinctive understanding.  That image presses back against the tightness in his chest, a feeling he recognizes as his, not a memory of one or something artificial.

"I- I don't know what you can do, but thank you."

Tilly nods, looking back down into her now-empty coffee mug.

"You're welcome."

"Tilly."

"Hmmm?"

"Are...do they know?"

He doesn't have to specify what he's talking about.

"Sort of?  Umm.  I think everyone's sort of figured out that Stamets isn't ha-" she cuts herself off, "isn't uhh.  Well.  That he's in Engineering all the time now, and they haven't seen you with him, which I don't think is fair because people don't always have to be together all the time.  But umm Keyla asked Rhys if the two of you had a fight, and he said he didn't really know, and you know how terrible he is at lying, and no one believed that he wouldn't know. And then Bryce and I were reviewing the ship's manifest as part of the data systems for the CTP, and he saw that you were assigned new quarters, and Airiam was sort of standing there when he said it, so I guess what I'm trying to say is...yes?  Yes."

She must mistake his resigned expression for something else, because she hurries to add, "I didn't tell anyone, I promise."

"I know you didn't.  It was going to happen sooner or later."

It was, and he hadn't really known what to do about it, which is one of the plethora of reasons he's been mostly keeping to his quarters.  There haven't been many times that Hugh's consciously decided not to think about something personal - it's a trained practice for doctors to compartmentalize what they see in the clinic - and he recognizes that it isn't a healthy reaction.

"Do they know it wasn't Paul's fault?"

She gives him a blank look.  Then-

"That's not fair."

The steel in Tilly's voice makes him re-focus on her face, an uncharacteristic annoyance narrowing her eyes.

"Tilly..."

"No, it's not fair.  Look, I have no idea what- it's not my business exactly what happened.  But no one's...blaming Stamets, not really.  They don't know what to think.  And he's not really talkative anyway, not about personal stuff."

Hugh drops his hands to his lap, clenching his pant legs between his fingers.

"You must know him a lot better now, but...that's the thing.  Paul is going to tell you all he's fine, but he's not.  Not after what I- not now."

"You still care about him."

Tilly's tone has gentled, but she's still staring at him.

"I don't know what I feel about him now."

He gets the feeling she wants to disagree about something, but the moment passes.

"...I think that's okay.  Maybe though, it would be good to see people?  Just for a little while, I mean," she glances around the room, eyes seeming to skate past the standard furnishings, "maybe...just think about yourself right now?"

A half-groan emerges on a huff of breath.

"Tracy said that too."

"Tra- oh, Doctor Pollard.  That's right.  You umm, don't need me to, of course you don't."

He shakes his head at her backpedaling.

"She thought I should-“

Chirp.

Tilly winces, pulling her comm out of her pocket.

"Tilly.”

"Hey,” Nilsson’s voice sounds frustrated, “sorry I know you’re not on till later, but I just had two circuits fuse and I think it’s just a coincidence, but with the corruption...”

”Got it.  On my way.

She flips it closed again, shakes her head as if to clear it.

”Sorry.  I need to- you heard.”

“Go on,” he nods at the tray, “I’ll clean up.”

Nodding, she stands and heads out the door.  He’s left staring at the empty breakfast dishes, wondering how Tilly managed to cut to the heart of things without seemingly even trying.  

Food for thought.

Chapter Text

Frowning, Hugh reviews the manifest logs again, but the notation doesn't change. 

>>Storage record 1-6-alpha-4

Assigned: Culber, Hugh, LTCDR

Loaded: 4

Current: 0

Last access: Stamets, Paul, LTCDR

>>End record

After pacing the length of the hold twice, he reluctantly admits that he needs to do the thing he's trying to avoid.  There's no one else down here, but he can't shake the feeling that he's not alone.

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] Hi.  

The message delivered and read notifications appear almost immediately, but there's no response yet.  Not that he can blame him.  It takes a few tries before he's ready to send the second message, hesitant despite its neutral content. 

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] In storage, was mine offloaded?

Hugh knows he's holding his breath, but there's not much he can do about it.

Chirp.

[Stamets-Paul-LTCDR/ENGR] I moved it into mine.

Oh.

He stares at the storage block immediately adjacent to his, the same utilitarian grey as the other identical spaces, wondering if he ought to ask to have things sent up or try to gracefully apologize for bothering him.

Chirp.

[Stamets-Paul-LTCDR/ENGR] Your code still works.

Hugh swallows against the tightness in his throat.  That answers the question of whether Paul ever removed his joint access from the system.  Will he leave it that way out of a hope for the future, or is it merely that they were so much a fact of each other's lives that despite everything, Paul doesn't see the need to change it?  

Chirp.

[Stamets-Paul-LTCDR/ENGR] Do you need help bringing it up?

After everything he can't believe that Paul is still offering to help, to even speak with him. 

Of course you can.  He could never hate you.

A tiny sadistic part of him wants to say yes, to heap upon him all of the weight of everything in scorn for his refusal to let go.  The flash of spite leaves him chilled to the core, shocking him away from the thought completely before he can consider it for more than a moment.  There's such a feeling of wrongness associated with it that he automatically wipes his palms on his thighs, as if he could remove its stain from himself.  Hugh Culber might still not know who he is, but that is who he most definitely isn't.  

He shakes his head mutely before remembering that Paul can't see him.

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] I'll be okay.  Thank you. 

He takes a deep breath and sends two more words.

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] I'm sorry.

That's woefully inadequate, but he doesn't know what else to say.  There's another interminable wait which can't be more than thirty seconds, but Hugh experiences them as hours.  He grimaces, thinking about anxiously waiting for returned messages with an excitement when he and Paul were just getting to know each other, the polar opposite of what he's feeling now.

[Stamets-Paul-LTCDR/ENGR] I know.

He stares at the five letters, vision blurring with dampness before he swipes his hand over his eyes.  It takes several seconds for him to  convince his fingers to move, placing his palm flat on the sensor then inputting his code.  A moment later, the triple chime of access granted almost completely drowns out the barely audible hiss of atmosphere entering the airless compartment, door sliding back.  Hugh takes the antigrav from under his arm, setting it down and tapping the controls to activate it.  The indicator lights flash blue and there’s a quiet hum as it rises to hover a couple of inches above the deck, waiting, as he steps into the storage block.  

Years past, sharing a cabin with a roommate or with his own relatively small quarters, he remembers having to decide which things he would keep in the limited space available and what he could consign to the hold.  Access wasn’t limited by any means, but the inconvenience meant he didn’t generally want to be going back and forth to switch things out every week.  It taught him to travel lightly, especially on short assignments, trying to limit himself to the most important keepsakes.  Paul had been much the same when Hugh met him, although his planetside postings tended to lend themselves to more real estate, more concerned with the equipment available for his science than the contents of his duffel.  In contrast, sharing spacious senior officer’s quarters on Discovery gave them a chance to have most of their belongings close at hand, enjoying the opportunity to have mementos out on display.  That memory is borne out by the fact that the block is only half full, crates stacked neatly against the walls and nowhere near capacity.  

Reaching out, he taps the panel on the first crate, waiting for it to confirm his biometric data and uncouple the magnetic lock from the wall (a practical solution against any possible gravity fluctuations and the extremely limited possibility of anyone else trying to remove things that didn’t belong to them).  The small screen comes to life, record scrolling past. 

None of the four crates have been disturbed since the last time he was in them over a year ago.  He's not sure if he's disappointed or expected to see anything otherwise.  Two of the crates were simply items that he always carried with him - the blanket his grandmother gave him that Tracy remembered among other things- but the last two contain a mix of his and Paul's belongings.  It's not as though there were any privacy concerns; Paul had helped him determine what would stay and what could be packed away, and had just as much right to access.  Then again, doing so would also suggest the mourning process being carried out, reminiscences or putting away things that hurt too much to be around. 

He never accepted it. 

Hugh sets his jaw against the reminder, lifting the first crate and setting it on the antigrav firmly, waiting for its tiny computer to sense the weight and compensate for it before letting go.  It wobbles for just a second before stabilizing, and he piles on the other three before initializing the mag-clamps and sealing the block again.  The lights in the hold dim as he exits, and he almost falters when he hears voices in the corridor ahead.  

You won't figure anything out standing here.

The antigrav propels itself forward obediently, like a shield between him and anyone he might encounter.  

Just keep moving.

********

The door swishes shut behind him.

Hugh slumps against it, tension draining from his shoulders, sliding down the smooth surface to sit on the floor.  In front of him, the darkened space of his quarters waits.  Standard issue ‘fleet furniture aside, the still room feels empty.  He pulls his knees up, elbows braced on them, exhausted beyond words.

Moving out of Paul’s (their) quarters a few days ago hurt more than dying.  It’s probably not a fair comparison - he’d had a split second to realize what was happening, a brief flare of indescribable pain, awareness gone before his body even hit the floor.  Doing this, when he's not even sure if it's the right thing to do (you hurt Paul, of course it's not right) but the alternative isn't tenable either, is uniquely agonizing.  And it's not over all at once either, not the finality of collecting his things from an ex's apartment or demanding items back.  Instead, their lives were so intertwined that withdrawing is like searching for the one thread to pull in a tapestry that won't cause the entirety to unravel, tangled and hidden.

He almost wanted to leave it all with him, not be confronted with reminders, but it would have been more cruel to Paul that way.  For the sake of the love they once shared...he couldn’t do that to him.

Hugh closes his eyes, knocking his head back against the door.  The thud doesn’t do anything to clear his mind, although he doesn't really expect it to.  

His entire life before, the old Hugh, is scattered into a meager half dozen standard storage crates, including the ones that Tracy retrieved.  He shouldn’t be surprised that Paul would ship out again with them still onboard, although wouldn’t they have been the easiest to part with?

Would you have been able to give up his things?

They aren’t going anywhere if he doesn’t do something with them, unfortunately.  He drags himself to his feet, deactivating the antigrav, and sets one of the crates on the table.  Trepidation makes his palms damp with the expectation of finding objects, mementos and clothing, all things he should feel something for but instead are foreign under his fingers.  

Ironically, given his train of thought, this crate is the one that Paul must have packed before giving up.  Its items are carefully nestled between layers of pajama shirts and pants to cushion them from harm.  Inside, a set of folded silk pajamas in brilliant ruby red sit alongside his personal PADD and an old-fashioned wooden box roughly the size of his two clenched fists.  He lifts the box out on impulse, opening it to spill its contents over the table.  A stack of folded papers tumble out followed by a metallic clang, and he carefully picks the object up.

Paul’s Academy ring is heavy in his palm, gold chain warming to his skin.  He hasn’t seen it in months, hasn’t worn it tucked away under his uniform since before coming aboard Discovery.  There was no need for it after that, no need to carry a physical reminder of Paul with him, not when they were reunited and he had him to hold.  So he’d put it away in this box and not thought about it again, knowing it was safe and waiting for him if he ever needed it again.  With shaking fingers, he rights the box, now half empty, home to the handwritten love notes he’d hidden in Paul’s luggage when they were separated yet again, years ago.  Paul had taken each declaration, each phrase, written his own responses on the backs and sent them to Hugh a month later, bundled together with his ring.  It wasn’t a marriage proposal, but it was a start to a new phase of their relationship, one where they began to speak more openly about their plans together, discussed a future for them both. 

The notes are a little crinkled, crisp folds softened with years of re-reading.  He’d always been careful not to damage them, these precious symbols of love.  His heart pushes up into his throat as he smooths a few of them open again, reads their contents.

I miss you already.  You're sleeping next to me right now, but I keep thinking that we never have enough time.

--I would love to wake up with you every morning.

Thinking of your smile.  You're so beautiful, I know you never believe me, but you are.

--You make me feel that way.

I'm never going to get tired of kissing you, which is why I've stolen your lip balm.  You'll have to come get it back.

--It's only fair, I did take your favorite shirt.  

I love you.  Completely.  When we're apart, there's a piece of me missing.  When we're together, I feel whole.

--I cannot imagine being happy without you.

Hugh frowns.  A few have spots where the ink is blurred, as if droplets of water had fallen on them and dried.

Oh.

Paul must have taken them out while he was gone, must have cried over them.  

Maybe you should give them back to him.

He finds himself re-folding each, setting them back in their box with the ring on top.  Hugh puts it aside, tells himself it’s just until he’s sure there’s nothing else that Paul should have in any of the other crates.  There's still a small pile of objects to go, but he can't stop staring at the box.  Instead, he turns the rest of the items out onto the bed, sets the crate on the floor and resolutely doesn't look at the table.  

Each item he handles hits him like a blow to the stomach, rocking him where he sits on the edge of the bed.  He’s not sure how he’s going to manage all of the others if one crate is this difficult.

His lack of an emotional connection to what used to be his favorite holo of him and Paul together is terrifying in a way that he isn’t able to process right now.  The Hugh in the holo looks out at him from the café on Alpha Centauri on their fifth anniversary, sitting at the same table where they first met, Paul on his lap.  Their happiness is palpable, unbounded.  And the longer he stares at their smiles, arms around each other, the more it feels like he doesn't know the man wearing his own face.  

Numb, he lifts a small leather case off the bed next.  It's worn smooth and shiny with years of handling, and he flicks open the catch with his thumb.  Hugh lifts out the box holding his old badges, thinking of the freshly commissioned Lieutenant Junior Grade Doctor Hugh Culber, setting it on the nightstand before pouring the remaining contents onto the duvet.  A multitude of bits of jewelry tumble out, and he considers them piece by piece - his Starfleet Medical ring (his parents bursting with pride at his commissioning), a few pairs of cufflinks inherited from his abuelito (his worn, kind face smiling down at an eight year old Hugh, tiny hand held safe as they walked through yet another museum), the winged caduceus pin his cousin gave him his third year of med school.  Holding them is a distant flicker of sensation, the immediate rush of emotion now muted and vague. All things that meant something profound to the old Hugh, carried with him across thousands of light years and over two decades away from home, and yet it feels like he's seeing them for the first time.  

The velvet bag underneath them crinkles with real paper inside.  He takes a deep breath, watching his hands open the drawstring and pulling out the folded note.

For my dear doctor,

While you're off saving lives across the universe from me...keep these safe.  My mom will have both our heads if you lose them.

Love you,

Paul

He stares down at the tiny stud earrings, their diamonds sparkling up from his palm.  Paul's great-great-grandmother's earrings, made from her grandmother's wedding ring.  A precious heirloom, passed from parent to child for generations in the Stamets family.  And Paul gave them to Hugh.  He can't even wear them anymore, not unless he gets his ears re-pierced.  It's a minor thing, everything else considered, but a wave of loss crashes over him.  Hugh clenches his fist shut around them, ignoring the prickle of them digging into his skin, and finally lets the tears come.

Why does he have to feel this?   

Chapter Text

Fitful sleep no longer bothers him, in that there doesn’t seem to be anything he can do except endure it.  At least the nightmares have receded, or maybe he just doesn’t remember them when he opens his eyes again.  It’s a bit like being half asleep, his own existence hazy around the edges until something comes into sharp relief.  He's nowhere near what his mother would call settled and secure, but the body he inhabits feels a little more 'his' than it did before.

He still hasn’t opened the other crates yet.  They’re stacked against the wall, out of the way, but he can’t quite forget that they’re there.  Rolling over, he looks at them from the safety of the bed, wrapping the covers tighter around himself as if for protection.  

Protection from what?  There’s nothing dangerous in there.  

Just feelings, maybe.

Since when did you ever willingly be in denial of anything?

Hugh pulls the covers over his head, leaning back into the embrace of the pillows.  He hasn’t safely navigated the path between if he’s more scared of not feeling anything at all, rather than whatever memories they might evoke.  It’s juvenile, hiding from inanimate objects, particularly when both Tracy and Tilly had offered to help ("I mean, I don't have to touch anything because ummm it's probably weird to have someone else going through your things, but I can stay and...I'm really good at distracting people!").  The looks they'd given him when he declined were eerily similar, as if they could clearly see his stubborn attempt to go it alone would eventually need moral support.  

You're not going to fall asleep soon anyway.  Instead of pretending it's not there, why don't you do something about it?

Quit hiding.

“Computer, lights to fifty percent."

With that in mind, he hauls himself out of bed and stands there, stalling a little longer by putting on clothes.  He slowly approaches the crates, well aware that treating inanimate objects like they're suddenly going to attack him is more than a little ridiculous and building up the nerve to push through it.  They’re innocuous looking like this, shadows gone.  Hugh hesitates before picking another one that Tracy collected for him from Paul.  Going through things packed a few days ago versus older items less fraught with emotional turmoil is a deliberate choice that he hopes doesn’t backfire.  

He carries it over to the bed, shaking it to see if he can guess the contents before opening the lid.  It’s not too heavy and nothing rattles, so he breathes a sigh of relief when it proves to be nothing more menacing than a jumbled pile of off-duty clothing.  If he remembers correctly, Paul must have swept out the contents of the second dresser drawer en masse, and he contemplates the rumpled fabric.

The first garments he picks up are a couple of sweaters that he refolds and consigns to his current dresser.  Three pairs of pajama pants are next, bottom hems a little threadbare in the back from years of wear.  Tracy, and later Paul, always gave him a hard time for his habit of pulling out the drawstrings so that the waistbands rode low on his hips.  Those go in the third drawer beside the newly synthesized tops, followed by his faded Starfleet Medical sweatshirt.

Turning back from the dresser, he leans over the edge of the crate to see what’s left.  Some of it looks like Paul’s, shirts he’s “borrowed” with no intention of ever returning and that Paul occasionally stole back or ones they left with each other for comfort when they were separated.  He can’t even remember who originally owned a couple of them.  Those he sets on top of the dresser, wondering if he should just recycle them and be done with it.  The synthesizer is a few feet away, but he can’t quite bring himself to do it.

Would it hurt Paul if you gave them back one last time?

He’s nearly to the bottom of the crate when a very familiar scent catches his attention and he stops in his tracks.  It should make him smile, sandalwood and musk with a hint of smoke.  Instead, he searches through the pile with increasing panic, afraid of what he’ll find.

His fingers close on a crisp collar, and he pulls the garment free from under a pair of slacks.  The button-down is deep blue, a shade that set off the eyes of the man wearing it.  Hugh remembers coming back to their quarters to find Paul lounging on the bed wearing just the shirt, frozen in surprised lust as his partner slowly ran his hands over his own body, unbuttoning the shirt to expose his torso bit by bit.  He’d stood there speechless, unable to think when Paul set about fulfilling a fantasy mentioned in passing, pleasuring himself as if Hugh weren’t standing right there. 

Now, the shirt is wrinkled, right cuff still missing a button after Hugh decided to strip it off using his teeth.  He can’t stop himself from lifting the fabric to his face, breathing in the traces of Paul’s cologne somehow still lingering.  There’s a heavy weight on his chest picturing the rest of that night.  Paul was comfortable initiating sex, but seduction with his body was a rare and intoxicating treat that left Hugh absolutely stupid with lust.  The passionate lovemaking that followed had been one of his go-to memories for time alone with himself, but his fully functional body doesn’t respond now with anything other than a spreading numbness.  

Hugh drops it on the sheets and shuts the dresser drawers, collapsing the crate and turning out the lights.  He climbs back under the covers and lays awake with fingers smoothing over the wrinkled fabric again and again, no closer to an answer than before.  The past few days have given him time to think, time to realize that what terrifies him most is what if they don’t feel the same?  He couldn’t raise Paul’s hopes like that, not if there’s a chance it will fail.  And even if he thought he could, how would he fix this when he doesn’t even know where to start?

The question follows him down into an exhausted sleep.

Chapter Text

Hugh wakes up to two things he has no idea how to deal with.  

The first is neither good nor bad, simply there.  

Consciousness doesn’t so much bludgeon him awake as instead passive-aggressively making it impossible for him to stay asleep.  He’s on his stomach, face first in the pillow with something digging into his cheek.  Opening his eyes, he realizes it’s a button on Paul's shirt, which has somehow migrated from on top of the duvet on the other side of the bed to under his head.  That’s not the most pressing matter, however, as he shifts uncomfortably against the sheets.  Despite being strangely more relaxed than he can remember since he opened his eyes in Engineering, something’s making his groin feel tight-

“Fuck.”

He rolls over onto his back and lifts the covers and yes, that is very much a morning erection.  It wasn’t an unusual occurrence previously - Hugh’s healthy libido combined with keeping his body in excellent condition - but it might as well be hieroglyphics in an alien language now as he regards the tent in his pajama pants.  It’s a bit over half hard, the head rubbing against the soft fabric when he moves.  For the first time ever, he regrets his no-underwear-with-pajamas habit.  He reaches down, briefly gripping himself through his pants, but lets go again after a couple of tentative strokes.  Desire feels foreign, an academic concept but not something his mind is interested in engaging with.  

Before, he likely would have simply shrugged and gone about his morning routine.  If it was still there after he was done brushing his teeth, well, it was a matter of minutes to take care of the problem in the shower so it didn’t make an obvious appearance in his uniform.  And if he wasn’t waking up alone, there were definitely other, far more pleasing options.

Hugh might have rolled over to spoon Paul and rubbed his covered erection against that deliciously round ass, enjoying the friction of fabric and having his partner’s body to touch.  He would have kissed the back of Paul’s neck, breathing him in while his hands mapped the familiar landscape of lines and curves.  Could have pulled their pants down to thrust into the warmth between Paul’s thighs or gotten the lube and teased more intimate areas.  Might have slipped a hand under Paul’s shirt to caress the softness of his stomach, stolen further upwards to play with his nipples, gently enough to keep him asleep because unconscious pleasure was beautiful on him. 

Waking aroused, Paul probably would have dragged him out of bed to brush their teeth so they could kiss, then slipped back under the sheets naked to enjoy each other.  Even if he didn’t, he probably would have happily jerked Hugh off or let him use his mouth.  And had he not been in the mood at all, he’d offer a kiss to Hugh in apology, no harm done, and let him take it into the shower or laid there to watch.

Instead, he’s left awkwardly looking down at himself, trying to remember how long it usually took to subside on its own.  Hugh glares at his crotch as if his dick would respond with embarrassment and go back to not demanding his attention.  It remains stubbornly erect, as if mocking the memories of a satisfying sex life.  Groaning, Hugh reaches for his PADD, planning to bore his body into submission with one of Tracy’s suggested medical papers.

The second thing, that quells the first more effectively than a kick to the balls, is a message from Paul.

>>Audio message from Stamets, Paul, LTCDR

>>Begin playback

“Hi.  Umm, I hope you’re doing okay.  I just- I’m sure you don’t want to hear from me right now, so uhh I’ll make it quick.  I forgot to give you the things from your nightstand.  I...I think you’ll still want them?  They- heh, they’re yours.  Anyway.  Ummm.  Let me know if you do.  And if you- I...just let me know.”

>>End of message

>>Acknowledge, delete, or reply?

Hugh taps “Acknowledge” and lowers the PADD to the sheets, pulling the covers back up around his shoulders.  He knows exactly what was in the nightstand, can’t believe he didn’t notice it wasn’t with the other items he unpacked.  It’s not clear from Paul’s message whether he’d seen it all or was simply wanting to return the drawer full of things, and he’s not sure which he would prefer.

Good job, you can’t stop hurting him, can you?

He buries his head under the pillow, wondering if he can just go back to sleep and pretend it will all go away.  Avoidance only works for so long though.  It’s a futile hope, so he pulls his head back out, picking up the PADD again.

Checking the duty roster shows Paul on alpha today, so he’s got a few hours to figure out what to do.

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] Morning.

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] Are you busy off shift?

The messages sit delivered but unread long enough that he knows he ought to do something besides sit around waiting for a response.  Brushing his teeth and showering makes him feel marginally less keyed up, dialing out coffee and cereal and sitting at the table.  Its other occupants subtract any gains towards equilibrium he’s made, but it’s not unexpected.  

Hugh drinks his coffee and considers the small wooden box still on the table.  Opens the lid and stares at the ring inside, chain coiled around it.  Closes the lid.  He doesn’t need them.  Each note is long since committed to memory, even if he can’t assign an emotion to their recitation.  

He should give them back to Paul, shouldn’t keep looking at them.  Except, the texture of the paper under his fingertips, the sight of Paul’s messy handwriting, seems to shift something inside.  It rattles the locked door on his memories, a whisper of sensation, there and gone again as soon as he tries to focus on it.  

Appetite gone, he recycles the barely-eaten bowl of cereal and takes a fresh mocha with him to sit on the floor at the side of the bed.  The star field is distorted by warp again, but the implied motion is soothing despite the unknown destination (“Section 31’s secret headquarters,” Tracy offered with a raised eyebrow, “a few days away.  I wish I knew more.”).  He inhales the steam from his mug, takes a sip and lets the hot foam glide over his tongue, bitter chocolate and espresso tempered with cream.  His taste preferences seem to be mostly the same, but the experience of eating and drinking is vastly different. 

At least you can still have coffee.

He opens up the saved message he’s been working on to his grandmother, fingers idle over the blinking cursor.  It’s not actually clear how much any of the details surrounding, frankly, everything are classified or what he might even be allowed to share. Aida would understand in that quiet way of hers why he jumps from topic to topic, snippets of thoughts and questions.  Even if he doesn’t get to send it, having it as an outlet isn’t a bad thing either.  Maybe it’s more therapeutic regardless. 

Chirp.

[Detmer-Keyla-LT/OPS] Hi Dr. C, we’re not having Game Night, but Jo and Airiam and I were thinking of watching holonovels instead. Tilly and Michael are going to be late and Rhys is on delta, but we’d love for you to come!  2130, the usual.

Hugh pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.  Keyla has been trying so hard to reconnect, but for whatever reason it’s not annoying so much as frustration at his own inability to socialize.  Game Night had always meant gossip, friendly rivalries over the boards, and Rhys’ occasionally hilarious trash talking.  Sitting there silently wasn’t really an option no matter everyone else’s best intentions.  He’d tried on a few occasions, on the couch with his PADD reviewing charts or editing a report back to Medical, only to inevitably be drawn back into the flow of conversation.  On the other hand, watching holos might be acceptable for silence, attention on the entertainment and not each other.  Tracy (and Tilly) have reminded him that seeing his shipmates isn’t a bad idea, and he weighs the decision carefully.

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] Sounds fun.  I might be able to, not sure if I’ll still be awake though.

It’s not technically a lie, and it does give him an out.  Detmer’s only response is a smiley face, so she’s clearly taking him at his word.

Chirp.

[ Pollard-Tracy-LT/MED] Sorry, we had a mystery illness to deal with.  Turns out it was food poisoning, but you know how that goes.  

[Pollard-Tracy-LT/MED] Not busy, do you want me to come over after I’m off?

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] I don’t know.

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] Paul commed.

[Pollard-Tracy-LT/MED] About?

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] Nightstand.  He emptied it for me.

[Pollard-Tracy-LT/MED] Need me to go get it for you?

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] No, but I don’t know if he opened it.

[Pollard-Tracy-LT/MED] Opened what?  Guessing this isn’t about your sex toy collection.

Hugh’s startled into a laugh, even as he winces.  He hadn’t even thought about that possibility.

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] Very funny.

[Pollard-Tracy-LT/MED] What then?

[Pollard-Tracy-LT/MED] Hang on.  

“Pollard to Culber.”

He reaches for the comm, flipping it open.

”Hi Trace.”

”Are you talking about...?”

”Yeah.”

The slight buzz of noise behind Tracy vanishes, as if she’s stepped into an exam suite and closed the door.

”Hugh...”

”Yeah.”

”Are you sure you don’t want me to help?”

Tracy’s voice is quiet and he imagines her frowning at her comm as she speaks.

”No.  I’m sorry for bothering you, I just- just, I don’t know.”

”What I’m here for.  Can you just comm him and ask?”

”I don’t think I should.”

”Are you going to be okay seeing him?”

“Probably not?  I don’t know.”

A sigh.

”All right.  I’m off at 1800, if you need me.”

”Thanks.”

Hugh signs off, stomach clenching around its mostly liquid contents.  He rises from the floor to sit on the edge of the bed, pulling the rumpled blue shirt into his lap.

”Computer.  Record message for Stamets, Paul.  Audio only.”

Beep.

“Hi Paul.  I umm, got your message.  Thank you.  I can come by  when you’re off, if that’s okay.”

It’s generic, but will have to do.

”Computer, send message.”

Lying down again, he dims the lights and hugs a pillow to his chest.

”Computer, set alarm for seventeen hundred.”

Beep.

Sleeping is hiding, but he thinks he deserves it today.

********

The moment the doors open (Paul still hasn’t removed his bio signs), Hugh knows Paul knows what’s in the box he’s holding in his hands.

Fuck.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

Unbidden, his eyes pick up on the tiniest details, taking in Paul’s open uniform jacket and the creases bracketing his mouth with tension.

”I uhhh, I’m sorry I didn’t send it with- with Tracy.  I forgot to check.”

”It’s okay.”

Hugh fidgets, watching as Paul slowly approaches.  He feels rooted to the carpet, unsure what to do with his hands before settling on clasping them in front of him.  The gesture screams self-protection, and it’s not lost on Paul who falters just enough that he can see it.

”Ummm.”

Paul stops two feet away, not close enough to feel his body heat, but Hugh easily reads the way he leans forward even after he’s stopped moving.

”I...” Paul holds out the box between them, “I should give this back to you.”

There’s nothing so obvious as tears in his eyes or redness to his cheeks, but the slight rasp to his voice tells Hugh plenty.  He’s thought about this over and over while not sleeping, and clears his throat before speaking.

”You should keep it.”

”...what?”

Very gently, he closes Paul’s fingers back around it before letting his hands drop again.

”I- he...it’s yours.”

Paul’s eyes are impossibly blue.  The same blue as the shirt still on his pillow.

“I can’t-“

”It’s more yours than mine to take back.  The me that used to be- it wouldn’t be right for me to...he’d want you to keep it.”

”But you-“

Hugh looks away, unable to witness the hurt he’s still causing.

“I’m not him.  He loved you, Paul.  With everything in him.”

“You’re the same person.”

The conviction in his tone makes Hugh’s eyes sting.  He shakes his head silently.

“Please.  Keep it.”

Raising his head, he tries not to react when Paul nods and swallows hard.

“Some of your...” Hugh clears his throat, “I have some of your things that were in with mine.”

Paul quirks his lips in something too pained to be called a smile.

”They’re yours.”

He’s not sure if it’s a deliberate echo, but there’s a painful symmetry to it.  

“I should go.”

Paul’s empty hand twitches as if he’s stopping himself from reaching for Hugh.

”Do...do you think we’ll ever, you’ll ever...”

“I don’t know.”

Hugh takes a step back.  He needs to leave before they both break down again.  The doors swish open behind him, and he starts to turn away into the corridor.

“Hugh-“ Paul’s standing in the doorway, box clasped to his chest, “I just...I’ll be here.  If you- when...if you need me.  Okay?  For anything.”

Hugh tries to smile.

”I know.”

”I-“

They both turn their heads at the sound of the turbolift doors at the end of the corridor, voices emerging.  It’s too late to do anything - the only option that won’t clearly appear to be social avoidance would be to duck back into Paul’s quarters, which despite him taking a step to the side to give Hugh space to do so if he wants, isn’t an option at all.  Instead, he dredges up over two decades of practicing medicine to smooth his expression into something neutrally pleasant.  Paul’s not so lucky; he’s never been able to hide any intense emotion with flushed cheeks.

The flash of blue and black in his peripheral vision sharpens into two people, and he forces himself to smile, “Captain Pike.”

”Gentlemen,” Pike greets them, frowning slightly at what’s probably palpable tension, “I don’t believe you’ve been properly introduced yet?  Spock, this is Lieutenant Commander Stamets and Doctor Culber.  Lieutenant Spock is-“

”Captain Pike to the science lab.”

Bryce’s voice on the intercom cuts off whatever else Pike had been planning to say.  He gives them an apologetic look, heading to a comm panel on the bulkhead.

”On my way, thank you Mister Bryce.”

Pike looks incredibly weary for a moment between one blink and the next.  Hugh wonders if he might have imagined it completely though, because the Captain’s affable expression is back an instant later.

“Gentlemen, forgive my rudeness,” he offers, “and have a good night.”

He pivots and heads back into the turbolift, leaving Spock standing in the middle of the corridor.  Paul looks as off balance as Hugh feels, so he turns to face him fully and divert his attention.

”Good to meet you, Lieutenant.”

”Doctor Culber, Commander Stamets,” Spock nods politely, “I hope you are both....”

He glances between them, mouth twitching with what Hugh suspects is the Vulcan version of an awkward cough. 

“I apologize if my presence has disturbed your private conversation.  Sirs.”

With another sharp nod, he continues down the corridor.  Hugh wonders if he’s imagining Spock’s pace seeming to be faster than before.

”Hugh...”

He takes a half step further into the corridor.

“I can’t- I don’t know that I’ll ever be who he was.  You deserve more than that, Paul.  So don’t wait, please.”

Paul’s lips turn up in the saddest smile he’s ever seen.

”I don’t think either of us has any control over my feelings.”

A moment passes, then another, as they stand staring at each other.  Eventually, Hugh remembers that they’re in the middle of the corridor and it’s nowhere near late enough for it to stay empty for long.

”Goodnight, Paul.”

He moves back, just short of triggering the door sensors again.

”Goodnight, Hugh.”

Chapter Text

”Hi sweetheart.  It’s me,” Hugh's recording laughs quietly, nervously, “you know.  If you’re watching this, then I’m gone.  I don’t know how, and I hope when the war is over I’ll delete this and you’ll never know I made it.  But if I don’t make it, I want to tell you something.  Go on, open it, I’ll wait.”

”Yeah.  So.  I uhhh, wow, this is harder than I thought.  You would tell me that I shouldn’t hide any part of myself from you, and if I forgot to say so... So here goes.  When the war is over and we’re both safe, I think I’m going to ask you to marry me.  I know- we said we didn’t need that.  Well, actually, you said you wouldn’t be comfortable watching both of our moms cry in the same room.  But...I want to.  Being your partner is the best thing in my life, but I want to give you something more, something that shows you just how much I love you better than I could ever tell you."

"So I told Abuela about it, and made her promise not to say anything to you.  She loves you, not as much as I do, but she really does.  The last time were were on Earth, before Discovery launched, when I went home?  She gave me my grandfather's ring.  It's not fancy and it's not new, but they were married for fifty years and I hope we have that long together too.  We can pick out a new one together if you want, definitely, but...I want you to have this."

"I hope you never have to listen to this, and I can tell you everything in person.  But if I don't, I need you to know this."

“I love you so much, sweetheart.  So much.  And even if I’m not there to tell you every day, please believe that there is nothing else in the universe that matters to me more than you.”

Chapter Text

Detmer's proposed holonovel night, luckily for Hugh and unluckily for them, ends up being cancelled due to an unplanned run-in with a pulsar in their path that knocks out half of the primary power relays.  Shortly after Hugh stumbles back into his quarters, the ship lurches, lights dimming and artificial gravity fluctuating for a few horrible, stomach-churning seconds.  It corrects itself before his brain has caught up with the gravity loss, knocking him into the table with bruising force and spinning him sideways to land painfully on his ass.  

When he groans and picks himself up off the floor, it's to the sound of a yellow alert. He makes his way over to the bathroom doorway, clutching the frame warily until there’s the distinct hum as Discovery switches to auxiliary systems.  

“All personnel, this is Captain Pike.  Yellow alert, all section chiefs, initiate EM protocol.  Admiral Cornwell to the ready room.”

Gravity seems to be stable again, and he lets go of the doorframe and surveys his quarters. There’s not a lot awry, one of the advantages of having very little by way of decor, but he rights the overturned chairs and picks up PADDs from the floor.  Something in his back protests when he crouches down to retrieve the opera solids from under the bed, and he straightens slowly, moving to the bathroom mirror and lifting his shirt.  Sure enough, there’s a sizable mark below the ribs on his right side that’s beginning to purple.  He probes it gingerly with his fingertips, hissing in discomfort but relatively confident that it’s nothing more than a bruise.  It’s an awkward angle, but he manages to make a few passes over it with the regen in the bathroom drawer, setting the cells on their way to repairing the damage.

The adrenaline surge subsides along with the throbbing, leaving him with shaky hands and a sheen of sweat on his forehead.  He changes his shirt, then sits at the table, tapping his PADD on to read the shipwide alerts.  Hugh pictures everyone scrambling to compensate and effect repairs, working with the efficiency of a crew full of scientists and engineers.  He feels purposeless in the middle of it all, when he would have been running to the medbay to prepare for any injuries sustained from malfunctioning mag-locks and the like, checking that none of the systems were affected and that backups were ready.  Below the surface of professional calm, worry for Paul would also have been lurking, unsure how any emergency would affect the spore drive systems.  Paul's surely gone back on duty with everyone else, and maybe giving him something else to focus on is a blessing in disguise.

Maybe.  

Initial estimates are putting a full recovery at least six hours out, well into ship's night.  Things like leisure time fall to the bottom of the priority list, which does at least save him having to make an excuse, because there's no way he's in any shape to see anyone at this point.  

After staring at nothing for an indeterminate amount of time, too off-balance to do anything so simple as cry, he gives in to his body's weariness and goes back to bed.  Even with the temperature turned up several degrees, he can't shake the core of cold, and pulls the covers over his head again to block out the discordant buzz of auxiliary systems.  The humid darkness seems to help a little, if only because it was nowhere to be found in the network, but he's still tense and unsettled.  He huffs out a humorless laugh when he realizes that Paul's shirt is not only still tangled in the bedclothes, he's clutching a sleeve like a lifeline.  It's nearly midnight by the time he stops tossing and turning, and Hugh's not sure what to think anymore, the carefully-constructed arguments of distancing himself from remnants of his former life abandoned and overridden by the need for comfort as he tucks the bundle of fabric against his chest and finally manages to sleep.

********  

Everyone is busy for the next twenty-four hours, which leaves Hugh the kind of cover he needs to move through the corridors and tuck himself into a corner of one of the larger parts of the observation deck completely unremarked.  The lights are on to only ten percent, still using backup generators, and it's just enough to navigate the furniture along with the starlight coming in the viewports.  He sits there for hours, PADD and comm abandoned on the floor by his hip, resting his cheek on a a bulkhead and knees tucked up to his chest while he watches the swirl of colors in a nearby nebula. 

Tracy finds him there around 2300, sitting down beside him and smelling of soot and medical disinfectant from the minor injuries flooding into the medbay.  He's about to refuse the nutrient drink she taps his shoulder with, but relents when he sees the worry in her eyes.  She wraps her arm around his shoulders while he leans on her, silent but supportive as he finishes the tasteless liquid, eventually coaxing him back to his quarters. 

Hugh wakes before 0430, fully clothed with his shoes off, and tangled in the duvet with someone snoring in his ear.  He's disoriented for a few moments, brain slowly coming back online, until he turns his head and finds Tracy passed out beside him.  Checking the alerts confirms that all alpha and beta shift personnel are on stand down until noon, meaning he can at least let her sleep a few more hours.  She doesn't stir at all when he gently tugs the comm out from her hand, setting it on the nightstand and covering her with a blanket.  He changes into pajamas, brushes his teeth, and crawls under the covers.  The presence of someone else in the bed shouldn't be as soothing as it is, but Tracy's breathing lulls him back to sleep shortly after.

At 0700, he can't stay in bed any longer.  Propping himself on an elbow, he can see that Tracy hasn't moved at all, and briefly considers just letting her continue to sleep.  His better judgment wins out with the knowledge that technically off shift or not, she's going to have to catch up before going back on duty.

"Trace?"

He shakes her shoulder, smiling at the memories of med school all-nighters and emergency shifts that left them both passed out on any mostly-flat surface when she swats his hand with a groan but opens her eyes.

"Hugh."

"Morning."

"What time is it?"

"Zero seven oh five.  Thanks for dragging my ass back here."     

Tracy opens her mouth to say something else, makes a face, and moments later is across the room at the synthesizer for mouthwash before digging in his dresser drawers.  

"Make yourself at home," he calls as she passes him and heads into the bathroom.   

"Don't mind if I do."

There's the sound of water running, then a rustle of fabric.

"Yesterday was bad?"

She emerges dressed in one of his t-shirts and sweatpants, accepts the proffered mug of coffee, and tosses her uniform in the refresher.  Hugh marvels at how easy it is to fall back into their old routines even if they haven't lived together in twenty years.

"Busy, nothing major, but constant.  Granted, Pike does make more work for us, but that's because he actually sends people down to have electrical burns looked at instead of being a cold hearted excuse for a Captain."

Hugh can't disagree with the assessment, unsurprised at Pike's degree of care for the crew.

"Looks like you're not back on till noon."

"Yeah.  Speaking of...Captain says we're arriving at the Admiral's not-so-secret set of coordinates tomorrow night, so who knows how long it'll take after."

He grimaces into his own mug.

"What's that look for?"

"When the yellow alert happened?  It reminded me that I have literally no idea what I'm supposed to do other than stay out of the way."

"Well," Tracy props her feet on an empty chair, "have you considered getting certified for duty again?  Wouldn't have to see patients if you're still not comfortable, but everyone in Med would be happy to see you back."

Hugh drains the last of his coffee before replying.

"I...hadn't thought of that."

The refresher chimes and Tracy goes to retrieve her uniform, stepping back into the bathroom to change.

"It's who you are, Hugh.  Whenever you're ready," she pauses to zip up her jacket, "but I think it would help.  Take your time and review the protocols, but I'm sure Captain Pike won't have a problem reinstating you.  In fact-"

Her comm beeps, and Tracy sighs.

"CMO's work is never done," Hugh makes shooing motions, "I'll talk to you later?"

"Count on it."

Tracy's out the door, leaving his clothes folded at the end of the bed. 

You know she's right. 

At the very least, it'll give you something else to think about.

Not thinking about what he doesn't want to think about won't hold out in the long run, but it's enough for now.  Hugh gets a fresh cup of coffee, picks up his PADD, and gets to work. 

Chapter Text

Hugh's in a private gym suite when he receives three messages in rapid succession.  He sets down the free weights, wipes his hands on a towel, and taps the PADD to switch from the protocol review scrolling across the screen, setting it on the bench between his knees.

[Rhys-Gen-LT/OPS] Hey, Detmer is about to invite you out again.  She promised me that it'll be quiet tonight or tomorrow.  They're all playing kadis-kot, so it'd be just you and me on the tri-D if you want.  I know we're pushing a lot, Tilly told me to cool it, but the girls really want to just see you.  Let me know?

[Tilly-Sylvia-ENS/ENGR] Hi Dr. Culber, I think Keyla wants you to do Game Night with us.  I promised Rhys I'd keep her and Owo and Airiam busy on kadis-kot, but maybe do you think you could just stop by for a little bit?  Please.  If you really don't want to, that's totally fine too, I just wanted you to know you might be hearing from her.

[Detmer-Keyla-LT/OPS] Hi Dr. C, do you want to come watch Tilly beat us all at kadis-kot tonight?  She told Airiam she could beat me and Jo at the same time on different games, and I really really want to see this.  I know I've been asking a lot.  Tilly and Rhys said you're still not feeling 100%, and you wouldn't even have to play if you don't want.  Tonight or tomorrow depending on how long the next part of the mission goes.  Hope you can make it.

His hand hovers over the Reply command.  One thing he’s going to have to deal with if he goes back on duty is talking to people besides Tracy.  Maybe he can tell them that tonight?  

>> To: Rhys, Gen; Detmer, Keyla; Tilly, Sylvia; Owosekun, Joann; Airiam 

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] I’ll see you all at Game Night.

[Detmer-Keyla-LT/OPS] :D Yay!!!

[Owosekun-Joann-LT/OPS] It’s going to be great.

[Rhys-Gen-LT/OPS] Waiting to see how long Tilly can hold out.

[Airiam-LTCDR/SCI] Excuse me, Tilly isn’t the only kadis-kot expert.

[Tilly-Sylvia-ENS/ENGR] Think we’ll be done before 2200 to play?  

[Airiam-LTCDR/ENGR] In my experience, we might be better off postponing until tomorrow.

[Rhys-Gen-LT/OPS] Are you stalling, Airiam?  Talking a big game.

[Owosekun-Joann-LT/OPS] Rhys, you can’t even get through one game, be quiet. 

[Detmer-Keyla-LT/OPS] Can you bring popcorn, Dr. C?

[Culber-Hugh-LTCDR/MED] Sure.

[Detmer-Keyla-LT/OPS] Dropping out of warp in three hours, check in again at 1900.

Chapter Text

They do end up in Lounge H after the mission at Section 31 headquarters, but it’s nothing like the friendly competition that had been planned.  

Instead of hugs and smiles, Hugh finds himself holding Tilly’s hand where she’s slumped between him and Michael, sobbing helplessly.  Detmer and Owo are squeezed onto a couch to either side of Rhys who has an arm around them both, face blank.  Across from them, Linus sits almost perfectly still, staring at the floor.

Everything else - the ship’s hull undergoing repairs as Discovery waits for the response to Captain Pike and Admiral Cornwell’s report to Command, the data analysis Saru declared paused until after everyone has had some sleep - falls by the wayside and no one knows what to say.  

Someone (Linus, even if they all pretend they don’t know) brought a bottle of Saurian brandy that’s slowly making the rounds.  It’s not particularly advisable to be sharing the same container between so many people, but Hugh can’t find the wherewithal to comment on it or the motivation to synthesize a few glasses.  He accepts the bottle and takes a small sip before making eye contact with Michael over Tilly’s shoulder.  She shakes her head, but reaches out to steady it for Tilly to take a significantly longer drink before handing it to Detmer.

The doors slide open, and Hugh looks up to find Paul just crossing the threshold.  His eyes are red-rimmed, lips pink with being chewed in distress.  For a moment, all Hugh can think of is going to him and holding him close.  Then Paul’s head jerks back, and his heart sinks again at the expressionless mask slamming down.

Paul wasn’t expecting to see you here.

He must be squeezing Tilly’s knee hard enough to get her attention, because she pulls her face out of Michael’s shoulder and wipes her hand over her eyes.

”C-Commander?”

Tilly sounds so lost, looking at Paul who is very clearly trying to decide if he should stay.  Hugh is on his feet a moment later, feeling like an intruder in this circle of grief.  He tilts his head, knows Paul understands when he comes to sit at Tilly’s side.  

“Hey kiddo.”

His throat tightens as Paul’s arms come up in a tentative hug, firming when Tilly sags against his chest with a fresh wave of tears.  Hugh’s about to make an exit when Michael’s hand on his wrist stops him.  She waits for him to gather himself, doesn’t release his sleeve until he nods and moves to join Linus instead.  

No one says much of anything as the bottle slowly empties.  Around 0100, Hugh gives in to the voice of Doctor Culber (strangely silent until today) and presses a round of water onto the group along with some form of food.  He’s not hungry at all, but forces himself to eat half a sandwich as well before they lapse back into stillness.

It’s well past when they should all be asleep, but save a few trips to the private bathroom, no one seems willing to leave.  His head aches, mostly from grief but a little from the brandy as well, and he considers whether it’s worth rousing them to go to their quarters.  Linus is asleep on the floor in front of the viewport, Rhys is barely awake, and as he watches, Tilly’s raspy breathing finally settles out where she’s curled against Michael’s side.  Detmer and Owo are slouched against Rhys, still awake but with the bleary thousand-yard stare that Hugh knows better than to disturb.  

He slowly crosses the room, punching the environmental controls up by several degrees and dimming the lights.  It would have been just as easy to make a verbal command, but speaking at all seems disrespectful.  Paul stirs when Hugh returns to the couch, looking up dully.

Hugh shakes his head, offering the ghost of a smile as he sets an alarm on his comm.  He pulls off his sweater and folds it into a pillow, laying down and closing his eyes even as he can feel Paul watching him. 

He’s nearly asleep when the doors swish open again.  Tracy’s probably still in the medbay treating Nhan’s lung damage and they weren’t really expecting anyone else, so he’s surprised when Captain Pike and Commander Saru enter the lounge.  In his peripheral vision, he sees Michael straighten.  Saru’s graceful stride is weighed down, stumbling a little as he folds himself onto the floor at Michael’s feet and takes her hand.  Hugh starts to push himself up, intending to offer the Captain a seat, but Pike waves him back down.

”Captain?”

Paul’s voice is hoarse, exhausted.  Pike unbuttons his collar and unzips the top of his jacket, pulling over a chair from one of the game tables.  

”Get some sleep, Mister Stamets, Doctor,” he murmurs, “I’ll keep watch.”

The mess of things between him and Paul is too much to deal with tonight, never mind somehow making sense of Airiam’s senseless death.  And yet, surrounded by grieving friends and with an unknown path forward, for the first time Hugh doesn’t feel completely alone.

Chapter Text

He wakes to find Captain Pike exactly where he was when Hugh closed his eyes in the early hours of the morning.  Pike has two PADDs in his lap and a stylus in one hand, probably damage reports or sensor logs judging by the way he’s tapping short notes onto each.  Hugh isn't sure if the Captain has had any sleep, although by his missing jacket and mussed hair, he thinks it's likely.  Doctor Culber satisfied, he surveys the rest of the room from the couch, not yet willing to let the others know he's awake.  

Linus’ legs are no longer visible, suggesting he’s left, as have Michael and Saru.  Across from him, Detmer and Owo are huddled together, drinking coffee and talking in low voices beside Rhys who’s stirring his own mug in a desultory fashion.  

“Doctor.”

Pike’s voice is low, carrying only to Hugh judging by the way the others don’t react.  Hugh opens his eyes the rest of the way to find the Captain studying him with a look he can’t quite identify.

”Captain Pike.”

”I’ve been meaning to ask-“

”Bridge to Captain Pike.”

He closes his eyes for a second before reaching for his comm, Captain’s face back on as he flips it open.

”Pike here.”

”Sir, we’re detecting...”

Hugh tunes out the rest of the conversation when Pike leans back in his chair, the couch at right angles coming into view.  Someone - likely Michael - covered Tilly with a blanket, and she’s slipped down to lie on her side, using Paul’s knee as a pillow.  Both of them are still sound asleep, although he winces at the crick in the neck Paul is going to have with his head tipped back at such an angle.  He has a hand on Tilly’s shoulder, and Hugh remembers waking to that familiar weight on more than one occasion, head in Paul’s lap while he sat up working in bed.  

He’s snapped out of his thoughts when someone sits down next to his feet.  Rhys looks like he’s been through hell, and Hugh sits up to squeeze his shoulder.  It’s funny in a completely unfunny way, when a week and a half ago he could barely stand to have anyone touch him, but he’s been dispensing comfort through touch in this room.

”Hugh.”

”Yeah.”

********

Hugh hadn't known Airiam as well as Paul, but between working with her to refine Paul's connection to the spore drive, serving as her physician, and the occasional Game Night, he had more than a passing acquaintance.  They’ve all lost friends and shipmates alike during the war and to terrible accidents, yet none of them are quite so bitter as the knowledge that Airiam should still be alive.

He thinks about that as he dresses, choosing a traditional Earth suit in the deepest navy.  It won’t stand out inappropriately from everyone else in uniform, and it’s sober and respectful without being mourning black.  Airiam hated black, he recalls, saying it reminded her too much of the past.  Hugh had been almost positive it had to do with her husband’s untimely death and her own near-fatal injury, but never found a delicate way to ask.

You never will, now.

On impulse, he plucks Paul’s ring on its chain out of the box, tucking it into the pocket of his trousers.  His jacket hides its outline, but the weight against his thigh feels good.  The metal is warm when he slips his hand into his pocket on his way down to the shuttlebay, joining the flow of people.

********

”She said once, without a hint of self-pity, that the paths of trillions of particles had been forever changed, simply because she and her husband...smiled at each other.  She was happy that together they made the universe a little less orderly.”

He can still hear the rest of the service, but he’s not really listening.  Instead, he’s focused on how Paul’s voice caught on the words ‘husband’ and ‘happy’, thick with unshed tears.  Hugh tries and fails to pay attention to what everyone else is saying, feels guilty that he’s more torn by the raw pain he heard from the man who used to be his partner than Michael’s emotional speech.  On the other hand, knowing Airiam, he doesn’t think she would find his preoccupation disrespectful.

His mind inevitably wanders to his own funeral.  Tracy hadn’t seemed comfortable talking much about it, though he knows she was asked to speak.  Hugh tried to live a life without regrets for many reasons, and one of those was never leaving things unsaid.  Death as a concept had, until his own, been a finality.  It did neither the living nor the dead any favor to only speak in love and tribute when someone was no longer there to hear it. He applied that to family, friends, and colleagues alike, but most of all with Paul (they’d exchanged “I love you”s at least once a day as a goodnight, both for that reason and the simple joy of how Paul’s eyes lit up whenever Hugh said it).

Thinking about Paul giving his eulogy is something else entirely.  He’d always assumed it would be one or the other doing so, but decades down the line if they were so lucky.  Hugh imagined a peaceful death, comforted and prepared as they passed the century mark together, picturing an oration of love and happiness, sad but not with the pain of being torn from each other by violence.  

The more he considers it, the more he realizes that it’s deeply unfair to expect Paul to have grieved in any textbook fashion.  Paul Stamets was a man of few but extremely close friends. Losing Straal had been an awful blow, and it had taken weeks and patience for Paul to fully break down in Hugh’s arms.  He can’t imagine Paul would have taken his own death any better than that, in the middle of a war no less.  And no matter how much he might have opened up to Tilly, Hugh doubts there was anyone to hold Paul where he was willing to let go.  His relationship with his family was good, but nothing like Hugh had with Aida.  He does hope that Paul might have found some comfort with his grandmother, but that’s a question for another day.

Hugh shakes his head to clear it, fingers stealing into his pocket as the service comes to an end, standing at attention to give Airiam one final send off.  In the press of people that follows, he loses sight of Paul, tries not to be disappointed.  Paul isn’t going anywhere, and it really won’t make a difference of a few more hours, but he knows he needs to talk to him soon.  Tracy makes her way to his side, gently laying a hand on his arm.

“Okay?”

”Not really?”

“Me neither.”

They walk in silence for a bit, the corridor too full for the conversation he wants to have.  

“Trace, I-“

”Doctor Culber!”

Captain Pike’s voice takes him by surprise as they wait for a turbolift.  He catches up to them, the flow of traffic easily parting for him like particles around a deflector.

“Doctor Pollard,” he nods, “do you mind if I borrow Doctor Culber from you?”

Tracy glances at him for only a moment before turning to face the Captain.

”Of course, although I hope you’ll return him after.”

Her dry delivery draws a small but genuine smile from Pike.

”Thank you, Doctor.”

The turbolift doors open, and Tracy steps in without hesitation.

”Sir?”

”Walk with me, Doctor?”

It’s an actual request, but Hugh doesn’t see a reason to decline.  He nods, following Pike as he sets off in a seemingly random direction.

”I hear you’re a gifted physician, one of the best in Starfleet. Is that true?”

Well.  That’s not what he was expecting to hear.  He wonders if Tracy’s been talking to Pike about him again.  There’s no point in being anything but honest, either in terms of modesty as to his prior skills or his current ambivalence.

”Before I died, absolutely.  Now, who knows?” 

Hugh walks fast himself, but Pike strides, every step measured and quick.  He's a few inches taller, and Hugh does his best to keep up without looking like he's trailing behind.

“Are you planning on telling me where we’re going sir?”

Pike keeps walking, although he slows a fraction with an expression that suggests he wasn’t intentionally trying to hurry them.

”You and I haven’t had time to get to know each other very well, but I do understand what it’s like to feel lost, to want to contribute but not know how.  I know you’re still finding your feet, but I have a job- Discovery has a job for you.”

He can’t imagine the Captain that Pike is ever being unsure or lacking a direction.  Rhys mentioned the Enterprise being on its five year mission during the war, something Hugh had been marginally aware of, including Pike’s insistence on making up for it.  Maybe that’s what he’s referring to? Regardless, it’s interesting that he framed it as a request on behalf of the ship and not just Pike himself.

”Well, whatever it is, I’ll do my best.”

”Commander Burnham needs some critical neural tests, can you do them or not?”

That’s the second unanticipated topic of conversation in as many minutes, and he’s not sure how any of this is connected, but in terms of Pike’s question-

”Yes.  Absolutely.  Can you at least explain what this is all about?”

Pike holds up a hand, pace increasing another fraction again.

“When we’re alone.”

Mystified, Hugh nods and follows him into an empty turbolift.  The doors swish shut, but instead of calling for a destination, Pike faces him with a frown.

“What I’m about to tell you cannot be shared with anyone else.”

“Sir?”

”Forgive me Doctor, I need your word before telling you.”

When Hugh first caught sight of Pike after waking up in Engineering, what struck him the most was the kindness in his eyes.  At the time, he’d only been relieved to contrast him with Lorca, but since then he’s had opportunity to observe and (with input from Tracy and Rhys) develop his opinion.  

In the medbay, he’d deferred to others on board, not wanting to give an explanation of the situation before allowing him to hear it from those Hugh had been close to and, presumably, was inclined to trust.

He watched Pike wield charm not as a tactic, but a seemingly integral part of his personality.  It helps that he’s handsome - Hugh can objectively assess that - but it’s not superficial.  He commands respect from the crew - because he so clearly respects them.  Pike seems to welcome suggestions and ideas from much junior officers, giving them equal consideration as Saru or Michael.  Hugh would have expected the decorated Captain to be quite competent, but with a harder edge or perhaps arrogance.  Instead, he’s beginning to understand why Pike tends to be un-ironically referred to as the “pride of Starfleet”.  He’s not sure he’s ever met an officer who so embodies the ideals of Starfleet, a man who could only be at home on the bridge of a starship.

All of that being said, there’s no reason he can think of not to trust whatever Pike’s need for secrecy might be.

“Of course.  Yes.  You have my word.”

The turbolift beeps at them, trying to prompt a command from its occupants.  Pike reaches over and taps in a command string, silencing the alarm and temporarily removing the carriage from service.

”We’ve- Ensign Tilly, that is, has come across some data that needs to be verified.  I can’t tell you the exact source yet until I know if it’s genuine.  I know your specialty isn’t exactly neuro, but you’re the most qualified person onboard for this.  What I need you to do is compare Commander Burnham’s bioneural signature with the data and check for any anomalies.”

”What am I looking for, exactly?”

Pike sighs, giving him a look that says he knows full well how obtuse he’s being.

”I can’t tell you that either.  Don’t want to bias the analysis.  But you’ll know better than me if there’s something that doesn’t match.  I’m sorry for the secrecy, but if it checks out, you’ll understand why.”

“Well, I can’t say it’s the most information to go on, but yes, I can do that.”

The smile he receives is relieved and approving.

”Good.  Thank you, Doctor.”

He starts to turn towards the panel, clearly intending to return the carriage to service.

”Captain?  About my qualifications-“

“So you are interested in resuming your duties?” Pike’s smile settles into his dimples, although Hugh is still trying to figure out how he caught on so quickly, “You’ll understand though, I can’t give you back the CMO position.  Not yet, that is.”

"It's going to be a bit difficult for me to pass a psych eval given our current situation with Starfleet, sir."

Pike’s expression sobers, but his voice softens, the Command edge giving way to something quietly certain.  Despite them standing in a turbolift with whatever sensitive issue waiting with Michael, he doesn’t seem to be in any rush to end the conversation.

"Doctor, I'm not going to try and pretend that I understand what you've gone through.  Rules and regs are what keeps Starfleet ticking, but I've also learned that humanity and heart make all the difference.  And while I'm not necessarily qualified to evaluate the psychological fallout from it all, my intuition tells me that you're a man of integrity whose ethics would stop you from practicing medicine if you felt in any way impaired."

It takes Hugh a couple of tries to reply.

"I- thank you, Captain."

"You know...” Pike frowns thoughtfully, “there is someone who might be able to satisfy regs, assuming we come out of this mess on the topside."

"Sir?"

"Admiral Cornwell is here, as you know."

"I'm not sure I understand what you're suggesting, Captain."

"Ahhh.  I suppose it's not common knowledge.  Before she put on those Admiral's stripes, she put in a lot of time as a 'fleet counselor.  I'd say she's more than qualified to assess your current situation."

Pike seems to be waiting for a response, but Hugh's distracted by his own thoughts.  Taken in the context of what he witnessed with the Admiral onboard during the war and her interactions with Lorca, it sheds new light on things.

"If you're sure..."

"She won't steer you wrong."

"Sir, I don't mean to imply that-"

Pike shakes his head, making it clear that no offense has been taken.  Something of the hesitant trepidation must show on his face, because Pike smiles reassuringly, leaning forward with a conspiratorial tone that invites Hugh's confidence. 

"I've been friends with Kat since the Academy, Doctor.  I trust her to have our backs, and not just because she could probably tell you stories that wouldn't make me look awfully Captain-like."

He finds himself warming even further to the Captain, despite their relative unfamiliarity.

“If you’d like, Doctor, I can let her know you’ll want to talk to her later?  I don’t mean to rush you, of course.”

“No...no, not at all.  Please, Captain, if you don’t mind.”

”It would be my pleasure.  Do you need to prepare for anything, or can you go to the medbay now?”

Hugh blinks at the consideration, shaking his head.

”No prep, I just need to pull Commander Burnham’s file for a baseline but that won’t take long.”

Pike nods, entering his code again to bring the turbolift controls back online.

”Pike to Burnham.  Commander, Doctor Culber will be ready for you in a few minutes.  Can you meet us in the medbay?”

”Burnham.  Yes sir, on my way.”

“Pike out.  How long will it take?”

Hugh assigns a corner of his brain to start reviewing the necessary protocols.

”Depending on what I find that I’m not sure I’m looking for, twenty minutes for a full scan and at least another fifteen for a full analysis. An hour, most likely.”

“Got it.  Computer, medbay, direct.”

Chapter Text

"Doctor," Michael's waiting for them when they reach the medbay, composed but with the ever-present solemnity that Hugh thinks is going to linger for them all, "Captain."

Tracy's charting on one of the screens on the wall, glances over as they arrive.  She doesn't stop working, but her expression lightens at the sight of him.

"At your discretion, Doctor," Pike inclines his head.

"Give me a minute to get things set up?  I'll need to pull Commander Burnham's file-"

"Ready for you."

Tracy flicks it over to the screen above the biobed Michael is currently sitting on, then goes back to the chart she's annotating.  Hugh knows she's still listening in, but appreciates her letting him stand on his own.  

"May I have the data for comparison?"

Pike nods.

"I'll have Ensign Tilly send it down."

"Not necessary, Captain," Michael unzips her pocket and pulls out a data stick, "it's right here."

Other captains might have taken umbrage at the implied oversight, but Pike only smiles.

"One step ahead of the Captain is a good place to be."

Hugh pops the stick into the reader, watching as the data transfer begins.  He gestures Michael over to the scanner on biobed three, making adjustments to the settings as she climbs up and lies down.  The software's been updated, but everything else is as he remembers, and the trepidation lurking in the background at being in the medbay again - Will I remember how to use the equipment?  What if I can't manage? - fades as his fingers fall back into familiar patterns.

"Okay.  It'll take fifteen, twenty minutes to complete, I can start taking a look at the preliminary results after ten."

He shrugs off the jacket, draping it over a stool, and rolls up his sleeves as the equipment lights up.

"Do you mind if I stay," Pike asks, "or will I be in the way?"

"Not at all, Captain."

Michael follows him with her eyes but doesn't turn her head.

"Do I need to hold still?"

"No," Hugh explains, "but don't move a whole lot.  You can talk, just try not to do anything that will cause your neurotransmitter levels to fluctuate."

"He means don't think too hard," Tracy calls from across the room.

"Thank you, Doctor Pollard."

Pike's eyes flick between Hugh and Tracy as he gives an exaggerated sigh at her obviously superfluous commentary and she merely raises an eyebrow.  

"You're welcome, Doctor Culber."

Things haven't changed at all.

Chapter Text

Admiral Cornwell and Captain Pike are having a low-voiced, urgent conversation in the corner that seems to involve a lot of head shaking from the Admiral and Pike glancing over his shoulder on more than one occasion at Michael and Spock sitting in silence.  He'd had a few fairly nasty fights with his brothers while growing up (siblings who don't come into conflict at all seem like a rarity), but those had nothing on the tension between Michael and her brother as they very pointedly look anywhere except at each other. 

Hugh may have been Discovery’s CMO, but he and Tracy were always a team, and he's glad to have her help scrutinizing the results of his analysis against possible misinterpretation.  It’s almost complete, and the more correlations are flagged, the more Tracy's frown deepens.  Michael's DNA is a near-perfect match for the contents of the data file, allowing for a margin of variation within even the most conservative human parameters, but it's the results of the neural mapping that  grip his spine with a cold fist.  He inhales sharply, and Tracy is at his side a moment later, silently watching as he overlays the signatures at several different time points.  She and the Captain haven't filled him in completely, but he's been able to piece together that it's somehow relevant to the Control module's attempts to hijack Airiam's neural net and he has no idea how Michael would be involved.  

"Barely any variance," Tracy murmurs, "huh."

"Mmm.  Suggesting the signature was taken recently enough that none of the pathways have changed.”

Spock isn’t doing anything so obvious as blatantly eavesdropping, but Hugh remembers the sensitivity of T’Vala’s hearing and suspects he can hear every word.

"I don't like it one bit."

"Makes two of us."

He runs the algorithm twice more at random sampling points just to ensure it's not a false positive, drumming his fingers on the console.  When it's almost complete, the medbay doors swish open to admit a heavily pregnant Ensign.  She looks a bit taken aback at the others in the room, eyes widening as Pike and Cornwell pause their discussion and turn her way.  Tracy lays a hand on Hugh's forearm briefly, then she's crossing the distance to take the Ensign's elbow.

"Doctor Pollard?"

"Sorry for the welcoming committee," Tracy smiles reassuringly, "let's get you to an exam room.  Any changes I should know about?"

"...ummm.  More false labor at 0700?"

"Ouch.  You’re not due for another two weeks, right?  Okay, let's get that checked out."

They all offer her polite nods as Tracy steers her towards one of the private suites in the back of the bay, motioning Zarrin to join them and leaving Hugh to finalize the report.  As soon as the doors close behind them, Pike catches his eye.

"Status?"

Hugh checks the data again, but it all supports the same conclusion.

"Give me a minute, Captain, and I'll have it ready."

Pike leans in to say something else to Admiral Cornwell, and Hugh catches them looking his direction as he taps commands into the console.  He remembers Pike’s offer to talk to her about getting him reinstated, but admittedly hadn’t been expecting him to follow through so quickly.

Lorca set a low bar for Captaincy.

A moment later, Pike excuses himself to the far corner to take a comm from Saru.  When Hugh glances up again, Admiral Cornwell is standing a polite distance away.  She’s studying him in a completely non-judgmental fashion, sharp eyes assessing...something.

”Admiral.”

”Chris explained your situation,” she says quietly, “come see me when you’re ready to talk.”

“I-“

”Sorry about that,” Pike approaches, snapping the comm shut, “I hope I’m not holding things up.”

”We’re ready, sir.  If you’ll come take a look,” he gestures at the biobed Michael is sitting on, flicking the results onto the screen, “I can show you what I’ve found.”

Chapter Text

Half an hour later, Hugh is back in his quarters, unsettled by the discussion.  The implications are alarming, but there's not much he can personally do about them.  

There’s a restless energy tugging at his shoulders, propelling him into motion.  He paces aimlessly in front of the viewports, arms crossed, as he considers what to do.  Eventually, he realizes that his hands have migrated to his pockets and he’s twisting the ring around the top of his index finger.

He lifts it out by its chain, the burnished gold shining warm in the reflected starlight.  Hugh runs the links through his fingertips, coiling it in his palm.  Instead of returning it to the box, however, he finds himself clasping the chain around his neck.  

The ring settles against his sternum, just out of sight beneath the shirt collar.  Hugh does one more button up, securing it against casual notice.  Paul had opted for one of the simpler designs, more of a band than the heavy signet ring most Academy graduates favored.  Even Hugh’s ring from Medical is more substantial, although he only ever wore it rarely.  As it is, the ring lies nearly flat, had been almost invisible between the swell of his pectorals under his uniform, unseen but never out of mind as he went about his day.  Wearing it was a comfort, something to physically hold on to and remind him of the way Paul’s eyes darkened with possessive need at the sight of it.

It feels...good.  Not right necessarily, but more than half-familiar, like chasing the memory of a dream on waking.  

His reflection looks different, he thinks, as he checks himself in the mirror.  Nothing major, but maybe his shoulders are a bit straighter under the jacket, his expression more resembling Doctor Culber than before.

”Computer, location of Stamets, Paul?”

“Lieutenant Commander Paul Stamets is in Engineering, Spore Drive Main Bay.”

“Well,” he tells the Hugh in the mirror, “no time like the present.”

Pivoting, he heads for the door before he can change his mind.  

The corridors are still busy mid-shift as he weaves through foot traffic.  He can see a flash of blond hair through the clear portion of the bay doors, speeding up as his heart rises to his throat.  His purposeful strides don’t falter until the door slides open in front of him and he realizes that he really should have checked who else was in Engineering before coming down. 

Of course his mouth is already open before his brain catches up, and the intended greeting dies on his lips.  He shoves his left hand into his trouser pocket, right index finger making a patently false attempt at scratching his neck below his right ear.  

Oh hell.

Paul knows that tell.  Even with his face gone blank and blinking slowly, Hugh can see it registering.

Don’t panic.

Hugh doesn’t officially have a list of people he’d least like to see at the moment, but if he did the Terran Emperor would pretty far down on it, somewhere between the unlamented Lorca and the last ex he had before Paul.  Georgiou’s eyes narrow, and he can almost hear the wheels of intrigue and calculated obfuscation turning in her head.  

Okay, maybe you should panic a little.

Tilly turns to face him, nervous smile a welcome focal point.

”Uhh, hey Tilly,” forces out, mind racing for an excuse and pleased with how casual and absolutely not manufactured it sounds, “is Admiral Cornwell here?  I thought she might be...”

He trails off lamely, unsure how to interpret  the mix of nervous excitement and awkward desire to be elsewhere on her face.  

Paul’s eyes skate away when he glances over.

”Yeah...what?” Tilly looks about as comfortable as he feels, hands waving as she speaks, words tripping over each other, “No, she’s not.  No, but it is, it’s so great that you’re here...”

”Please,” Georgiou interrupts, condescension and disdain dropping from the single syllable, “your wide-eyed attempt to release this fabulous male tension is a buzzkill.  You never learned to relish a little discomfort, Red?  Who raised you?

Well.  Paul’s been desperately avoiding his eyes, and it’s no surprise that Georgiou picked up on it.  Anyone else would have politely ignored it, with varying degrees of success.  Georgiou’s obvious glee lowers her another few spots on his definitely-nonexistent list.

“My- my mom.  My mom, but she wasn’t around a lot-“

”Stop talking.”

Tilly snaps her mouth shut.  Hugh would be worried if he didn’t already know how big her eyes could get.

Georgiou advances on Paul and he falls back a couple of steps at her predatory approach, hips swaying.

What the hell is she doing?

”You said there was a problem, Paul?”

Her voice caresses Paul’s name with lewd implications, making it sound almost vulgar. 

“Uhh yes, with the phase discriminators.”

Paul brings the PADD up between them, gesturing with his other hand, but it’s a poor attempt at creating a little space when Georgiou only presses closer.  Tilly makes a strangled noise.

“We’d need the equivalent of twelve warp cores to generate enough energy to run them, and if we could even locate that much power, it will be almost impossible to control.”

Paul’s default when he was uncomfortable was always to retreat into stilted lecture mode, and that clearly hasn’t changed.  Despite the circumstances, Hugh surprises himself with the strong desire to smile.

”Not for you.”

She can’t actually be...flirting with him?

Paul glances over, probably at Tilly for support, but accidentally collides with Hugh on the way.  The silent ‘rescue me!’ comes through loud and clear.

”But we don’t need warp cores.  One of the Project Daedalus testing sites was on Essof Four.”

The toes of her boots are pressed to Paul’s insteps now as she looks him up and down.  Even from eight feet away, her gaze feels like an unwanted grope.

”Yes, I read about that place.  So much deuterium,” Paul’s fake smile wobbles at the edges, “we can use it to create a plasma reactor to power up our phase discriminators, and then snap, we have our mouse.”

It’s the same smile he saves for cadets who’ve forgotten one of the basic laws of physics, or strangers who hum Kasseelian opera in cafés.

”You are savvier than he was.”

He’d usually been gently amused by anyone approaching Paul with an appreciative glance, because it would either go straight over his partner’s head or just maybe help him understand how devastatingly attractive he really was.  Hugh generally didn’t have to step in when Paul was more than capable of being totally oblivious without his prompting.  This though, he’s got no basis for comparison.

An unfamiliar but wholly remembered surge of annoyance rises from his stomach.  This isn’t just rescuing Paul from a misguided flirting female officer at a reception, smiling and cutting between them with a possessive hand on Paul’s waist.  Hugh feels his shoulders bunch together and opens his mouth to say...something.

”Uhh.  You- you do know he’s gay, right?” 

The words are out before he can stop to think about them.  In the ensuing silence, Paul’s eyes flit his direction again, just long enough for understanding to pass between them.

He deliberately chooses the bluntest thing he can think of, outdated and mildly imprecise language that no one really uses anymore. It’s a term that still translates, apparently, when speaking to other cultures.  Sexuality is a non-issue, no more than gender or skin color or height or any other characteristic, although it’s only been a few decades since the last of the old prejudices were finally taken out of law and proponents of them faded from public life.  ‘What’s your preferred gender(s)’ is a simple enough question when there are whole other species to account for.  It still leaves him incredulous some days, the thought that preferring a romantic and sexual relationship with the same gender would be considered anything less.

Clearly the Terrans truly are the antithesis of this universe’s humans though, because the word registers and Georgiou prowls towards him and fires back with yet another label.

“Don’t be so binary.  In my universe, he was pansexual, and we had defcon level fun together.  You too, papi.”

Being the subject of her heavy-handed overtures is just as disturbing as watching it.

“Did you just call me papi?”

He hasn’t heard that in well over a decade in anything other than jest from friends.  Certainly not from Paul - he’d launched into a ten-minute diatribe about misplaced parental issues in intimate relationships after witnessing someone use it in an attempt to pick up Hugh at a bar on shore leave.  Hugh had simply smiled widely while conspicuously groping Paul’s ass, sending the person off with a sheepish look.

(Paul never bothered with nicknames, even though he didn’t object in the slightest to Hugh’s multiple terms of endearment in return.  The closest was dear doctor, saved for moments of tender affection.  Admittedly, Hugh got off hard on hearing Paul moan his name in bed, his voice breathless and tight or crying out in ecstasy.  He’s absolutely not thinking about times Paul whispered it in his ear, chest bearing down on Hugh’s own and his legs spread wide as Paul thrust into him, murmuring, “I want to see you come, Hugh”.)

Paul’s exasperated voice cuts through the air with finality.

“Well, in my universe, and pretty much any universe I can possibly imagine, I'm gay.  And so is he.”

Tilly’s side-eye is serious enough that he might be worried about eye strain as she looks even more uncomfortable.  She’s probably rarely ever heard someone use that term to describe their sexuality.

Paul’s neck is stained pink below his ears, a sure sign of agitation no matter how much control he’s exerting.

“Of course you are.  I’m glad we all see what’s right in front of us,  now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to talk to Captain Pike about setting a course for Essof Four.”

Georgiou’s smile reminds him of a shark as she sweeps out of the bay.

”What just happened?!” Tilly stage whispers, eyes wide and alarmed as soon as the doors swish closed again.

Hugh opens his mouth before realizing that he doesn’t have an answer.  He closes it again and gives a half-shrug and head shake of negation.  As he does so, his eyes meet Paul’s, and for a moment they’re perfectly still and something almost slots back into place.

Almost.

It slides away again before he can capture it, leaving a swirl of confusion in its wake.  Now’s as good a time as any, then, no matter what just happened.  Tilly’s there, but he’s pretty sure she’ll make herself scarce once they start talking.

”Paul, I’m sor-“

”I need to check the specs on the phase discriminator panels before they start assembling.”

Paul’s almost to the stairs before Tilly catches on.

”Commander!  Commander Stamets, wait, don’t you need- I mean, uhh, I can, sir?”

The grip Paul has on his PADD could best be described as white-knuckled, along with his hand on the railing.

”No.  That is, not right now, Tilly.”

”But sir...”

He shakes his head and is up the stairs and out of the bay almost before Hugh can blink.  Tilly looks back at him, crestfallen.

”I’m sorry.”

”It’s okay, Tilly.”

She sighs, tugging on one of her curls.

”No, it really isn’t.  You...you were gonna talk to him, weren’t you?”

”Yeah.  It can wait though.”

”Are you sure?”

He glances over at the display, the projection slowly rotating.

”Honestly?  No.  But I’ll have to find him later.”

”Do you want me to, umm, I don’t know...do something?”

Hugh stuffs his hands back in his pockets.

”No, but thank you.”

Somewhere across the bay, an alert goes off.  Tilly flinches, but makes no move towards it.

”I’m sure I’m interrupting you,” he takes a step back, turning to leave, “I should go...find Admiral Cornwell.”

”Doctor...”

Tilly has two scanners balanced on top of a stack of PADDS.

”Tilly?”

”It’ll be okay,” she smiles at him, “I know it will.”

There’s nothing he can say to that, so he just offers her a tight smile and heads out of Engineering.  

Not quite.

Chapter Text

The Admiral and Captain Pike were taking a secure comm with Command when he went looking earlier ("I don't know what they're talking about in the ready room," Rhys said with a look that said he absolutely did, "but it's completely possible they're telling Command exactly how much they screwed this one up."), and he's hoping that catching her just after dinner will get him in ahead of anyone else who might need her time.   

He'd tried again to find Paul before dinner and almost caught him before he deftly avoided Hugh by climbing into a limited access Jefferies Tube under the guise of repairing the last damage to the spore drive system.  Poor Tilly had given him another apologetic look before following Paul in, but when she emerged again after fifteen minutes with a disappointed headshake, there was nothing he could do but give up for the night.  Sitting with it while eating dinner hasn't changed his perspective so much as settled a few things in his mind, particularly the fact that he owes Paul a full apology and a serious conversation.  He's no closer to knowing who he is, not really, but Paul didn't deserve him lashing out like that.  

Hugh hesitates in the corridor leading to the VIP suites. He hasn’t been formally reinstated, meaning nothing could technically be placed on his record, but there’s a lingering fear that the Admiral will reject any attempt to recertify him for duty. It’s irrational, and he forces it back down with a grimace.  How many times had he gently suggested that his patients seek counseling after incidents much less complicated than his current circumstances? Or soothed their concerns that it was admitting weakness or wrong?  At worst, given what he knows of her by reputation and limited interactions, she might turn him away with a polite refusal.  And she did invite him to speak with her.

Working up his nerve, Hugh closes his eyes, exhales, then reaches out to tap the door panel requesting entry.  It's green, reassuring him he's at least not committing a faux pas by disturbing her when she's not accepting visitors.  There's minimal delay before his request is acknowledged, doors sliding open to admit him.

The suite is dark in comparison to the bright, cool blue corridor lights, lit by the lamp on the desk and wall panels. Admiral Cornwell stands from her desk to greet him, expression neutral but not unwelcoming.

“Admiral, uhhh-“ he winces at the opening, “they said you were here. Do you have a moment?”

She takes him in with a single glance, gesturing to the low chairs in the middle of the room rather than the formality of her desk.

“You uhhh, used to be a therapist.”

It’s not a question, and he covers the awkward moment by shoving his hands in his pockets.  He knows that she knows as well as he does that Discovery’s counselor was among those injured in the war, and Starfleet had found itself woefully short of trained professionals between those lost when starbases and medical frigates were destroyed, those remaining caring for the thousands suffering PTSD from the war itself.

“Yes, I’m aware.”

The wry smile accompanying her response feels more like a commiseration than a reproach.

“What’s on your mind, Doctor?”

Her slight smile is welcoming, and she speaks with the measured cadence he’s familiar with as a medical professional.

“...Doctor.”

She huffs a ghost of a laugh.

“I can understand how that might sound strange to you. I would assume everything is strange to you now.”

The Admiral’s matter-of-fact statement is not patronizing in the least, and a seed of hope plants itself despite his reservations. He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees.

”Your experience,” she continues, nodding slightly, “transcends everything we know about identity.”

He looks down at the floor for a few seconds to gather his composure, eyes flickering up to meet hers. It might be a mistake, because her open expression tugs at the things trapped behind that locked door, feelings he’s barely able to reach.

“I’ve never felt more alone in my life,” he starts, voice trailing up as his throat grows tight with the admission, “even sitting here.”

There’s more he could say - surrounded by people but afraid that he'll never able to relax among those the old Hugh considered his kith, looking at his hands and unable to describe why everything he touches still feels just a little wrong, slingshotting between almost okay and absolutely not. Carrying memories of a man who planned to spend the rest of his life with someone, an immovable fact, now just words on a screen.  Who did just that, carrying his love into death.

“Commander Stamets is the one who knew you most profoundly.”

His chin jerks up.

”You use the past tense.”

”Well you are...new.”

She’s the first person who hasn’t assumed he’s the same, and he nods along with her.  The Admiral tilts her head at him, and it’s as if that moment of understanding has opened the floodgates. Words tumble out, slowly and then faster, slotting together as he speaks.

”I remember Paul. I remember loving him, and it feels like a dream. It’s someone else’s life and I don’t know what I feel about him now.”

And he does remember. Every detail, every moment he tucked away into his heart for safekeeping. All of the sweet, sleepy smiles Paul gave him when he watched Hugh dress for the gym in the morning, the way Paul’s fingertips caressed his palm. The exhilaration of leading him through the Met, holding his hand out behind him and never doubting he would take it. Kissing him under the suns of a dozen worlds. Paul’s arms around him, holding him safe, his laughter in his ears and his heartbeat against Hugh’s chest.

“Do you feel pressure to feel something?”

It’s nothing that necessarily requires a trained professional, but there’s something about having a virtual stranger walk him through the process.  It's also not what he'd originally intended to be the point of this conversation, but it's all connected and this is probably the best chance he has at the moment to talk to someone who can really help.

The compassion in her eyes accepts him as a colleague, silently waiting.  He’s always had a healthy respect for those who entered the counseling profession. They might not get their hands dirty putting bodies back together, but in a way their work was far more intimate. He could judge someone’s return to physical health through scans, watching tissue repair itself and bones knit back together.  When Hugh released a patient from his care, it meant observation was no longer necessary, his job done and confirmed by scans and physical fact.  There’s nothing analogous in dealing with emotions and thoughts, no way to really gauge if someone is whole and complete again.  Counselors might set the framework and illuminate the dark, but it’s down to the patient to do the healing on their own.

“I can’t give him what he needs,” he shrugs helplessly, “and I don’t want to hurt him.”

His throat tightens, and he swallows down a wave of pain.  Paul needs someone patient and gentle and kind.  Someone to take him to task for working late, who’s waiting warm in bed for him to come home.  Someone who accepts all of his faults, all of his imperfections, because they need him like air to a drowning victim.  He needs the man Hugh used to be.

“All right.  You know that.  You know you don’t want to hurt him."

Her reasonable tone doesn't shake his composure so much as his frustration with himself for being unable to answer the question.

“That’s not enough.”

He pushes himself to his feet, unable to stay seated as still-raw nerves override the polite professional and propel him into motion.  The fragile calm he's formed around his feelings crumples.

“Enough for what?”

“Enough for the man I know loves me,” his breath hitches, blinking back the wetness in his eyes as he acknowledges the one truth in a new life of uncertainty, “...and who I once loved.”

And the Hugh of before did love him, with everything in his heart.  Hugh already thought about going through the motions now, could do everything he remembers, smile and kiss and hold him.  Paul would be happy for a while, until he realized he was falling asleep with a stranger, someone wearing his partner’s face and form but not sharing his heart.  It would destroy him.  There’s too much risk to even try.

Paradoxically, Admiral Cornwell’s calm, encouraging expression takes on a softer almost-smile at his agitation.  She seems - pleased isn’t quite the right word - satisfied, almost, by what she sees.

“Love is a choice, Hugh,” her words don’t leave room for argument, “and one doesn’t just make that choice once, one makes it again and again.”

It feels like she’s about to say more when her terminal signals an incoming message.

“I’ll let you get back to it.”

“Doctor.”

Her voice stops him, and he turns

”The only way to make a new road, is to walk it.”

Something clicks inside.

”Thank you, Admiral.”

It's a shock, stepping back into the brightness outside of her quarters, and he squints in the glare before his eyes adjust.  He makes it into the turbolift before he remembers the original reason for going to see the Admiral, then mentally kicks himself for not even broaching the subject of reinstatement.  On one hand, Admiral Cornwell’s conversation with him has been the most understanding of anyone onboard besides Tracy, and that leads him to believe she would indeed be able to tell if he’s fit to resume his duties.  She also knows why he was meant to come see her, certainly given a rundown by Captain Pike.  On the other hand, he doesn’t know if she’ll consider his inner conflict evidence of instability.

Instead of heading directly back to his quarters, he takes the turbolift to the other end of the deck, making his way around the saucer slowly on foot.  The people around him still make him jumpy, but he needs to process what was just said and he can't do that sitting still.  He makes two full circuits of the ship, ignoring the looks he gets from the maintenance crew working on a relay junction when he passes them for the second time, frowning deeply.  

His PADD is chirping at him when he finally makes it back to his quarters, a repeated notification that, given its frequency, has been going off for a few minutes at least.

>> HIGH PRIORITY

>> Append to Starfleet personnel file for Culber, Hugh

>> Cc: Captain Christopher Pike, commanding officer, USS Discovery; Doctor Tracy Pollard, acting Chief Medical Officer, USS Discovery

Lieutenant Commander Hugh Culber is hereby reinstated and ordered to resume duty aboard the USS Discovery with all privileges of rank thereto pertaining and conferred prior to inactivity.

Doctor Hugh Culber is hereby confirmed certified and fit to perform duties as a medical officer on behalf of Starfleet.

Signed and authorized,

Vice Admiral Katrina Cornwell, Psy.D.

>> End of message

As he stares at the orders, mind gone blank, another message arrives.

[Pike-Christopher-CPT/CO] Welcome back, Doctor.

Chapter Text

Sleeping on last night's conversation with Admiral Cornwell leaves a tiny kernel of calm in the pit of his stomach when he wakes up in the morning.  He drinks his usual two cups of coffee, reviewing the protocols that he and Tracy agreed on, building up a sense of readiness for the strategy meeting at 0900.  By 0840, he's re-read everything three times, and there's nothing left to do but shower and head to the science lab.

Hugh hesitates at the wardrobe, staring down the duffel still sitting in the corner.  He reaches in tentatively as if it were anything but a bag full of clothing, pulling out a uniform jacket and pants and laying them on the bed.  They're a bit rumpled, but nothing a quick trip through the refresher won't fix.  Still, something stops him from donning them, makes him send yesterday's suit through a wash cycle instead.  It isn't necessarily rational - Admiral Cornwell’s message means that he’s technically once again Lieutenant Commander Doctor Hugh Culber, entitled to wear the uniform and bear the title of medical officer.  However, despite Captain Pike's tendency towards informality, he hasn't offered Hugh an official acknowledgement of the Admiral's orders, and he doesn't feel quite right doing so yet.

His instincts prove accurate when he arrives at the science lab at 0855 to find Captain Pike staring intently at the console, a time lapse simulation running but otherwise alone.  He looks up as Hugh enters, taking him and his suit in with a single glance and a nod.  Then he straightens, something solemn in his expression.

"Doctor Culber."

"Captain Pike."

"I received your orders from Admiral Cornwell, Doctor, and would like to formally acknowledge them and offer a position for your re-assignment aboard Discovery.”

Hugh clears his throat, can’t help but contrast Pike’s sincerity with Lorca’s rote and very clipped version of the traditional speech.

”Thank you, Captain.  I accept.”

Pike’s smile chases away the Captain’s mask, extending a hand for another firm handshake. 

”Welcome back, Doctor.  I know there’ll be some getting used to things again, but I can say without reservation that Discovery is better for your return.”

“I- thank you, sir,” he repeats, “I promise to serve to the very best of my ability.”

”I don’t doubt that for a moment.”

The console beeps, 0900 flashing on the screen.  Hugh frowns; he might have gotten there a bit earlier than most, but he can’t imagine Spock or Michael ever showing up late to a briefing, much less a mission plan.

”Doctor?”

”Sorry, Captain, I just was expecting everyone else to be here by now.”

”Oh,” Pike’s smile widens into a grin, “I might have told them the session starts at oh nine fifteen.”

Bemused but game, Hugh leans his hip on the console, hands back in his pockets now that formalities have clearly been dispensed with.

”Oh?”

”Just a contingency if I had to build a case to talk you back into accepting a position.”

Hugh huffs a laugh that Pike joins.  There’s a not uncomfortable silence after the laughter trails off, and Hugh gets the feeling that Pike is doing some thinking of his own.

The Captain’s jovial tone softens when he speaks again.

”I also wanted to ask, how are you doing, Doctor?  Off the record.”

”I-“ Hugh stops, sighs, and starts again, “better.  There’s still moments where things are off kilter.  Nothing related to work in the medbay, sir, just...personal matters.”

”I meant what I said yesterday.  Doctor Pollard vouched for you and your record speaks for itself.  I can tell you’ve too much integrity to hide if anything affected your ability to practice medicine.”

“I appreciate that, Captain.”

”I hope I’m not overstepping by saying that I hope the Admiral was able to help with some of the other parts.”

From any other Captain, Hugh might be inclined to think it a subtle way of gauging his fitness for duty or even an attempt to satisfy personal curiosity.  There’s nothing to suggest that Pike is anything but sincere though.

”Yes.  She did.  It’s just...complicated.”

”That,” Pike inclines his head, “I truly cannot say I understand from experience, but I hope you’re able to find a resolution.”

”Thank you, Captain.”

He follows Pike’s glance at the chrono - 0905. His voice is even more quiet this time.

”May I ask - and Doctor, don’t hesitate to tell me to mind my own business - how long you and Commander Stamets were together?”

Hugh inhales, presses his lips together, and stares into the middle distance.

”Fourteen years.”

Pike is silent for a long moment.

”I am truly sorry for what’s happened to you both.  Commander Stamets is-“

”He’s impossible,” Hugh’s lips turn up a little, “brilliant, and impossible.”

”I’ve never met anyone with his ability to...grasp and extrapolate and weave all of the branches of science together,” Pike offers, “and explain it in a way that makes sense even to those of us who don’t have a doctorate in astromycology.”

“Paul should have been a professor, but they’d never be able to drag him out of the lab long enough to teach a class.  I- we met because someone finally convinced him to present a seminar series.”

He’s not sure where this is all coming from.  Hugh had never been reticent to talk about Paul before, but after everything, it feels like the right thing, this conversation with Pike.

”You attended his seminar?”

Pike’s honest incredulity makes him re-focus on the Captain's face.

”Oh, no.  No.  I was on Alpha Centauri for an emergency medicine colloquium, with Doctor Pollard actually.  We met in a café.”

”That’s-“

Whatever Pike was about to say is interrupted by the doors swishing open at 0912 to admit Spock and Michael.  He’s struck by the completely different body language than what he witnessed between them yesterday.  The tense coldness and barbed looks have been replaced with an air of determined unity, shoulders angled towards each other rather than away.  

Family resemblance after all.

“Captain, Doctor,” Spock greets them, “I trust you’re both well today.”

”Well as can be, Spock.  Burnha- Michael.  Are you sure you’re committed to this plan?  I’m not doubting your logic or resolve,” he holds up a hand as both Spock and Michael open their mouths, “but as your Captain, I have to state again that I’m not comfortable with the potentially fatal danger involved.”

”Captain, Michael will be-“

Michael turns her head to look at Spock, face inscrutable.  Eventually, he nods, and doesn’t finish the sentence.

”Honestly sir?  I’d much rather be doing almost anything else.  But there is no other alternative at this point, and the longer we delay, the more time we lose.”

The doors open again, Paul coming through with Georgiou a pace behind.  Paul looks like he might have actually gotten a proper amount of sleep, although he still won’t hold Hugh’s gaze for long.

“All right.  Lets get started.”

Pike motions them all over to surround the console, calling up their simulation and a list of key time points.  Hugh follows along, mentally checking his own protocols against the information to confirm.  He’s exquisitely aware of Paul standing less than three feet away, can smell his hair gel and cologne.  In profile in the darkened room, new frown lines come into sharp relief, ones he doesn’t remember from mornings watching Paul sleep.  Paul’s nails are chewed down as well, and Hugh tries not to feel guilty for his part in worsening the effects of grief.  

Georgiou is between them, but she’s laser focused on Michael, offering up pointed comments and generally ignoring everyone else in the room.  He hadn’t actually believed she was making a pass at either of them yesterday, but it’s something of a relief to see no hint of it this morning.  

When they've completed the prep, Pike looks around at each of them in turn, nodding at what he sees.

“We’ll be in orbit of Essof Four in two hours.  Let’s get this done.”

“Yes, sir.”

”Paul-“ 

“Doctor Culber,” Spock calls, and Hugh resists the urge to chase after Paul as he disappears out of the room with haste, “may I ask you a question about the resuscitation protocols?”

Instead of following Paul, Hugh closes his eyes for a long moment before turning back to Spock.

”Of course.”

Chapter Text

He can feel Georgiou watching him from the corner of the room as he stares resolutely into the field medkit he's packing, trying to get his thoughts in order.  She's pulling on the boots of her environmental suit, snapping latches closed with more noise than he thinks is fully necessary.

"Doctor."

It's a bit too loud for him to reasonably claim he couldn't hear her and ignore it.  He might have anyway, but Tilly is also there, standing as far away from Georgiou as possible but still close enough to notice.

"Yes."

Hugh adds a second emergency power pack, checking that the oxygen generator has a full charge.

"I lied, by the way."

He pauses, finishes securing the generator, and looks up at her.  Hugh doesn't have to say anything to communicate his lack of surprise and she smiles a little and inclines her head, not mocking but almost an acknowledgement of his refusal to be rattled.  

"The Stamets I knew?  Didn't care about anyone.  He was ruthless," she makes it sound like a great compliment, "and never showed any weakness."

"So?" Hugh clenches his fist behind his back, ungloved fingers curling into his palm, "Sounds like life as usual in your Empire."

Her eyes narrow, scanning over his face before leaning just a little closer and lowering her voice.  Tilly isn't even pretending to pay attention to her equipment, watching them until Georgiou winks at her and she abruptly makes an exit.   

“I doubt he was even capable of love.”

What is she trying to do?

”And you’re basing that off, what?”

"He didn't actually...like sex," her tone makes it clear what she thinks of that, "he never liked doing anything, but he was willing for me to keep supporting his work.  Even some very...creative things.  Very inspired."

He's sure this is another attempt to throw him off balance, but he can't quite determine why when yesterday she was openly attempting to arouse jealousy. 

“The point is, he let himself be used to get what he wanted.”

Pointedly reaching past her for the sterilizer, he makes a show of snapping it into an empty equipment slot.

”I don’t think you knew him nearly as well as you think.”

”Oh?”

Hugh shouldn’t have said that.  The man in question is dead, but it feels like he trusted Hugh with a secret that would be sullied if shared, especially with the person responsible for his loss.

"Where I come from, sentiment is weakness.  Attachment that isn't used for advantage is dangerous, and...love as you humans say, is a liability."

"Sounds like hell."

"It makes a person easy to manipulate, when something they love is threatened.  They would do anything to keep it safe."

There's something in her eyes that's nothing like softness, but is inexplicably vulnerable for just a moment.  If he were someone else he might seize on that perceived weakness.  Instead, though, all he feels is a sort of pity.  

“Really.”

As abruptly as it appeared, her eyes are cold and calculating again, like a snake poised to strike.

“You know, the Stamets I knew killed Culber.”

She says it in a conversational tone, obviously trying to provoke a reaction, frowning when he goes back to configuring his tricorder with a shrug.

”Culber was soft.”

Georgiou trails a gloved finger down his bicep, following the seam of the fabric, and he doesn’t pull away but knows she can feel the muscle tensing.

“So?”

”Don’t you want to know what that man is capable of?”

Selfless acts of love.  Compassion.  Tenderness.

“I’m sure I know better than you ever will.”

He can tell she’s not pleased at being thwarted, and braces himself for what’s probably coming next.

”He hated Culber.  Hated being forced to...work with him,” her voice drips with lascivious sadism, “and he liked to make it hurt.  He enjoyed seeing him in pain, and I enjoyed watching it happen.”

Hugh knows there’s so much more to that story.  But the implication that they’d been forced to act out violence against each other for her enjoyment makes him feel sick.

“If you’re trying to shock me-“

She runs the tip of her finger over his cheek, tracing a line across his throat.  Hugh controls the urge to react, the desire to be as physically far away from her and her vicious prodding as possible.

”He took great pleasure in killing him.  Chained him to his bed and made sure he died in agony.  Stamets...Stamets took what he wanted before he killed him.  So much blood,” her voice sounds almost dreamy, “and he said he screamed and begged for mercy under him.  He made it last for hours.  Your Paul is no different than the one I knew.”

Hugh knows better.  There’s also a strange sense of relief that the Emperor clearly never knew what those two had shared, wasn’t playing them against each other as anything more than rivals.  As awful as the things he knows the other Paul had to do, he hopes- he hopes they’re with each other again.

”You have no idea.”

Georgiou's expression goes flat, and he can tell she's not happy at being thwarted. 

"Think about that, papi."

She gives him one more disdainful look and leaves.  Hugh doesn't let himself relax until the sound of her footsteps have faded from the staging area, slowly clenching and unclenching his hands a few times while he forces his breathing to even out again.  Two minutes after Georgiou walked out, Tilly pokes her head back around the corner.

"Doctor?  Are you...okay?"

"Fine, Tilly."

"You don't look fine.  Umm, that didn't sound right."

All he can do is shake his head as she picks up two more pieces of equipment to carry to the cargo transporters.

"I will be."  

Although she doesn't look particularly convinced, Tilly nods and is gone again.  He packs the rest of his kit, adds a few extra ampules for the hypo, and snaps it shut.  The polarizing screens cast blue-purple reflections on his sleeve, and unbidden, a memory tinged the same color pulls him back in.

The other Paul sighs, lips quirking up in an eerily familiar half-smile.  They're sitting on an imaginary floor of a featureless room, backs to the wall.  He's outside of arms' length away, but his elbows don't come up defensively this time when Hugh moves a little bit closer.

"Even in bed?" Hugh asks with incredulity.  "What, you don't take your armor off to have sex?" 

"You don't have to take your clothes off, just the important parts.  Most people sleep alone anyway.  Would you let yourself be defenseless, knowing the person next to you could easily kill you in your sleep?"

"Doesn't sound like much of a relationship."

"I told you.  He was different.  I- we didn't spend the night together often.”

"Sleeping fully dressed together doesn't sound like much fun.  Not with all of-" he gestures at the panoply of weapons visible on his uniform and what was probably concealed underneath, "that."

He's inexplicably back in his own crisp white uniform, and can't imagine what his counterpart would have worn.

"It's...do you know how rare it is?   I've..." his face goes through a complicated series of emotions, affection mixed with pain and cynicism, before settling on something pensive and infinitely sad, "he's the only person I've ever been completely naked with by choice.”

Something cold twists in his gut at what the other Paul isn’t saying.

“Sex in the Empire is...like everything else.  Brutal.  Maybe not for everyone, but if you've got Imperial ambitions, it's just as likely someone is going to try to cut your throat when they're sucking your dick.  So why take the risk?”

Hugh blinks, processing that thought, eyes straying to the thick scar on the man's neck.  Before he can stop himself, Hugh asks, "Is that what happened?"

Something passes over Paul's face.

"Yes."

He doesn't elaborate.

"Do you know what it's like to have sex with someone you trust?  Someone who you don't have to keep a hand on your knife or restrain to make sure they don't kill you when you're coming?  That isn't trying to hurt you or make it hurt?  That isn't using it to get something, or pay for something, and actually wants to make it feel good for you?"

He and Paul had played with restraints as only that: an erotic game.  Neither of them was particularly excited by heavy bondage, but there was something to be said about occasionally being given control in a very physical way, to tease and please.  Hugh truly can't picture - doesn't want to think about - connecting violence with the comfortable, trusting intimacy he'd spent over a decade enjoying.  Not in their bed.

Hugh sighs, filled with sadness for this man with his partner's face.  

"Yes.  I do."

 A ghost of a smile, bleak and tired.

"You're very lucky then.  He- he held me.  And I felt safe."

They lapse into silence in the nothingness of the network.

"I gave him that scar," the other Paul says eventually, reaching over hesitantly and sketching a line across the space under Hugh's ribs, "I...we were with her.  The Emperor.  He...forgot.  Stopped fighting me and started to get aroused.  I pulled my knife to distract her, but he moved too fast and I almost- almost."

He breaks off with a humorless laugh.

"...I meant to just cut him over the ribs.  But I almost killed him.  And you know what?  He forgave me.  For almost gutting him."

Hugh makes a decision and turns to face him, opening his arms.

"What?"

"Would you like me to hold you?"

The other Paul's eyes narrow.

"Why would you do that?"

"Because you loved him."

"You don't actually know me."

"I know enough."

This man feels different from his Paul, now that he knows what to look for, even if he's imagined away his armor back into plain black clothing.  It's in the way he doesn't fully relax, spine still rigid instead of the fluid sprawl he's come to love.  He doesn't snuggle so much as give the impression of hiding against his side, sheltering and desperate.

"Why are you doing this for me?"

Hugh rests his cheek against blond hair, so familiar and yet not.  He rubs the other Paul's back in soothing circles, rocking them gently.

"Because you need it."

Chapter Text

On the transporter pad, Hugh struggles to focus on reviewing emergency protocols and not Paul standing just inside his peripheral vision.  Tilly is waiting next to the transporter chief, gives him a hopeful smile, then turns as Michael and Spock enter.  She visibly bites her lip, and he can tell she's restraining herself from hugging Michael under Georgiou's watchful eye.  Michael notices too, because she reaches out and squeezes Tilly's fingers before climbing onto the transporter pad beside Paul.

"Equipment check complete, sirs?" the transporter chief asks, fingers hovering over the controls.

Everyone shifts, glancing around and checking their kits.  He thinks about helping Paul prepare for the away mission to the Glenn, shaken and half in shock at the news of Straal’s death.  

(Hugh abandoned zipping on his own jacket, kneeling on the floor beside where Paul was struggling with the equipment belt and phaser harness, fingers clumsy and fumbling with the clasps. Paul’s mouth was compressed into a tight, thin line, but it couldn’t conceal the way his chin trembled.

”Hey,” he stilled the increasingly more agitated hands with his own, “let me help.”

He untangled Paul from the mess of straps, feeling a hand on his own shoulder for balance - or perhaps reassurance.  Belt now properly clipped to the vest, he urged Paul to step back into the harness, tugging it up and gently tightening the straps around his thigh securing the holster in place.   Done, he ran his fingers over everything one more time to check, hand lingering on Paul’s inseam opposite the phaser.

”Okay?”

They both knew he was asking about more than the tactical kit.

"No."

Hugh stood, kissing Paul's cheek gently.

"I'll be waiting for you to come back.")

Behind him, Spock clears his throat softly, bringing him back to the present.

"Away team ready for transport," Michael relays, and the chief nods.

"Energizing..."

The disharmonious twist of dematerialization catches him, and Hugh closes his eyes, opening them again in the Essof facility.  The air is stale with a bitter undertone, and he shudders at the thought of what the unfiltered atmosphere will do to human lungs and skin.  To Michael.

I really don't disagree with the Captain about all of this.

Hefting the field medkit off the ground by his feet, he heads into the control room.  Even though the environmental suit's bulky chestplate doesn't actually restrict his breathing, his lungs feel squeezed down as he contemplates Paul at work in front of the main display.  Everyone else is nominally occupied - Spock is already at one of the consoles along the wall, laying out sensors and PADDS, and Georgiou is in yet another corner, still watching Michael as she stares out at the array.  The ring doesn't bounce, pressed tight to his skin by the undersuit, but he briefly touches his chest to reassure himself of its presence and moves to stand on the other side of where Paul's powering up the phase discriminators.

It's clear that Paul's been tracking his movement, because he keeps darting glances up and his hands slow, faltering as Hugh approaches.  

"We didn't get a chance to talk at Airiam's funeral," Hugh stops himself from leaning closer, hand resting on the console.  "I just...wanted to say I'm sorry."

Their eyes meet briefly as he speaks before Paul looks back at the controls.  He wonders if Paul hears the same weight he feels, understands that he’s sorry for so much more than Airiam’s death. 

"Thank you."

It's clipped, with an upward lilt that speaks of discomfort, a lack of engagement. 

He has to fix this.

"Paul-"

Face still partly downturned, Paul pierces him with a look.

“This isn’t the time," Paul's voice is rough, "it might not ever be the time.”

Chapter Text

The disconnect he felt from Paul before is nothing on the few feet of separation between them that now might as well be light years.  It hadn't ever occurred to him that Paul might come to no longer welcome Hugh back, that the avoidance yesterday was more than an expectation of further friction.  He thinks about the broken look in Paul’s eyes, his voice, the number of times he'd reached out to Hugh and was rebuffed.  In that moment, he wishes they didn't have the environmental suits on so he could read all of Paul's body language, wishes he had Tracy or Tilly in the room now, to lean on in a very non-physical fashion.  Instead, he's stuck with Spock and the Terran Emperor.

Terrans aren't wholly different from humans, as far as he gathered from Tracy and Rhys and his own time with the other Paul, but the Emperor rated a category all her own.   Hugh isn't sure what to think of Georgiou's exchange with Michael before she and Spock leave the control room.  Every other action he's seen her take has been to manipulate, order, or otherwise maintain the upper hand in any situation.  This though, is a glimmer of what he saw in her eyes when she was speaking to him earlier.

When Spock returns after securing Michael and closes the heavy door, Georgiou steps closer to the viewport.  She glances sidewise over at Paul, still in Hugh's peripheral vision, whose head jerks away but his hands are steady on the controls.  Captain Pike and the Section 31 ship are in orbit, ready to play their part in this mission, but his heart races with the knowledge that he could be the one deciding factor between life and death if the Red Angel doesn't make an appearance.

Standing by while Michael suffocates, perchlorate searing her lungs and blistering her skin, is one of the most difficult things he's ever done.  Everything in him screams to intervene, cries out that he’s violating his physician’s oath to first, do no harm.   He stares at her lifesigns, silencing multiple alarms on the sensor readings that indicate acute respiratory distress.  As her oxygen saturation falls, he mentally prepares for what he needs to do to resuscitate her, what dosage of tri-ox she'll need and how fast he can field intubate her if her airway collapses.  Doing that sort of work is challenging enough in a properly equipped medbay; trying to do so wearing several kilos of equipment in a hostile atmosphere when he might have to have his helmet engaged and can't physically feel his patient's temperature and breath is even worse.  As the countdown passes thirty seconds, he rushes to grab the oxygen generator out of his kit.  He's going to have to triage the worst of her injuries, focus on restoring her oxygen levels before he worries about damage to her pulmonary circulation.  

All thoughts of protocol vanish when Spock refuses to allow them entry.

"Oxygen is down to forty-two percent," he spits out, "if I don't get to her, she'll die!"

Captain Pike's order to Spock goes unheeded, and he sees Georgiou's hand twitch towards her own phaser.  For the first and possibly only time, he and the Emperor have the same purpose, intent on saving Michael's life.  He watches in horror as the heartrate monitor flatlines, as Michael goes limp and yet Spock doesn't falter.

And then-

A burst of light nearly blinds them all as the Red Angel descends.  He whirls, enhancing the sensor readouts as the Angel fires some sort of pulsed energy at Michael's chest.  Impossibly, the damage begins to reverse itself on his screen, tissues healing the bare minimum necessary to sustain physiological function.  

He's dimly aware of Paul operating the controls, calling out his status as it happens, eyes glued to the readings.  Michael's oxygen levels jump, first 50%, then 72%, and up to 80% as she gasps back to life.  It's still not enough - she's going to suffer hypoxic brain damage if he can't bring her up to 86% or higher soon.  Hugh glances at Paul, waiting for confirmation that it's safe to leave the control room.

The containment field flares into place and suddenly everything is silent.  In the vacuum, the critical oxygen alert is the only sound besides their breathing for a few seconds, still sinking in that their plan seems to have worked.  

"Paul..."

Paul punches two more buttons and flicks a switch.

"You're good, go-"

Hugh slaps the controls on his chest, helmet forming around his head, shouldering into the airlock as soon as Spock opens the door.  He waits impatiently for Paul to send his suit the correct polarization to cross the containment field, taking in the unconscious but breathing woman sprawled on the platform before dropping to his knees next to Michael's chair.  There's the sound of a transporter beam behind him, Tracy and Aisha in their own environmental suits crossing the barrier.

"Tracy-"

"We've got it," Tracy waves him off, Aisha with her kit open, cortical monitor in one hand and tricorder in the other, "get her back to Discovery."

"Doctor Culber," Owo's voice filters into his helmet, "are you ready for transport?"

"Culber.  Direct to the medbay, yes."

He closes his eyes again as the rust-brown of Essof shimmers and disappears.  

Chapter Text

It takes the better part of two hours to repair the damage to Michael's lungs and airway, treating the perchlorate burns to her corneas and monitoring her heart for arrhythmia.  When he's finally satisfied that he's done as much as he can before leaving her to rest, he takes a step back from the biobed, setting down his tricorder on a cart.  He looks down, realizes that he's still wearing the silver undersuit and is suddenly aware of the sweat and grime clinging to his skin.  With Michael in Perretta's care, he makes his way back to his quarters, stopping by the mess hall briefly to retrieve a sandwich.  He's not particularly hungry, but recognizes the need to refuel, leaving it on the table as he strips and heads into the shower. 

The hot water rolls over his shoulders as he leans forward with his forehead on the wall, eyes closed and wreathed in steam.  Some time later - minutes, surely, but it feels like hours - the tightness in his spine loosens enough that he doesn't feel like a coiled spring under tension, arms hanging at his sides.  He opens his eyes partway to the sight of the ring swinging back and forth on its chain with each breath, gold dulled with condensation.

What are you going to do now?

"I don't know," he whispers to the wall.

Eventually he rouses himself enough to wash the particulate out of his hair, scrubbing more vigorously than he needs.  Hugh turns off the shower, wrapping himself in a towel and moving to stand in front of the mirror.  He swipes to clear the steam from the mirror, almost expecting Paul to appear and chastise him for not using a towel, and stares at himself.  The reflection is hazy, fan working to clear the mist, but he looks...resolute.

Eat something, get back to the medbay, write the report.

The sandwich is tasteless, not because of his new senses, but because he's too preoccupied with replaying Paul's words over and over.

He said it might never be the right time. 

When all that's left are a few crumbs on the plate, he tosses the towel back into the bathroom and opens the wardrobe.  A uniform is waiting, heavier than it really should be as he zips up the jacket, white fabric enveloping him in the form of Doctor Culber.  He stands up straighter, tucks the ring beneath his undershirt, fastens the collar and steps into his boots. 

One thing at a time.

********

Michael predictably wakes up with more questions than anyone can answer.  It's difficult enough for Hugh to comprehend that her long-dead mother is the woman Tracy and Aisha are looking after on Essof, he can't imagine what she must be feeling.  He's at least successful in preventing her from leaving the medbay until he's sure there aren't any lasting effects from the toxic asphyxiation.  

She's understandably even less pleased when he reports that her mother isn't interested in speaking with anyone except Captain Pike.  Having known Michael, Gabrielle Burnham feels like a sharper, even less compromising version of her daughter.  Some of it is doubtless her circumstances, but he can't help but notice her refusal to acknowledge any of the crew members by name except for the Captain.

“Look," Hugh steps forward, unable to hold still in the face of Michael's protest, "I’ve been reinstated for all of five minutes, and I did it because I want to help.  But you have to consider the fact that the person your mother was before she stepped into that time suit, may not be who she is now.”

He leaves them to it, returning to the medbay to write his report.  Tracy's already transcribed all of her notes on Dr. Burnham's case, efficient as always, and he only needs to add his own observations and treatment.  It takes maybe an hour to complete, adding it to the dossier for this mission when he's done.

There aren't any other patients in the bay today, routine check ups completed for crew members this morning, so he's left with his own thoughts as Perretta recalibrates the deep tissue regenerators.  The rhythmic click-whir-hum pulls him into a half-daze, and without something to distract him, his mind inevitably returns to Paul.  He hadn't avoided Hugh when he went back down so much as making himself so scarce it was hard to catch even a glimpse of him.

The man Paul was before you died?  May not be who he is now.

He and Perretta both jump at the sound of a priority alert.

"Medbay," he opens the channel, "bridge, what is it?"

Saru's voice filters through, hurried and distracted.

"Doctor, we're about to have multiple casualties from the Essof facility.  Please prepare."

"Any more information than that, Commander?"

"Four beamed back, and four fatalities."

The line closes and Hugh's heart stops.

Chapter Text

Hugh is paralyzed for the span of about ten seconds, during which Perretta thankfully picks up the slack.

"Incoming medical, Doctor Pollard to the medbay."

Perretta starts prepping the trauma kits, and Hugh takes a deep breath, locks away his emotions, and starts checking the logs for anything that will tell him what he’s going to face.  There’s a vibration beneath his feet that could be photon torpedoes being launched or the ship firing attitude thrusters, but neither of those concern him right now.

Tracy arrives at the same time as the transporter beams deposit four unmoving bodies onto different biobeds, Aisha and Zarrin on her heels.  He has less than five seconds to be relieved that he doesn’t see blond hair on any of them before springing into action alongside the rest of the medical staff.

The security Ensign on the biobed closest to him has had her neck broken, and he refuses to think about his own death with that reminder.  He’s less worried about spinal cord injury as he straightens her head - that’s fixable - but he needs to know if blood flow to the brain has been compromised.  Alarms are going off all over the bay, but he focuses in on his patient, slapping a cortical monitor into place and scanning for any remaining vital signs.  There’s still neural activity, which means if he can get her heart restarted, there’s a chance he can save her.  He makes an incision in her neck, rushing to repair the carotid artery dissection.

The transporter hums again, a fifth body appearing, but this one seems to still be moving on its own, sitting rather than lying prone.

“Triage!” he and Tracy shout at the same time.

”Non-critical,” Zarrin answers, and Hugh immediately dismisses it from his mind as he continues working to save his patient.

”Come on...” he mutters as the regen finishes its cycle, “good enough.”

As soon as he’s satisfied the artery won’t tear under normal blood pressure, he drops the regen and grabs the defibrillator.  Between shocks, his hands move at full speed to administer tri-ox and vasodilators, ensuring he has an airway clear and intubating.  It takes three rounds before her heart finally picks up on its own, and he’s able to confirm the sensor readings of minimal damage to autonomic nervous functions when she takes a ragged breath.  He puts her on pure oxygen, checks her pupillary response, and begins the delicate process of realigning her vertebrae.

By the time he’s done, the monitor is showing sufficient neural activity that it’s unlikely to  involve severe brain damage.  Whether she’ll have paralysis, Hugh won’t know until the swelling in her spinal cord recedes.  

He surfaces from the single-minded concentration to find activity winding down around the other beds as well.  Two occupants have drapes drawn over their faces, and his heart aches at the loss of life.  There wasn’t anything even the best modern medical science could do for the Lieutenant with a hole the size of a fist vaporized in his chest, or the complete neural disruption from whatever weapon had been fired at the specialist beside him.  The third patient must have received only a glancing shot from the same weapon, Aisha and Perretta working furiously to preserve and stabilize nervous functions.

“The away team?” he asks, catching Tracy’s eye.

”Minor injuries, they went to Med Two.”

He nods, pulling off his gloves and donning a fresh pair before turning to the ambulatory patient.

“Right-“

Ash Tyler is sitting on the fifth biobed, eyes on the two fatalities.  Tracy administers a hypo of painkiller, reaching for the scanner on her hip.  She pauses with her hand on the device as Hugh approaches the other side of the biobed.

”I’ve got it, Doctor Pollard.”

Tracy’s eyebrow raises at the formal address, but seems to hear the silent message in Hugh’s clipped speech.

I need to do this.

“I should check in on Aisha and Zarrin anyway.  Mister Tyler,” she nods at the man on the biobed, “Doctor Culber.”

Okay.  I’m here if you need me.

The flat line of Hugh’s mouth softens, and he blinks slowly.  Message acknowledged.

As she turns away, he breathes in once.  By the time he breathes out, he’s pulled the professional mantle of Doctor Culber around him again, expression neutral.

Tyler’s grimace seems to be more discomfort than pain, both hands clutching what looks like a standard ‘fleet emergency field dressing over his side. Hugh quickly takes a set of readings before snapping his scanner shut.  He’s not in danger of bleeding out thanks to the coagulating factors in the dressing, but the perforated large intestine means sepsis is a real possibility.

”Lieutenant.”

Tyler shakes his head, focusing.  He jerks when Hugh’s voice registers, and his gaze goes no higher than Hugh’s chin.

”Doctor.”

“I need you to move your hands so I can treat the wound.”

He seems frozen, and Hugh pulls his hands away from the dressing, firmly but not ungently.  Tyler lays back without being prompted, unzipping his jacket and only wincing a little as Hugh peels the bloodied undershirt out of the way.

”Pretty nasty,” he murmurs, more to himself than anything.

The jagged edges of the wound speak to either a serrated object, or - probably more likely - being stabbed and the double-edged weapon twisted.

”The viewscreen.”

Tyler’s voice is so quiet that Hugh almost misses it under the hum of the sanitizer.

”Sorry?”

“He threw me through the screen.  Broke off a piece and...”

In his peripheral vision, Tyler shrugs.

”I see.”

Hugh sets up a sterile field over the wound, the buzzing where his hands cross it soothing in a strange way.  The top of the field becomes partially opaque on the side facing the head of the biobed, ostensibly to blur the details for patients who might be disturbed by the sight.  Tyler doesn’t seem to be bothered, but it’s standard procedure and he’s not going to ask.  He administers a local anesthetic and dials the deep tissue knitter to the correct setting, angles it to repair the damaged intestine, and checks the biobed readings.

”You were lucky, it missed your stomach entirely.  Nicked the large intestine, but that’s a simple fix.  I just need you to hold still.”

When he’s done, biosutures will take care of holding the fragile new tissue together while it heals properly.

“Could have been worse,” Tyler mutters, looking again at the covered bodies.

He falls silent as Hugh continues working, activity continuing around them on the other patients.  Hugh’s almost done with repairing the damaged fascia when Tyler shifts under his hands. 

”Doctor.”

”Mister Tyler?”

”I-“ Tyler swallows hard, eyes meeting Hugh’s for the first time.  “I’m sorry.”

“...for?”

”You know.”

”Killing me?”

A small, humorless smile stretches his lips.  Tyler flinches, but there’s no enjoyment at his reaction.  

“Yes.  I know...what I did was unforgivable.  And I’m so sorry for-“

Hugh dials down the regenerator, pulling his hands out of the sterile field and shaking his head.

”You didn’t kill me.  Voq did.”

Tyler’s expression is unreadable.

”I...”

”If you want to apologize,” he adds a second row of biosutures, “tell it to Paul.”

When he’s done, he looks up to find Tyler with an infinitely sad expression.

”I did.  And it will never be enough.  But I am sorry.”

“I’m alive now, so...” Hugh sighs, “yeah.”

Chapter Text

Sixteen days sounds insignificant, but Hugh has firsthand experience in attesting that time chooses to go just as fast as it wants.  Sixteen days feels like years, and fourteen years seems like minutes in his memories.

The first day after Essof is spent licking their literal and figurative wounds.  Hugh and Tracy and the rest of the medical staff are busy ensuring that all of the survivors are recovering.  The two casualties beamed in are making progress, but it's limited by modern medicine and the natural human healing processes.  Both of them are going to need extensive physical therapy to recover from the nerve damage sustained in Leland's attack, and he's not sure the ensign he treated will ever recover the use of her legs.  Still, in the wake of two more funerals, their survival feels like a blessing.  Georgiou had initially refused treatment for her bruised ribs, but Tracy had very rationally pointed out that she wasn't going to be able to "grind Leland's face into the floor" with a fractured ulna, kidney damage, and a concussion.  Michael and Nhan, although shaken up, sustained far fewer injuries and had limped into the medbay after being patched up in Med Two for a final clearance from Tracy before being released back to duty.

Paul, on the other hand, evaded Hugh completely.  Med Two had deemed him fit for duty, and he didn't come up to see Tracy at all before heading back to Engineering.  He briefly considered sending him a summons for medical clearance, but Hugh knew that to be borderline unethical abuse of his role and had to let it go.

Still, outside of the uncertainty of his (former) relationship, the universe is beginning to settle around him.  It's as if the uniform itself serves as a beacon of sorts, pulling out the bits of him that he recognizes to be part of Doctor Culber's manner, holding him together every time he zips it up.  

He comms his parents once they're close enough to a subspace relay, sits through both of them crying (one of the most uncomfortable moments of his current and former life) and promises to come home when the mission is over.  Aida must have talked to his mother, because she doesn't once ask after Paul, although there are a few awkward gaps in conversation that he can see her holding back from saying something that most likely would have involved him.  For her part, his grandmother urges him to try and find some sort of normalcy, touchpoints that he can reconnect to.  

Aisha and the rest of the medical staff are overjoyed to have him back on duty, and have slowly begun transferring back the members of the crew for whom he used to be the physician of record.  He feels most like himself when he's treating a patient or dispensing medical advice, periods of time where the return to reality feels like his head is spinning when he remembers what's happened.

Hugh spars with Rhys, reassuring him until it almost feels like he's not trying to avoid Hugh's head and neck.  He goes back to working out every couple of days, and generally starts re-establishing his physical routine.  Some things are still off the table completely - no running on The Loop, or visiting the gym proper in particular.  In the private suites, he can focus on his breathing, can try to pretend that he's in control and doesn't have witnesses for his fumbles and frustrations. 

A few days after Essof he does give in to Rhys' pleading to come to breakfast with him and Detmer in the mess hall, and appreciates them suggesting they sit at a table in the farthest corner away from the main traffic.  Airiam's death is still ever-present, in the moments where Keyla is about to say her name or Rhys has a story to tell, but it's a shared grief.  They all try to revive Game Night, but it ends with Owo and Rhys in tears when Airiam's name appears at the top of the kadis-kot score display.

Tilly does what she does best, trying to stay positive in the midst of the search for answers.  The Red Angel data analysis is taking days, and he finds her on several occasions sitting on the observation deck when he steals in late at night, PADD in hand and frowning furiously.  He sits beside her in those instances, stargazing while she taps away and cross-references, muttering to herself.  Hugh wonders privately whether she somehow figured out when he liked to go there, because he can't remember ever seeing her up there before.  If she did, she doesn't say anything at all about it, just smiles at him and pushes out another chair when he arrives.

Sleeping becomes easier, but remains far from easy.  He dreams more of his time lost in the network, waking drenched in sweat and convinced the jahSepp are devouring his flesh.  The bedside light stays on at 5% at night, and there are a couple of nights where he gives up trying to sleep in the bed at all, instead lying on the couch and reading medical reports until his vision blurs and he can't stay awake any longer.  Sleeping on the couch doesn't do wonderful things for his neck or his back, but having the solid cushions behind him feels strangely safe.  

His barricade of pillows in bed grows to five.

Sixteen days pass, and he only manages to see Paul twice - once in the corridor and another time across the other side of the mess hall.  He's unsuccessful in engaging him on either of those occasions, Paul's eyes widening and using the press of other bodies around them to slip away.  Tilly keeps her peace about it, although he gets the feeling she's up to something but won't say what it is.  At night, he lets his imagination free to think that just maybe Paul's asked her to keep an eye on Hugh for him.  It always seems highly unlikely in the light of morning, but it's something he comes back to over and over.  

Through it all, the ring is a steadying weight against his chest.  Waking, sleeping, and not sleeping, Paul is never far from his mind.  He writes and discards comms, considers audio messages, and always returns to the uncomfortable truth that the conversation they need to have is best done in person.  It's next to impossible given how elusive Paul is being, and Hugh begins to wonder if he ought to simply let himself in to Paul's quarters when he knows he's off shift and have it.  The answer is always no; if Paul has left his authorization in place, it might feel like a horrible breach of trust in a roundabout way. They had always respected each other's boundaries, large and small, at work (no overt PDA with anyone else around besides Tracy or Tilly; addressing each other by rank and title in the presence of others), at home (no reading private communications; no wandering in to 'brush my teeth' or 'use the bathroom' when the other is in the shower with the bathroom door closed), and especially in bed (no kissing before brushing their teeth in the morning; never bringing up something sexual in order to shame the other; absolutely no restraints without consent).  In any sort of a relationship or not, he isn't going to break that unspoken agreement no matter how much he needs to talk to him.

Sixteen days later, thirty five from the afternoon Hugh opened his eyes in Engineering, the fourth signal appears and they jump to Boreth.

Chapter Text

Today’s been one of the better ones as far as he’s concerned, able to focus on getting ahead of the mountain of paperwork inevitably associated with the medical profession and spend some time brushing up on the latest surgical sims.  There’s no telling when he might need those skills, so it can’t hurt to practice.  Aisha joins him, and they start a friendly competition of who can diagnose and repair the fastest.  They have a few frustrating moments with the sim - one of the holoprojectors is sporadically failing to produce a three-dimensional arterial map - but overall it’s time well spent.  

Hugh heads to lunch with Rhys and Bryce, Nhan crossing their path in the corridor and joining them as well.  After lunch, he’s finishing the follow up work on a cadet's appendectomy when the doors to the medbay swish open and Commander Jett Reno sails in, finger held high.

"I need medical attention!"

He and the nurse exchange a look, and he smiles, nodding at the patient before heading Reno's direction.  She sits on a biobed without ceremony, finger proferred.  Hugh reaches for it, wondering if she's managed to sustain an electrical burn (common) or minor fracture (even more common, especially amongst engineers).

"Commander, you have a uhh-" he gets a better look at her 'injury', "...hangnail."

Reno looks back at him levelly, no hint of contrition or explanation on her face.  He sits on the stool beside the bed, reaching for an analgesic.

"It hurts like a bitch and it's one of two things currently impeding my work."

Reno doesn't strike him as the type of person who headed to the medbay for any tiny injury, particularly considering that according to Tracy, she'd spent ten months keeping a dozen wounded officers alive with jury-rigged devices, next to no medical training, and sheer willpower.  On the other hand, he also can't think of any ulterior motive she might have either.  

"And uhh, what is the second thing?"

He rapidly assesses her hand in case she has a serious medical complaint, but nothing seems to be injured.

"An idiot who came back from the dead and his name rhymes with 'poo'."

Her response startles a short laugh from him.  Not the most creative, but it has to be the first time he's had a nominal patient come in and attempt to make a mildly insulting rhyme with his name.  

"What can I say, I'm an engineer, not a poet."

"Clearly."

He checks again that he's picked up the right formula, then gives the finger a generous spray.  Normally he'd warn a patient that it might sting, but he decides it's not unethical to stay silent on the matter.

"Oww!" Reno recoils and shoots him a dirty look, "What the hell was that?"

He puts on his sweetest smile.

"Medical attention."

"I see why you get along with him."

Hugh opens a case and lifts one of the dermal regenerators off its charger.

"Who?"

"Stamets."

Even though he doesn't do anything so obvious as drop the regen or look away, he's sure Reno sees him freeze for a moment.

What is she doing here?

"And uhh when did you two become friends?"

Way to fail at sounding nonchalant.

"Hmph.  Well, we didn't," Reno shakes her head with a look he's vastly familiar with from anyone who's butted heads with Paul, "but I work with him and I need him on his A-game if we're going to save, well...apparently, all of sentient life."

He hums at her deadpan delivery, reaching for her hand again.  This time, since he's not checking for injury, the simple band circling her index finger with its distinctive diamond shape catches his eye.  It takes a moment for him to recall where he'd seen it before - on one of his instructors at Starfleet Medical who was giving a lecture on removing all jewelry on the wrists and hands before performing surgery, even wedding bands.

"I didn't know you were married."

"Yep.  My wife is Soyousian."

Reno's eyes shine with affection, and he finds himself warming to her.

"She went totally bananas during the planning."

He's also intimately familiar with that long-suffering tone.  

"Believe me, I understand micromanagement."

The regen hums as he runs it over the irritated skin.

"She had a list of rules for apparel for guests under ten."

Hugh casts his mind back to their partnership ceremony.  It had been relatively small, but Paul had fussed over every detail until Hugh dispatched Tracy and T'Vala to 'help' him with the planning so that they could concentrate on each other, watching with amusement while they effectively herded him back indoors.

("Stamets, get back to Hugh before I hypo you.  We can handle it." 

“But-"

" It is illogical for you to be concerned with this level of detail when both Tracy and I are quite qualified to ensure that everything is in order.  I suggest you return to Hugh to determine the proper attire for your bonding.")

"A do-not-play list for the DJ."

Reno raises an eyebrow.

"Non-denominational shuttle parking."

"Acceptable guestbook calligraphic fonts."

"Vegan steak."

Hugh laughs, the verbal sparring settling warm and comfortable in his stomach.  He's missed this sort of exchange, when most people are still treating him carefully. 

"Where is she now?"

He doesn't know Reno well, but he can imagine what her wife must be like to complement the perpetual snark.

"...she passed.  In the Klingon war."

He opens and then closes his mouth, unsure whether offering condolences would seem patronizing.

"It's funny, people like us always find people like them.  And thank god."

The kindness and compassion in her eyes spears him, feels like she can see straight through to the conflict swirling in his heart.  

"You have a second chance, and it may not last forever."

She climbs off the biobed, a shadow of grief passing over her face as she speaks.

"Don't screw it up."

Reno claps a hand on his bicep in passing, clearly ready to leave.

"Wait!"

She pauses mid-step, turning to face him again.

"Commander, uhhh I-"

"Reno."

"What?"

Reno rolls her eyes expressively.

"Ranks are for the brass.  Call me Reno."

He nods, searching for the right words to say what's on his mind.  She knows Paul well enough to want to intervene, but he wonders if her well-meant actions are grounded in Paul's current feelings. 

A quick glance proves that everyone else in the medbay is otherwise occupied, but he still moves over to the bulkhead, Reno following with a knowing look.

"I..."

"Look," she says not unkindly, "Stamets is a stubborn ass, but even I can see that he's messed up without you."

"How much do you know about it?"

Reno shrugs casually.

"Enough.  He isn’t exactly an open book, but he’s still carrying that broken heart, not just on his sleeve but everywhere.  And I wasn't lying when I said he needs to be a hundred percent to solve this time crystal problem."

First Pike and now Reno.  He's not sure what's pushing him to speak to them, but there's something earnest and grounded about her, something in the way she talks about Paul that he can't deny.

"I hurt him."

"Couples fight and say stupid things.  My wife didn't talk to me for a week because I accidentally forgot our anniversary while I was trying to keep a station's reactor from overloading.  She sulked, we argued, and it was pretty bad, but at the end of the day...you always forgive each other."

Hugh leans on the wall, head bowed.

"I think I hurt him too much for him to forgive me."

She exhales slowly, setting her hand on his forearm.

"Listen.  Whatever miracle of science happened, you have a second chance that-" Hugh glances up, seeing her close her eyes for a long moment, "that people would do anything for.  Use it."

"I’m not sure that’s what Paul needs from me."

"Did it ever occur to you, it isn't all about what Stamets needs?  God knows he needs a better sense of humor and to come off his soapbox about mushrooms, but what is it that you want?"

"I don't-"

"Bullshit."

Reno stares at him hard, as if daring him to do better.

"I'm not the man he lost."

"If you really believed that, you wouldn't have to tell me."

"He won't even talk to me."

"You know better than I do what a gigantic pain in the ass he is.  When's the last time you tried?"

He chews his lip, willing back down the lump in his throat.

"Oh for-" Reno rolls her eyes again, "I swear, if you two don't get out of your own way and figure this out, I'm going to weld the two of you into a Jefferies Tube until you talk.  And I bet the kid would help me."

"Kid?"

"Tilly."

"Mmmm.  She probably would."

"Commander Reno, please report to the science lab."

She groans, squeezing his arm before releasing it.

"Hugh.  That man still loves you.  Don't let him walk away."

This time, he lets her leave.

********

He taps his fingers, waiting for the comm to connect.  Hugh hasn't bothered changing out of uniform or eating, kicking off his boots as the frequencies match and the video feed appears.

"Mijito."

Aida's voice is like a balm to the rawness in his chest.

"Abuela, I'm sorry to call so late."

Chapter Text

“...when Enterprise arrives, we will abandon ship.  Evacuation corridors are being prepared.  Section chiefs, begin checklist protocols for shutdown and initiate crew rotation.  Enterprise’s ETA is three hours.”

Captain Pike’s voice is solemn but unshaken, and Hugh makes eye contact with Tracy across the biobed where they’ve been running diagnostics on a cadet’s malfunctioning cardiac shunt.

”You’re doing fine,” Tracy reassures the frightened woman, “just a simple repair, you won’t even have to go under.”

She reaches for another scanner, before looking back up at Hugh.

”Go on,” she offers a half smile, “I’ve got this, go pack.”

”I’ll be back in twenty,” Hugh squeezes the cadet’s hand reassuringly before turning away.

”Take thirty,” Tracy calls as he moves towards the door, “we’ll do shutdown when you get back.”

He doesn’t remember the walk to his quarters, but everything pulls hard into focus when the doors swish shut behind him.  It's been barely two days since the Captain returned from Boreth, waiting for Spock and Michael to return from their mission to investigate a Section 31 ship.  As far as Hugh knows they arrived back not an hour ago, and to suddenly learn that the Captain has decided the best way to thwart Control is through destroying the entire ship... Anxiety rises up his spine, and he swallows convulsively, forcing it back down.  There isn't time to indulge now, might not be for quite a while.  He'll pay for it later, locking down his feelings like this, but given what's about to happen, that's probably for the best.

His duffel is in the wardrobe, and he sets it on the bed before rounding the room, opening drawers and cabinets to consider their contents.  There's irony at seeing the bag sitting there, waiting, when he couldn't even look at it for days.  Once he’s completed the circuit twice, he examines the pile of things on the duvet, wondering how the important material possessions in his life wouldn’t fill the bag completely.  

His opera solids.  

Two boxes containing his grandfather’s cufflinks and the few pairs of earrings he used to wear off-duty.  

A half dozen antique copies of medical texts he decided to bring out of storage and his three personal PADDs.  

The plaques inscribed with his awards and commendations, emblems mounted in transparent blocks.

A patterned throw that his abuelita gave him when he shipped out on his first mission twenty years ago.

The rest of what he unpacked from the crates in storage, while sentimental, aren't irreplaceable in some fashion.  Everything else is neatly stacked in the bag when he finally makes himself look at the last item sitting innocuously on a pillow.  He checks the chrono - ten minutes before he has to start the walk back - and sits down on the duvet next to it, staring at nothing while he tries to bring his heart rate back down. 

It's a case the size of an old fashioned shoebox, a standard 'fleet protective container, but what's inside might as well be explosive ordinance.  Hugh needs to try twice before he manages to place his thumb on the reader, confirms his identity with a shaking voice.

>> Voiceprint required for access.

"Hugh Culber, authori- authorization one zero two six."

Why hadn't he ever thought to change it?

The top of the case unseals with a small pop, and he pushes the lid up out of the way.  Inside, data chips full of holoimages are scattered between small mementos and things gifted to him for anniversaries and birthdays that he couldn’t discard but couldn’t bring himself to think about on a daily basis. 

A miniature sphere etched with the continents of Alpha Centauri, a heart drawn around one of the cities. 

Buttons from his favorite pajama shirt, saved when the silk finally wore too thin and had to be recycled. 

A smooth pebble from the mountainside on Deneva where Paul asked him to be his partner after a night of stargazing.

A tiny stasis cube of cologne, sent to him during the war. 

The box for Paul’s Academy ring with its love notes, safely wrapped in a blue dress shirt. 

Even though he knows it's there, he touches his chest just to feel the ring pressed reassuringly against his skin.  Sighing, Hugh shuts the case again and lifts it onto his lap.  It feels heavier than he knows it to be, turning to nestle it in the bag amongst the scant few other items.  He zips the duffel shut with an air of finality, glancing around the room again to be sure he hasn’t missed anything, but the rest - uniforms, workout clothes, hand weights - are easily replaced.  These quarters never felt like home, no sentimental memories attached to them.  

No memories made here.

Forward motion.

He makes his way back to the medbay, passing other crew members moving at a jog who are doubtless doing the same process in their own quarters.  Tracy is just finishing up with the cadet, placing the regens back in their chargers and pulling off her gloves.  Hugh waits until the cadet is gone before setting his duffel on a stool and leaning on the now-empty biobed.

"Trace."

"Hugh."

"You should go pack," he says quietly, "time for shutdown after.  Everyone."

Tracy glances around, at Aisha and Perretta going about normal tasks with the sort of automatic movement that suggests their minds are elsewhere.  

"You okay here?"

She nods at the duffel.

"Yeah.  Go on, I've got it.  I'll start transferring files to solids while you're gone and get the digital copies packaged for a burst to Enterprise when she gets here."

He starts to head towards one of the larger consoles, halted by her hand on his arm.

"Are you okay?"

It's Tracy, so he doesn't bother lying.

"As much as I'll ever be right now.  Go."

"All right.  Aisha, Perretta, let's go.  Thirty minutes, meet back here for shutdown."

The doors swish shut behind them, and Hugh takes a moment to close his eyes and wish he was anywhere else in any other situation than the one they've all found themselves in.  This shouldn't be any worse than trying to perform surgery in the middle of a firefight, which he's done successfully, but there's something deeper and more disturbing about an entire ship going down.  

Can't change that.  Get back to work.

He pulls up a stool to the main data console, keying in his access codes to unlock the full patient data archive.  Backups are stored in the 'Fleet Medical system and updated weekly, but it doesn't hurt to have seconds and thirds in case that system goes down or data is lost during the relay process.  

"Computer, begin patient archive compression.  All records."

>> Archive compression in progress

>> Estimated time to completion: 1 hour

He taps in a couple more commands, preparing the high-density data solids.  They should all fit into a standard case, and he tries to think if there's any files stored separately.  Once that's set, he moves around the medbay, disconnecting tools from chargers and powering down the tissue and plasma synthesizers.  Most of the equipment is standard on any starship, but it takes time and energy to replace, so there's no reason not to try to take as much as possible with them.  A Constitution-class ship should have an equivalent sized hold, although there's no telling how much sensitive experimental materials will need to be transferred as well.

The spore drive.

Hugh pauses, stereotactical kits in hand, with the realization that the drive is completely integrated with Discovery - not just her propulsive system, but everything else.  He remembers the excitement and stress Paul was under, knowing an entire ship was being designed around his and Straal's work, the pride (despite his obvious dislike of Lorca) on her launch together with her sister Crossfield-class.   A fair amount of the equipment is probably movable, but the interface itself, the spore cube and hub and Paul's forest... those aren't, not in the amount of time they have.  

You can't change that either.

I still care.

He can't afford the luxury of time to try and absorb it all, so he carefully shunts that away to the same place his nerves are currently being corralled.  Hugh continues working, filling crates as efficiently as possible and keeping an eye on the data compression. 

Tracy, Aisha, and Perretta return on schedule.  He's not surprised to see them more burdened with belongings than he was, Aisha with two bags and a forcefield case containing her heirloom tea set, Perretta's collection of botany specimens protruding from a crate.  Tracy's always traveled light too, but both of her bags look to be full to bursting.

"Status?"

"Archive will be done in thirty," he glances at the screen to confirm, "solids are good to go once that's done.  I've gotten the regens and small devices packed, assuming Enterprise has room for transfer."

Chirp.

>> Relay to Starfleet Medical incomplete, subspace frequency unavailable.

"What the..." Perretta sets down the antigrav sled he's assembling, "the transceiver's up, we're not running silent."

"Good question.  Culber to bridge, the medbay systems aren't able to contact the Starfleet Medical servers, are you having difficulties with any other parts of the ship?"

"Ahh, Doctor Culber," Saru's voice is tight, and he sounds resigned, "it would appear that Control has infiltrated the relay systems in this sector, possibly much further.  We are unable to reach Starfleet Command as well."

"Why aren't we just jumping back to Earth?" Tracy interjects reasonably, "unless that's not safe?"

"We considered that alternative, Doctor.  Unfortunately, with no way to contact Command, we do not know if Control has taken over the Earth-based systems as well."

Hugh and Tracy  share a glance.

"Understood.  Medbay out."

Perretta sets a crate on the antigrav and wipes his palms on his thighs.

"Well.  This is turning into a fucking disaster."

The blunt statement - that they're doubtless all thinking - hangs in the air.  Aisha cracks first with a snort, and moments later they're all laughing with a desperate edge.  Some of the tightness in his chest loosens; no matter the rest, he's not going at this alone.

"All right," Aisha uses her thumbs to brush away the tears, "three copies of the archive on solids then?  Hugh and Tracy and I can each take one."

"Sounds good."

The rest of the two hours before Enterprise arrives flies by, densely packed with running through the shutdown protocols, uncoupling individual systems, and two crew members coming in with extreme anxiety attacks that Hugh absolutely understands.  

At last, the ship shudders as the evacuation corridors deploy and airlock breach is completed.  Hugh looks around the empty medbay, heaviness settling in his lungs.  Everyone else is already gone, Tracy to make sure the rest of the medical staff is accounted for, Aisha and Perretta with the equipment down to the cargo bay for transfer.  He takes a deep breath, hand brushing over the surface of a biobed.

Discovery held so many firsts - his first CMO posting, first brand new medbay, first non-medical mission with Tracy.  First permanent home for him and Paul and the first time they made love with a nebula outside the viewports, violet and amber light making Paul's skin glow.  First time he hurt Paul.

A ship is its crew, not its corridors, he remembers one of his instructors saying, there may come a point where you experience loss.  But remember, so long as lives are saved, you've fulfilled your duty.

One more look. 

Hugh sighs, shaking his head at what it's all come to, then lifts his duffel and walks out of the medbay for the last time.

Chapter Text

Enterprise is a beautiful ship, but appreciating it falls by the wayside as Discovery's crew crowds her corridors.  

Hugh and Tracy are in Enterprise's cargo bay locating all of the medbay equipment when the order comes through.  Neither of them speaks, just turns to look out the forcefield stretching over the entrance, the darkness of space beyond past Enterprise's running lights, and Discovery seeming perched above her right nacelle.  She has a PADD out, patching into the bridge countdown, and they hold it between them.

[Auto destruct fail]

Photon torpedoes splash off of Discovery's shields, a second volley faring no better.

"What the hell is going on?"

Tracy shakes her head.

"An hour until Leland gets here?  I have no idea what."

The contents of the cargo bay seem wholly unimportant at the moment.  Hugh makes a decision and heads for the exit.

"Where are you going?"

"To find someone who knows what's going on."

"Bridge?"

He shakes his head.

"Tilly."

********

Unfortunately, Tilly is about as much in the dark as everyone else seems to be.  She knows Michael, Paul, and Saru are closeted with Pike, Cornwell, Number One, and Georgiou in the briefing room on Deck One, that destroying Discovery apparently isn't an option, and there's talk of some "extreme" solution that doesn't come with any further details.  Pensive, they sit side by side on the observation deck, duffels at their feet (Hugh has quarters assigned, shared with Tracy and Aisha, but hasn't made it down yet) looking out at Discovery sitting innocuously just off Enterprise's starboard side.  

"What do you think it all means?"

Tilly's reflection wobbles as she turns to face him.

"I don't know.  I can hardly wrap my mind around it all to begin with."

"Tell me about it," she scowls, "all of whatever Control thinks it's doing, not being able to trust the computer?  I...can't.  What if it's on Enterprise too?  Why hasn't it just killed us all already?"

Her voice is rising in volume, and he gestures for her to lower it.  The observation lounge is about half full, and there are a few others sitting close enough to overhear anything spoken above normal volume.

"Sorry."

Hugh shakes his head, fingers rubbing at the seam on the side of his pants.

"Why do you think we're not just jumping somewhere else?"

Tilly stares into the middle distance, eyes narrowing, and he waits for her focus on him again.  Behind them, the other voices carry on, and he can't imagine anyone is talking about anything else.

"So.  I thought that's what we'd do at first too, I mean Discovery can totally just go to Terralysium, Control still is limited by how fast the ships travel, right?  So it would take it forever to make it out there.  Then I thought if it's a virus, it could transfer itself faster as a data stream, but that still wouldn't reach that far.  So what if even if we go out there, Control manages to take over like, everything, everywhere?  Starfleet, the Federation, all of it, and it's just a matter of time before it reaches us?  Then it wouldn't matter, because there'd be nothing left to come back to.  Maybe?"

He considers Tilly's logic, step by step, and can't really find any flaws in it.  When he sees her looking at him oddly, he realizes that he's been running his thumb over the ring too persistently to be a casual itch, pressing the fabric over it enough to show its shape.  Tilly doesn't say anything, but cocks her head to the side and stares at it.  

"Sorry," he murmurs, unsnapping his collar enough to pull the chain out for her to see, "just this."

"Oh," the confusion on her face clears up, "huh.  Okay.  I didn't know you wore a ring?

Hugh tucks it back under his uniform, feeling it settle into place.

"I don't.  Not since Discovery...before all of this anyway.  It's- it's Paul's."

From the blank look on Tilly's face, she wasn't expecting that as an answer.

"Wait, you two aren't...?"

"No.  We're not married.  It's-" he sighs, and she leans closer to hear him, "Paul's Academy ring.  I used to wear it when we were apart, when I missed him.  I...put it back on after Airiam's funeral."

Her face lights up.

"Oh!  So you miss him now?" Tilly is practically bouncing in her seat, "That's great!  I mean, not great, not like that but things are...better?  When did that happen?"

His self-deprecating groan deflates her enthusiasm.

"Tilly, you know I can't even get him to stay in the same room as me."

"But Reno said she- ummm, I mean.  Ahem."

"Reno what?"

Tilly literally facepalms.

"Ummm.  Crap, she said, said she thought you two were finally going to talk."

"We haven't.  I just, I don't know.  Maybe it's not the right thing."

"I don't...understand?"

I don't understand either.

"I thought I knew he'd just be waiting for me to figure it out, because he's Paul, and no matter how hard I pushed he'd stay.  But...but maybe what he needs is for me to stop being around and reminding him all the time."

"Whoa."

His chin jerks up as she waves her hands between them.

"Hold on.  Why would you think he doesn't want you around?"

"Avoiding me seems pretty clear."

"Yeah, but does he know maybe you've changed your mind?  I mean, assuming you have.  I think you have?  That," she points at his chest, "that means something, right?"

"All hands, this is Captain Pike.  Discovery crew, please prepare to return to the ship.  There's been a change of plans, we're investigating another red burst.  Senior staff will be briefed shortly."

He goes to stand, but Tilly's hand on his halts him halfway up.

"That means something, right?"

Hugh quirks his lips in something that might pass as a smile.

"I want it to."

Chapter Text

He finds himself near the end of the queue headed back to Discovery, Tilly at his side and still frowning at him.  She's clearly not satisfied by his answer back in the observation deck, but there's too many people pressed around them to attempt a private conversation.  Hugh does appreciate her tact - no matter how much anyone might find that hard to believe - is glad for her unexpected friendship but wishes she wasn’t quite so insightful.

”Doctor, Ensign,” Captain Pike emerges from the turbolift, “sorry for the change of plans.”

”Well it’s not like you have any control over it. I mean, of course you have control because you’re the Captain, but what I meant was-“

He waves off Tilly’s apology.

”Maybe the new signal will tell us something the others haven’t.  Enterprise will follow, give us backup if we need it, but-“ his eyes take in anyone else in earshot, “counting on Commander Burnham to take Discovery to the future.”

”What!?” Tilly cringes at her own volume, “how is that even possible sir?  We don’t have the time crystal charged and without it even if we could find another suit, that’s going to take too long...”

Instead of censoring her, Pike just sighs.

”I’m hoping this next signal will tell us that.”

They've almost reached the evacuation corridor.  There’s a gap of several meters between them and the next closest Discovery crew member, and there doesn’t seem to be anyone else waiting on this particular bridge.

“Ensign, I believe Commander Stamets will need your assistance with reinitializing the spore drive.  Why don’t you head down there now?”

Hugh can pick up on a dismissal even if it’s not directed at him.  Tilly blinks, fingers worrying at the strap of her duffel.  He holds out his hand.

”Here, give me that, you don’t need that in your way.”

”Oh.  Thank you Doctor?  Captain?”

”Go ahead Ensign, Discovery isn’t going to leave without us.”

“Yes sir.”

Tilly scrambles to make it across the corridor, and Pike and Hugh share a look over he retreating form.

”Is there something you wanted to speak with me about, Captain?”

They step into the corridor, force fields casting a bluish tint on his white uniform.  He tugs on the strap to extend it, moving his duffel up to his shoulder and transferring Tilly’s to his right hand.

”I realize this isn’t the most opportune time,” Pike smiles wryly, “but I wanted to let you know when the dust all settles from this, you’re welcome to stay on on Enterprise.”

”...sir?”

”I don’t know how everyone from Discovery will be reassigned, and it’ll take a few days to get Enterprise to wherever we’re going next and your crew back home, so you don’t have to decide right away.  If you’re looking for another ship assignment, I wanted to get my hat in the ring before someone else does first.”

Discovery’s lights welcome them back, stepping through the airlock and sealing it behind them.

”Bridge to Captain Pike.”

Pike crosses to a communications junction, holding up a finger that Hugh nods at.

”Pike here, go ahead Mister Saru.”

”All personnel are accounted for back on Discovery.  With your permission, sir, we’ll disconnect from Enterprise and be on our way.”

“Not a moment too soon.  Go ahead, Commander.”

”Thank you sir, bridge out.”

The channel closed, Pike turns back to him.

”Take your time, Doctor.  Unless,” his expression turns chagrined, “I apologize if you already had other plans?”

”No, no plans at all, really.”

”Well, even if you decide against it this time, consider it an open invitation.  Enterprise can never have too many good doctors.”

”I- thank you, Captain.”

Pike smiles and heads off the opposite direction towards the nearest turbolift, and Hugh’s left watching the forcefields deactivate and the evacuation corridors retracting.

Enterprise.

Maybe.

Chapter Text

It doesn’t take long to drop Tilly’s bag off in her quarters, and he heads straight to the medbay after.  

“You heard then?” Tracy’s reactivating all of the dormant systems, “Pike’s plan.”

”Taking the ship to the future?”

”That one.”

She pauses to recouple the the surgical interfaces with a biobed.

"It's...something," he mutters, moving to the next bed and doing the same.  

"If by some miracle that time crystal they're tinkering with in Engineering works, I don't know how I feel about asking Burnham to strap herself into untested technology and slingshot this ship to who knows where."

"Who knows when."

"That too."

Hugh accesses the computer, sets the high density solid on the interface and begins transferring the patient archive back into the database.  

"Hugh."

"Hmmm?"

"You okay?  Something's changed from before we left."

Tracy pulls over another stool and sits beside him at the console.

"Other than finding out the information we have onboard from a giant alien sphere that's being pursued by an AI bent on destroying all sentient life in the universe is able to protect itself and we can't even blow up the ship to get rid of it?"

"Yes," she raises an eyebrow, "other than that."

"Sorry."

"I'm listening."

The console beeps, and they both turn back to it.  Hugh unsnaps his collar and tugs the zipper down a few inches on his jacket.  The environmental controls are still overcompensating for the time spent deactivated, warming the ship past its normal ambient temperature.

"Want to start rebuilding the file structure?  I'll get the records batched."

"Sure."

It's labor intensive but not taxing work.  He sees Tilly's file go by, and it reminds him of the look on her face when he showed her the ring.  Her eternal optimism is buoying, but it doesn't tell him what he actually needs to know.

"What?"

"Just thinking."

"Mmmm."

They continue, slotting records back into place.  Paul's file floats across the screen, there and gone again in a moment.

So.  Tilly and Reno seem to agree.

They might agree, but that doesn't mean Paul does.

Quit speculating then, and talk to him.

What do I tell him?

Everything. 

"Okay," Tracy murmurs, "what is it?"

"Hmmm?"

She taps the screen, pausing the data flow.

"Paul?"

He blinks at her, fumbling his focus back outwards.  Tracy tips her head at him, looking down significantly, and he follows her gaze to where the chain is exposed by his opened jacket.  

"Yeah."

Tracy knows the significance of him wearing it, or at least what it used to be.  It's not something he's mentioned to her though, unsure how to address what he can't even put into words.

"Progress?  Or am I thinking of something else."

"I...I miss him, Trace.  Sometimes.  Other times I feel like I don't know him at all.  But I don't know how to- how to do anything at this point."

"Tried talking to him again lately?"

"No.  What if it's me that's the problem here?  I keep thinking he'll be the same Paul.  The things I said, I hurt him, because he was just being who he is.  Loving me.  But what if he's decided it's not worth it anymore?"

"And if he has," Tracy sighs, "you won't know unless you ask him.  You don't know what he's feeling."

"Every time I try, he keeps running away.  And down on Essof..." Hugh tugs at a loose thread on his pants, "I told you.  He said it might not ever be the time."

She rests her elbows on the console, head tilted.

"In twenty years, I've never known you to let fear stop you from doing something that needs to be done.  Pretty sure love or relationships are things that you're allowed to be unsure about.  But Hugh-" 

"All hands, black alert.  Repeat, black alert."

There's a few dizzying seconds as the universe shifts around them, engines humming.

"Well.  There's your opening."

"What?"

"Go make sure his augments are functioning properly after the jump."

"Trace, I'm pretty sure he knows how to handle them by now."

"Consider the fact that if Burnham manages to pull off the impossible, we're all going to be packed like sardines on Enterprise.  After that, I don't know what's going to happen.  What if he decides to go to Vulcan after all?  Or ships himself out to the other end of the quadrant?  If you're bent on talking to him in person, you're going to have to do it soon.  Go."

Tracy doesn't physically push him toward the door, but he can tell she's not far from it.  He closes his jacket again, heads for the turbolift.  It's a matter of minutes to make his way down to Engineering, and he finds himself standing outside the drive bay doors just beyond sensor range.  In the length of their friendship, Tracy seldom ever interfered with his personal life other than as support.  Her advice has almost always been sound, even when he's disagreed, and there's no real reason to think this might be different.  

An engineer emerges from the bay, toolkit in hand, and nearly collides with him.

"Oh!  Sorry, Doctor, didn't see you there."

"You're fine, I wasn't paying attention."

Through the open door, he can see Paul with his sleeves rolled up, speaking in that animated way of his when there was a sudden looming deadline or his cadets were taking too long to catch on to the point.  His back is turned, and Hugh realizes he could leave and Paul would never be the wiser.  He could wait until they're all on Enterprise, wait it out and let him go.  Or he can walk in there and find out.

Is there really a choice?

“Quickly, quickly, we have shuttles and pods to retrofit!”

Seeing Paul in his element, directing the chaos of Engineering, is so familiar that he has to smile.  He's a couple of meters away when Paul turns, and Hugh looks down, feeling suddenly shy in a way he hasn't known in years.  If he weren't so keyed up it would be laughable, the fact that they're standing there and can't seem to figure out what the say.  Hugh gathers up his courage and manages a small smile.  

There's your opening.

”Are you all right?”

Paul looks confused.

”From the jump.”

“I’m fine, thank you...”

Paul's voice telegraphs his uncertainty, caught off-guard.  This close, he can see the glow of the reaction cube reflected in Paul's eyes, turning his eyebrows and lashes almost invisible.    

You know him.  Better than you know yourself.

“Listen-“

They both step forward together, speaking over each other. 

He's not running away.  Let him talk.

”Ahh...you go.”

“Umm.  Once Commander Burnham takes this ship to wherever she’s going,” his gaze flicks up and back down to Hugh’s chest, and Hugh wonders if he can see what he's wearing under his collar, “I’m thinking I might take a break from starships.  I passed up a job at the Vulcan Science Academy a few months ago, or maybe I’ll just...live on a station for a while- I don’t know.”

Paul's voice is wobbling in a way that tells Hugh exactly how uncomfortable he is.

You can fix it.

“Forward motion,” Hugh offers, unsure why that something in his eyes changes at the words, “I get it.”

“I thought a lot about it, and...you were right.”  

It's a phrase he's heard before, when he and Paul argued, when Paul was ready to apologize, but there's something about it now that sets him on edge.  He’s wearing the expression he always had when he’d upset Hugh and still wasn’t sure what he’d done wrong but was sorry.  

I'm sorry too.

“If I can take anything from all this, is that...forward motion is the most honest choice.  For both of us.”

Hugh looks down, nodding.  Heat rushes across his cheeks to his nose, eyes going wet.

”Thank you for saying that.”

The smile he gives him is brittle, and they both know it’s just a front for deeper emotions.  

“I hope that, whatever life you find from here...whoever you find it with, you’re happy, Hugh.”

No.

Time stretches out, his pulse pounding in his ears. 

If Paul is truly ready to move on, how could he ask him not to when he was the one who demanded it of him in the first place?  He sees it written on Paul’s face, the pain every time he lays eyes on Hugh.  He can’t stay.  Not now.  Not if it’s only going to hurt him more.  

Even if...even if he still loves him.

Too late.

“You too, Paul.”

Don't cry, dammit.

For a moment, it almost seems if Paul is about to reach out to him, to take his hand or maybe hug him.  Something about the way his chin tilts up and hands moving up from his sides.  Hugh he squeezes his fingers together, forcing back the urge to pull him close and beg him to change his mind.

Too late. 

“Once Enterprise catches up with us...I’ll be joining them.”

Please ask me to stay, he pleads silently, tell me not to go.  

Paul's silent for a moment, face gone blank.  

“Of course.  I need to see...how the fabrication team is doing with the suit.”

Hugh's left standing there with unshed tears burning in his eyes, the ring a heavy weight around his neck, as Paul practically runs up the stairs and out the door.   

He couldn't wait to get away from you.

You had a second chance. 

It didn't last forever.

Chapter Text

Hugh can't be sure how long he's standing there, the hive of activity in the bay swirling around him.  Eventually, after the third engineer nearly trips over him, he turns and slowly makes his way back to the medbay.

"Well?" Tracy doesn't glance up from the PADD she's working on, but her voice takes on a teasing edge, "Was I right?"

He makes a strangled noise, not trusting his voice, and her head jerks up.

"Hugh?"

She sets down the PADD, crosses to him and bodily drags him by the elbow to sit down.

"What happened?"

Shaking his head, he presses his lips together, forcing back down the sob that wants to claw its way out of his throat.

"...do- doesn't.  Love me."

"What?  No."

"Told me to be happy with someone else."

Tracy's mouth falls open, staring.  Apparently, she can't process it any better than he can, and that thought isn't a comfort at all.

"Told...hi- said I wuhh- was...h-he didn't.  Ask me to stay."

The medbay doors open, and Tracy waves Aisha over to see whoever it is.  She pulls Hugh further back into the CMO's office, closing the door and opaquing the wall.

"Hugh, I..."

She pulls him into a hug, and he buries his face in her shoulder, eyes closed and shaking with the effort of holding back.  He can't break down, not now, maybe never, but it's so very tempting.  Tracy's hand is warm on his back, her voice quiet and infinitely sad.

"I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry."

Too late.

********

The summons to the bridge for what turns out to be Michael's farewell speech is almost too much.  He hadn't let himself cry with Tracy, and he can't do it now either, not least because it would take away from Michael.  Locked in his own misery, the thought of her tumbling nine hundred years into the future doesn't even compare to the pain ripping his chest apart.

“Thank you for the greatest moments of my life.”

Paul’s at the Engineering station, just visible through the view screen in front of it.  The glow from the display gives his hair a red tinge, and Hugh remembers a much younger Paul, hair gone strawberry blond in the sun on Deneva.  Remembers laughing in that sunshine, out for a walk in the public gardens, giddy with the joy of committing to each other.  He glances over and has to look away again, has to focus on breathing steadily and not finding somewhere to hide. 

Doesn't matter now. 

********

Preparing to evacuate again is made much simpler by the fact that most of what they'd transferred to Enterprise and brought back hasn't even been unpacked.  There's just an hour left, before Leland-as-Control and his fleet arrive, an hour to make preparations and build a time suit and program as many systems onto automatic as possible.  If they can't manage to get it done quickly, they're going to have to somehow survive long enough to get the time wormhole open, the remaining skeleton crew climbing into escape pods before Discovery breaches the event horizon and is gone forever, never mind whatever is left of the Section 31 fleet picking off pods.  

The medical staff is laying out trauma kits, readying for battle with an edge of frantic motion that he remembers all too well from the Klingon war.  Zarrin is prepping the tissue and plasma synthesizers, Aisha is busy getting Med Two set up for non-critical injuries, and Hugh is pointedly not thinking about anything as he programs the surgical equipment for auto-assist when the doors open and Tilly bursts in.

"Doctor Culber!" 

"Tilly?" Tracy pauses stripping open field dressings, "Are you okay?"

"I need to talk to Doctor Culber.  Right now."

She's worrying her lip between her teeth, nose scrunched in a frown with a note in her voice that's markedly different from her characteristic nervous chatter.  He can't tell if this is medical or personal, but motions at the CMO's office, following her in and blanking the walls again. 

"Tilly?"

The office isn't large, but she's pacing from end to end, one hand buried in her hair and the other on her hip, shaking her head. 

"Look, I know- I know it's not my place.  It's none of my business- okay, that's not true either.  It's...I just really think that you-"

"Hey, I need you to slow down and take a breath."

"No!" her outburst seems to startle them both, and she blinks rapidly before continuing, "I mean, I can't.  It's really important.  And I didn't know what to do, I thought about it and tried to tell myself that I shouldn't interfere, but Michael always says that I'll know when I'm doing the right thing, and this feels- okay, this feels really awkward, but I have to.  Help him.  Help you."

Hugh's trying to follow along with her vague introduction to the topic, but his stomach falls at the last few words.  There's really only one 'him' she could be referring to.

"Look, I-"

"It's-" she closes her eyes, "some of us are staying.  With Michael."

"...what?"

Tilly’s hands are clenched in fists at her sides, and he swallows down the twist of pain in his chest at the action, reminding him of someone else. 

"We're going with her.  Because she needs us, and she's family and we're not leaving her."

"Tilly, I-"

"I can't ask you to come with us, because who even knows if we'll be alive on the other side of that wormhole, but you need to say goodbye.  Nilsson said you were in Engineering and- and...Stamets said something to you and walked away, but that doesn't matter now.  Because," she's crying openly now, tears dropping down off of her chin, "because Stamets is coming with us, and whatever he said to you, he still loves you.  And I think maybe, maybe no matter all of the other things, I think maybe you still do too.  And maybe we're all gonna die when Control gets here, so just...tell him.  And if I'm wrong, I'm so sorry, but...but you need to know."

Tilly inhales deeply, whirls and heads for the door.

"Wait!"

She stops, and he waves her to sit, which she pointedly ignores.  Her reddened eyes glare at him with an intensity he wouldn't have expected, but probably should have.  Not for the first time, he knows she's going to be a great Captain.

If we all survive.

"He- I, we... we don't.  I know we don't now.  Too late."

"You're wrong."

The statement is flat, a fact, something immovable.  It's said with so much conviction that for a moment he almost believes her despite what he knows to be true.

"I-" Tilly swallows hard, "we all recorded messages.  To our families.  I heard him doing yours.  Did you not listen yet?"

”What?”

He picks up his personal PADD from the desk, thumbs it on to find a message waiting, alert ignored in the midst of everything else.

>> Audio message from Stamets, Paul, LTCDR

>> Begin playback

"Hi Hugh, I uhhh don't know if you knew what we were doing, I just hope you're safe on Enterprise.  Take care of yourself.  And thank you, for...everything."

>> End of message

>> Acknowledge, delete, or reply?

Tilly's eyes grow wide and she starts shaking her head before the recording even finishes.

"No.  That's not what he said.  He must have sent you another one."

"Tilly...are you sure it was for-"

"I know what I heard."

He can't hope, not after everything.  There's no room for it now.

"I...you couldn't have.  Couldn't."

"Hugh."

He freezes.  He's never been able to get her to be comfortable with his first name, always an awkward stumble over it when he does remind her that he doesn't have to be "Doctor" or "sir" off-shift.  Her voice right now, despite the strain, is firm.  Collected.  Commanding.

“Do you trust me?”

”I- yes.”

”He loves you,” she whispers, eyes full of conviction, “he said so.  I heard it.”

Chirp.

”Reno to Tilly.”

“Tilly here.”

“Crystal.  Science lab, five minutes.  Got it?”

"I- I'll be on my way."

”All right.  You done with the Doc?”

“Sort of with him right now, Reno.”

There’s a pause and Tilly’s cheeks flush pink, but she doesn’t break eye contact.

“Hugh, get your ass down to Engineering and tell that man how you feel.  Or don’t.  But for fuck’s sake, if we end up alive nine hundred years on the other side, I will find a way back and strangle you myself, because you have a chance to say goodbye properly.  He's already lost you once, and this time it's gonna be permanent.  No do-overs.  You hear me?  You have a chance.  Use it.  And if you still love him as much as that idiot loves you...“ Reno chuckles wetly, voice losing its edge, “no one gets a third chance.  Send him off knowing that.  Reno out."  

Tilly gives him a hard look that crumbles, biting her lip. 

"I'm going to miss you.  Goodbye, Doctor Culber."

She reaches out, squeezes his hands, and is gone an instant later.

Chapter Text

He walks out of the CMO's office to find Tracy waiting for him.  

"Hugh."

If he doesn't go, he loses his best friend.  Loses any chance of ever seeing Paul again.  Loses Rhys and Detmer and Owo, Game Night and gossip.

Tilly says he still loves you.

If he stays, there's no time to say goodbye to his family.  No time to record messages to his friends, or go back to Earth for the things in his room at home.  No time to hug his grandmother one more time.

You died here already. 

This life is yours now.

I t's an impossible choice.

It's an easy one.

"You don't have to."

"...what?"

"I'm staying."

"Hugh..."

"You still owe me for saving our final project at Medical.  Not letting you skip out.  And...Paul.  Tilly said- said I still have a chance."

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

For the first time in a long time, Hugh laughs.

"No.  But the people I love, my friends, are here."

Tracy stares at him for a long moment, face unreadable.  Then she nods, slowly, a smile spreading across her face.

"I missed you, Hugh."

He snorts at that, picking up his PADD and quickly typing in a familiar frequency.  No subspace for a call, but he sees the file stream of messages being passed to Enterprise to relay back to Earth. 

"I need to say goodbye to Abuela."

"Of course.  Tell her I'll look after you," Tracy shoots over her shoulder, "then get out here, we have a medbay to prepare."

The doors swish shut behind her.

He takes a few breaths to compose his thoughts, then switches over to video recording.

>> Record message for Echevarría, Aida

>> Universal translator off

>> Transcription language: Earth, Spanish

"Hi Abuelita," he tries to smile, knows it's wobbly at best, "I- I love you.  I'm so sorry I didn't tell you this in person.  We're...leaving.  And I don't know that we can ever come back.  Tracy- heh, Tracy said to tell you she'll look after me.  Tell Mama and Dad that I love them, so much.  And- I think I might have another chance.  With Paul.  I...I couldn't not try.  I have to go now, but just...please don't worry about me.  Thank you for everything, for always being there for me when I needed you.  I'm going to miss you so much.  I love you, Abuelita."

He blows a kiss at the screen, then ends the recording, parceling it in with the others for Enterprise.  

Forward motion.

Chapter Text

The ship lurches, lights flickering.  Zarrin yells to silence the alarms as another stretcher comes in and Hugh slaps a field dressing on his rushed surgical repair and nearly loses his footing as he moves to take over.

"Are you planning on telling him, or is he just going to find out?"

Tracy's on the other side of the biobed as the patient is transferred, immediately administering tri-ox and changing her gloves.

"A bit busy for a comm," he bares his teeth in what isn't exactly a smile, "so..."

"Doctor Culber!"

He's pulled away to a cadet with a crushed leg, mind whirling with the controlled chaos of a trauma ward.  The cadet is stabilized, passed off to be taken to Med Two, and he barely has time to change his gloves before a new body is loaded onto the biobed.

The battle rages on, and he doesn't have time to be worried about anything but the lives under his hands.

********

Hugh forgets how to breathe when he sees Paul lying on the biobed, so still and the front of his uniform soaked with blood.  He saw Tilly stumbling by on her way out; there's no way she could have carried him, meaning he somehow walked in here like that, twisted metal lodged in his chest.

All of the chaos around him blurs into the background - the ship rocking as it’s hit by weapons fire (he can’t worry about that, can’t control it, can only save the lives in his hands), the cries of the wounded, alarms going off as the medical staff rush to triage and stabilize patients while more keep pouring in.

While Hugh is frozen, Doctor Culber continues to evaluate the patient’s condition.  The medical professional in him takes in the failing vital signs and warnings on the biobed monitor, dispassionately observing that the patient - that Paul is minutes away from crashing due to hypovolemic shock.

Shrapnel has penetrated the upper thoracic cavity, causing massive pericardial trauma.  The ongoing presence of the shrapnel has, however, slowed a fatal drop in blood pressure, partially plugging the wound it caused.

Pneumothorax.  Left lung collapsing, courtesy of the broken ribs, shattered sternum unable to support the chest wall struggling to maintain sufficient negative pressure.

There are a plethora of other, non life-threatening injuries as well: multiple cuts to the face from flying debris; a broken elbow, perhaps from hitting a bulkhead or console in the explosion; minor concussion likely sustained at the same time as the elbow.

All of this takes place in a few seconds that Hugh experiences as years, the rush of his own pulse in his ears drowning out everything else.  He gives himself a moment to feel, teetering on the edge of despair - for all of his spore drive-related injuries, this is the first time he genuinely believes that Paul could die under his hands - before locking down the paralyzing panic and shoving everything else aside save for his oath as a physician.  His focus sharpens, sucking in a deep breath to steady himself, pulling Doctor Culber around himself like a shield and forcing a calm he in no way feels.

“Paul?  Hi...”

”Hugh?”

His fair skin has gone dangerously pale, breathing shallow and labored.

”I know you’re in a lot of pain.”

Hugh would give anything for a 'thank you Doctor, I hadn't noticed' or a sarcastic eyeroll for stating the obvious. 

He keeps one eye on that familiar face, now twisted in agony, while he scans his upper chest with a handheld sensor.  The data confirm what his quick evaluation yielded, but also, also that it's something he can fix.  If he can seal the blood vessels and repair the damage, if the medbay doesn't lose power while he forces Paul's heart to keep beating, if-

Focus, Doctor Culber. 

”Paul, your injuries are pretty severe, I’m gonna induce coma.”

The hypospray hisses and Paul whimpers, shaking his head, eyes unable to focus.  Paul had told him in a light tone of voice that did nothing to soften the horror of it all, that sometimes he still had trouble falling asleep for fear of being trapped outside his body again.  It was a throwaway comment while Hugh was undergoing tests after his return, but the implication had of course been that sleeping beside Hugh would remedy the issue.  He suspects the same panic now, but there's no way to repair the damage without sedation, not while Paul's fear and pain are flooding his body with stress hormones.

“You’ll be fine!" He wills the words into truth, has to believe it himself.  "Just listen to my voice, you can hear me.”

The hand on Paul’s shoulder is as much to steady them both against the rocking of the ship as it is for comfort.  He tells himself he'd do it for any patient, to ease their fears and provide the comfort of touch (because the wonders of modern medicine and technological advances still can't reproduce that).  Hugh switches instruments, reaches for one that will generate a temporary low-level forcefield around Paul's heart to prevent pericardial rupture and support the muscle contractions necessary to keep blood pumping.  The tri-ox he administered along with sedative should take some of the load off his injured cardiopulmonary tissues, at least for the next hour or so.  

Paul's still fighting to stay conscious - his partner is so stubborn - and Hugh doesn't even stop to examine the fond exasperation at that thought.  Or that absent all other things, he still considers Paul his.  

”I thought I could make my home on Enterprise-” Hugh clenches his jaw as Paul moans in distress, “you’re doing fine."

Leaving for Enterprise would have given them physical distance, and Hugh had hoped that maybe, just maybe they could try again someday.  He made his decision, because losing him forever without even the slightest chance of trying to mend this...is not something he can bear, no matter how much he thought he wanted a clean break.   

It's now or never, then...if Paul doesn't make it through (don't even think that), doesn't wake up again, he might never know.  

"But then I realized that...you’re my home, so I came back."

While he talks, his hands work on autopilot with a deep tissue regenerator, rebuilding the damaged blood vessels and accelerating cellular regeneration for the blunt force trauma to his ribs.  He activates a sterilizing field, glances over to check that the laser scalpel and microsurgical tools he needs are laid out. 

"Everything...always, came back around to you.  I’m just sorry it took me so long to see it."

Even though you tried to let me go.

There's so much more he needs to say, and neither of them have the time for him to say it now.  

“So you go to sleep now, okay?  You let me take care of you.”

He presses the cortical monitor against the blood-smeared skin on Paul’s neck, fingers moving to smooth the hair back from his face.  Just one more thing before he absolutely has to start surgery.  Ten seconds. 

“I’m your family.  Wherever we go from here," he wills Paul to understand, "we go together.”

There’s the barest hint of a smile on Paul’s pale lips as he slips into unconsciousness, but it’s enough.  

Hugh presses a kiss to his forehead, the same place he’s kissed Paul goodnight and good morning for years, and Doctor Culber sets about saving his life.

********

The ship takes more hits than Hugh can keep track of, the lights and equipment flicker but stay on.  The sheer amount of shrapnel injuries and burns remind him unpleasantly of providing medical relief on Tellar after a terrorist bombing in a crowded theater.  

More wounded are still streaming in as triage stabilizes the worst injured - Paul among them  - and those with less life-threatening injuries are brought in from Med Two and corridors.  His own uniform is liberally streaked in blood, the sleeves nearly covered from wrist to elbow.  Some of it’s Paul’s, but it’s mingled with that from countless others.  Hugh loses track of how many times he changes gloves, reaches for hyposprays, performs quick and inelegant surgery.  Nilsson and others who can be spared in the middle of the battle provide extra hands, those with more than standard field surgical training assisting directly.  

The call comes through that Michael has been successful opening the wormhole, and Medical barely notices, too busy saving lives.  He stumbles over to Paul’s bedside, smooths his hair back and gently strokes his temple.  He notices that someone has stripped and cleaned off the worst of the blood smeared across Paul’s torso - he’d cut away the mangled uniform to reach the wound, but hadn’t bothered with more than that - and spares a glance for the surgical site.  It's a rushed job by necessity, the number of casualties coming in forcing him to do no more than stabilize Paul enough that he could leave to treat others.  There's still a micro-forcefield holding his damaged pericardium together, but he was at least able to leave the deep tissue regenerator to accelerate healing until he's able to perform surgery properly. 

”We’re on our way, Paul,” he hopes Paul can hear him, “we’re on our way.”

Enough people had apparently elected to follow Michael into the future, and given the scope of battle he can’t imagine an empty Discovery on autopilot surviving.  A ship might be bones and muscles, but the crew are its lifeblood.  

The medical staff continue working, even as a strange otherworldly glare overtakes them all, faces and figures blurring.  Hugh is manually removing shrapnel and repairing the intestinal rupture under his fingers, wrist-deep in the wound and can't walk away, but he spares a few seconds to turn and look at Paul again.  In the light from the wormhole passage, his pale skin almost looks like it's glowing, brilliant white turning his blond hair into a halo.

He closes his eyes as the light flares too bright to keep them open, one thought on his mind even as his hands still work.

He's so beautiful.

Chapter Text

The light fades and work continues, all of them too busy to worry about things like when and where they might be.  Eventually, the flow of patients slows, then ceases.

"Hugh."

Tracy's voice at his shoulder is exhausted, but determined.  Hugh finishes setting up the regen for an arterial repair, and follows her gaze across the room.  In the rest of the medbay, everyone else has been more or less stabilized, the less critical cases moved to Med Two, and doctors and nurses are taking it in turns to clean their uniforms as best they can and triage the remaining casualties.  

"Go on," she nudges him gently with her hip, and he can see that she's pulling on a new pair of gloves, "I'll do rounds, go take care of him."

He nods jerkily, doesn't even offer a token protest.  It's torture to stop to shed his uniform jacket and do a quick decontamination protocol, but the routine helps him gather his thoughts.  The synthesizers are busy with plasma and other vital activities, so there's nothing clean to change into, but it's hardly the first time he or Tracy or any of the medical staff on the front lines of the war operated in their undershirts.  Someone presses a nutrient drink into his hand, fingers cool and strong.  He's about to wave it off when he realizes it's Nilsson, jacket tied around her waist and fabric and exposed skin alike streaked with soot and blood.  Hugh can't imagine that his own appearance is much better, although the contrast is probably less severe.  She's not looking at him, her eyes on the same biobed he's heading to next. 

"Thank you."

He squeezes her wrist gently and she starts a little, releasing the glass with a wry quirk of her lips.  

"Nilsson, can you come assist?"

It's Tracy, and her voice is rough from yelling over the sound of klaxons and explosions.  

"Coming!"

They share a look of silent understanding before she crosses the room, then he forces himself to down the tasteless drink in a few gulps before dropping the glass into the recycler.  At last, he turns his attention to the one place it never really left.  Adrenaline helps him stay in the right headspace, focusing on Paul as his patient, but he needs his hands to be as steady as possible.  Paul's vitals are way off of normal, and the tri-ox boost is starting to wane because his oxygen saturation levels have dropped two percent since Hugh last checked.  His pulse is steady, but that is almost entirely due to the forcefield supporting his heart with an artificial rhythm and the unit of blood to bring his pressure back up.  Inhaling, he blinks a few times and is about to check that his microsurgical tools are still waiting when something on the readout catches his eye. 

Patient: P. Stamets

Physician: H. Culber

Aisha or maybe Tracy has already carried out triage, assigning patients to the remaining staff.  It's a minor thing in the middle of a battle, but something about seeing his name listed below Paul's makes his eyes sting and he has to swallow hard.  He’s responsible for Paul’s life.

Focus, Doctor.

He checks the cortical monitor, satisfied with Paul's brain wave activity, and pulls his kit closer.  Hugh's planning to reach for gloves, but hesitates and finds himself reaching forward.  It's instinctive, and it's so much more than a relief to not suppress the urge, pressing his index and middle fingers under Paul's jaw to physically feel his pulse.  He hasn't touched him like this since...before.  Stubble rasps under his fingertips as they slip a little further down, feeling over the tiny raised scar.

("I cut myself."

" With?"

" Grandpa used one of those old-fashioned razors, and- what?  Stop looking at me like that.  I was fifteen and convinced I needed to be able to shave if I was ever going to grow any facial hair.")

Paul's warm and alive, and right now he needs Hugh to get it together and operate.  He glances around quickly, seeing that no one is obviously looking their direction.  Hugh bends down to rest his forehead on Paul’s temple briefly.  

"I'm going to take care of you," he murmurs, almost too low to be heard over the whine of equipment and sensors, "I've got you."

There's no response of course, but something settles in his chest and Doctor Culber re-emerges, mentally running through checklists as he dons new gloves.  He administers another two cc's of tri-ox and is about to deactivate the sterile field when Aisha appears at his side, pulling up a stool and setting down her own kit, obviously planning to assist.

"Thanks."

She nods, rapidly scrolling through the record and waves her own scanner over Paul's chest. 

"Damn.  Where's my-"

A cadet scurries over, arm held immobile in a brace, touch interface in hand.  His eyes are wide and he's sporting a substantial bruise on his cheek, but he seems to be as calm as anyone could be.

"Thanks.  Now get down to Med Two and have them look at your arm."

He nods, casting a worried look over the three of them before heading off as directed.

"Where do you want to start?"

They trade places, Hugh coming to sit at Paul's right side as Aisha lays out her equipment.  Hugh switches hands, gripping the laser scalpel in his left and freeing his right to rest on Paul's sternum, forming a V with his fingers.  He's equally adept performing surgery with either hand - because trauma cases aren't always going to present with the side of the body most convenient for him - but would rather do this where he has the most confidence.  Paul’s skin is so pale beneath his fingers, the contrast in colors nearly shocking in how long it's been since he's seen it.

"Incision here," he traces a diagonal pass high across midline, "try to keep most of the sternum intact because it's still regenning, I'm going to go in above the aortic arch and move down.  Pulled the big pieces out already, but I think there's still some fragments lodged over the right atrium."

"All right.  Looks like there's some fluid buildup in the pleural cavity and the left lung is still partially collapsed - want me to start on that, or do pericardial repair?"

"Lung.  There's not enough space for both of us coming from that angle."

"Got it.  Go ahead and calibrate, I'll prep."

Hugh passes her the sterile swabs, then quickly programs the microsurgical interface to his preferred setup.  A little bit of the tension in his spine uncoils when Aisha initiates the ventilator, oxygen saturation stabilizing.

"We ready?"

He waits for her nod, then steadies his elbow on the edge of the biobed before thumbing on the scalpel and drawing it across Paul's chest a handspan below his suprasternal notch.  Slicing through the pectoral muscle is going to be painful sitting up even after regen, but it's the best way to reach his heart without disturbing Aisha and preserving his still-fragile sternum.  It takes a few passes to get through the chest wall, and he silently thanks the generations of physicians before him who invented stabilizers to control bleeding almost instantly, freeing up hands to assist elsewhere that in centuries past would have been crowded into the tiny space.  There's enough to worry about damage to the heart itself that he can't imagine how it would be to have to be otherwise.

Aisha passes him an elevator, and he carefully wedges it under the ribs to lift them out of the way.  Objectively knowing what he would find based on scans is one thing, but he hisses in a breath when he finally sees the forcefield glowing around Paul's heart, snugged up close to the periphery of the organ and reflecting a deep scarlet from the blood leaking into his pericardial cavity.  A century ago this wound would have been fatal, no way to support the weakened membrane before the patient bled out internally, and the thought rattles the steel in his spine before Doctor Culber nudges Hugh aside and re-focuses.

"Good over there?"

"Yeah.  Less than fifty cc's, he's already almost back up to full volume so it must have been trapped when you stabilized.  I don't think it's coming from your side, at least."

"Okay."

He uses his right middle finger to slowly dial back the forcefield, creating a window in it about the size of his thumbnail.  Instantly, more blood wells up and he releases the dial before it can turn into a torrent.

"Fuck."

"Hugh?"

Aisha doesn't look up, but he can sense her attention shifting from the tube she's inserting.

"Sorry.  Looks like the damage is worse than the initial eval.  I put the field up before I could do a full assessment to keep his heart going, but I think some of the fragments were trapped and shredded what's left of his pericardium.  Full rupture, multiple locations."

"Graft?  Or replace."

Hugh reaches for the tissue sampler, this time opening a much smaller window in the field to retrieve a tiny portion of the membrane floating under its blue glow.  

"Depends.  Tracy?"

His voice carries, and Tracy's response is immediate.

"You need Nilsson?"

"No, just, how many cycles left before I can use the tissue synth?"

If he's not able to get it processed fast enough, they might end up having to wait an hour before doing a much more painstaking full replacement.  He'd much rather go with grafts to preserve as much of the original tissue as possible, but it depends on who else is using the synthesizer.

"Takeshi just finished, but it's tapped out of progenitors."

"Thanks, should be fine, can do a stem cell extract from what I've got."

Aisha's already holding her hand out to take the sampler, carrying it to the synthesizer and programming it for a rapid cycle.

"Time?"

"Ten, twenty if it can't salvage good ones and needs to build from his file."

Nodding, he pushes that to the side of his mind.

"Going to try and drain some of the blood from under the field then.  Right ventricle puncture should be almost knitted anyway by now.  Unless you need a hand?"

"I've got it.  There's some damage to the diaphragm, not perforated, but I'll take care of it."

"No criticals that need you?"

"Hugh," Aisha lowers her voice, "the team in Med Two have it under control.  Tracy's got Nilsson, Zarrin and Perretta are rounding in here.  You're not taking me away from anything else."

You're wasting time, Doctor.

"Okay."

The microsurgical apparatus is less bulky than its predecessors, but still takes up a significant amount of space as he positions it over the site and fits the sensor glove on his left hand.   It takes a moment for the scanner to process, then a three-dimensional image of Paul's heart is floating in the air above his chest.  He zooms in, identifies at least four fragments embedded high on the right atrium and dangerously close to the aorta.  Staring hard at the image, he rotates it a full 360 degrees to be sure, then starts guiding the tools in.

Unfortunately, dialing back the forcefield to allow them access means it's no longer regulating each heartbeat as closely.  Left on its own, contractions are uneven, and he clenches his jaw as the muscle flutters erratically.  Sometimes, despite all of the technology, it takes time-tested methods too.  Very carefully, he slips his fingers underneath, feeling the buzz of the forcefield against the thin material of his glove as he cradles Paul's heart in his right hand, steadying it enough that he can reach the fragments without causing further damage. 

Two decades of surgical experience aside, he still has to remind himself to breathe steadily as he activates the device and retrieves the bits of twisted metal.  Watching the stereotactic display, he painstakingly plucks the tiniest pieces off the heart muscle itself, a dozen bits barely visible but dangerous all the same.  There's a pause of fifteen seconds while the scanner makes another sweep, and he lets his eyes wander up to Paul's face.

"You're doing fine," he whispers. 

He can hear Aisha mumbling to herself on the other side, long practice allowing him to ignore it.  Doctors range the spectrum from complete silence during surgery to full-blown narration (one of his instructors at Starfleet Medical used to recite Tibetan meditative chants), so he's not going to break focus unless he hears his name and knows she's doing the same.

At last, the scanner beeps confirmation that all of the foreign material has been removed.  Aisha glances up at the flashing green status indicator, then over at the synthesizer.

"Grafts should be done.  Ready for them?"

There's some damage to the right atrium that needs his attention, but that should be a straightforward fix, no more than a few minutes.

"Please.  You at a good stopping point?"

"Yeah.  Diaphragm is patched, so we should be good to go."

"Okay.  I'll do the pericardial repair next."

Aisha works quickly, closing up the small incision and pulling her gloves off.

"Be right back."

She returns just as he finishes, examining the floating image.

"Looks good, Hugh."

"Thanks."

Setting the tray with its rectangular patches of new pericardium to Hugh's left, she rounds the biobed again and picks up another scanner.

"Haven't set his elbow yet, want me to do that?"

"Please.  And thank you, Aisha."

It's for more than just the assistance, and she nods acknowledgement.  He checks Paul's oxygen saturation one more time, then uses forceps to lift the new tissue into place.  It's delicate work, but he's patient, nudging the grafts into place one at a time.  He lays a line of bio-suture base over the tears, hearing the osteoregen start up.  When he's complete, he carefully scans a final time for any fragments, then begins the task of closing up the surgical site.  

By the time he’s done with Paul’s surgery, the medbay is almost quiet again.  He waves Aisha off to take care of some of the non-critical injuries finally coming in after (presumably) ensuring that the ship is going to hold together, and is left alone to finish.  Groaning quietly, he peels off the gloves, flexing his fingers to release the tension building in his knuckles.  Tracy and Aisha have their heads together over an ensign’s shattered hip, but otherwise the only remaining patients are those in need of critical care observation.  

He turns off the sterile field, moves it aside to a cart, and takes a look at Paul's chest with all of the equipment out of the way.  It’s almost completely regenerated, the skin a delicate pink, and he thinks of literally putting Paul’s heart back together, feeling it beat under his fingers.  They’re down to three working dermal regens between the two medbays, the other two dozen either charging or run down so much that they’re only good for the most superficial cuts.  He thumbs one on, checking the power levels.  It should be enough to at least speed up cellular turnover and maybe take a tiny bit of strain off Paul’s body during the recovery process.  

Hugh takes the time he didn’t have earlier, cleaning the cuts and abrasions on Paul’s face and neck by hand using sterile solution and a swab instead of running out the dwindling batteries on their instruments.  It's something he could easily leave to a tech, but he needs to feel Paul under his hands to know he's whole and alive.  Bit by bit, the dried blood and soot are swept away, and he applies antiseptic to the worst of the superficial wounds.  It’s almost meditative, letting his hands work and his mind slowly start to come down from the hyper focus of adrenaline.  He runs his fingers through the hair at the crown of Paul’s head, untangling where it’s matted together and giving it a quick rinse.  

At last, he's left with a pile of used gauze that he tosses into the recycler, placing the regen back in its charging cradle and rubbing his sore wrists.  Tracy seems to have chased the techs out to go clean up, and Perretta and Nilsson are taking care of the tasks Hugh completed for Paul on the other patients.  Nilsson stops by, lingering at his shoulder, and he gives her a tired smile.  She holds up a smock, a smile of her own in place.

"I figured you would want to change him."

He has just enough energy left to summon up a response other than 'yes'.

"Seeing your section chief in his underwear traumatizing?"

Nilsson's smile turns into a full blown grin, then a wince as it pulls at a cut on her cheek.

"Something like that."

Hugh already has a regen in hand, standing up.

"Let me take care of-"

She pushes him back down with a hand on his shoulder, dropping the smock on his lap.

"Perretta's going to help me get this all cleaned up.  It's fine."

"All right."

He turns back to Paul, trying to gauge if the new skin will be disturbed by fabric rubbing on it.  First things first though - he grabs a blanket from one of the cabinets and sets it on the stool, then unzips Paul's boots and pulls them off.  They're stained with the same detritus as everything and everyone else, and he tucks them under the biobed to be cleaned when he's sure there's enough power for non-essentials.  His socks go straight into the recycler along with the remains of his jacket and undershirt from the floor, and he notices Tracy going around performing the same clean up service.

A good CMO is never too good for any job.

Hugh unsnaps the waistband on Paul's pants and pauses with his fingers on the zipper.  It's not that it's unfamiliar - he doubts either of them could count the times they'd undressed the other - but it's somehow more intimate because of the nonsexual context.  The pants are a lost cause, and he carefully plucks a tiny piece of shrapnel out of Paul's thigh as he eases them down.  He quickly covers him with the blanket, thinking of all the nights Paul wedged his ice-cold feet between Hugh's ankles to warm them up.  It takes a bit of maneuvering to slip the smock on, and he leaves it untied, unwilling to disrupt the cellular regeneration.     

A flicker of doubt coils in his stomach, worrying that his hands might be unwelcome despite Paul's smile as he slipped into unconsciousness.  There's nothing he can do about that until Paul is awake again though, other than keeping his touch respectful.  Sighing, Hugh pulls the stool closer and sits again, reaching beneath the blanket and wrapping Paul's fingers with his own.

"I'm here, Paul.  I'm here."

Chapter Text

“Hugh.  You look like hell.”

”Thanks,” Hugh mutters, suppressing a yawn and rubbing his tired eyes, "love you too."

”Go get some sleep.  I’ll comm you if he wakes up.  You’re not doing any of us any good like this.”

Tracy’s quiet tone belies the brusque words.

"I'm-" he bites hit tongue to stop another yawn, "I'm fine.  I'll just get some coffee."

The medbay is mostly empty at this point, the only patients remaining those requiring critical care or recovery, and Hugh had made sure to do the rounds and kept an eye on each of their vitals before settling down in his current location.  That was three hours ago, and while his legs are starting to go pins and needles from sitting for so long, he doesn't want Paul to wake up alone.

He's not alone, Tracy and Zarrin are here.

He has the utmost confidence in his fellow medical staff, but a very stubborn part of his brain - the same one that pulled him to stay onboard - insists that he talked Paul down into a coma and therefore needs to be there when he opens his eyes again.  The twenty-third century offered great medical advances compared to years past, but some things haven’t changed.  One of those is that, no matter how safe and effective stimulants might be, it’s still best to let an injured person return to consciousness on their own.  Unless doing so was risky, Hugh tended to let the natural healing process complete after treatment.  The same principle applies to Paul, but it doesn’t make it any easier to wait.

Tilly joined him in his vigil an hour or so ago, frown relaxing as soon as she saw Hugh beside Paul's bed.  She hasn't bothered to clean up either outside of the wet towel Tracy offered for her face, jacket unzipped and liberally decorated with burns.  There's a dark patch of dried blood on her left sleeve cuff that Hugh has a sinking suspicion belongs to Paul (and he's never going to be able to thank her or Nilsson enough for keeping Paul conscious while they brought him in), and he thinks wanting to see Paul in person is as much a reflection of her caring nature as it is a need to banish the trauma of having to leave him.

Hugh lets go of Paul's hand to reach for his scanner, only to be stopped by Tracy who very gently catches his wrist and directs it back to where it was.

"The sedative is almost completely gone from his system," she confirms, "so it's just a matter of time before he wakes up."

It's completely factual and reasonable and he knows it, but he still shakes his head in refusal.

"I need to be here, Trace."

Tracy sighs, leaning her hip on the biobed and crossing her arms.  

"Why don't you get changed at least?  I promise I'll let you know if he starts coming to while you're gone."

That section of Deck Four is currently uninhabitable until life support is restored, but even if he could go to his quarters, five minutes roundtrip at a jog seems like too long to be away.  He doesn't say anything, just levels a look at her own uniform  which is just as filthy as Hugh's, still waiting on the all-clear for non-essential power use to synthesize something new.  Tracy looks unimpressed.

"You had clothes in your bag, right?  I moved it to the CMO's office.  I think you can spare a couple of minutes."

Hugh blinks, unsure how he'd forgotten about his duffel, but the post-adrenaline fog is probably to blame.  He chews his lip, considering.  From the foot of the biobed, Tilly's head pops up from where she's pretending not to be dozing off with her head nearly resting on Paul's covered shins.

"We'll stay with him, Doctor."

There probably isn't a sentient being in the universe able to withstand the combined force of Tracy and Tilly insisting on something.  The muscles of his back and legs are simultaneously grateful and protest standing, walking stiffly into the office to retrieve his bag and carrying it into the bathroom.  He switches the automatic door to manual, leaving it open a few inches to be able to hear anything from the main bay.

The lower half of his reflection looks like it's been dragged through a firefight, clean undershirt incongruous above the dried blood on his pants and boots.  He washes his face and arms before stripping down to his briefs, still listening, then sets the bag on the counter and unzips it.  There aren't any uniforms inside, but he does have a single change of clothing, including underwear and socks.  

"Gracias, Abuela," he murmurs, remembering his grandmother's rule of never packing a bag without an extra set of clothes.  

Hugh carefully sets aside the bittersweet ache in his chest at that memory, pulling on the sweatpants, DISCO t-shirt, and socks and bundling up his dirty uniform to be recycled.  He steps out of the bathroom, disposes of the less-than-white fabric and deposits his boots on the floor of the office alongside his bag, unwilling to put them back on until they've been cleaned.  All told, he's taken less than two minutes and immediately returns to Paul who is, unsurprisingly, in the exact same position Hugh left him in.  Tracy's speaking quietly with Tilly, a hand on Paul's ankle while she stands there.  It's a practice trained into them at Medical - excepting cases where physical contact would break a sociocultural taboo - to let even an unconscious patient know someone is nearby, but he appreciates it nonetheless. 

He reclaims his seat, lifting Paul's hand from under the blanket and giving it a squeeze.

"I'm here," he murmurs, "it's safe to wake up now, okay?"

Whatever the two at the end of the bed are up to, it ends with a nod from Tracy.  

"Hugh?"

"Hmmm."

”Is there a risk to him not staying here?”

He frowns, tearing his eyes away from Paul's sleeping face.  While he's not sure where she's going with her question, Tracy doesn’t insult him by following it with a suggestion that his response might be anything but objective.  Paul’s off the ventilator and breathing on his own, and the surgical site is completely healed.  His heart tissue and pericardium are still going to be fragile for a few days while his body finishes the healing process, but it's nothing that requires staying in the medbay. 

”...probably about even, to be honest.  Why-“

”Good.”

Tracy’s smiling, small and tired, but it’s genuine.

”Trace?”

”I think then, I’d agree that it wouldn’t be medically inadvisable to move him to a more comfortable setting, provided that he’s being monitored.”

He’s too tired to parse a deeper meaning.

”What-“

”Hugh,” she squeezes his forearm, “you’re exhausted.”

"So?"

”What I’m saying,” she raises her voice enough that Tilly, seemingly engrossed in her PADD, looks up with poorly disguised interest, “is if one or both of you is willing to keep an eye on him, there’s no reason for him to stay here.”

"Where would-"

He breaks off at Tracy's expression that clearly says she and Tilly have already figured something out.

"If you promise me you'll get some sleep, you can take him back to his quarters."

It takes a moment to make it past the fatigue clouding his brain.  When it does, he sets Paul's hand down very carefully and stands again to find Tracy holding out his bag and boots.

"Go on.  Comm me when you're ready, and I'll initiate a site-to-site."

Hugh nods and accepts his things.  He knows a few minutes apart shouldn't change anything, and having the privacy to hold Paul's hand and talk to him without anyone else overhearing is a good thing, but it still takes effort to walk away.  Once in the corridor, Tilly slips her hand through the crook of his elbow with a determined expression.  It's probably for both of their sakes as aches from the battle and its aftermath make themselves known, but he appreciates the comfort.  They pass others working at the wall junctions and assessing electrical damage, and he surprises himself by not needing to know exactly where and when they landed, only that the ship seems to be safe.       

In the turbolift, Tilly sags against the back wall, and he'd really like to do the same but knows it's a bad idea.

“Is there anything you need from your quarters?”

Hugh shakes his head.

”That part of Deck Four isn’t really habitable at the moment.”

Tillys face undergoes a journey from surprised to embarrassed before settling on contrite.

”I’m sorry.  I didn’t think...”

”It’s okay, Tilly,” he indicates the duffel on his shoulder, “never unpacked after the evac order.  Everything I wanted saved is here.”

Deck Nine, Section G looks much the same as any other part of the corridors.  Hugh feels unease skitter over his shoulders as they approach, wondering if Paul had removed his access.  

Only one way to find out.

The doors swish open without delay though, and they limp inside.

"Computer, lights, fifty percent."

Hugh sets his bag and boots down, surveying the space.  The battle had knocked PADDS to the ground and tipped one of the chairs, but other than that it doesn't seem much the worse for wear.  Paul must not have unpacked from the hasty cancelled evacuation either, as his eyes spot empty places where mementos should be.  Tilly's lingering near the door, shifting her weight from foot to foot and seemingly waiting for an invitation to move further in.

"Do they need you on the bridge or in Engineering?"

She shakes her head, indicating the comm clipped to her belt. 

"No, nothing.  Umm.  Do you need help here?  Or should I-"

"Will you stay?  You don't have to, " he hastens to add, "but I'd appreciate the company and I know...I know Paul won't mind."

"Please?  If I'm not in the way.  I just, after- after we...yeah.  I can keep an eye on him while you sleep?"

"Is that an unsubtle way of telling me I look terrible?"

"Uhhh, sort of?  I mean, I'm not exactly the picture you'd put on a Starfleet ad right now, but I...I think you deserve to get some rest."

He smiles a little at that, gesturing her the rest of the way inside.  Hugh crosses to the bed, suppressing the wave of memories trying to overcome him as he gets closer.  Paul's scent is stronger here, the woodsy notes of his cologne giving way to the warm smell that Hugh still can't ignore.  His hand is unsteady as he pulls down the covers and carefully stacks the pillows.

"Ready?"

"Yeah."

"Hang o- Tilly to medbay.  Doctor Pollard?"

"Pollard.  You two ready?"

She glances over, and he nods once.

"Yes."

"Site-to-site transport initiated."

Hugh sways on his feet as Paul materializes on the sheets, thinking of all the times he watched him sleeping in this bed.  

"We're good.  Thanks Tracy," he calls over, "for...yeah."

"Get some sleep, both of you," Tracy's voice is tired, "I'm going to go pass out, Aisha is on, but comm me if you need me, okay?"

"We will."

"Pollard out."

Something doesn't feel quite right - beyond the uneasiness in his stomach - and he frowns, trying to figure out what it is.

Oh.  Right.

"Help me move him?"

Tilly doesn't question the request, just clips the comm back on her belt and together they ease Paul over to his side of the bed.

Is it still his side if he's the only one sleeping here?

Hugh pulls the covers up, tucking the duvet around him. 

"You're welcome to clean up here, I'm sure we can find you something to wear if you want. Or did you want to go back to yours first?”

"What?  Oh..." Tilly's head is tilted to the side, studying Paul's unconscious form, "a shower would be awesome.  I don't think life support's been restored in my section either."

He nods, turning to the dresser and opening the second drawer.  Sure enough, there's a pair of pajama pants and the oversized sweater he remembers from chilly evenings on Deneva, and he fights down the sudden prickle of tears.

You are not crying just because you still know where he keeps his clothes.

"Here you go."

"Great, thank you."

Tilly shuffles into the bathroom, and he realizes how out of place her fatigue is, at odds with her usual energetic self.  He pulls a chair over to the side of the bed, ignoring the fact that he could just as easily sit on the other side of the mattress.  It doesn't feel quite right, not yet, not until he knows if he's welcome. 

Paul's hand is large and warm in his, and something settles inside as he sees the tiny shadows cast by his eyelashes on his cheek.  The shower goes on, and he lets his mind drift.

Chapter Text

Hugh must have dozed off, because when he opens his eyes again, Tilly’s curled up on the couch with her chin resting on the arm, looking much smaller than her expansive personality.  True to her word, her eyes are fixed on Paul until Hugh stirs.

”Ho-“ Hugh swallows to wet his dry throat, “how long was I asleep?”

Tilly shrugs, standing up and making her way over.  She looks...comfortable like this, scrubbed clean and bare feet poking out below the bottom of the pajama pants, damp hair curling over her shoulders.  

“Half an hour maybe?  I didn’t want to wake you up, you looked like you really needed it.  I mean, I absolutely would have woken you up if something changed, but did it help?”

Good question.

He turns his focus inward, taking stock of his own body.  Hugh still feels wrung out, but some of the fog clouding the edges of his mind has retreated.  

“I think so.”

”Oh good,” Tilly’s almost whispering, standing at the foot of the bed.

”You don’t have to be quiet,” he smiles a little, touched by her obvious consideration, “I don’t know if he can hear us right now, but it won’t disturb him.  And if it wakes him up, all the better.”

”Okay.”

He runs his thumb over Paul’s knuckles, again and again, feeling the near-invisible hairs brushing the pad of his finger.  Paul used to complain that the too-light touch tickled, giggling and trying to reclaim his hand until Hugh kissed his knuckles in apology.

”Did you maybe want to shower too?”

Tilly’s wrinkling her nose, and it takes him a moment to catch on to what she’s politely not saying.  He’s been so wrapped up and concentrating on Paul, he hasn’t been paying attention to much else.  Hugh realizes now that despite the cursory wash and new clothes, he still smells less than pleasant.

Paul loved the way you smelled after the gym.

It usually led to a different kind of sweaty workout.

“I’ll sit with him while you’re gone,” she adds, misinterpreting his silent contemplation for reluctance, “I can read him my report since he’s not awake to tell me I forgot to reference someone’s paper.”

Her earnest expression draws a quiet laugh from him, and he nods, loosing Paul’s hand to set it on the duvet before standing up.  Tilly takes his place, her expression as she looks at Paul a complicated mix of concern, guilt, and relief.  When he’s more awake, he needs to sit her down and talk her through the misplaced self-criticism.  It’s common, the sense of having abandoned someone into the care of others, and he hopes that seeing Paul recover will help with some of it.

First things first.

He unsubtly sniffs at his own shirtsleeve, already peeling off his socks and moving towards the bathroom.

“Think there’s enough power to run the refresher?” 

”Maybe,” she sounds dubious, “I mean, the shower’s run off passive particle capture from the plasma exhaust, but I think the refresher is different.  Doesn’t Stamets have something you can wear?”

Tilly plucks at the sleeve of the sweater as if in demonstration, and he sighs.  How does he explain to her that the thought of doing so triggers a mass of doubt, wondering if he’s entitled to that privilege?  It’s not terribly logical, especially when Tilly’s sitting there in them.  Paul’s quasi-adopted Tilly and Hugh knows he wouldn’t mind sharing with her in the least, but his former partner is different.  Part of him misses that facet of their relationship, so much a given that neither even thought about it, space shared in the drawers and clothes mixed together.  He worries about stepping into the life of a man he might no longer be, taking liberties he has no right to.

You’re making it complicated.  Stop overthinking.

His face must be doing something untoward, because Tilly abruptly cringes.

”Oh.  Ummm.  Is that...is that really weird for you right now?”

“...yes.”

”I’m sorry.”

Hugh sighs again, walking back to the dresser.  Paul’s duffel sits unzipped on top, partially unpacked.  He pulls out a battered grey shirt, worn soft from repeated washings and starting to get a little threadbare at the hems.  The laugh that forces its way out is choked with too much emotion.

”Doc-...Hugh?”

“This...this used to be mine,” he strokes the faded Starfleet Medical logo, “he stole it from me our- on our first night.  I didn’t even know it was gone until he commed me wearing it a week after he left.”

He doesn’t mention that the shirt was the only thing Paul was wearing.

”So it’s technically yours, right?”

Tilly’s eyes look a little moist, but her voice is steady.

“Yeah.  I suppose so.”

“Anything else of yours in there?”

He finds another pair of non-descript pajama pants that could have belonged to either of them, drawstring missing as Hugh preferred but the cuffs worn from being rolled up the way Paul liked to wear them.  It’ll do for now, at least, no emotion assigned to the garment.

Tilly smiles at him, lifting her PADD and thumbing it on.  He can hear her begin a technical narration addressing fourth-dimensional power sources before the bathroom door closes.

I guess she was serious about reading him the report.

Hugh sheds his clothes, nudging them in front of the refresher instead of leaving them in the middle of the floor.  It was an ongoing battle, to the point that he used to do it on purpose on bad days, just to annoy Paul and give him a way to vent some frustration in complaining.  Right now though, it’s an actual slipping hazard for him and Tilly in their tired state.

He programs the shower for a short cycle, conscious of conserving power.  The hot water feels heavenly, rinsing away dried sweat as he quickly soaps himself down and washes his hair.  When he’s done washing, there’s about thirty seconds left and lets his eyes linger on a dented panel, remembering the early morning Paul silently joined him in the shower and he’d bruised his elbow stumbling in surprise.  

Wrapping a towel around his waist, he steps out and reaches for the clothes on the counter.  They fall comfortably, familiar.  He towel dries his hair, rinses his mouth, and takes a couple of minutes to breathe before going back out.

We really need to talk.

You have the chance to, now.  You almost didn’t.

He could have died and I wouldn’t have ever known.

You saved his life.

Tracy or Aisha could have done the same.

Without you there, Tracy or Aisha might not have been able to get to him in time.

He tucks the ring on its chain safely back under his collar.  

Worry about all of this after he wakes up.

Chapter Text

Tilly falls asleep on the couch twenty minutes after he emerges, PADD still loosely gripped despite the gentle snoring.  Hugh doesn’t notice until he realizes the sound of her tapping on the screen is missing, too focused on pretending to read the medical journal on his own PADD while watching the rise and fall of Paul’s chest under the duvet.  He covers her with a throw, smiling a little at the memory of her there along with Burnham, Detmer, and Owo on their floor.  It turns bittersweet when he thinks about that same night, how he and Paul were quietly trying to satisfy their desire beneath the covers.

When he sits back down, he gives up the pretense of doing anything except looking at Paul.  He lets his eyes feast on the sight of his face, the freckles dusting his nose and the frown lines creasing his forehead.  His lips are barely parted and a little irritated, likely from biting them in stress or concentration.  Hugh ruthlessly suppresses the urge to run his thumb over them, to lean over and give him the kiss he’s wanted ever since Paul smiled at him in the medbay.  He can’t until he’s sure he’s welcome, but it doesn’t stop him from thinking about it.  Instead, he presses his fingers to the pulse in his throat, reassuring himself with its steady beat.  

Paul's alive.  You saved him.

He allows himself to smooth his hand over Paul’s hair, thinking about how fastidiously it always had to be gelled before going on duty.  A wet cloth in the medbay doesn’t replace an actual wash, but Doctor Culber is too exhausted to maintain appropriate detachment to bathe him and Hugh has to wait for Paul to wake up first.  

“Hi,” he says softly enough that it won’t disturb Tilly, “it’s me.  I- there’s so much I need to say to you, Paul.”

Hugh sets the PADD on his lap back on the nightstand, gives Paul’s limp hand a squeeze.

”Tilly says you still love me.  Reno too.  I hope they’re right, but even if they’re not...I’m not sorry for staying.  I am sorry I hurt you.  I swore I’d never do that and I did, and there’s no excusing that.  I won’t ask you to forgive me because that’s not fair.  And I know it might take time,” Hugh swallows hard, “I just hope that you’ll give me another chance, to love you.”

There’s no response, but a little of the weight on his chest lightens, and another piece of Hugh Culber slots back into place.  

"So open your eyes for me, please, sweetheart."

********

As requested, he wakes Tilly after an hour when he can’t keep his eyes open any longer.  Her eyes open and she looks up, blinking owlishly at him leaning over the couch.

"Is he-"

He shakes his head, straightening.

"Not yet.  But I don’t think I can stay awake-“ he stifles a yawn, “much more.”

Tilly sits up slowly, scrubbing a palm over her face.  Her hair's dried and full of static from the cushions, giving her a fiery red halo.  Hugh makes to return to his seat, but she catches his shoulder gently, expression thoughtful when he turns back around.

“You’re going to do something awful to your neck if you sleep in the chair,” Tilly points out, too reasonably.  “I did once and Michael had to use some of her Vulcan pressure point thing to fix it.”

"I've done worse.  Slept in the corner of a medbay once, during the war."

“Pretty sure he won’t mind you sleeping next to him," there's too much understanding in her voice, "if you don’t want to use the couch.”

The thought of being that far away is almost a physical ache.   Inside his heart, the locked door opens a sliver, shows him the memory of them tucked in bed together and the incredible peace to be found in Paul’s arms.  If he does this, he’s not sure what will happen after he falls asleep, Paul’s warm body close enough to embrace instead of the pile of pillows Hugh’s filled his bed with. 

"What's wrong?"

“I...” he trails off, searching for the words to explain.

Tilly plops down in the chair, effectively preventing him from sitting down again.  He could just get another chair, but that’s not the point.

”Are- are you still worried it’s not okay?”

”We need to talk first.  I...need to know that it’s what he wants too.”

Frowning, Tilly props her bare feet against the side of the mattress, toes hooking over the edge.  

“I probably shouldn’t be telling yo- actually, that’s not true at all, because I already did, and sorry Commander Stamets,” she throws a look at Paul, “but umm, okay.  Right.”

”Tilly?”

”When I heard him recording a message for you, he said that he lied.  That...” Tilly stares into the middle distance for a moment, concentrating, “he said ‘I still love you.  I will never love anyone else the way I love you.’ “

He wants her words to be true.  Tilly has absolutely no reason to lie to him, he isn’t sure she’s even capable of lying, but it can’t quiet the doubt.  

“You don’t have to believe me.  I mean, you did stay and I’m not going to pretend it’s all because of me and what I said because hey, way to go modesty, or actually it’s more because it’s not like he’s the only one I think you care about on the ship.  But, I don’t know how else to explain with him unconscious and I don’t know what he did with that message.”

A thought occurs to him, although he’s not sure whether he should or not.  Probably not.

“...I might be able to access his messages.”

She stares at him blankly.

”Wha- how?”

”We both always gave each other access on everything.”

They hadn’t had any secrets from each other, trust implicit and shared.  

And he didn’t reprogram the door. 

”Huh,” Tilly tilts her head to the side, “I suppose that doesn’t even make it sneaky or unethical or something if you already have permission.”

”It doesn’t mean he wants me in there, even if he didn’t change it.”

“Maybe.  But if he didn’t and he could have, that’s something.  It’s not like you’re spying on his log entries and private comms or something.”

”Tilly...”

”I think it’s more important, that he would...okay, I don’t know know this, but I think he wouldn’t want you to be- to feel what you’re feeling right now.  Ummm.  And he can get mad at me for eavesdropping and telling you,” she says with an air of finality, “so it’ll be my fault.”

Hugh’s not sure that argument could hold water if litigated.

”Do you want to ask Doctor Pollard what she thinks?”

He gives the question serious consideration, but knows the answer already.

”Tracy would never let me hear the end of it if I wake her up with Paul one more time.”

”I...don’t?”

You’re stalling.

”Old joke.  She...would say that the important decisions don’t tend to be the easy ones.”

Heart pounding, he reaches for his PADD and flips to his messages.  Over the top, he sees Tilly smiling nervously, encouraging.

“C-computer, access personal logs for Stamets, Paul.”

”Working.”

He stares blankly at the screen, waiting.

”Personal log requires voiceprint access.”

Tilly’s hopeful face falls, but he holds up his hand.

”I...I should be able to override.”

“Okay.”

Hugh bites his lip, exhaling.

“What if it doesn’t?”

”Then you tried.  Saru and Michael always say that being afraid is what keeps you safe, but sometimes being safe isn’t enough.”

Hugh's not sure how he could have forgotten that she's still so young, but maybe it's the wisdom in her eyes.

Find out if it still works.

“Computer.  Access personal messages for Stamets, Paul.  Authorization Culber-one-zero-two-six-alpha.”

”Access granted.  Displaying personal messages for Stamets, Paul.”

“Should I, umm...” Tilly mimes covering her ears, “or I can leave if-“

He shakes his head.

”You heard him record it.  It’s okay.”

There’s only one message saved.

>> Saved message for Culber, Hugh, LTCDR.   Audio only.

>> Playback, send, or delete?

>> Begin playback

"Hugh...I lied.  It feels wrong to tell you this now.  By the time this reaches you, hopefully Discovery will have made a successful jump to the future.  And I'm going to be on it.  I hoped that maybe we'd get another chance, someday.  We're just - hah - out of time.  But uhhh, funny thing...okay, not funny at all, and you're probably going to be upset I didn't tell you before this.  Or maybe not, because I'm supposed to be moving on.  Okay, I didn't lie, but what I meant was...I do want you to be happy.  Fuck, that's the only thing I want some days.  When you- when you died, I thought I couldn't live without you.  And I'm not sure what I was doing was living.  But then I got you back, and I know I'm really bad with figuring feelings out sometimes.  Just- I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry that I was being selfish and just wanting you to be exactly the same.  So I could apologize and make it all right, because while you were gone, the only thing I could think about was how I could have done so much better.  I hope you knew that you were so much more important than anything else.  Just...please, Hugh, take care of yourself.  I'll uhhh - hah - see if I can check up on you on the other side.  This is the last time I'll be able to talk to you...if you're still listening, I'm going to do one more selfish thing.  And I hope someday you'll forgive me for it.  I still love you.  I will never love anyone else the way I love you, and the years we had together were the happiest in my life.  You made me such a better perso-"

>> End of message

Chapter Text

Tilly sniffles very quietly, eyes shining and a wobbly smile in place.

”See?”

“Oh.”

It’s tiny, an almost inaudible breath of air.  Hugh’s distantly aware that his mouth is hanging open, heart pounding in his throat.  

You heard him say it.

But he never sent it, so he didn’t want me to hear-

He still loves you.

“Hugh?” Tilly pulls her feet off the bed, “that’s good, isn’t it?”

The PADD clatters to the floor, and he sinks down to sit at the foot of the bed.

"I...I'm not sure I should have done that."

"But he said-"

"I know.  But I broke his trust, and I shouldn't have just for my own gain."

Tilly goes still, rapid blinking belying her concentration.  

"I don't understand.  He obviously didn't send it to you because he thought you wouldn't want to hear it."

Hugh drops his face into his hands, elbows braced on his knees.  Tilly's so young, with her optimism and reverence for love.  He doesn't know that he can explain it to her either, not in a context that will capture all of the nuances and reasons, when she hasn't - as far as he knows - experienced her own relationship like this.  

That's not fair to Tilly.  She wanted to help.

There's a headache closing in on his temples.  He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to relieve some of the throbbing, but too much adrenaline and too little sleep are demanding that he not ignore them any longer.  When he sits up again, Tilly is watching him with a look of trepidation.

"I'm sorry."

Her voice is small, wavering.

"Tilly..." Hugh reaches out and takes her hand, "whatever happens, it's not your fault.  Paul and I have a lot we need to deal with, and none of it's going to be simple.  But you gave us a chance to figure it out."

Hopefully Paul agrees when he wakes up.

"I need to sleep for an hour or two, okay?"

She's chewing the nail on the index finger of her free hand, shoulders slouched, but nods slowly.

"I- do you want the couch?"    

"...no.  I'll be okay here."

Tilly doesn't say anything else, and he squeezes her hand one more time before releasing it and watching as she goes to sit at the table, thumbing her PADD on and frowning in thought.  Hugh stands, the ache in his ankles making itself known again.  He makes a quick trip to the bathroom, and when he comes back out, Tilly's lowered the lights another 50%.  She has two PADDs in front of her now, seems to be cross-referencing something, offering a ghost of a smile when he passes.

The covers are a little disheveled on what used to be Hugh's side, as if someone pulled them up haphazardly.  It’s not characteristic of Paul at all to leave the bed anything but perfectly made, but then again, nothing about the past few weeks has been anything close to normal.  He goes to the wardrobe, pulling out extra pillows that he carefully tucks against Paul's left side.  Tilly's probably watching, but he doesn't offer an explanation.  When he's done, he sits on the remaining one-third of the mattress, reaching for one of the pillows at the head of the bed to add to his makeshift barrier.  He lifts the pillow, intending to move it closer when he looks underneath.  

There’s a small rectangular depression in the fluffy duvet, and flipping the pillow, a matching one on its underside.  He stares at them, innocuous creases sketching out the shape of a box.  

Oh Paul.

He's still too afraid to hope.

Hugh sets the pillow back down, curls up on his side on top of the covers, facing Paul.  There’s a lot of ground that needs to be covered between them, no matter the catharsis of his words before Paul lost consciousness or Paul's recorded confession of love.  Tracy was right though, in that he's not doing anyone any good if he doesn't get some real sleep.

Ten minutes later, he's still staring at Paul, unable to wind down enough to close his eyes for long.  The pillows will prevent him from accidentally rolling over in his sleep and jostling Paul or pressing their bodies together, but there's something still itching around the edges of his consciousness.  Eventually, he gives in to instinct and need, reaching just his hand over the pillows and covering Paul’s hand with his own, fingers loosely wrapped around it and thumb resting on Paul’s wrist.  It isn't long after that sleep finally claims him.

********

He wakes up almost immediately when he feels his fingers being jostled.  His heart squeezes with hope as his eyes fly open, but almost immediately realizes that it's just Tilly spreading a blanket over him.  Hugh's curled up tight against his pillow barricade, shivering just a little in the post-battle lowered temperature that speaks of ongoing power conservation.  Paul still looks so peaceful, no pain or stress marring his features, and he keeps looking until his heavy eyelids close again.

When he floats back to consciousness an indeterminate amount of time later, the room is silent save for the sounds of three people breathing.  Tilly has apparently given up on the couch and is slouched down on Paul’s other side, wrapped in her own blanket and wedged awkwardly against the headboard, held in by the nightstand and her hip even with Paul’s pillow.  She’s holding his other hand, and Hugh has to smile.  He's sure she didn't intend to fall asleep when she promised to keep watch, but even youthful energy has its limits. 

Go back to sleep.  Maybe when you wake up, he will too. 

Chapter Text

Three hours (according to the chrono on the nightstand) and two nightmares (one about being trapped in the network again, another about Paul bleeding out under his hands) later, Hugh can't sleep any more.  Tilly is no longer on the other side of the bed, seems to have migrated back to the couch where she's reading something and muttering quietly to herself.  The deep muscle aches from the frantic activity during the battle are going to take another day to fade, but at least his brain doesn't feel as foggy. Tilly thoughtfully left his comm next to him on the pillow - he's almost positive it wasn't there when he went to sleep - and Tracy hasn't messaged, nor have any priority messages come in.  He's about to roll over and retrieve his PADD from the nightstand to check on statuses when the fingers in his twitch and Paul groans quietly.

Instantly, Hugh is wide awake.  

Calm down, it could still be hours before he actually wakes up.

He waits, barely daring to even breathe, for another five minutes.  Ten minutes.  The medical professional in him knows this is normal, but it doesn't help Hugh feel any less disappointed.  Sighing, he gently looses Paul's hand and goes to use the bathroom, splashing water on his face, rinsing the stale taste out of his mouth and drinking a few cupfuls before returning.  

Tilly's slumped down the rest of the way, probably asleep again herself.  He checks his PADD, scrolling through alerts.  There's technical status reports on the systems undergoing repairs with estimated time to operation, and he confirms that life support is at 75% while propulsion and sensors seem to be operating at about twenty percent of their optimal range.  The shields and phasers are even lower, although they’re charging off auxiliary power.  Not particularly good, but it does mean they'll all stay alive so long as nothing hostile or passively massive like a rogue comet shows up.  

Chirp.

It's a brief message from Aisha, letting him know that she's leaving Tracy to get as much rest as possible.  He acknowledges it, is about to type a reply, when Paul moans a little more loudly than before.

"Paul?"

The PADD is abandoned on the duvet and he leans over the pillows, shaking his shoulder gently.

"Paul?  Can you hear me?"

A slight frown, there and gone again.  Hugh tucks one of the pillows under his arm, raising himself up more.

"I need you to wake up for me, okay?"

Paul's fingers flutter against his palm, uncoordinated but definitely closer to consciousness.

"I'm supposed to tell you it's whenever you're ready, but Tilly and I would really, really like it if it was sooner rather than later.  And I know how much you hate being late.”

Nothing.

He stares for several minutes, trying to detect even the most minute semi-conscious movement.  Sighing, he settles down to wait, pulling the blanket back around his shoulders and continuing to speak quietly.

"Your injury was pretty bad, but I fixed it, and you'll be fine.  Scared the hell out of me, seeing your hea- Aisha helped, I think it's the first time she's seen your insides, so there's that.  No?  Okay.  Ummm.  We made it out the other side of the wormhole.  I have no idea where or when, but the ship is still holding together.  Supposed to be another five or six hours before they have the sensors up and running enough to figure that part out."

He squeezes Paul's hand, but there's no response.

"I hope you don't mind, I let Tilly borrow some of your clothes.  Her quarters still don't have life support restored.  Neither, umm, do mine.  So.  My 'Fleet Medical shirt that you keep stealing?  I stole it back.  I hope that's okay, and you're not going to wake up and be mad about it.  Or just be mad at me, not Tilly."

Paul's eyelashes seem to flutter, but it could just be a trick of the light.

"Like I said earlier, there's so much we need to talk about.  I need to tell you.  And I don't know that you'll be happy with me for it, and if you're not...I won't blame you.  I migh- no, I definitely deserve it.  I'm so sorry, Paul, for shutting you out.  Turns out, being on the other end of it is pretty enlightening.  I'm not mad at you, after everything...you gave me so many second chances, but I wasn't ready.  I didn't know who I was, and honestly I'm still not completely sure, but I couldn't take the chance of hurting you.  I managed to do that anyway," he laughs quietly, bittersweet, "and I don't know that I can ever make it up to you.  But I do know that I love you.  And if- I hope not, but if...if you don't want me, I understand.  I just had to know you were saf-"

Hugh loses his train of thought as Paul's fingers press up against his.

"Paul?”

Beneath the duvet, one foot shifts.

“Can you open your eyes for me?"

A groan.  There's a sliver of blue peeking out from below those eyelashes now, and Hugh realizes he's holding his breath.  He exhales sharply, tries again.

"I need you to let me know if you're awake."

His eyes close again.

"Please-"

This time when they open, it's halfway, mostly tracking Hugh's movement when he waves his hand in front of Paul's face.

Please, please, please...  

He shakes Paul's shoulder again, a little stronger this time.  It used to guarantee that Paul would wake up out of sheer annoyance, stuffing his head back under the pillow, and he hopes it's insistent enough now.  

“Can you hear me?”

Paul's mouth opens, closes, brow furrowing and eyes falling shut.

"...'op 't."

Hugh's well-versed enough in mostly-unconscious Paul Stamets to recognize a demand to cut it out.

"Sorry, I can't until I know you're okay."

"G' 'wy."

There's a smile starting to stretch Hugh's lips, heart racing.

"Nope.  Not going anywhere till you open your eyes properly."

An incoherent, slurred murmur.

"What was that?"

Paul's nostrils flare, and he breathes out a distinctly annoyed sounding groan.  Slowly, millimeter by millimeter, his eyelashes rise to reveal stormy blue.

"Hi."

Paul's chapped lips twitch in what might be an attempt at a smile.  He squeezes Paul's hand again, feeling him return the gesture weakly.  Paul swallows, turns his head a little on the pillow.

" 'app’n'd?"

Hugh licks his lips, reaching for Doctor Culber and forcing a calm into his voice that he in no way feels.

"You were injured.  Do you remember?"

"M'no' tha' old."

His eyes narrow just enough to communicate annoyance.  Leaving aside that it’s not an actual answer, he should get his scanner off the nightstand and take readings of Paul's brain activity and vitals, but he can't move away yet.  Three more questions.

"Okay.  Do you know where you are?"

Paul frowns, and Hugh can almost see the wheels turning against whatever confusion is clouding his memory.  At last, he opens his mouth again.

" ‘scov'ry."

"That's right, Discovery.  Can you tell me your name?"

Just surfaced from a coma or not, Paul's 'I know you can't possibly be that stupid' look is clear.  It's so familiar that Hugh could cry.  Probably is going to cry, soon.

" 'aul S'mes."

Close enough.

"Good.  Do you know who I am?"

" 'ugh."

Hugh wants to shout his joy loud enough for the entire ship to hear, but that would wake Tilly up and, more importantly, probably startle Paul.  Without looking away, he casts a hand behind him until his fingers make contact with his medical tricorder.  It's not as easy to operate with just one hand, but he props it up on a pillow and waves the scanner back and forth.  Paul's showing good neural activity, heart rate and blood pressure within the margin of acceptable for recovering from a serious injury, so he snaps the scanner back into place and taps the controls for it to continue monitoring.  He can remedy the minor dehydration as soon as he's able to get out of bed.

"Do you remember what happened now?"

Paul's other hand twitches restlessly, and he slowly starts to move it up towards his chest.  

" 'gel suit.  'splos'n.  T’lly.”

He catches Paul's hand in his, feels his world shift at the shock of...something when their palms meet.

" 'tches."

The surgical site is fully regenned, but there's probably excess cellular activity that's irritating Paul's nerves.

You're irritating Paul's nerves.

Yes, yes I am.

"I know.  It’ll feel that way for a little while.  It was pretty nasty, but you're going to be fine."

He's immensely proud of keeping his voice from wobbling.  Paul blinks at him slowly, and he wonders if he's about to fall asleep.  

"Y' sav'd me."

The smile that evokes is tinged with a little sadness.

"Yeah."

Paul turns his head more to look up at Hugh.  

" 'eard you.  Talkin' t' me."

He's going to remember soon.

"Yeah?"

Paul's lips curve upwards gently. 

" 'lways were m' 'etter 'alf."

His chest aches at the affection shining in Paul’s eyes.

"No, that was all you.  I just helped you see it too."

A tug on his hand.

”What is it?”

Paul’s lips part, try to purse.

" 'iss."

He wants you to kiss him.

Oh how he wants to comply, but he can't take advantage of him like this.  Not when Paul might not want him to when he remembers.  The scans while he was unconscious indicated negligible cognitive impairment, so he should be able to remember, at least up until he was injured.  That’s established, but the rest of the memories seem to be slow slotting back into place.  Paul never woke up quickly even in the best of circumstances.  

“Not right now, okay?”

The pout is weak and his stomach twists at the sight of it.  

“Why?”

His enunciation seems to be improving, but it sounds like his throat is still dry.  

“Thirsty?”

A nod.

“Be right back.”

It’s torture to let go of his hands, and Hugh takes just long enough to fill a glass halfway from the sink (he has no idea if the synthesizers are functional again) and bring it back without spilling.  He helps Paul sit up most of the way, conscious of the strain on his muscles and propping him with more pillows, holds the glass while he drinks a few sips.  

”Better?”

He offers the glass again, gets a minute head shake in response, so he sets it on the nightstand.  Paul tugs his hand until he settles back, propped on an elbow so their faces are level.  He strokes Paul’s hair back from his face before he realizes what he’s doing, cringing even as Paul’s eyes close and he leans into the touch.

" ‘sis a good dr’m.  Don' wanna wake up."

"Paul...you're not dreaming."

"Have t’ be.  He nev’r uses my name this much."

He doesn’t think you’re real.

Hugh reclaims the hand from Paul’s head, ignoring the pout starting to form again.

“Okay.  I need you to do something for me, okay?”

Paul nods. 

“I need you to think about what happened before you were injured.  Remember what was happening and where Discovery was going.”

A blank stare.

”Going?”

“Yeah.  Where was the ship going?”

Paul frowns, lips parting as he thinks.  He starts to say something, then stops.  

“Future?”

Hugh squeezes his hand again and some of the haze clears from his eyes, only to replaced by confused panic.

"You can't be here."

Paul's starting to shake his head, wincing with the motion.

"Hey, shhh...don’t do that."

"...you're not real."

Fuck.

Thinking that in the privacy of his own mind is one thing, but hearing echoes of his own words to Paul during his rescue from the mycelial network steals the breath from his lungs.

"I am.  I came back, I couldn't-" he pauses for a deep breath, wants to smooth the disbelieving frown on Paul's brow.  "I couldn't let you go alone."

Movement at the edge of his peripheral vision and a quickly suppressed squeak take his attention off Paul for a moment.  Tilly, probably roused by their voices, is frozen in the act of standing from the couch, a half-smile of excitement arrested on her features as she takes in the scene.  She tilts her head, silent question clear, but Hugh shakes his head a little and she nods, sitting back down slowly and deliberately looking away.

"No.  You can't be here."

"Paul-"

"You have t’ be safe.  I'm dr’ming.  Or am I- oh god, did I die?  And if you're here too, that means-"

 "I'm real.  I'm here.  You’re not dead.”

"...but you left.  On ‘nterprise.  You- you don't...not ‘nymore."

Paul's voice is so small, as if he's trying to convince himself of a fact he doesn't want to believe.

"You don't remember?"

"Remember what?" 

"When you were hurt.  In the medbay during the battle.  I was there.”

"...just a hallucination."

Oh sweetheart.

"Whoa,” he catches Paul's hands as they clench into fists, squeezing as strongly as he dares. "It was real.  Do you remember what I said to you?"

Paul squeezes his eyes shut.

"No.  Wasn’t real.  Can't be.  You- Hugh's not here.  Be- because-"

"Because what?"

"Hugh left.  B’lieved me when I told him to go be happy.  He didn't see."

"Wha-"

“Wanted him t’ be happy.  Not me holding him back.  Hurt...so much.  Didn’t want me.  Had to let him go.”

Paul wanted you to stay.

We’re not out of the woods yet.

"But if you're here...no.  He didn't know."

"Paul," he takes a deep breath, wondering if he’s signing his heart’s own death warrant, "I heard your message."

Paul’s eyes widen, more awareness seeping in.

"What, you’re tellin’ me you came a millennia just because ‘f one sentence?”

The weak sarcasm doesn’t quite cover the disbelief.

”...I’m not talking about that message.  The other one.”

He goes perfectly still under Hugh’s hands, unblinking.

“I sent both?”

”No.  I...I didn’t hear the second one until today.  You never sent it.  I...used my override to access it.  Shouldn’t have.  I know I shouldn’t.  I’m sorry.  I understand if you- if you want me to go.”

”Go?  You left.”

Hugh tries to pull back, but Paul looks panicked, clinging to his hand.

“You couldn’t know.”

"Tilly came to see me.  I couldn't leave you twice.  Not again."

More words echoing back through time, these from their emotional farewell when it looked like he wouldn't be able to leave the mycelial plane.

"But...but-"

He releases one of Paul’s hands to hold just the other between his own, pressing their palms together tightly.

”Paul.”

“Hugh?”

”I never wanted to leave.”

”...what?”

"I thought you didn't want me to- I'm sorry I didn’t see.  I probably deserved it after what I said to you.  But you never stopped, did you?"

Paul grips his hand as tightly as he seems able.

”You heard my message.”

”Yes.  And I’m sorry I violated your-“

His free hand makes an annoyed gesture, fingers flicking as if at an insect.  

”Doesn’t matter.”

“I shouldn’t have.”

Paul stares at him, eyes roving across Hugh’s face, studying it.  He raises that same hand, trembling, making a frustrated noise when it falls again.  Hugh reaches over to support his wrist, lets Paul guide their hands up to his face.  His fingers are clumsy as they touch his cheek, and Hugh feels tears gathering in his eyes.

"You're really here."

"Yes."

"And...we made it?"

"Yes."

Please be true.  

"And you...us?"

Paul’s beautiful eyes are filled with fragile hope.

"I'm so sorry it took me this long to figure it out,” he blinks and looks up, trying to contain the moisture, “I was so lost, and I had to remember.  Had to believe again.  Had to know what I want.  You, Paul."

There’s pressure on his cheek and Hugh leans in slowly, transfixed by the way Paul goes perfectly still.  This close, he can make out the flecks of steel grey amidst the azure in his eyes, can hear the way his breath hitches.  

"I will always choose you."

Chapter Text

"You really mean that?"

"Yes."

Hugh rests his forehead against Paul's, staring at the darkness behind his eyelids and breathing in the air he exhales.  

"Hugh?"

"There's a lot we need to talk about," he murmurs, "I understand if you're not ready to-"

The fingers tighten, insistent.  

"Yes," Paul sighs, "there is.  For both of us.  But not right now."

Nodding, he tries to disengage but Paul's hand latches onto his collar, not letting him pull back more than a couple of inches.  

"Do you want me to let you rest?" 

He tilts his head to the side, seems to be considering something.

"I want you to kiss me."

Paul's gaze is determined and demanding, but there's a brittle sort of insecurity underneath.

He's still afraid you're not real.

He hasn't had to actively think about kissing Paul in over a decade, but he wants- he needs to get this right.  Hugh frees a hand, cupping Paul's jaw, feeling the rasp of stubble as he strokes his cheek with his thumb.  Parting his own lips, he licks them nervously, watching as Paul tracks the movement, feels them both breathing faster. 

Kiss him.

Hugh angles his head just enough to avoid bumping noses and lets his own eyes fall closed as he presses his lips gently against Paul’s.

It's not earth-shattering, except it is.  

The kiss is hardly the most skilled, Paul's lips are chapped beneath his, and Hugh is stretched at an odd angle over the pillows but he doesn't care.  In the thousands of kisses they've exchanged over the course of their relationship, none of them felt this important.  Not even their first night together, clumsy with urgency and before they'd learned each other's bodies.  Nothing like this.

For several long moments, neither of them move or breathe, then Hugh draws back just a little, uncharted territory despite the fact that he knows he knows this man.  As he watches, Paul’s face crumples and he chokes down a sob.  Hugh freezes, watching in horror as tears begin to run down his cheeks.   

”Paul, I-“

What have you done?

Paul's shaking his head, holding onto Hugh's hand fiercely, a whimper escaping as he tries to speak and gives up.

"I'm sor-"

The words die on his lips when Paul uses the hand on his collar to pull him back in, mouths colliding in an uncoordinated but somehow searingly hot kiss that leaves him dizzy with relief and a sudden desire to cry himself at both the emotion and how obviously weak Paul still is.

Paul.  This is Paul, his Paul, and he’s laughing and crying and kissing Hugh with so much want that it’s all he can do to keep his weight off of Paul's chest.  The locked door in his heart vanishes, fourteen years of memories battering it to splinters and spilling out as their lips meet again and again.

At last they separate.  He scatters feather-light kisses on Paul's cheeks, his nose, his forehead.  Paul's eyes open slowly, a familiar tiny smile teasing at the corners of his mouth, and everything is perfect.  He releases Hugh's shirt to cradle his face with both hands, a look of wonder in his eyes that pushes back against the memories of seeing him heartbroken and hurt.  The tenderness in his gaze is a palpable thing, like being wrapped in warmth, and Hugh squeezes his eyes shut, overcome by a wave of emotion.  He turns his head in that gentle hold, kissing Paul’s palm and nuzzling it.

"I love you," he whispers, trying to make those three words carry the weight of everything behind them, "sweetheart."

Chapter Text

Fresh tears glisten on Paul’s eyelashes.  

“Do you know how I- how much I missed that?  We didn't...say goodbye.  Before.”

Hugh has a a vague recollection of waking late that day and hastily pulling on their uniforms without stopping for a cup of coffee.  Not even time for a shower, sweat and saliva and other things dried on their skin from making love the night before.  He probably pecked Paul on the lips on their way out the door, but did he say “have a good day, sweetheart”?  Possibly not.  It would have been something he wouldn't have been happy about, but neither of them could have imagined it as the last opportunity.  When Paul was trapped in the network and lying catatonic in the medbay, he’s almost positive he used the endearment in quietly speaking to him, trying to pull him back, but it's not the same at all.  And he tries very hard not to think about the other Paul he met in the network, the way hearing him say that one word made him sob helplessly.

"Oh sweetheart," he nuzzles Paul’s cheek, nerves alight with the prickle of stubble catching on his beard, tasting the salt as he kisses away Paul’s tears, “I missed you too."

Paul's always been his sweet one, sweet and a little shy about anything not related to science, socially awkward and honest in the most endearing (and aggravating) way.  The partner who claimed he was terrible at romance but programmed an elaborate set of if/then commands to scan the duty roster and check if Hugh was in the shower or if the door to their quarters had opened, just so that the synthesizer would automatically have a hot drink with an appropriate level of caffeine ready for him if Paul wasn't home.  The lover who could just as happily spend an evening snuggling as anything more carnal, who hovered with his own tricorder and an open comm to Tracy when Hugh caught the flu and stayed in bed for two days to recover.  The man who endured hours and hours of travel across space just to spend a week, a day, a few hours with Hugh.

”I used to dream about you.  At first it was comforting, but then...” Paul’s breath hitches, body shuddering, “then it became the cruelest form of torment, knowing I’d have to wake up.”

It’s painful to imagine Paul waking alone in their bed, not being there to soothe him back to sleep.  Worse, he wasn't there after he was alive again either. 

“I’m here now.  And I’m so sorry I made you wait.”

“I wasn’t exactly making it easy on you.”

”Still.  I should have-“

Paul’s thumb brushes over his lips, effectively silencing him.

“We both should have.  I’m sorry too.  And I’m not going to let it come between us now, not after everything.  But can we not right now?

“We will have to deal with it, but...” Hugh kisses his thumb, “we’ll do it together?”

“Whatever happens, wherever we’re going together.  I-“ he frowns, “I think that’s what you said to me?”

“I did.”

Paul tries to pull him closer, confusion plain on his face as Hugh's legs get tangled with the pillows.

"I was afraid of sharing the bed."

Paul's eyebrows climb higher in question.

“...why?”

“I wasn’t sure you would remember me in the medbay, or if you did if you would want me to be here.  But,” he glances down at Paul’s fingers twined with his, “I...needed to be close to you.  Even if you didn’t want to see me.”

”Hugh-“

”I couldn’t sleep when I got back.  Everything in the dark made me think of the jahSepp.  And I’d wake up looking for you,” Hugh shakes his head at his own lack of understanding, “so...I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to keep myself away from you while I was asleep.”

”That was a problem?”

"I needed to know it was okay, that you would want me to touch you at all.”

"So your solution was to wall us off like we're a pair of siblings whose parents want them to stop fighting?"

It would be so easy to let Paul divert it into something less serious, to respond to the exaggerated dubiousness, but he needs to finish saying this.

“Because I’ve fucked up enough for us already, I’ve hurt you, I couldn’t.”

Paul sighs, bumping their noses together.

"Well.  Get rid of them.  I want cuddles."

Hugh snorts, pushing the pillows to the foot of the bed.

”Oh?”

“Yes.  And I expect you to get under the covers with me.”

Despite the demanding words, he knows it’s a request, the pattern of exchange familiar and the rules well known.  Hugh arches up off the duvet, fumbling for the top below his shoulders and sliding between the sheets.  Paul starts to roll onto his side and clearly thinks better of it, grimacing and falling back again.

”Please.”

The quiet plea reminds Hugh that he decided years ago to never deny Paul anything in his power to give.  He carefully gathers Paul into his arms, burying his face in the side of his neck and ignoring his unwashed hair and the smell of sweat and burnt electrical wiring clinging to him.  None of that matters, because Paul's warm skin is beneath his lips and his arms are circling Hugh's waist, hands clutching at his shirt.  He kisses the underside of Paul’s jaw, detours around a smear of soot still on his ear, and brings them nose to nose again.

“Better?”

Paul responds by kissing him again, deepening it and lips parting with a soft sigh of pleasure.  It’s certainly not the kind of obscenely suggestive open-mouthed kisses they shared as a precursor to sex, but it’s not completely chaste either.  

Intimate, Hugh thinks as the tips of their tongues dance, relearning each other by touch and taste.  Paul’s hand finds his lower back, exposed where his shirt clings to the sheet, grounding him in his own body.

“Hugh.”

He shivers at the vibration and puff of air over his lips. Paul taps his collarbone and he moves back just enough to make eye contact. 

”What is it?”

“It goes without saying, but...” Paul runs the back of his fingers over Hugh’s cheek, “I love you too.  You know that, right?”

Catching his hand, Hugh kisses the tip of each finger.

”Yes.  I-“

THUD.

“Ummm.”

Fuck.

Chapter Text

Both of their heads turn at the noise and accompanying yelp of pain. 

Tilly is standing awkwardly by the couch, rubbing her shin where she must have hit the coffee table in what was probably meant to be a stealthy retreat.   She’s almost as red as her hair, ears burning pink and cheeks flushed, but there’s no mistaking the happy grin.

”I’m just gonna-“ she jerks a thumb towards the door.

Paul frees one hand from Hugh's waist, and Hugh misses it already. 

“Ensign.”

His voice is a shadow of its usual self, but she pauses with one foot in the air when he points at the chair still next to the bed.

"Sir?"

Her eyes flick over to Hugh, who can only offer  a blank look in return.

”Get over here.”

The command tone works and she approaches hesitantly, sitting down on the edge of the chair.  Hugh hadn’t so much forgotten they weren’t alone as simply choosing not to focus on anything besides Paul.  While Tilly is nowhere near Tracy levels of being a part of Hugh, it’s easy to remember how comfortable he and Paul had become with her, able to relax and not have to suppress casual affection in her presence.  He’s not sure if the sight of them under the covers together has her more nervous, or the fact that Paul’s face has gone unreadable.  

“Paul-“ 

A squeeze of his wrist stops his protest and he falls silent, although he’s careful to casually retrieve his hand from under the covers and rest it on top.  

“Tilly.  You told Hugh...what exactly?”

“Ummm.  Which part?”

Paul narrows his eyes.

”There’s more than one.”

It’s not really a question.

“...yes.”

Hugh recognizes the Stamets I’m-waiting-impatiently stare and sympathizes with Tilly when she squirms a little.

”Hugh was going to leave.”

Hidden under the covers, Paul’s other hand grips his hip fiercely, not in seeming possession or reproach, but a spasm of remembered pain.  He takes the opportunity to press his lips to Paul’s temple in silent apology when Tilly looks away.

“So I told him, because he needed to know.  And I’m not sorry.  I mean, I’m sorry for it but not sorry too because-“ she waves her hand between the two of them, “because.  But I wasn’t trying to listen, it just sort of happened.  And I couldn’t, I couldn’t not help.”

”Tilly-“

“I didn’t ask him to stay because that wouldn’t be right, but he needed to know to say goodbye for real if it was your last chance.  He deserved to know you still loved him,” she finishes quietly, “because after everything, that couldn’t be the end of your story.  Not when you used to be so happy together and it went all wrong, not if I could do something to help.  So I’m not sorry for that, Commander.”

Paul goes very still for a few breaths before holding his hand out to her.  

“Okay.”

Tilly stands at his tug, perplexed as he repeats the gesture more insistently.  

“You’re not mad?”

She only has enough time for half a surprised yelp when Paul pulls her down, free arm windmilling in an attempt to regain her balance as she trips over the chair leg.  It's a lost cause, and she ends up halfway bent over Hugh who grunts in surprise but takes her weight on his shoulder to keep her from landing on Paul.  It's far from comfortable, but he holds the position long enough for her drop onto her knees on the floor. 

Unrepentant, Paul pulls again, this time propelling her forward until she’s as close as possible.  Paul presses up on Hugh's chest and his body remembers what to do even if his mind is still spinning in circles, lifting up off the mattress to let Paul reclaim his other hand.  Smiling, Paul opens his arms and carefully hugs her.

"You shouldn’t have, and I’m glad you did.  Thank you.  For bringing Hugh back to me.”

Chapter Text

"Umm.  You're welcome?"

Tilly's freckled skin has gone past pink into dusky rose, but she returns the embrace without hesitation.  It takes her a moment to pull back once Paul's arms loosen.  There's no mistaking the fondness in Paul's gaze, and the smile she's wearing shines with her conviction, although Hugh thinks her eyes look suspiciously bright as the blush settles down. 

Paul makes a protesting noise as Hugh sits up, gently detaching himself, before rising on his knees to lean over Paul's torso.

"My turn," he announces, opening his arms.

Their hug is a lot more enthusiastic, although it's probably more to do with the fact that Paul's still recovering and Tilly was being careful than anything else.

"Thank you," he says around a mouthful of hair, "for being you.  And for looking after Paul when I couldn't."

Tilly's cheeks are red again when he releases her and she sits back down, tossing a nervous glance at Paul.

"I wouldn't exactly say I was looking after-"

"You were," Paul interjects, smile apparent in his voice, "I'm aware I'm not the easiest person to be around."

"Oh.  Errr, if you...okay?"

Hugh snorts.

"He's impossible."

"He's Stamets," Tilly counters, as if that explains everything, and he suppresses a grin at her leaping to his immediate defense.

"Should I be offended?"

Hugh settles back at Paul's side, rearranging the pillows behind him for better support.   

"No."

He kisses the tip of Paul's nose just to watch Paul's face turn pink as well.  In his peripheral vision, Tilly’s obviously on the verge of bouncing with glee in the chair as Paul’s arm wraps around his waist again and he leans into Hugh.

"You two are really okay?"

They've already agreed on it, but the question still weighs in his stomach.  

"I hope so."

It's too fragile, too new for him to know its certainty the way he used to.  Their eyes meet and he can see the same insecurity, the same doubt he feels.  Paul laces their fingers together, looks down at their joined hands and sighs.

"You're allowed to give her a definite answer, Hugh."

"I'm not the one who gets to decide.  The last time I decided for us, look what I did to you."

“It’s not just up to me either.  We’ve both got some work to do.”

Hugh raises their hands to kiss Paul's knuckles, lips lingering a moment longer than strictly necessary.  He waits for agreement in Paul’s slow blink before responding.

"We will be."

Tilly offers a hopeful smile.

"Good."

Paul groans quietly and Hugh’s attention hones in on him between one blink and the next.

"What is it?"

Shifting uncomfortably against the sheets, Paul’s lopsided smile is self-deprecating and wry.

”I really, really would love a shower.”

Tilly wrinkles her nose.

"I wasn't going to say anything, but uhhh that might be a good idea, sir.”

Both of them look at Hugh, who shrugs.  Regardless of the smoke and sweat, underneath it all the smell of Paul fills his lungs with every breath and the rest is inconsequential.  

"It doesn't bother me, but you do have a point."

"Should I go?"

She’s already starting to stand, but he waves her back down.

"Is life support back on in your section yet?"

Hugh reaches over Paul for his PADD, thumbing it on and checking the repair status reports.

"Never mind, looks like they've updated the repair estimate for another five hours."

He doesn’t take Tilly’s scowl personally.

"You're fine," Paul untangles his arm from Hugh, “stay as long as you’d like.”

Nodding, she returns to the couch, stretching out with yet another dense bit of text on her PADD.  Hugh’s beginning to wonder if she’s going to give herself eye strain with the amount of reading she’s done in the last few hours, but that’s really something to worry about another time.

Pushing himself up, he peels back the covers, climbing off the mattress and coming around to Paul’s side.  He’s managed to swing one leg over the edge, but it takes both of them to get both of his feet on the floor.

”You think you can stand?”

”Thank you for the vote of confidence, Doctor.”

Paul’s sarcasm drapes itself over his shoulders, gliding across his skin with a welcome heat.  He waits as Paul rocks forward and then back again, hand coming up to rub at his chest.

”Still sore?”

”Yeah.”

”I had to go in through your right pectoral.  Sorry, it’s going to ache for a few days until the myocytes are all healed up.”

”I hate that part.”

”Makes two of us.”

He does seem determined to stand on his own, and although Hugh privately doesn’t think it’s a great idea, he wraps his arms around Paul in a secure embrace and slowly lifts him to his feet.  For a moment, Paul seems capable of staying upright, but then his legs buckle, wobbly even with Hugh’s support.

”Ugh.”

”You just woke up love, it’s normal.”

”Doesn't mean I have to like it.”

“Want to try again, or should I help?”

They both already know the answer to that, and he waits patiently for Paul to loosen his grip on Hugh’s forearms and sit on the edge of the bed again before carefully picking him up and heading for the bathroom.  

Cradled against his chest, Paul seems lighter than he remembers, and Hugh has to wrestle down the surge of guilt.  He never did remember to eat at the best of times, and stress or upset only made it worse.  How many times had Hugh needed to coax him just to finish one meal?  He must be successful in keeping it off of his face though, because Paul is still relaxed in his arms (he always did love to be ‘swept off my feet’ physically).

Hugh sets him on his feet just outside the shower, making sure Paul has a secure grip on the counter before stepping back.

“Do- do you want help getting undressed?”

Hugh swallows against his heart suddenly up in his throat and tries to make the offer as unthreatening as possible.  It might be far too personal right now, and he does his best to keep it from sounding too forceful.  Paul shakes his head, and he’s struck with a sense of disappointment.

”Okay.  I’ll be outside,” he turns to leave, “just-“

Paul makes a noise of protest that’s half bitten off but enough to make Hugh stop in his tracks.

”...I want to stay close in case you need-“

”Not what I meant,” he looks down, fingers twisting the fabric of his shirt. “Hugh.  I mean, do you think...”

Hugh tilts his head to the side, unsure what he’s trying to ask.

“Could you maybe.  If you want to and you don’t have to but-“ he inhales, determination settling over his face, “do you want to come in with me?”

Oh.  

Why weren’t you expecting that?

Because it’s not my place to assume.

”It’s not...too soon?”

“I think I need your help so I don’t fall.”

”Oh.  Right.”

Calm down, it’s not what you’re thinking.

Paul groans again.

“I just...we’re awful at this, aren’t we?  I want your help, but I also want you, Hugh.  I’ve- I've missed it.  All of it.”

He closes his eyes, letting the words sink in.

“Hang on.”

”Okay?”

Hugh sticks his head back out the partially open door.

”Tilly?”

She sits up on the couch, starts to stand.

“Is something wro-“

“Yeah, no, we’re okay, I’m just going to help- no, you can stay.  But I’m going to close the door.”

“Oh.  Sure.  Of course.”

He gives her a tired smile and steps back in, tapping the control to close the door entirely.  Slowly, Hugh pulls his shirt off, trying to be nonchalant even as he’s intensely aware of the way Paul’s eyes are tracking every movement.  He steps out of his pants, setting both garments on the counter for after.  Standing there in just his briefs, he’s suddenly more nervous and self-conscious than he ever was around Paul.  Their early days were filled with excitement at the prospect of undressing together, and Hugh had never been much of one for modesty, cheerfully walking around their quarters naked.  This feels different.

He reaches out and waits for Paul to nod before unfastening the smock and easing it off, knowing how much raising his arms will hurt.  The loose pants are next, and the bare skin exposed when he unties the drawstrings reminds him that he hadn’t bothered to put any underwear on Paul while he was still unconscious.  Hugh keeps his eyes on Paul's face as he stands, hands on his hips for balance.

”You’re not planning on wearing those in the shower, are you?”

Paul’s question is quiet, but there’s a hint of the mischievous spark that Hugh remembers and loves as his eyes flick down and back up again.  That glint sends a frisson of pleasure down his spine, unexpected and sharp.  He must hesitate a little too long, because Paul’s smile dims, and he looks away to the side.

”I promise I won’t touch you like- like that.”

It's probably meant to be light, but there's a brittle uncertainty under the words.

"It's nothing you haven't seen before," he murmurs, smiling at their mutual nervousness as he skims off his briefs, “Tilly too, unfortunately.  I think she was more embarrassed at me apologizing though.”

The comment startles a laugh out of Paul, shattering the tension between them.  

“Ready?”

”...hmmm.”

Paul’s eyes are fixed on a point below his collarbone, face soft with wonder.

”...what is it?”

”You- you’re wearing it.”

It’s become so much a part of him that Hugh had almost forgotten, the ring safe beneath his clothes.  He’s too worn out to find the right words to answer, and settles for a nod and gestures at the shower again.

“Ready?”

”Yeah.”

He lets Paul lead them into the shower, hands hovering at his elbows to catch him if he should slip on the still-damp floor.  Once Paul is safely leaning on the wall, he steps in and closes the door firmly behind them.  Hugh taps the controls, selecting program eight, Paul’s favorite after a long day in Engineering when he needed steam and gentle rain-like water patterns to relax his mind and body.  The cubicle fills with a light mist, and Paul’s looking at him a bit strangely again.

”What- oh, did you want a different one?”

”No, I just...you remembered.”

“I never forgot,” Hugh murmurs, “I’m sor-“

“Weren’t we not doing that again tonight?”

Instead of arguing, he drops a kiss on Paul’s cheek in apology.  They’re very close indeed, the shower not technically designed for two people, but it never stopped them before.  He’s about to reach for the shampoo when Paul sways on his feet, arms moving to circle his waist instead.

“Not good?”

"I don't think I can stay standing."

"Okay."

Hugh eases his hands up under Paul's arms, helps him lower himself to sit on the floor.  

“Do you want help-“ he gestures at the shelf with shampoo and body wash, “or...?”

Paul raises his arms experimentally, giving up with a grimace and lowering them again before they’re anywhere near shoulder height.  

“Please?”

The floor is hard on his knees after he retrieves the bottles, setting them in the corner and sitting back on his heels.  Paul leans back, water streaming over his head, eyes closed and lips parting around a sigh.  When he opens them again, Hugh is waiting with a palmful of shampoo and sets about washing Paul’s hair far more thoroughly than he was able to do in the medbay.  

“I always loved you doing that.”

”Hmmm?”

Hugh shields Paul’s face against the spray, rinsing the suds out.

”Taking care of me.”

The smile tugging at his lips is soft and full of affection.

”I love doing it too.”

He already showered a few hours ago, but quickly washes his own hair just for the pleasure of watching from under his lashes as Paul’s eyes skate over his body.  The soap is next, and he smooths it over Paul’s shoulders, careful not to touch his neck too lightly and tickle.  Hugh pauses with his hand over Paul's chest, just to the left of his sternum.  In his mind, he can see the horrible sight of shrapnel piercing that pale skin, blood smeared over his face, remembers the frantic fluttering of Paul's heart in his gloved hand, the fear driving him.  If they hadn’t brought Paul to him when they did-

”Hugh?  Are you all right?”

Paul’s concerned voice brings him back to the present.  

You saved him.

Inhaling deeply, he focuses on the unbroken skin, the steady heartbeat under his palm, until the memory recedes.

”Yeah.”

Hugh's met with a blank look when he holds out the bottle after rinsing Paul’s arms and torso.

"What?"

He gestures downwards.

“Did you want to...?”

It’s not something he would have asked before, his fingers lingering as he spread the slippery suds over Paul’s groin, fondling and teasing as a precursor to an evening’s enjoyment.  Even when the touch was non-sexual, it was still sensual in the extreme.

Paul follows his glance, and he can see the moment it registers.

”Oh.  Are you, did you not want, I mean...”

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Paul raises his eyebrows.

“After everything?  I think you’re allowed to touch my dick if you want.”

“I don’t want to rush anything, if you’re not ready.  But I could be, if that’s what you want?”

Sighing, Paul fidgets, eyes distant.  

”I’m not sure I am.”

”Sweetheart?”

”I don’t want to fuck this up, Hugh.  I can’t, this- you’re too important.”

Despite earlier, they’re still both dancing around the edges of the crevasse that had formed between them.  He understands.  It’s still a fragile thing, and he would like to think that he has it figured out, but Paul is probably right in saying what they’re both feeling.

“Me too.  But I think I can manage the difference between a wash and a handjob,” he offers with a half-smile, “if you want me to.”

He doubts either of them is physically capable of arousal right now, but it needs to be said.  The humor works, frown smoothing off Paul’s forehead, and he hands the bottle back.

“Go ahead.  I’ve...missed you.  This.”

He’s not just referring to being touched intimately, although it wasn’t an insignificant part of things.  Every other time they’ve been on the floor of the shower together, it’s because one or both of them is too fucked out to stand, smiling at each other with glazed eyes as they washed the evidence of pleasure off their bodies.  

Hugh pours a small amount into his palm, using his clean hand to trace up Paul’s thigh from his shin, guiding his thighs apart until Hugh is kneeling in the V of his spread legs.

“You’ll tell me if you want me to stop?”

”Yes.”

”Okay.”

He pauses to collect a kiss, then turns his attention lower.  He starts on Paul’s belly, spreading the soap suds downwards until his palm brushes over crisp hair.  Hugh turns his hand, curving his fingers around him, the heft of cock and balls transforming from new to familiar in the space of a few heartbeats.  There’s no twitch of arousal as he runs his fingers over the shaft, but Paul breathes out a quiet, content hum when he rubs the pad of his thumb just under the head.  As he does, his other hand moves to join the first, cupping and massaging the lather into sensitive skin further down. 

Paul’s gazing at him through half-closed eyes, hands resting on Hugh’s thighs.  Eventually, he realizes that he’s devoted more time to caressing than he spent washing Paul’s hair and the rest of his body combined.  He lets Paul slip free after a final squeeze, shifting his shoulder blocking the spray for the shower to rinse them both.

“Thank you.”

”It was my pleasure, sweetheart.”

“How much time left on the water?”

A quick glance at the control panel tells him that they’ve been in the shower for fifteen minutes, and program eight usually runs for twenty five.

”Another ten?”

Paul slips his fingers behind Hugh’s bent knee, tugging until he gets the message.  He shifts until he's leaning back against the wall, maneuvering Paul between his knees to rest against his chest. 

“Good?”

”Mmhmm.”

He wraps both arms around his waist, closing his eyes and pressing his lips to Paul's shoulder.  Chest grown tight, he can only smile at the fact that Paul is whole and alive and still wants him, despite everything they’ve been put through.  And if he cries a few tears of happiness, well, he thinks he’s earned it.

Chapter Text

Hugh's bubble of bliss only lasts until he lifts Paul to his feet and they leave the shower.  Just as he's stepping over the threshold, the ship rocks, lights fluctuating and artificial gravity flickering off and back on.  It's less than two seconds, but it's enough to send him to one knee and Paul sprawling over the floor in front of him, a pained exclamation echoing in the bathroom.

"Paul?  Are you all right?"

Mindful of the potential for ongoing issues, Hugh crawls over to him, easing him back up into a sitting position.

"Owww," Paul groans, a thin stream of blood dripping from his nose, "what the fuck?"

Shrugging expressively, Hugh snatches the handtowel off the counter and passes it over.

"No idea."

Knock knock knock

"Guys?" Tilly's voice comes through the door, "Are you okay?"

With a groan of his own, Hugh grabs his shirt off the counter and pulls it on, checking that the towel is still securely wrapped around his waist, and goes to open the door partway.

"I think so."

"I don't know what cau- Commander!  Are you all right?"

Paul's voice is muffled behind the red-spotted towel, but the exhausted annoyance comes through clearly.

"When will people stop asking me that?" 

"When it stops being a question," Hugh mutters, "but can we please keep your blood inside your body for the rest of today?”

"Ha ha."

Tilly looks ready to push past Hugh, which shouldn't be as endearing as it actually is.  He catches her elbow as she sways forward, recognizing the nervous worry in her eyes.

"He's fine, Tilly.  Just a bloody nose."

"Bloody no- oh.  Good.  I mean, not good but...yeah."

He offers her a half-smile, nudging her to the side so he can move past her.  Paul's voice follows him to the dresser, pout apparent.

"Are you leaving me here?" 

"No, I'm getting you some clean clothes unless you want to sit around in a towel all night," he calls back, digging in one of the drawers, "I don't think Tilly would appreciate that."

"Yeah, no.  Err.  No offense."

"None taken," Paul grumbles, slinging the towel into the sink and gripping the edge of the counter, starting to pull himself up off the floor.

"Whoa, sir, I-"

"Hey, wait for-"

Hugh nearly collides with Tilly trying to go through the doorway heading for Paul, who rolls his eyes with a huff, and sits back down.

"Is this going to be a thing?"

Retrieving the clothes from the floor where he dropped them, Hugh gently shoulders Tilly out of the way and heads back into the bathroom.

"Yes."

"Ugh.  Fine."

"Sorry Tilly."

With a relieved sigh, Tilly taps the controls to close the door behind him, and Hugh crouches down beside Paul again.

"You're going to fuss, aren't you?"

The tone of his voice suggests Paul is resigned to the fact, but also not-so-secretly pleased by the notion.

"Sorry, love," Hugh's aware he sounds anything but as he helps Paul up, "probably."

As they rise, the towel around Paul's waist falls with a damp swish, and he's glad Tilly isn't standing behind him any more.  It's a lovely eyeful that he's very recently become reacquainted with, all things told, but he's not going to share.  Hugh kneels again, feels Paul's hand on his shoulder as he steps into underwear and another pair of loose pants.  He pauses to deposit a kiss on each hipbone, nuzzling briefly at Paul's groin and breathing in deeply before he straightens.  The sweater zips up the front - the thought of trying to get anything on over Paul's head makes him cringe - dark grey making the cream of his skin glow, and Hugh catches himself lingering with his hand resting over the left side of Paul's chest yet again when he's done.

He could have died, and you never would have known.

"Hugh?"

I held his heart in my hand.

Only fair, he's been holding yours for years too.

"I'm all right, Hugh."

Warm fingers curve along his cheek, stroking tenderly, and he shakes his head a little as if to physically clear it.  Paul's watching him with concern, fingers of his free hand wrapping around Hugh's and holding them tighter over his heart.

"See?  All better.  You fixed it.  You fixed me," Paul murmurs, resting their foreheads together, "it's okay."

The fear and worry and other emotions he'd pushed aside are trying to break free, encouraged by Paul's gentle touch.  Hugh squeezes his eyes shut, wrapping his arm around Paul's waist and just holding on.  He's dimly aware of the fact that he's pressing Paul against the counter with his weight, but Paul doesn't complain, just keeps up the quiet words of comfort, kissing him sweetly as Hugh clings to him, dry-eyed and shaking.     

"Shhh.  I'm right here."

Chapter Text

Paul insists on walking out of the bathroom on his own.  After an adamant refusal to be carried, he eventually concedes that Hugh should at least be allowed to stay close in case he starts to fall.  While he knows he can't wrap Paul up like a fragile object because it’s a disservice to them both, the instincts as both Doctor Culber and Hugh are difficult to suppress.  Hugh bites his tongue and follows a step behind, fighting the urge to interfere every time Paul sways on his feet, and spares a strained chuckle that Tilly is literally sitting with her hands tucked under her thighs for what's likely the same reason. 

Common sense thankfully overrides the classic Stamets stubbornness three steps beyond the bed, and Paul accepts Hugh’s arm to help him the rest of the way to the couch.  He leaves him there with Tilly, heads already together over her PADD, and surveys the room for something to channel his jittery nerves into.  

It’s a matter of minutes to strip the bed, bundling the sheets into the synthesizer to recycle.  He opens the wardrobe, reaching confidently up to the same shelf that held the extra pillows without needing to check.  Sure enough, there’s a set of clean bed linen waiting.  Affirming expected habits shouldn’t be a surprise, but it produces a warm rush of affection, this reminder that yes, he does indeed still know his partner.  That warmth blankets him while he shakes the sheets out, crisp folds visible as he smooths his hands over them.  It’s an incredibly basic task, almost meditative in its simplicity as he remakes the bed with efficient motions.  When he’s done, Paul and Tilly are discussing...whatever it is that has her making animated hand gestures, sketching out something that resembles a lopsided pyramid.

Chirp

His own PADD is still on the nightstand, and he sees a couple of messages waiting.

[Saru-CDR/EXECOFCR] Dr. Culber, please accept the next twelve hours as additional stand down while we effect repairs.  Lieutenant Commander Stamets should remain off duty until either you or Dr. Pollard deems him fit to return.  I hope you will both take some well deserved rest.

[Pollard-Tracy-LT/MED] Did you know Aisha ran an override on my alarm?  Tilly said Paul is walking and talking, so I’ll forgive you this time for not comming me with an update when he woke up.  Get some more sleep if you’re awake and reading this, and please don’t do anything in front of Tilly that’s going to scar her for life.  

He taps out a quick acknowledgement to Saru with a thank you, and sends Tracy back an image from years ago of him making his best innocent face while she rolls her eyes in the background.

What's next?

Tilly hasn’t mentioned being hungry yet, but she should eat.  His own body is still in the lull between the adrenaline-driven frenzy of the medbay and the onset of demanding to be refueled, so preemptive sustenance is a good idea.  Paul’s going to require it as well, preferably before this temporary burst of energy wears off.  Technologically-assisted or not, he’ll need to replace the resources burned during the intensive healing process.  With that in mind, he switches over to skim the latest damage reports.  The non-medical synthesizers are currently running at one-third capacity to avoid putting too much of a strain on Discovery’s systems, but it’s enough for him to be able to dial up orange juice and toast for all of them.  He brings the tray to the coffee table, noticing that while Paul is still following Tilly’s explanation, he’s slumped down and letting the cushions hold his head up.  

Definitely time to eat before he falls asleep again.

Tilly accepts a glass of juice with a grateful smile, but Paul looks at the tray with disinterest.

”Not hungry.”

Even with half a slice of toast in her mouth, Tilly still manages to level a disapproving look that Michael would be proud of in his direction.  Paul glances between them both, nose wrinkling.

”What?  Why are you both looking at me like that for?”

“If Doctor Culber thinks you should be eating,” Tilly licks peanut butter and crumbs off her fingers, “then it’s probably a good idea.”

”He could have just brought it for the two of you.”

There’s clearly three glasses, but that’s beyond the point.  Paul’s being his usual brand of contrary when he’s not feeling well, although the tiredness isn’t helping his appetite at all.  

”I’ll force feed you if I have to.”

It’s a threat spoken mildly enough, but Tilly’s eyebrows climb towards her hairline at the implication he’s had to do it before.  

Paul snorts, onto the game but not giving in.

”I don’t think that incentive is going to work right now, Doctor.”

(“Come on love, if you just eat half of it, I’ll...”

”You’ll what?”

”I’ll suck you off.”

”Ugh, fine.”)

“I’ll come up with something.”

Tilly’s eyes flick back and forth between them like watching a Velocity game, finally settling expectantly on Paul whose glare is wobbling on the edges with fatigue.  Hugh sighs, takes his hands off his hips and tries a different tactic.  Sitting down on Paul's other side, he rubs his thigh and tilts his chin down, glancing up at Paul through his eyelashes.

"Please, sweetheart?"

The remainder of Paul's resistance crumbles, lips upturned in its wake.

"Only for you."

Across from him, Tilly's taken an extreme interest in the contents of her juice glass, and he appreciates the semblance of privacy even as Paul relaxes further against him.  It's telling indeed just how close she and Paul have gotten, and he feels another surge of gratitude for it.  He waits for her to finish chewing before reaching for the plate.  

"Tilly?"

"Hmmm?"

"Do you think you could read the status reports?  I'd love to know what the sensors are saying."

It's a flimsy excuse to take the attention off Paul, but she doesn't object, just licks her fingers again and picks up her PADD.  Tilly tucks her legs up on the cushions, settling into the corner of the couch to read.

"Ahem.  So.  According to this- and wow, that's spotty data, I wonder if Bryce tried patching it through the...hang on-" she pauses, tapping a message in before continuing, "we don't have standard telemetry.  None of the Federation receiving stations seem to be in range, which could be consistent with a jump to the Beta Quadrant, but Terralysium doesn't seem to be nearby either.  Hmmm."

She's nose-first in the text, which means he's free to tear off a piece of toast and coax Paul to open his mouth for it, rewarding him with a kiss to the temple.  Along with the fact that he didn't insist he could feed himself, he's chewing slowly enough that Hugh can gauge just how exhausted he is.  Doctor Culber keeps a careful eye on it while Hugh quickly finishes his half of the stack, Tilly's voice a soothing background to his focus.  She's starting to nod off again as well, and he manages to feed Paul a couple of slices - not as much as he'd like, but more than he'd hoped - by the time the PADD falls to her lap and she starts snoring quietly.

The sound rouses Paul, who huffs a fond chuckle, dusting crumbs off his chest.  Hugh moves the empty plate from his knee back onto the table and stands, popping his spine and stretching.  Paul doesn't protest when he picks him up again, just rests his head on Hugh's shoulder with a content hum.  He leaves him at the bathroom sink before returning to cover Tilly and lowering the lights to five percent.  Hugh retrieves a toothbrush from his duffel (Aida would be proud of him) and joins Paul at the sink, watching each other in the mirror with the same soft look.  When they've both rinsed, he covers Paul's hand where it's resting on the edge of the counter and squeezes, unable to find the right words.

"Me too," Paul mumurs.

Still holding Hugh's hand, he winks and slowly leads them back towards the bed.

"Dance with me?"

"...what?"

Paul turns to face him, something unfolding in his eyes that's both tender and burning with purpose.

"Dance with me.  Please?"

"I'm not sure that's a good idea when we're both this tired."

He takes Hugh's other hand, tugging until he can lean against him fully.

"I know you won't let me fall."

The hand on his waist slips further around his back, pulling him even closer.  Hugh raises their entwined fingers and rests his head on Paul's shoulder, breathing him in and feeling the throb of his pulse beneath his lips.  Paul leans into the kiss Hugh presses to his neck, waiting as they both adjust their bodies until they fit together just right.

"Good?"

"Mmmhmm."  

Paul starts to hum quietly, letting Hugh lead as they sway to their own rhythm.  He can feel the rumble in his own chest, the tune familiar but not something he can readily identify.  It doesn't matter though, not when Paul is in his arms.  He's warm and solid and for the first time since he opened his eyes in Engineering, Hugh feels right.

Time slows.  

Eventually, he can feel Paul resting more and more of his weight on him, and reluctantly decides they probably should go to bed while they're both still somewhat mobile.  He raises his head to meet Paul's half-closed eyes and steals a kiss.

"Sleep?"

"...yeah."

They're on Paul's side, so it doesn't take much to tip them both down onto the bed, waiting for Paul to settle before he pulls the covers up.  The cool sheets are a delicious contrast to the heat of Paul's hands on his face and neck, and he squirms closer until they're sharing the same pillow.

"Hi."

"Hi yourself."

They meet in the middle for a kiss, lazy and slow.  The taste and smell and feel of Paul bursts over his senses, his eyelashes fluttering with every kiss.  A distant part of his brain is still cognizant of Tilly sleeping a few meters away, but he can't stop the quiet gasp of delight when Paul teases his mouth open, flicking the tip of his tongue against the inside of Hugh's upper lip.  He catches that mischievous tongue with his teeth oh-so-gently, evoking a shiver he can feel everywhere they're pressed together when Paul pulls free.  Hugh thinks he could just stay here forever doing nothing more than this. 

He draws back when they can no longer suppress the yawns, mouths separating with a last nibble to Paul's lower lip.

"To be continued?"

"Definitely."

One more kiss, then Paul's hand is at his shoulder, nudging him to roll over.  He fits himself behind Hugh, settling back together just as they did a few minutes ago while standing.  His right hand ends up in its familiar spot on Hugh's stomach underneath his shirt, pinky tucked just below the waistband of his pants, and they both sigh at almost the same time.

"I've missed you."

A kiss to the back of his neck, followed by a nuzzle, and he smiles.

"I've missed you too.  Goodnight, sweetheart."

"Goodnight, Hugh."

Chapter Text

Hugh wakes up a few hours later with a heavy arm thrown over his waist and an all-encompassing sense of peace.  There’s a stillness in his body that he hadn’t realized was missing, like his own weight is finally grounding him.  Tilly's gone, evidenced by the neatly folded throw on the couch, borrowed clothes piled next to them and boots missing from beside the door.  Her presence was especially welcome as he waited for Paul to wake, as an extra set of eyes and hands and emotional support, but he’s happy to have just the two of them alone together now.

Together.

The sheets around his shoulders are warm and smell strongly of Paul, and he can almost pretend that they’re back in the weeks after Discovery’s launch, reveling in the ability to wake up together every day.  He’s about to close his eyes and go back to sleep in this little pocket of bliss when he notices something firm poking him through two pairs of pajama pants.  

What?

It takes his sleep-fogged brain a few seconds to figure it out. 

Well.  Looks like there’s no lingering effects from the sedative.

He squirms a little to get the pillow under his head into a more comfortable position, legs flexing.  The movement unintentionally shifts Paul’s morning erection to nestle snugly in the cleft of his ass, thick and hot.  He exhales a small, pleased noise against the back of Hugh’s neck at the change, arm tightening.  Paul’s definitely still asleep, evidenced by the uncoordinated way he tends to rut against whatever body part is closest.  While it had become more rare than in years past where it was a regular occurrence for them both, age and stress notwithstanding, it’s not in itself surprising.  And unlike waking alone with an unwanted erection as he had a few weeks ago, there’s no panic at the knot of heat forming low in his hips, just a sense of excitement.  

The snuggling and hand-holding have been food for his touch-starved heart, the sheer joy of re-mapping Paul’s body in the shower and falling asleep in his arms last night beyond compare.  On the other hand, those pillow kisses also reaffirmed just how hot they still are for each other, and this now is physical proof that Paul wants him, no matter how much he knows it in his head.  They can’t treat each other like glass forever, even if for mutually understood reasons, but he’s willing to bet that Paul’s going to try suppressing his own libido if he thinks Hugh isn’t ready. 

Are you ready?

Hugh had teasingly described Paul as “wild in bed” to Tracy, but while their energetic sessions between the sheets were enormously fun, it wasn’t the only thing.  By his own account, Paul wasn’t much of one for quick encounters or casual sex, never able to feel emotionally safe enough with anyone to allow himself that kind of vulnerability.  His reservations early on about their sexual activities combined with descriptions of those past experiences meant Hugh understood the significance of what they shared.  Once Paul had decided that he could trust Hugh, it was clear how much he thrived on touch, on the pleasure of giving pleasure.  He was never quite as forward as Hugh was in expressing his wants, but the desire in Paul’s eyes when he initiated sex was indescribably wonderful. What others never saw past the reserve and awkwardness is the intense passion and sensuality intrinsic to the man, hidden and shared only with Hugh.  Gifted to Hugh.   

Their relationship had worked on so many levels, and strong physical chemistry was always a part of it.  It might be just Paul's hand down Hugh's pants on the couch, or a lazy blowjob under the covers while Paul was reading, but it was always satisfying.  After years of comfortable intimacy, their hunger for each other’s body hadn't dimmed with time or the inevitable signs of age, even though they weren’t jumping each other daily any more.

You almost lost it.  Almost lost him.  Forever.    

Paul shifts, rubbing his cheek on Hugh’s shoulder.  Getting closer to consciousness, then.  He moans low in his throat, grinding harder into Hugh’s ass.  The damp spot from the leaking tip keeps riding against Hugh’s lower back, and he really, really needs to decide soon if he’s going to wake him up.  It’s incredibly tempting to let him find his pleasure like this, rocking his hips until he wakes up sticky with orgasm.  Or he could reach back and slip his hand inside Paul’s pants and...no, he can’t do that.  While Paul gave him blanket permission years ago, it doesn’t necessarily hold true that the offer still stands. 

(“Sweetheart, are you sure?”  

“Yes...fuck, the thought of you being so turned on that you have to use me while I’m asleep?  Yes.  Touch me any way you want.”  

“It feels a little selfish that way.”  

“Do you mind when you wake up with me humping your ass?”

”No, of course not.”

”Is it...exciting for you to do that?”

”It doesn’t feel fair.”

“That’s not what I asked.  Hugh, if you get that far, I can’t think of a better way to wake up than with your dick or your tongue in my ass.”

"Is that a request?"

"Obviously.")

He’s almost certain Paul would have made it clear otherwise, but he doesn’t want to start down that road unless he knows for sure.  Not when they're coming back together like this.

“Mmmm...”

Paul sighs, probably still more than three-quarters asleep, goosebumps spreading over the back of Hugh's neck.

“Sweetheart?”

The hand previously resting on Hugh’s stomach starts to slide lower, fumbling across the waistband of his pajama pants.  He’s not hard yet, but Paul’s large, warm hand groping him is sending long-dormant signals up to his brain and he arches into it without thinking, which has the added effect of rubbing even further against Paul's erection.  The aroused murmur fuels the desire to let his body respond, but eventually the responsible part of Hugh wins out, as always.

We really should talk about this first.

”Paul?“ 

“...mmmuhhh?”

Paul's hand tightens.

“Hold that thought, please.”

Hugh squeezes his wrist gently, halting the way Paul is fondling his (soon to be not) soft cock.  Paul's eyelashes flutter against the back of Hugh's neck and he freezes mid-thrust, stiffening.

“...Hugh?”

"Morning, love."

“What-“ Paul inhales sharply as Hugh wiggles his hips, “-fuck.”

He releases Hugh’s crotch so fast that Hugh would be offended if he didn’t understand why.  As it is, he pushes up on an elbow and rolls over to face his bedmate who's staring down at the tent in his own pants with a look of horror.

"Ummm.  Fuck- I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"Whoa," Hugh catches Paul's wrist when he scoots back, "Paul, hang on."

He already has one leg off the bed, hand cupped over his erection, and Hugh releases his wrist to gently rest his fingers on his hip. 

"I'll just go, uhh..."

Paul makes a gesture with his curled fingers and extended thumb that could either be indicating a trip to the bathroom or a crude description of what he intends to do while in there.  Probably both.

Hugh's smile is gentle, a little self-deprecating, but honest.

"You don't have to go."

"You know how long it takes for it to go away on its own."

Paul’s addressing his own lap.  Hugh can see the look of chagrin, and that won’t do either.

"I'm not asking you to ignore your dick, babe.  Unless you want to.”

His cheeks are pink with embarrassment, but he glances at Hugh from the corner of his eye.  Hugh fumbles for the hand resting on the sheets, lacing their fingers together as Paul raises the hand from his lap to scrub over his face.

"Given the amount of things I've fucked over for us recently, I'm not going to let you let me make you uncomfortable.  I'll go take care of this, and then...”

It doesn’t help that he can clearly picture the way Paul usually jerks off, long strokes with a twist over the head that he’s always favored, thumb teasing the slit until it weeps.  They’ve watched each other masturbate countless times over the years - thank goodness for long-range communications and a collection of sex toys - and he can’t deny the thought has its merits.

"Hugh..."

“We agreed to take it slow while we figure all of this out, right?  I’m not asking you to pretend you don’t have needs.”

”They’re not-“

”...wants, then.”

“I- I wasn’t planning on waking you up like...this.”

"What I'm saying is, I don't just want it to be about me.  Or just about you.  Didn't we agree on that?  And if you'd rather go jerk off in the bathroom, that's fine.  But if you want to stay in bed and let me cuddle you and maybe watch," Hugh doesn't remember ever blushing this much, "then I would very much like to do so.  Or see if I can help.  I still want to make you feel good, sweetheart.”

He’s a bit disappointed when Paul sighs and sets his feet on the floor, but it’s short-lived when he catches Hugh’s wrist and tugs.

”Come on.”

”What?”

”We’re going to brush our teeth.”

”Okay?”

”I want to kiss you properly.”

”What about that?”

Hugh nods at the erection still bobbing under Paul’s pants as he stands.

“Well.  After we kiss, and if you’re okay with it, I thought I might take you up on your offer.  It’s ummm, it’s been a while.”

Paul’s face is still flushed, but there’s a shy sort of playfulness in his eyes.

”Mmm.  We don’t have to though,” he feels compelled to reiterate, following Paul off the bed.

“Technically, I might need your help.”

”Oh?”

“You’ll probably have to remind me what to do with it.”

Hugh laughs at that, but the humor settles into a warm knot of affection in his belly.

”Makes two of us.”

Chapter Text

Hugh hides a smile as Paul adjusts himself to be able to stand in front of the sink comfortably.  Brushing their teeth doesn't take long at all, and he quickly washes his face and heads back out.  He brings the lights up a quarter and piles the pillows against the headboard before sitting back down on the bed, listening to Paul muttering curses over the difficulty of using the facilities in his current state.

"Good?" he asks when Paul finally emerges, still grumbling.

"Haven't had that problem in a while."

"Tell me about it."

Paul pauses with one knee up on the bed, eyes slowly roaming Hugh's body from forehead to toes with the same mix of wondering disbelief and affection that Hugh’s been feeling.  It glides over him like a warm caress, surrounding the broken bits in his heart that are mending.  He hums in enjoyment before holding out a hand and patting the sheets, waiting for Paul to settle between his spread knees.  Hugh pulls him to lean back against his chest, wrapping an arm over his torso and kissing the side of his neck, rubbing his cheek against fluffed-up blond hair.  Static crackles, tickling his skin. 

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Paul's thumb stroking Hugh's inner thigh, just breathing together.  The weight of him in Hugh’s arms is perfect, especially when he squirms to get even closer.  Paul’s ass presses snugly against his groin, and the reminder evokes a quiet laugh.

"You know," Hugh murmurs against his temple, "our bodies knew."

"Mmmm...what?"

Paul's voice is husky with contentment as he turns his head until their lips meet, hand anchoring itself around Hugh’s shoulder as they exchange kisses.

”Well, that for one thing,” he nods at the still-visible bulge in Paul’s pants, “but more than that.  Waking up together.  With you holding me, I felt...like me."

There’s a moment where Paul goes very still, breath catching, then he’s pushing himself up and turning to face Hugh.  His hands are heavy on his waist, firm and grounding.  It takes a few tries for Paul to find the words he’s looking for, sighing as Hugh strokes his cheek with his fingertips.

”You have always been yourself to me.  Even...even when you weren’t sure of it.”

The list of things Hugh wants to apologize for stretches between them, but Paul closes the gap until he can rest their foreheads together.

”I think the hardest part of everything, all of it, was seeing you so unsure of yourself and not being able to help.  I’m sorry for not understanding that, Hugh.”

“I- I didn’t understand that either.  It’s not your fault.  You were trying to help out of love,” he swallows past the lump in his throat, “and I’m sorry for using that, for turning it against you.  For saying what I did.”

He curls his fingers around Paul’s, feeling him turn his hands over underneath until their palms are touching.  Paul’s eyes are impossibly beautiful right now, stormy blue-gray nearly transparent in the low light.

“I accept your apology.”

Hugh blinks against a sudden threat of tears.

”I accept yours too.”

Eyes still locked, Paul traces his fingers up Hugh’s bare wrists and forearms, smiling at the shiver rolling down Hugh’s spine.  He cradles Hugh’s head with one hand, places the other on his chest for balance.  Then he closes his eyes, tilts his head, and fastens their mouths together.

The kiss eclipses everything else, Hugh’s senses overwhelmed by the softness of Paul’s lips, the rasp of his stubble under Hugh’s fingers.  Neither tries to take control, giving and receiving in equal measure, and Hugh loses track of time, of everything except Paul’s soft noises of pleasure and the wet slide of his tongue.  He can’t help the moan when they finally break apart to gasp for air, feels the stirring of arousal low in his hips even as something settles in his heart.

Sealed with a kiss.

He opens his eyes to see Paul in much the same state, breathing hard with pupils blown wide as he licks his lips.

“You’re right.”

”...what?”

”What you said, our bodies know.  Even if we’re still...remembering.”

”Mmmm.  Is there anything else you’d like to remember?”

Paul glances down at them both, then back up again.  

“You don't have to."

"I know.  And I know you'd never ask me to.  I want to, sweetheart,” he tugs Paul down, arranging them on their sides facing each other, “whenever you’re ready.”

”Whenever we’re ready.”

Hugh kisses him again then, for the simple pleasure of it.  There’s a hunger under the slowness, a growing need as they nibble and lick.

”We have...” he stretches out to check the chrono on the nightstand, “five hours before anyone might bother us.”

”There’s a lot we could do in five hours,” Paul’s smile is playful, “uninterrupted.”

”Well.  Is that an offer?”

”Yes.”

Another kiss, Paul’s teeth scraping over Hugh’s lower lip.

”Can we take it slow?”

”Anything you want, sweetheart.”

”I want you.”

Chapter Text

Paul noses just under his jaw, lips trailing over his throat.  He stops just below Hugh's ear, burying his nose against the skin and inhaling deeply.  

"You smell so good."

The words are muffled, their vibration on damp skin sending sparks racing down his spine.  Hugh's fingers tangle in Paul's hair, holding him in place as he pulls the covers back up over them both to create a pocket of warmth that they don't actually need.  It's cozy and intimate, a hiding place just for them, and his lips stretch in an uninhibited smile.

"Funny, I was thinking the same thing."

Giving his neck one last sniff, Paul settles back on the pillow, nose to nose.

"Even before I showered?"

"Says the man who likes how I smell after the gym.  How many times did you try to get me into bed because of that?"

"Every single time.  You said you didn't want your sweat on the sheets-"

His smile wobbles at the edges when he sees Paul's eyes go distant, closing briefly against whatever memory is causing him to frown.

"Sweetheart?"

Paul refocuses and shakes his head, self-deprecating.

"Sorry."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Paul."

The use of his name works the way it always has.  Hugh also reminds himself to pay attention to its overuse, the way it could communicate an annoyance he doesn't feel and not just concern.

"I...didn't change the sheets.  After you were gon- when you died.  At night, I could still smell you, and I could pretend you were just on gamma.  That I was just missing you for a little while.  That's why I couldn't pack your things.  Why I wasn't ready to, because it would mean you weren't coming back home."

Hugh winces, revisiting how cruel his words were in demanding Paul acknowledge his death, hears the remembered pain as he continues, words tumbling out like lancing a wound.  

Maybe we both are.

"And you were right.  I couldn't accept that you were gone.  Everywhere I went, I'd see memories of us.  How we made memories here, together, and I thought if I let go of any of them, I- I'd already lost you, I couldn't start to forget you."

Heat flushes his face as Paul whispers, vision blurring.  He kisses Paul's cheek, then his lips, fighting for the composure to say what needs to be said.