It starts slowly. Rita looks over at him one day when they’re alone on the Carte Blanche. The rest of the team is down on the surface of Ajaxis gathering supplies and Rita’s invited him to come watch streams in her bedroom. For once, he was allowed to choose the show: The Rundown. It’s an action classic in the making, one he’s watched a dozen times in a dozen places, but never with other people. Never with friends.
Rita squeals at a particularly intense scene. Oh, Nureyev knows this one. It’s the one where the protagonist reunites with their mentor and they make a narrow escape from the clutches of evil. Nureyev could talk forever about the cinematography, the art in the way the lighting falls across the two of them, the way the adrenaline is palpable as they make their getaway…
“Mistah Ransom, are you alright?”
Nureyev startles and looks over to see Rita watching him with a concerned expression. It’s only then that he notices that he’d been rocking back and forth rather aggressively. He stops immediately, leaning back against the couch and tucking his hands securely against his sides to prevent them from rebelling against him as well. A rather embarrassing, childish holdover of something he’d rather not think about. Something he had no choice but to think about, for it was stitched into his thoughts themselves. Stitched into everything…
“Yes, Rita, I’m quite alright. My apologies, I was merely engrossed in the scene.” He flashes a Ransom smile at her and she relaxes.
“Oh, good. I thought I was the only one gettin’ real excited, so I’m glad you are, too. Ooh, ooh, oh, my gosh, there they go again!” Rita turns back to the television, hands flapping in excitement as the chase continues.
Nureyev hasn’t had such a lapse in concentration in a long time. Well, unless one counts time spent with Juno, which Nureyev doesn’t. Time spent with Juno is in a different category entirely, one Nureyev has long since built a separate filing cabinet for. Rita doesn’t seem to mind his oddity, but there’s no telling what she might pass on to Jet, and from Jet, well…
Jet’s never liked Peter Ransom much. Peter would rather not find out what he thinks of Nureyev.
Perhaps if that had been the only slip, life could have continued as normal. Peter Ransom doesn’t have ADHD, after all. Peter Ransom, like most aliases, is perfectly mentally sound and capable of handling things like an adult.
Peter Ransom does not feel the uncontrollable urge to break into the argument Vespa and Juno are having about a game of cards from the night before.
Peter Ransom does not feel the need to hit something when their voices reach an unbearable octave, ringing through his ears like knives and cutting into the last shred of decency he has.
Peter Ransom does not mind the texture of the table under his fingertips, rough and uneven and full of splinters just like Vespa’s voice.
Peter Ransom beats a hasty retreat to his quarters.
Peter Nureyev buries himself in as many blankets as he can find and cries on the floor.
This happens again and again.
Peter is tired.
It all comes to a head one night at a family dinner. There’s nothing wrong with the meal, nor the people attending it, nor the circumstances under which they attend it. It’s just a normal night on the Carte Blanche. Peter is sitting between Juno and Jet and across from Buddy, Rita is babbling away about something, Juno and Vespa are trading dirty looks, and Jet watches serenely. Everything is fine, so why can’t Peter feel his hands?
The day had gotten off to a bad start. Peter had woken from a nightmare alone in his room, a fact for which he was thankful because it meant he did not have to explain to Juno why he threw his blankets off in such a rush. They were too much for his skin to handle.
Later, when he tried to help Jet with some relatively basic maintenance, he grew distracted far more easily than normal. When he could focus, none of the instructions Jet was giving him made sense. Somewhere between Peter’s ears and his brain, the words got scrambled and rearranged in a foreign order. Jet thought he was being difficult. They fought. Peter left.
He went to see Rita, which was. Momentarily calming. Rita did not demand much from him other than that he sit quietly while she explained her latest tech invention to him. He did not understand and she did not expect him to, so she had no quarrel when he spent the time in her quarters deep in his own mind, recovering from the toll the day, still young, had taken on him.
Next was lunch, which was alright other than the fact that he was too nauseous to eat it. Of course, he was hungry, but just the sight of the sandwiches, normally something he enjoyed, made his stomach turn. He made some weak excuse and left early. Juno followed him to his room. Juno asked too many questions to which Peter did not have the answer. Peter got irrationally angry. He snapped.
He snapped at Juno. Just quickly, just a few words before he got himself under control and managed to convey his desire to be alone, but still. He snapped at Juno.
Juno deserved so much better. So much better than a broken thief. So much better than Peter Nureyev, probably than Peter Ransom. This situation had been exactly the one he had been hoping to avoid when he went to lock himself in his quarters. It was better for him to be alone then. Less risk of him hurting others with his rage and his words and his wounds. Less trouble.
Peter wanted Juno to hold him. Peter had not yet earned that privilege. He had to calm down.
By the time Buddy called him for dinner, he still had yet to calm down, which leaves him in the predicament he currently finds himself in, seated at the dinner table seething with discomfort and sadness and an overwhelming desire to clap his hands over his ears and yell until it all stops. Too much. It’s too much right now. All of it.
Peter tries again to eat his dinner when he finds Buddy watching him. She suspects, he knows. What, exactly, he’s not sure of, but she suspects, so Ransom performs.
He can’t bring himself to eat his dinner. It’s almost as though he’s forgotten how. It’s stupid, of course he knows how to eat, but suddenly, he can’t sort through all the little tasks, all the noise, all the static he needs to see through in order to take the first bite. He’s looking at the schematic, but he can’t find the building.
Step 1: Take a bite of food. What food? He has three kinds of food on his plate right now. What will he pick it up with? How will it taste? Will he like it? Right now, his mouth tastes like static.
Step 1: Pick up your fork. It’s right there, Nureyev. Pick it up. Now. Step one complete.
Step 2: Eat your food. No. Eat your… Start with the broccoli. I don’t want broccoli. Too bad. Rita laughs, high and loud. Ow. Take a bite of broccoli.
Step 2: Eat your food.
“Pete, are you alright?”
“Fine, thank you.”
Step 2: Eat your goddamn broccoli it’s not that hard my face itches ears itch neck itches sweaty dry knuckles hungry nauseous hungry nauseous
“Honey? You alright?”
Step 2:
“Ransom?”
Step 2:
Step 2:
Step 2:
“Peter-”
“I said, ‘I’m fine,’” Nureyev snaps, standing so abruptly he nearly spills his plate. Desperately, his hands come up to scratch at his face. He can’t get the nails deep enough, nothing is deep enough to stop the itch. “Stop talking to me. Stop making noise. It’s too much.”
He shouldn’t be saying this. He shouldn’t be doing this. They’re looking at him like he’s lost his mind, like he’s broken, like there’s something wrong with him (because there is), and this is it. They’ll never trust him again. Juno will never look at him the same way again. He’s acting like a child.
Peter Nureyev runs to his room.
Knock knock.
“Darling? Pete, will you please open the door? I’d like to talk to you for a moment.”
Peter’s heart, so recently settled and tucked back into its little lockbox inside his chest, leaps. Buddy. Buddy, his Captain, come no doubt to release him from duty. What else can she do? The behavior Peter exhibited today, the behavior he’s exhibited his whole life, is unacceptable. It’s entirety Peter’s fault that he never grew up, and now he’s facing the consequences. He opens the door.
Buddy… doesn’t look angry. She looks concerned, actually. Maybe a little bit shocked. She steps into the room and gives Peter a warm, comforting smile. “Thank you, Pete. Are you alright to have a conversation right now?”
Might as well bite the bullet. Nureyev nods.
“Good, good,” Buddy assures him. “Could we sit?” She gestures to her bed and he nods again. He’s sure that, if he opens his mouth, he won’t be able to control what comes out. He doesn’t want to talk, anyway. It’s more comfortable like this.
They sit on the edge of the bed, Buddy’s posture open and inviting and Peter staring at the floor.
“Peter, I’m sorry for what happened today.”
His head snaps up so fast Peter hears something crack. What? Why is she sorry for having to let him go? Surely, this is to her advantage. “What?” he croaks.
Buddy sighs, looking as though she’s just seen something expected but nonetheless disappointing. Peter is familiar with this expression. “I’m sorry, Peter,” she repeats. “You were showing us that you were uncomfortable and I didn’t acknowledge it. I failed you as a captain in that respect.”
Peter frowns. “Captain, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Pete, this crew is a family. It’s my duty as the leader to take care of you. All of you. I was waiting for you to come forward and tell me about your neurodivergence and how I could help you. I see now that that was a poor choice on my part. I should have been helping you, and I understand why you might be insecure about it.” She sets a hand on his shoulder.
Peter is completely lost, adrift in a conversational sea without a lifejacket. He’s not being fired. He’s not being fired. He’s not being fired. “My… you knew?”
Buddy smiles, warm and maternal and amused. “Darling, you’re not as subtle as you would like to think. You’ve me my Vespa, haven’t you?” she chuckles. “I’m very familiar with atypical brain functions.”
Peter blinks once, twice, three times, trying to ground himself in the present. Slowly, carefully, he lets the rest of the cat out of the bag. “My particular brand of disability is ADHD,” he admits.
“I thought as much,” Buddy affirms. “Darling, if it wouldn’t make you too terribly uncomfortable, I’d like you to speak with Vespa about this tomorrow. I believe she may be able to help you stop things like this from happening quite so often, or at least, give you a modicum of control over them.”
Peter nods. “Captain, I also apologize-”
“No.” She cuts him off sharply, but not unkindly. “Peter, this is not your fault and it’s nothing wrong with you. I want you to feel safe here, and I want you to feel like you can be yourself around us.” She gives him a knowing look. “Please don’t ever think less of yourself for being different.”
Peter bites his lip against the tears threatening to crawl their way up his throat. He will not cry over this. He will not. “Thank you, Captain.”
“You’re welcome, Pete. Now, I believe that a certain woman is waiting for you to find him in his room.”
Peter smiles, small and watery and not-Ransom, and stands. “I’ll be sure to find him.”
“Good. Captain’s orders, you know.” With one last smirk and a flourish of fabric, Buddy’s gone, leaving Peter to gather his things and seek out Juno.