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Cutting a tiny piece off the vine seemed easy in theory but as Eiffel holds the pair of miniscule scissors – can they really be called scissors if he can’t fit his fingers through the handles without taking off his gloves – and lifts up a cluster of leaves to snap their tiny stems, he feels trepidation and a rush of adrenaline. The plant is sentient, what other things won't it have crafted at this point Eiffel ponders; they haven’t bothered with it since the Commander made their peace with it, and only now and then will they see a vine floatingly drape out of a vent, mostly they find dry leaves scattered here and there. Eiffel is particularly fond of the plant because it reminds him of Earth – the withered leaves sprouting a pleasant nostalgia in his chest. Eiffel will later come to lament the murder of the station plant greatly when Kepler orders Jacobi to blow off its section of the Hephaestus.
There’s a rustle through the leaves as Eiffel hesitates, but no breeze exists in space and Eiffel feels a sliver of dread, it was clearly a conscious move from the plant and he needs to either man up or chicken out.
With all the things Eiffel’s been through his immediate instinct is to bolt – but he chooses bravery. With a deep breath he cut the stems and pushes himself away from the plant as its exposed vine slither back inside the vent with alarming speed. Eiffel doesn’t wait around to see if it returns and hauls himself through the empty air with one strong pull by a fitting along the wall, propelling himself out of the room. “Shut the door, Hera!” he screeches, and the speakers flicker with her static.
“What door, officer Eiffel?”
“The one I just left through! Seal it! Bolt it!”
“Okay,” she replies, audibly confused. There’s a pressurizing noise as the door locks and Eiffel heaves a dramatic sigh of relief. “Would you mind telling me what that was about?” she inquires sweetly.
“Just getting myself some supplies,” Eiffel informs her, now floating at a steadier pace down the grey hallway embedded with wires, lockers, and a million other things Eiffel has clue to what their function is.
“Supplies from the exercise room?” Hera sounds skeptical.
“I knew the good doctor had some protein bars stuffed away in there, and I was right,” Eiffel lies smoothly.
“Alright then,” she tunes off and Eiffel heaves another sigh of relief, although less dramatic. There’s no reason to lie to her out of fear of judgement but Eiffel wouldn’t put his cents on her not telling Minkowski if he was honest about his intentions – and there is no need to draw unnecessary attention to himself. He shouldn’t doubt her loyalty, and he doesn’t, but Eiffel is about to commit a serious crime, accordingly the laws of their beloved Earth.
He floats through the halls until he reaches the lab. Dr. Hilbert will be in the kitchen for his lunch at this time of the day and will spend at least an hour, so Eiffel has plenty of time to separate the leaves from one another and put them in the dry freezer. It’s not a machine Eiffel thinks the doctor will be using, he generally spends his time fiddling with microbiology which is as far from cryogenics as Eiffel can imagine.
Eiffel gets to work with more efficiency than any other job he’s done on the Hephaestus, he believes his proficiency would impress the Commander if it was anything but making space cannabis.
“Officer Eiffel,” Hera chimes over the intercom.
“Hey Hera,” Eiffel replies, engrossed in smoothing out the leaves, making sure he doesn’t cut too much of each stem while concurrently keeping them from floating away.
“Why are you using the lab equipment? Don’t tell me you’re messing with Dr. Hilbert’s work again.”
“Not at all Hera. I’m just,” Eiffel stalls and Hera continues.
“Freeze drying raspberries?”
“Yes! Exactly!”
“We don’t have raspberries on board, officer Eiffel,” she muses.
Eiffel groans in defeat. “Alright. So you know our dear plant monster that’s now living in our vents rent free?”
“It does ring a bell.”
“Do you remember that Hilbert mentioned the structure of its biology was familiar to cannabis? Or something like that, you know; yeah science!”
“Yes,” she sounds slightly suspicious, but Eiffel doesn’t notice.
“I thought why not put that to a test! Get some leaves, dry them up, 420 blaze it, and relive some of those earthly pleasures I miss the most.”
“Officer Eiffel, are you making – weed?” Hera sounds stunned.
“Well, if you put it like that then uh – not if you are going to tell the Commander about it.”
Hera draws a long, static sigh. “Good luck freezing your raspberries, officer Eiffel.”
“Thank you, baby,” Eiffel smiles, the fondness he has for her making his heart flutter momentarily; Hera is the most trustworthy person he’s ever been close to, of course she wouldn’t rat him out. He returns to his project in silence, concentration visible on his face, and soon he’s floating down the halls, a timer of 12 hours set for when he has to return to the lab to check on his little DIY grass project.
No one confronts him about his escapades and 12 hours later Eiffel is shifting his fingers through the leaves that now significantly smaller as the moisture has evaporated. Pleased he shoves the tray back into the machine and calls for Hera.
“Hera, you there?”
“Hey officer Eiffel,” she comes as called.
“How do I set this thing to cryo cure?” Eiffel traces the outline of the LED screen, careful not to touch the touch sensitive screen and accidentally setting the machine to run a random program.
“You went into this without knowing how to use the dryer?” she asks, disbelieving.
“Uhhh I thought it would be more straight ahead but this thing is way more complicated than it needs to be. Why can’t they just make it an easy navigation menu, like the options on a microwave.”
“Because we’re in space, officer Eiffel.”
“Right. Still, it shouldn’t have to be this complicated to break bad.”
“How long do you need to cure your... raspberries?”
“About 6 hours.”
Hera guides him through the setup for the machine, every manual for any independent machinery digitally uploaded to her database. Eiffel is forever grateful to her, and he leaves with another timer set on his watch, rushed out of the room by Hera warning him of an approaching doctor. He overhears Dr. Hilbert asking Hera why the dry freezer is running but she saves Eiffel’s ass yet again by letting the doctor know Eiffel recently discovered the dry freezer and wanted to see the effects it would have on their protein bars. The doctor said something in Russian and Hera made a compliant comment, also in Russian.
“I didn’t know you were fluent in Russian,” Eiffel says into the quiet of his communication’s room once retreated there, all other but Hera’s channel on mute.
“I’m fluent in all major languages spoken by more than 5 million people as well as Latin, Cyrillic, and Sanskrit.”
“You truly are something,” Eiffel says with a smile and there is a static flicker Eiffel’s learned to interpret as Hera getting flustered or shy, as it has happened consistently when he’s either complimented or flirted with her, especially the first few months they spend together on the Hephaestus.
“What did you and the doc talk about?”
“Oh nothing he just made some exasperated comments about your intelligence.”
Eiffel laughs softly, a tinge warmth in his belly rather than a feeling of indignity from what he can safely assume must’ve been Hilbert insulting him. He feels slightly lightheaded at the thought of Hilbert thinking about him, talking about him.
“Wanna be my lookout in about 6 hours? Distract him out of his evil lab for me.”
“Of course, officer Eiffel.”
Hera tunes out and Eiffel is yet again in the quiet of his comms room. He tries to stretch as well as one can do in zero gravity. “Well then, dear listeners. I’ve been hard at work, cultivating some much needed stress relief. Purely for my own consumption of course, we don’t want to become full-time dealers. Who would even serve as customers here in space? Minkowski? That would be hilarious.” Eiffel laughs again, more for comfort and effect than humored by his own commentary, “Alright, dear listeners. This is Doug Eiffel signing off.”
He turns off the microphone in which all his personal logs are spoken into and closes his eyes, attempting something akin to settling in albeit a pointless move when there is no gravity to hold him down.
7 hours later and Eiffel is scooping up the plant leaves before they can float away from him. He seals them in a bag that he hides under his t-shirt, ready to explain away the odd shape bulging out under his clothing in case he should run into Dr. Hilbert or Commander Minkowski. He’s already fetched his super hidden emergency carton of smokes that Minkowski does not know about from under Hera’s mainframe, and with an overload of jittering adrenaline he makes it back to the communication's room without any confrontations.
It is hell to assemble the joint; the cigarette’s tobacco flows into the emptiness around him when he breaks it in half by the filter and catching each little shred of dried tobacco is impossible. Crumbling the plant leaves of his homemade cannabis is also quite the process, one he tends to inside the bag in hopes it’ll lessen the amount floating out.
Assembling the bong proves just as infuriatingly taxing but doing it inside the plastic bag proves the easiest even though the bag only fits one of his hands, and making one joint takes him at least 25 minutes.
Minkowski is going to kill him if she finds out he smoked inside the comm’s room but he doesn’t particularly care – though he realizes his impulsivity when he lights up the smoke and realizes the smoke has nowhere to exit; a trouble for another day, he thinks, and allows himself to relax close to the window where the dormant wolf359 rotates too slow for human eye to pick up.
Its orange glow gives a pleasant ambiance for Eiffel to lights up to, and the feeling settling in him is unprecedented by anything else; to inhale the depressant smoke in actual space, embraced by the light of a star, surrounded by the emptiness of the vast space.
Eiffel’s eyes shut close as he inhales deep into his lungs and exhales into the space around him. The feeling is so homey Eiffel feels his eyes tear up as a longing for Earth squeeze around his heart. He hadn’t known he’d missed this simple enjoyment so viscerally and it’s making him emotional.
The effects kick in only 10 minutes later, his head turning swimmy and his vision wavering slightly. There’s a bubbly laugh pushing up his throat that he can’t choke down, and he laughs into the emptiness of his room, the vast void of the Cosmos. It’s quite funny, starkly hilarious down to the bone. He’s in space, the actual universe, floating in a place that does not feel real but where the very laws of the Universe press in closer than they ever have on Earth, and here he is lighting up a blunt in freaking space.
The speakers crack with static as Hera checks in on him. “Officer Eiffel, are you alright?”
Eiffel inhales again, too deep, and exhales with coughing. “Yes-” he coughs and spits and laughs and perhaps cries a little bit as well, then laughs some more through his coughing. “Yeees Hera I’m - fine,” he chuckles and inhales again. “I’m great! Hera, oh my god, the Universe is so huge, did you know?”
“Yes,” Hera says hesitantly.
“Like, look at it,” Eiffel turns to the window, and knocks on the glass. “It’s out there. Right out there, I can touch it.”
“You can’t touch space, officer Eiffel. It’s empty.”
“Don’t be silly, it’s not empty! Have you seen the big red thing that’s like – floating out there? How does it even float that’s insane. And we work here. You know who does that? Crazy people! We are insane!”
“Eiffel, are you okay?” Minkowski sounds over the intercom.
“Commander!” Eiffel exclaims with joy.
“Hera, is Eiffel okay?”
“Well, yes. He’s - uhm. He’s just had too many cups of seaweed.”
Minkowski sighs over the intercom. “Eiffel just – don't drink anymore, okay?”
“I won’t Commander. Actually I have this really amazing grass that I made in the freeze dryer and I thought you’d be mad so I didn’t tell you but oh man, Commander, you have to try this! Commander?” Eiffel stares at the quiet speaker, confused.
“She can’t hear you, I cut you off before you told her. Officer Eiffel, I don’t think telling her about your – exploits – is a good idea.”
Eiffel groans but settles with another hit. His bones feel like goo – more than usual – and his brain feels as if every little neuron is going off with electric bursts creating a wonderful symphony of pink noise and he exhales into the relaxing sensations that makes him feel afloat – he realizes he is actually floating and it sends him into another fit of excited blabbering to Hera who remains mostly silent.
Eiffel’s memory becomes inconsistent, his decisions with little inhibitions and he observes himself floating down the halls humming a tune, the theme of Star Wars. Nausea sets in suddenly and he immediately steers for the nearest room, using the dents and crooks of the walls to pull himself forward. The room has a bed and Eiffel exhales with relief as he glides over to lie down, forgetting he needs to be tied to the bed to simulate rest. His eyes fall shut and he feels at ease, in a way he hasn’t for a very long time. He can’t remember when he last felt this good. Colors are brighter yet everything is calmer, his back doesn’t hurt from the lack of gravitational pull, he is pretty certain he can hear every frequency traversing through the Cosmos, and he might as well be merging with the very fabric of the Universe.
“Officer Eiffel.”
Eiffel’s eyes open to find a certain Russian doctor with very sharp cheekbones and a familiar scowl of impatience on his face; Eiffel’s own lights up into a bright smile. “Doctor!”
“What are you doing?” Hilbert asks with his thick accent running thick as it does whenever he’s upset, arms crossed over his chest. Eiffel giggles, it’s hard to take Hilbert seriously when he’s just floating, like – he's just floating there, you know.
“Kiss me!” Eiffel exclaims.
“What?” Hilbert looks positively shocked and Eiffel laughs, Hilbert's expression nothing short of utterly hilarious. He would’ve stumbled out of the bed if they’d been on Earth but in a place where gravity is void, he just floats with self-assured elegance – aside from his feet kicking uselessly. He floats over to Hilbert and grabs him by the collar of his uniform, his eyes narrowing in what he thinks is the most coy look anyone has ever expressed.
“Kiss me.”
“That is very inappropriate, officer Eiffel.”
“Don’t you want to?” Eiffel feigns the look of a doe and Hilbert curses in what can only be Russian- Russian? Is that even a language that exists, Eiffel contemplates for a second.
“Sorry, weed makes me gay,” Eiffel says remorselessly when Hilbert gives him an off-put expression. He tightens his grip on the smooth fabric of Hilbert’s uniform and uses Hilbert’s weight to pull himself close enough for their lips to touch. His own eyes fall shut and a wave of excitement rolls through him.
Hilbert feels odd to kiss, unlike anyone else he’s kissed. He feels undulating, unfixed, traversing. Eiffel opens his eyes and they widen as Hilbert is definitely fluid in front of him, his entire presence wavering and glitching, a kaleidoscope of all the galaxies crashed into one another to form an ever changing mass.
“Hey doc, are you okay? Your body is kinda billowing, that can’t be healthy.”
“Hera what did he take? I know for a fact we do not have weed on this spacecraft.”
“He - uhm.”
“Hera!” Hilbert barks and she obeys.
“He made his own.. Uh- weed,” she glitches as if it’s a last attempt to protect Eiffel but she’s clear enough for Hilbert to understand, judging by the deepening scowl – at least Eiffel thinks it’s a scowl, it’s hard to tell when Hilbert’s face is moving like bubbles of liquids too heavy for the water they’ve been submerged into.
“Eiffel!” Hilbert sings a symphony of Russian words that sounds romantic for all Eiffel knows. It simply makes him giggle and dive in for another kiss. Hilbert doesn’t notice until their lips are once again pressed together, and a jitter goes through him. He firmly pushes Eiffel away and calls for the Commander.
“What’s the matter Hilbert? I’m a little busy here.”
“Eiffel is high, Commander.”
“What?!” she screeches so loud the intercom cackles with static and Eiffel makes a noise of startlement, the noise a painful cacophony to his sensitive hearing. “Eiffel! How on Earth did you manage to sneak narcotics on board?!”
“Not narcotics,” Eiffel laments, “I just made a batch with a gracious donation from our house plant!”
Hilbert and Minkowski both exhale their prayers in their respective native languages and Hilbert’s grip on Eiffel’s arm tighten – Eiffel hadn’t noticed he’d grabbed him but the realization makes him blush faintly.
“What if you’ve just gotten yourself poisoned, Eiffel?” Minkowski chastises him, “for all we know, you could die from this!”
“Relax Commander, it’s not like I’m in danger,” Eiffel drags his words, small hiccups of laughter in between his words, “you should really see Hilbert’s face after I kissed him, he looks like he turned into liquid. Or are those fractals-”
“You what- Eiffel, Christ- we have no idea what this can do to you! You are in danger- Hilbert get him detoxed, now.”
“Yes, Commander,” Hilbert broods.
Eiffel, however, stares at the intercom speaker with wide eyes. “Who are you talking to right now?”
“You, Eiffel,” Commander Minkowski says, impatiently.
“You clearly don't know who you're talking to, so let me clue you in. I am not in danger, Commander. I am the danger! I am the one who knocks !”
Silence. A good long silence, enough for Eiffel to feel sleep creep over his shoulders like vines growing from deep within his bones and through the crevasses of his rips. The Commander says something indistinguishable, and Hilbert agrees taking a harsher hold of Eiffel’s arm guiding him to the bed. Eiffel realizes he’s in Hilbert’s medical office and under any other circumstances he would’ve kicked and screamed sooner than being in here, but he is so placated he cannot be bothered by anything. The world is a blur of soothing calm, anodyne and dissociated.
He wakes up fastened to his own bed in the sleeping quarters, feeling horribly fatigued. Turning to look at his bedside clock the date indicates he’s been asleep for at least 32 hours, having skipped an entire day. Minkowski is going to skin him alive but he’s too exhausted to care – and honestly, getting high again was absolutely worth it and any punishment of insubordination she might throw his way.
A few quiet minutes pass before Dr. Hilbert announces himself with a knock, Hera must’ve notified him, and Eiffel accepts his visit.
“Are we feeling better, officer Eiffel?” he asks with his thick accent that is so charming Eiffel feels tiny butterflies fluttering in his stomach.
“I feel like my body was hit by Halley,” Eiffel complains, fumbling to loosen himself from the bed fittings. He tries to stretch, though it yields little relief in zero gravity.
“Don't overdo yourself,” Hilbert comments and Eiffel sighs.
“Yeah yeah,” he waves him off and Hilbert shakes his head.
“We’ve confiscated the remainder of your marijuana. Lucky-”
“What?!” Eiffel is nothing short of devastated.
“Lucky for you,” Hilbert repeats himself in a harsher tone that makes Eiffel quiet down though it does nothing to the distressed expression Eiffel has, “It had no significant impact on your health.”
“Of course not, it was just weed.”
“It was plant matter from an unknown species existing only on this very spacecraft,” Hilbert corrects him. “And it made you do – improper actions.”
“What?” Eiffel looks at him with a confused expression and then it all floods back to him, like a lightbulb lit up,” Oh! Oh.. Oh, uhm, I’m sorry doc, I did not – uhh – it wasn’t.” He stumbles over his words like a moron and there’s a vivid flush to his cheeks. “I’m not into.. – men.”
“Mhmm,” Hilbert murmurs, his expression unreadable and it makes Eiffel squirm. “Do control yourself next time, officer Eiffel.” He takes his leave, but Eiffel is convinced he did not detect any animosity in Hilbert’s voice. It’s certain the good doctor harbors no grudge; Eiffel can’t help the pang of excitement and the smile that won’t seem to fade no matter how hard he tries to force it away.