Curly has a working and well-fleshed out mental to-do list for every twenty-four hours that pass aboard the Tulpar.

Nothing gets in the way of it, and nothing interferes with his workflow throughout the vessel. As it should be, he muses.

It's when you start reaching out for support beyond your psych evals that his carefully concocted structure threatens to collapse. Here's one of his trusted crew members, very clearly troubled; in what way? Curly doesn't know, but he's afraid to find out, much like with other things. He offers a pat on the back in the lounge and maybe an awkwardly dadlike nudge to the arm to express his appreciation, but you wear out more as the days pass.

One time, you're situated in front of the nighttime screen, nestled into the sofa, pondering bad, bad things.

Curly is recovering from a sore wrist, aching legs, and a migraine from manning his beloved vessel, but he notices your slumped form; perhaps not your troubles, but your body language persuaded him to sit beside you and cast a smile of encouragement your way.

"Everything alright?" Curly asks after a beat of silence, head tilted.