THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

You give him an unimpressed look. "Fine. I'll sit peacefully and pretend you're not interfering with my snack completely on purpose." You sit down with a huff.

 

You put a carrot down the back of his shirt.

 

With a not-entirely-surprised war whoop, you swarm him like an angry ferret. You are going to bite something, and you don't much care what.

 

"Pffffhahaha, you wild egg!" you fend him off until he gets a sharp bite in to the side of your arm, then you cheerfully bowl him across the floor again. It's a bit like playing with Itsy's gangly, aggressive little cubs, only somehow even cuter.

 

This is surprisingly fun. As you come at him again, you realize you're not really feeling the black dokis like you would if this were your Erskin, and it's a relief. He's teasing like a friend, tussling with you a bit because he's drunk and you have frustrations to work off, what with the whole reality-swapping business. So even though he's absurdly attractive, you're not going to cheat on your own Erskin with his double. Which, yes it would too be cheating.

You manage to get a tiny tomato impaled on the point of his horn before he bowls you this time. You grin and pantomime chalking up a point.

 

You narrow your eyes at the little punk, wiping juice off your horn. "Well, bring it, then," you say, and romp around with him until you're both thoroughly mucky and tired. It's very different from playing with your Bel: he's every bit as tricky and flexible, but a good deal lighter and more excitable. You play the gentleman as best you can, and keep the fight clean and free of unnecessary pins and holds, opting to throw him about like a ragdoll whenever possible, just for the fun of it. He's so very bouncy.

Finally, dripping sweat, you hold up a shaky hand to call halt. "Think I need a breather," you admit. Your leg's spectacularly better than it used to be, but that doesn't mean it's prepared to be happy about this, and the rest of you isn't in as great shape as you'd like. Exhaustion still sets in quick and hard.

You pull yourself upright against the wall and test your balance, hissing a little with the strain. "Right... who calls first shower?"

 

"Obviously," you begin, about to point out that it's technically your shower, at least more than it's his, and also you've been out in the desert and despite a dip in the oasis you have dust in places -- but there are tight lines of strain around his eyes that say he's in pain. So you change tacks. "Obviously, Captain, it's your ship." You give a half-mocking little bow and gesture for him to go first.

 

"So gracious!" you bow back, and wobble off to the ablution stall. You set the water as hot as you can stand and go carefully through the stretches Jethro's taught you, and emerge clean and very nearly comfortable.

When small Bel pushes past you, you catch his shoulder on impulse and sniff at his dusty hair, your fins pricked forward in interest. You've been catching hints of the scent for a few hours now, but up close it's fascinating: sweat and stress and hormones, obviously, but aside from that a wonderfully foreign smell of dust and dry grass and open spaces. Open sky. And some particular, indescribable element you'd somehow forgotten.

"You smell like Alternia," you say finally, letting him go. "You're probably the only chap in a hundred thousand lightyears who does. That's funny."

 

You froze when he grabbed you -- instinct telling you run run run while your pride is telling you don't show it and your hormones are saying get some -- and you let out a shaky breath when he releases you. "And now I'm going to go wash it off," you say, almost steadily. "Sorry, but there's grit where no grit should be."

In the shower, you find you're shaking a bit. It's finally coming home to you that you've been rassling with an adult. An adult seadweller. The fact that he's a version of Erskin kept you from being afraid; kept you from having any restraint, really. You're not scared of Erskin, he would never hurt you in an unfun way on purpose, and while he's careless enough to go too hard by accident, he'd be pretty embarrassed about it. Underneath all the brattiness and fragile pride and impulsiveness, he's decent. That's why you hate him romantically instead of just avoiding him or getting rid of him. You assumed, without thinking of it, that this Erskin is the same way. And so far he's given you no reason to think otherwise. But you don't know. You can't be sure.

After all, if the Bel in this timeline can be happy as a soldier, with his Galley still enslaved, maybe this Erskin is happy with seadweller pomp and privilege, and will suddenly turn on you for not bowing to his rank.

Probably not, though. You got dip in his hair and he just laughed.

When you're done washing, you put on some of your double's clothes, just because they're there and they're clean. The gym shorts come down to your knees and you have to really haul on the drawstring to get them cinched in enough. The t-shirt with MARINES in faded Imperial red is like a dress. Since you fully expect Erskin to laugh at you no matter what you do, you march back in with your best military gait and give him a big old salute.

 

You're perched back on the couch, eating dip with a spoon, and the absolute picture small Bel presents makes you freeze, utensil in midair, and go "Bweee!" in horrified admiration. He is cute. He is cute like Arguus in a bunny kigurumi. He is cute like a basket of kittens. You are going to die. You are going to show this picture to your Bel when he gets back and he is going to die.

"Don't you have any clothes that fit?" you demand, while getting in as many shots with your phone as trollishly possible.

 

"Nothing's clean. I haven't done laundry since before I killed a bunch of rainbow drinkers; that dusty stuff was the cleanest outfit in my inventory." You do heroic poses for him while he snaps away, then flop down on the couch and pull your knees up. Reality is really starting to weigh on you. "So what happens now?"

 

"I don't know where you keep your garment cleansing apparatus, but I'm sure you have some," you say. "You could do laundry now. If you mean, the rest of the day, I don't know, I suppose I'm going to kick around here making sure you don't get in too much trouble." You yawn. "I say, I sincerely hope you don't have any more martial acrobatics planned, I'm just about done in. If you mean, what happens now, long term, we're really going to have to wait until tomorrow night to sort that out."

 

You think about it. "I guess I'm asking... do I hide in here for a week? Do we tell anyone? Does local Bel have any relationships I don't, people who'll freak out when he doesn't show up? You and Galley know, and if this Pancho's anything like mine she'll take it in stride. She's unflappable. She cannot be flapped."

 

You make a strained, unhappy growl and rub your face with both palms as your brain tries, and largely fails, to do anything useful under the weight of exhaustion and intoxicants. "I— I— I don't— I don't— Bel, I don't know right now, planning needs to happen tomorrow, Empress's sparkly fucking spheres. Nngh. Commander Kadros is my first fucking mate, of course he's got relationships, he helps me run the damn place, he's got— subordinates. We can give it a night or two. Say you've— you've— got— sick. Work out a better story when we're not running on spit and spite."

 

So this one gets frazzled when asked to plan for the future too. He just does it anyway. You thump his shoulder encouragingly. "Didn't mean to make you strategize while drunk, sorry. I just want to know what to expect, you know? Look, you don't have to babysit me, I can be trusted to stay here."

 

You peer over your hands enough to raise a derisive eyebrow at the earnest little twerp. "If you're anything like my Kadros, you can be trusted to do exactly what you think is the best and most heroically clever thing at any given moment, and hang all us fools who can't appreciate your genius. If I leave you alone, I'm locking this hive up from the outside."

 

"What could possibly be heroic or clever about going out there?" you throw your hands in the air. "Being an obvious pre-ascension kid among Fleet personnel? That won't raise any eyebrows!"

You actually kind of were thinking about sneaking out to visit Galley, but on reflection that's a terrible idea and you don't know the way anyhow.

 

His show of indignant practicality is, of course, adorable, though you don't trust him for a moment . You give your face a final, lingering rub and lean back against the cushions, nudging him aside to get your legs up on the seat. The nice thing about Bel-sized furniture is there's generally plenty of room for indolent lounging. Even more so with an undersized Bel to compete with.

Well, to co-exist with. Whatever.

"Since transferring here not even half a sweep ago, Commander Kadros has taken it upon himself to fight, with fairly disastrous consequences, at least three superior officers and one zombie invasion." You give young Bel a stern look. "Being outmatched just makes you keener off the mark, so pardon me if I'd prefer not to find out, this exact day, what sort of trouble you're going to find for yourself."

 

"Well, they probably needed fighting," you say, crossing your arms. "And I like a challenge. But unless there's a plague of undead socialites keeping you and yours as snackable pets, it's not my battle. Er... that's not a thing that's happening here, right?"

 

"Bel, literally none of them needed to be fought by you. Except possibly the zombies. That was genuinely constructive. But we're fresh out of undead around these parts, that I know of, so you and your horrid little murder boner will just have to sit tight for a rest cycle. We can restart the movie."