THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

"There isn't actually anywhere we could go that he wouldn't be able to listen," you say, likewise amused. "And I have serious doubts that some ground-pounder's little scheme could possibly be any more anti-Imperial than our Galley on a good day. Let's hear it, Kadros, old thing."

You gesture for him to take a seat on the ground next to you, then shove half the pile of filthy screens and a spare brush at him when he falls for your clever trap.

 

You roll your eyes, because you would've joined in on the scrubbing this whole time if you hadn't needed a clean tablet hand to make notes, but you guess you won't be writing any of this down. You get scrubbing with a will while you explain.

"Right. The key to getting what you need through back channels is turning a surplus of what you don't need into a sufficiency of what you do. The only things we have a surplus of are room, helmspower, and the bored, useless crews of docked ships. I'm afraid my scheme doesn't include a way for Galgal to flex his underutilized brainpower -- sorry, Helmsman -- but the other two, I think, can be profitably combined."

You twirl your scrub brush consideringly while you work out how to say this without sounding like a cagey asshole, but also without oversharing. "I know some trolls who aren't on the Empire's shitlist, per se, but they're not on its Twelfth Perigee's list either. They would jump at a place to do business that the Fleet has given up on. They could set up some entertainment for the troops, keep them busy, keep them out of our hair. And sailors on leave love to gamble."

 

You blink a few times, processing this. More— not crew, but— adjacent— hmm. You start to smile.

"If I'm following you, Commander Kadros, head of the No Fun Stuffy Asshole Division, you propose to invite some of your disreputable chums over to turn this carrier into a blackmarket pleasure hub."

 

"On the books, I propose to rent them some unused space for -- oh, a casino, say -- to entertain crews on layover. I'll check the regs but I'm fairly certain that's completely legal. Off the books, they act as a transport channel that doesn't have our names attached to it, and thus isn't subject to the same kind of fuckery. We can lay down whatever ground rules we want -- no trade in high explosives, all sex workers must be free trolls, and so forth -- and I have no qualms about enforcing them. Your fondness for gardens and pools helps us here. We could turn this echoing empty warehouse of a ship into a real oasis. And you wouldn't have to personally entertain visiting captains every moment, because there'd be something else for them to do besides hang all over you." You clear your throat and attend to your scrubbing. "Cash income has to be reported, but if supplies we were due anyway happen to show up, and then get sent out on refitted ships without forcing us to tighten our belts, who can complain?"

 

"Kadros, you wicked thing," you breathe admiringly. You could kiss him, you want very badly all of a sudden to kiss him, grab his horn and— you're leaning much too far into his space— settling back down takes an effort.

"Get me the required paperwork for it all, would you, Commander?" you tell him, eyes firmly fixed on scummy filters. "And we can make— lists and all that. Ground rules. Regulations."

Regulations like not kissing subordinates who have previously stated they do not want to be kissed. God, though, he does seem like he'd be a ride and a half. What an utter shame.

 

"I'll have it on your desk tomorrow evening, Captain," you say happily. "And you can take me over it. I mean. Go over it. With me. The paperwork. Not the desk." Whoops. "Wow, what a totally non-suspicious series of verbal stumbles I just made. Awesome. So I guess glossing over the thing is a no go. Right. Sir? Pranking your phone was, it was totally unprofessional of me, I only realized in retrospect that I was unconsciously black-flirting. I mean I realized it when you were mad at me and I thought it was great for a second, before the crew got upset and I understood you were mad for real, not for fun. It was just. Really inappropriate of me, and it won't happen again."

Your scrub brush punches right through the screen.

"Shit," you snarl quietly.

 

You laugh. "Put that aside, I'll patch it," you say. Your fins are burning. That's certainly an event happening to you right now.

Very carefully, not looking at him, you say, "I hope you understand, Commander, that it would be entirely inappropriate of me to engage in such an unequal relationship with any of my subordinates. Yesterday was a, a, a violation of conduct on both our parts that I expect not to be repeated. Everything I've— worked for—" you bite your lip, shrug. Manage a smile. "Let's keep it professional as we build this depraved hive of iniquity of yours, shall we?"

 

"Captain, you thought Lieutenant Gawker was your first mate until I showed up. That excuse won't hold weight, so let's not lean on it. I think the fact that we can't afford the distraction is sufficent." You meet his eyes, serious but not challenging. "I understand now that you truly care about this vessel, and I'm not going to fuck that up for you. As you say. We'll keep it professional."

You're so relieved, and so disappointed, and your hands are disgusting, and the temptation to slap mucky handprints on his shorts is truly terrible. You get up to look for somewhere to wash.

(i don't know what lainey's actual rank is, i can edit if you have a different idea)

 

"Yes, well, Lainey isn't anyone's subordinate," you say, grinning a little sheepishly. You collect the cleaned screens and the one broken screen under your arm and go off to the wash-stand of the pipe room. You're filthy— you'd like to strip down and have a wash, but you're pricklingly aware of Kadros, now, his size and his hot blue gaze and the crooked pale slice of his smile. You kick the shower on and rinse your arms down, then your face. Step aside for Kadros to take a turn.

You'd like him to strip down— no.

"I'm er. I'm going to go install these," you say, scratching your earfin. "Unless you think I should be... somewhere else...?"

 

"Everyone on this ship is your subordinate, Captain Aspera," you point out, but take mercy on him before it can turn into more flirting. "You may as well finish what you started, sir, but after that I could really use your help prioritizing hull repairs. We've got a lot of meteorite damage and exhaust corrosion out there, and it's nowhere near threatening hull integrity yet, but it gets more expensive to fix the longer we let it sit. I could send you the list?"

You are thinking very hard about filter muck, and not at all about Aspera's wet t-shirt. It's costing you, but you're doing it.

 

"Prioritizing?" you frown. "I— er. List? I still don't— know. What. That is that you want me to do." Your fins are hot again, but for a different and significantly less pleasant reason. You scuff your foot against the gritty floor, feeling all of six sweeps. "Decide which bits need to be done first, you mean...?"

 

A week ago, you realize, you wouldn't have been able to break it down for him without sounding condescending and annoyed, but you can do it now. You must be coming to respect him. "We can't repair them all. We have to decide which ones are most important. If I was doing it myself I know how I'd do it, but going off on my own and doing things my way -- we've discovered it's going to spoke your wheels more often than not. So I want to get your input before I start organizing the job."

 

You mouth spoke your wheels to yourself, thoughtfully, then refocus. "Yes, that sounds excellent— I generally coordinate with Mechanics to figure out how much we can spare on any given ship, then go about handling the Captains— Hardcase was a bit of an anomaly, we get ships in we give the lock-down treatment to only about three or four times a sweep. If you show me what you don't think we can do I'll help you come up with the excuse to Glasswind on why we can't do it."

You rub your forehead, then— clean hands!— indulge in burying your face in your palms for a long, dark, peaceful moment. "I won't say she doesn't know how to show a chap a good time— and his matesprit a few new tricks— but she drinks genuinely hideous concoctions. Did you know there's a sort of drink with celery and tomatoes in it? It's barbaric, it's like someone out there decided hopbeasts need to get loaded too."

 

"You mean a Bloody Maryam? I love those if they're spicy enough. They have to burn your eyebrows off, though, otherwise it's just salad in a glass." Having dried your hands on a handkerchief, you get out your tablet and show him the repair form, with the hull damage marked in red X's on the little diagram of the ship. "I mean -- do you want to do this now, sir, since I'm here? Or meet up once you're done with the water system?"

 

"Ah—" you hesitate. He's, well, he's right there, but— damp. You turn away, shuffling the screens. "Why don't you organize the list first on how you think it should go, and when I'm done with the filters we'll just have to adjust it a bit here and there."

 

"That'll work. I'll be in the office. Thank you, sir."

You're happy to escape; that room was getting really small. But hey, you got stuff out in the open, you decided not to flirt, and it looks like maybe you can work together. Also, you have a clever idea to work on, which is very good for your mental health.

 

You catch your breath, rest your forehead against the cool wall panel. He wants— he wanted— and you might— but god, what if you lose it like yesterday? What if you encouraged him and then every time he took a little swipe you lost it? What if every time he took a little swipe it was something that compromised your effectiveness, slowed you down, tripped you up, got in the way of how things needed to be run, got crewmembers killed because he's still such a soldier and casualties are so acceptable to him and— you can't, you can't.

You shiver. If he'd push you, though. If he pushed you into it. You could hate him and then hate him for making you and—

This room's too big, stuffed with cleaning supplies and spare parts, but there's— your hive's on the way to the second or third unit that needs replacing. It wouldn't be so terrible to settle yourself down, at least. Especially before you're going to have to be bending your horns over a little tablet with him and telling him which of his ideas and why won't work— fuck. Fuck. You thump your head gently against the wall.

Fuck.

 

Bel's phone buzzes. "Well, that was fun," the helmsman snickers at him. "Oh, take me over a desk, Captain. I mean paperwork. Take me over the paperwork! Take me hard. You think you might let me watch that, bitch boy?"

 

You sigh. "Too soon, Galgal. Let the sting fade before you whoop it up, I would really appreciate that, thank you." You try to poke at your tablet while you walk, but you're too distracted. And anyway, you find the helmsman's voice soothing as well as attractive. You want him to keep talking to you. "I thought you said you were pitch for him, I wouldn't think you would want to watch me -- I mean. Aren't you glad we decided not to pursue anything?"

 

"What? I never said that, who said that?" a pause, an indistinct mumble, "—oh. No, highblood, you asked about how he never mentioned a kismesis— I'm the only member of his social circle who the screwy little dipshit allows himself anything even close to a contentious relationship with. With who. Whom. For different values of member, social circle, and relationshit." A snicker. "Can you imagine? Doing it in all this brain spaghetti I'm hooked up to— might as well have him jam his dainty purple ween down a garbage disposal! Ha. Anyway, the crown of irritating the captain most passes to you, good riddance and go fuck yourself."