THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

"Oh, you know him? Of course you know him. Is he a pupa too? I bet he was cute as a wriggler." You get up, stretch, and gesture for him to give back the laptop. "He's running a little bar and grill right now, it's probably not too busy since we're between between ships. Shall we drop in for lunch and pester him about his sex toys?"

 

“Is he really? This I have to see. I guess there’s not much need for moobeast herding skills out here. Just a second...” You quickly finish copying the data from the laptop, then give it back so he can re-hide it.

As he leads you out, you worry, “I’m obviously wearing a bigger troll’s clothes. Maybe I should do laundry first.”

 

You are unreasonably charmed by this familiar show of vanity and fussbeasting, and tack down the hallway that takes you by the area's garment sanitizing device. It's an old, creaky behemoth of a thing, but shipwrights historically tend toward respectable middle colors and working with helmsmen is a messy, slimy business, and so the appliance has sat, conveniently, right by one of the exits, since long before you set foot aboard.

"Have at it," you say, and lean against the wall to text Murfey that you intend to drop by with a new friend.

 

You unload your laundry directly from modus to machine, which is a terrible thing to do to good clothes but you don’t think Erskin will be patient if you divide it into multiple loads. Besides, you’re eager to meet the grownup version of your friend.

As the machine thumps and rattles, you ask him, “Is the rest of the team here? Cavino, Namida, Fionne —?”

 

"I don't have the best head for names, I'm afraid," you say. "I could enquire. Are we going to tell him who you are, really, or just pretend you're a very close genetic correspondent to our dearly indisposed Kadros? I've been saying he ate something that entire disagreed with him at the wake. Murfey's always struck me as the sort of chap who can keep absolutely mum about the most dreadful secrets under the worst sorts of torture from his enemies and then randomly spill the entire freighter of legumes to a friend, and I would prefer for as few people as possible to know they can delete my first mate by bumping off his--" you just barely bite your teeth around a descriptor that's sure to have this foolhardy little soldier strutting about in a big tough huff for the next half hour, "--counterpart."

 

You consider how he told you practically in his introduction about his vendetta against the raider fleet calling themselves “V-Corps” for killing his childhood moirail Dannie — but to this day has not only not mentioned that Dannie’s ghost is still hanging around to protect him, but has managed to steer you away from asking and deflect any mention of it. You hmm and tilt your hand. “For his friends, he can keep a secret. If we’re close in this timeline you can tell him the truth. He’s smarter than he looks, anyway. He might figure it out.”

 

"Well, we'll see. It'll be good to have a few more Kadros-wranglers alongside," you say, with a teasing smile, then politely feign interest in an unoccupied area of the block once the machine dings and disgorges the young man's clothes. You don't need to be scoping out the fellow's particulars, for all that you're rather curious as to just how tight his trousers can get...

 

You don't own a coverall like you've seen some crew wearing, but you do your best to give the same impression: fatigue pants with cargo pockets, and a matching button-down with the sleeves rolled up. With your climbing belt masquerading as a tool belt, you think you can pass for maintenance crew at a casual glance. You turn to Big Erskin and spread your arms to invite comment. "Inconspicuous?"

 

He's still far too fresh-faced and stub-horned for a troll that got to space legitimately, but he'll do.

"Not half bad," you tell him. "I could very well be persuaded to believe you're capable of a night's honest labor, blueblood." You chuck him just a trifle provokingly on the shoulder as you pass him by, leading the way out towards your transit cart. It's not flirtatious, just a bit of light hassling-- and he makes such extremely enjoyable faces when he's slighted.

 

"I'd think the fact that you've seen me breaking up space rocks would be a little more persuasive," you grumble as you follow. "I can't believe I'm getting dragged for highblood indolence by a freaking tyrian. Your psychology is a bowl of ramen, Aspera." You waggle your fingers illustratively. "Squiggly."

 

"Yes, and distinctly ham flavored," you say, and tap the side of your brainpan. "Anyway I'm also the Captain of this brick and I work harder than anyone, so don't think I can't take all the cheap shots I like. C'mon, up you get--" you usher him into his seat on the cart, take the driver's side, and wheel the two of you off to Murfey's, still trash-talking one another amiably.

You've caught Murfey's establishment at an excellent time of evening, it seems like: the early birds have just had breakfast and the night owls are long since vanished. It's very nearly empty when you lead Bel in.

"What ho!" you what ho.

 

"Lies and vile calumny," you retort. "The Commander shrank himself."

You take a seat at the bar and wait expectantly for a gravity sling. You've rather gotten a taste for them.

 

The vast monument your friend Murf apparently grows up to be gives you his standard can't-be-fazed look as he mixes a drink for Aspera. "What the hell, Double Deuce. How'd you manage that?"

"Warp accident," you shrug. "I'll have my usual." You're curious to see how long you can pretend to be Commander You before he catches on. You'll tell him eventually, but --

"You don't have a usual, kid, you're on a mission to try every weird beer ever brewed." He turns to Aspera and makes a little circling gesture. "Time travel or parallel reality?"

You aim a disappointed sigh up at the hair escaping your braids. "You're too smart, Murf. Figuring it out that fast is just no fun."

"Own fault, hoss, you blew your cover."

"Parallel reality. I met everybody before ascension. I assume Commander Me met you in the Marines?"

His thick eyebrows go up about two millimeters. "Naw, we did practice war together. Same? Right on." He's not interested in reminiscing, though. "You got swapped when we went through lumpy space, I bet." To Aspera: "What happened to our Bel?"

 

"Galley's fairly sure it's a straight trade, with possibly a bit of a time lag, on account of the--" you gesture vaguely at young Bel, "time lag. I don't pretend to understand much of it, but you know if Galley had finally done Kadros in for good he wouldn't be lying about it. The vicious little bone goblin should be able to trade ours back in a week, or so he claims."

You toss back the gravity sling and then gesture for another. It's very early in the evening, but you really haven't done enough drinking about the Kadros situation, and the stress is catching up to you all at once. You hold up a hand quickly to forestall any drinks getting to his counterpart, however.

"No alcohol for you, my dear fellow," you say. "You already make quite bad enough decisions already. Have an appetizer or something, the pillbugs are excellent."

 

You didn't particularly want alcohol until he forbade it. Scowling, you open your mouth to protest, but catch the expectant glint in his eye and shut it again. Catch-22.

"Coffee," you demand.

Murf was ahead of things as always, and is already setting a steaming mug in front of you. "That'll stunt your growth," he jokes, and abruptly you're misty-eyed. His forehead creases. "Shit, what'd I do?"

You shake your head. "My you says the same thing."

"Getting homesick? It's only a week."

"Alternia is a murder circus, but I miss my real friends."

"I hear that, hoss." He pats your shoulder, and somehow it doesn't feel condescending at all.

You make a mental note to spend more time with your Murf if you ever get home to Pancho and -- you firmly clamp down on thoughts of your quadrants. Once you let yourself dwell on them you're going to lose it, and like hell you'll do that in front of Aspera.

 

"I want a warstory," you say, since Kadros is looking unacceptably homestuck you mean homesick, and Murfey is looking unacceptably tender and indulgent. You down your second drink, then snap your fingers briskly. "Captain's orders. Something good and embarrassing, chop chop."

You don't specify which of these handsome lads should embarrass the other. You're rather hoping they'll compete for you, on account of you're being responsible about not having sex with either of them but there's no harm in enjoying the ambiance.

 

"His hair used to be real long," Murf begins obediently, and you make an offended noise.

"You didn't even know me yet!"

"Pancho told me."

"You weren't there!"

"I was too there, I was on the other side. Shush, I'm telling a story," he adds, over your protest that that doesn't count as being there, since only your stealth party actually saw you get tangled in river brush and have to be cut out, and he goes on to regale Aspera with a very embellished version of How Kadros Lost His Magnificent Mane.

You're not sulking, you're inhaling the steam from your coffee. Dammit.

 

You snicker appreciatively at all the right spots, and enjoy Kadros's increasingly defensive huddle. Just before you're about to have your fourth drink and another excellent bit of blackmail delivered, a nervous rustblood clears his throat from a very healthy distance away.

Oh, hell, it's one of the new mechanics, still all shook up from clown hell. You sit up straight and put on your best Captain's face: attentive, but in a curious, hasn't-decided-to-hurt-you-yet sort of way. You hope, at least. It's the least likely to freak out the new chaps, anyway.

"Yes?" you say, carefully neutral. "Is there a problem."

"Yessir," the rustblood says, nervously twisting a ragged, oil-stained green bandanna between their claws. The poor little thing was probably very pretty, once, before they got their face carved up in that ghastly grimace. They say, "Beggin' your pardon, sir. Heinsz said to run along and let you know Pump Sixteen is down and you'd better have a look before too much steam pressure builds up and blows the whole aft complex. She says. Sir. Thank you, sir."

He takes a careful couple steps back.

"Oh, well, if Heinsz says so," you say, and lever yourself resignedly out of your chair. Shooting the messenger has always been a traditinally trollish practice, but you find it a tremendous waste of time, so you pat his shoulder a few times instead. "Alright, let's run along and you can show me what she wants me to do about it."

You glance back at Kadros and Murfey.

"Murfey, do you mind pet-sitting for the evening?" you ask. "Get him to do your dishes or something. Even at this age, he's marginally competent."

The older Kadros would have had some clever little retort but taken the hint to let you be on your way. From the expression on this version's face, you realize, a little too late, that you have entirely fucked up.

 

"He has employees for that," you guess, hopping off your barstool so you can follow. "I want to see what you're using steam for. I didn't know there was steam stuff on spaceships." You're deliberately not addressing 'pet-sitting', because there's no point and you'd probably traumatize the red.

When Aspera looks to him, Murf shrugs. "I do have employees. And one of those workbots. Ain't tried to kill me yet."

"I'm marginally competent," you insist.