THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

You peer back over your shoulder.

"Auspistices aren't supposed to be nice," you point out. "They're just supposed to keep you from fucking your First Mate stupid in their operating block."

 

A hungry shiver goes through you just hearing him say it out loud, and the sinuous twist of his back needs your hands all over it. You clear your throat. "Obviously the location and the timing are terrible. I'm starting to wonder, though, if..."

You glance at Sal. You're sure as hell not making a hate confession in front of him, and not just because you have zero interest in him, gray or any other color. But it isn't really necessary, is it? You haven't been concealing your feelings, despite your occasional halfassed efforts to do so.

 

"If this is a good idea?" you supply, hesitantly because— you are. Wondering. But you can smell him from here, and even curled up like this your claws still knead at the cot's material. Your teeth itch to take this fellow apart.

"Can we— do you think— we might— that is to say— rrrgh." You rub your face. "Can we be friends," you mumble into your palm. "I can't— I want you but I can't if I don't— if I'm not—" you gesture awkwardly at the air, tongue-tied and uncertain. "I don't fuck anyone I don't like. And I want to, to— I want to go at you till you forget your own damn name. I want to wring you dry. But. If we could just— if we could work out how to get along. First."

You peek back over your shoulder at him. You feel very young and silly, all of a sudden. Can we be friends, hell. You might as well be some wiggler proffering a lacy little cut-paper spade.

 

You swallow loudly. "I thought we were. Friends." Your voice is rough with hurt feelings. He likes Murfey more after a few hours than you after a few weeks. Of course he does. You're not likeable, you knew that, but it still stings.

 

Your eyebrows go up, then draw together in a rush of awkward, uncomfortable pity.

"I— er. I was rather under the impression that you held me in cold contempt? Do you. Er. Do you... have friends."

 

"Cold contempt?" you repeat, aghast. "Is that how I come across? No, more like fond irritation! Good god, sir, of course you shouldn't enter a quadrant with someone who holds you in contempt, not any quadrant, but I sincerely don't! I find your way of doing things confusing and weird and sometimes I think it's a terrible idea, but you keep me off balance and drag me out of my comfort zone, and I respect that. I think you're funny, I like your snark. Hell." You drag your hands down your face. "Okay, obviously I need to work on... my personality, I guess. In some way. I think I want to go see my lusus now, if you'll excuse --" You pause, and make a grossed-out noise.

You still had the mucky gloves on. Of course you did.

 

Y0u choke back another round of giggling and rummage around for the cleaning wipes.

"Here, I'll—" you wave them at him, "—I can? Get that? Only fair. And, er, I'm sorry I hurt your feelings, er. Commander Kadros." Oh good lord you're blushing. This is the silliest night of your life.

 

"I uh. Okay, thank you?" You hold still, eyes closed, for him to scrub at your face, while you peel the gloves off. "No, I'm sorry I, um." You can't apologize for being hurt, that would sound either fake or self-pitying. "I'm sorry I suck at friendship. I'll work on that."

 

"Well, there we go, a good faith effort's all a fellow can ask for, isn't it," you say, rolling over. Hurt feelings or not, you feel loads better just knowing he actually doesn't despise you, or at least, not in the bad way. You both want to make this— want to make this be a, a this. Want it to work out.

You put your hand on his neck. You could probably have just cleaned him up with a few fingers at his jaw and it wouldn't have been pale, but instead you indulge yourself and put your hand right against his damp throat, press your fingers enough to feel his hammering pulse. Dig your clawtips in just a trifle and enjoy the way he swallows, hard, against your palm.

You take your own sweet time with the cleaning.

 

"Sir. Are you." Your voice is rough for a different reason this time. "Are you teasing me on purpose."

 

"Yes, of course," you grin, and dig in your clawtips just a little more sharply. You lean forward a bit, till his breath comes warm and fast against one fin.

"I like it when you call me sir," you confide, and then you have to sit back and laugh at the look on his face.

 

"I see," you say, grinning a little, breathless and blushing. "So flirtation is allowed at this stage, even if my friendship skills need work, sir?"

 

"Your flirtation skills need work too, Commander," you tell him, and finish with his face by tweaking the tip of his pretty nose. "We'll have to get to work on all of it right away."

 

You grimace and rub your nose, but you're still grinning. "Not everyone can be a social butterfly like you, sir. Oh -- this is the closest I suppose I'll get to a natural segue -- speaking of my social skills. My moirail has expressed a desire to transfer here. I told her it's a dead-end posting, but she isn't promotion-hungry and would rather be near me. If you're amenable, I can draw up the paperwork for you. She's a medic, specialization in emergency first response, but she's also been pioneering some techniques using temporary lusus substitutes for orphaned patients. She'll bring her stable of comfort animals, they're adorable."

 

You're interested— god knows you need to shore up your medical department— but when he says temporary lusus substitutes and orphaned patients you're blindsided into a full body wince. Your fins pin back and you can't look at him, caught up in a wave of shame and anger. Is that really what he thinks will sell you on a crew transfer, someone to throw a white comfort plush at you and make clicky sad noises? Hell, he does need to work on his friendship skills. What an asshole.

"Sure, send the paperwork over," you say, focusing on a bit of floor. "I don't— er. I don't need one. Though. Just the medical skills— there's enough on-the-job accidents to keep her busy with just that, I dare say."

 

"Don't need one what?" The grin is gone. "I just did something wrong and I have no idea what it was."

 

You hesitate, prickling with suspicion, but— he doesn't lie, actually. So.

"I don't need a temporary lusus replacement or a comfort animal," you say carefully. "And I am offended at the notion you might be attempting to sell me on the transfer of your moirail by offering me— that. That sort of thing."

 

Anger flashes in your eyes for a moment before you get control of yourself. "Does that really sound like something I'd do, sir?" you say sharply. "I was just talking her up, because I'm proud of her. If I was thinking about applying her new techniques to anyone on this ship, I was thinking of little Twitch. Have you noticed how she doesn't talk? What if she had a fluffy little creature that was safe to confide in, might it do her some good? Sir, I don't have to 'sell you' on the transfer, did you see Sal's face at the mention of additional medical personnel under his command? I was just. Proud of her." You cross your arms and frown at the floor.

 

"I said you don't have to sell me on the transfer— rrrrrgh!" you throw up your hands, then rub your face. "Look, I'm sure she's very accomplished and we'll all be glad to have aboard and Sal will whack me over the head with my own leg if I turn you down, it's just that you're— that I thought you were— hhff. If you had been suggesting I look into adoption, you certainly wouldn't have been the first, and it's not a subject I much care to, to, to open up for a public discussion. My apologies for the misunderstanding, Commander."

 

"Apology accepted." After a brief hesitation, you crack a small grin, punch his arm lightly, and abscond before you can discover some fresh idiocy to trip facefirst into. The prospect of Pancho joining you here is such a relief, and makes you so happy, you just want to savor it for a while. And tell your lusus about it.

When you reach your quarters, you find Murfey sprawled on your couch, drinking your beer and watching your videos. He's paying more attention to his tablet than the video; he waggles his stylus in greeting A glance out the aviary-facing window reveals that your dad is busy romping with his dad, playing some ground-shaking game of chase using a whole forklift tire as a ball. You grab a beer of your own and flop down next to him. "So apparently I suck at friendship," you confess.

"Nah," he says. He tilts the tablet to show you what he's working on: "I wanna do the bar as an outdoor thing, sling the illusion we're planetside, help me out with this."

You guess you should probably pester him about how friendship is formed, because you do know you're not good at it, but this looks a lot more interesting. You sit up a bit straighter and get out your own tablet. "Copy it over to me. Lemme see what I can do."