THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

"Serve your own strife, you disgusting invalid," you say happily, and go sit on him. You start pulling bits of his hair out of his ponytail while he only has one hand to fight you with, because he's handsome when he's all disheveled and you're damned if you want to go back to your office just yet.

"How are you feeling? Does it hurt? Did you cry? I hate needles, Sal didn't believe me the first time I told him I had a thing about them and I threw up on him."

 

"You do? Ow, no, yanking on my hair hurts more than the needle does, just take the clip out. Are you ticklish?" You attempt to find out.

Murfey, being dragged to a nearby cot by a harried medic, glare-points dramatically at you and intones, "You. Lucky. Shit."

"I know, right? Erskin, we're on duty, you blister, don't give me a boner."

 

"I wouldn't be— writhing— around in— your stupid lap if— hhh—you weren't trying to get your fingers up my bloody fffghhngh—gills— get off—" you elbow him in the head enough times that he stops. You're panting a bit, because, again, fingers, gills. You look him dead in the eyes, let him behold the extent to which you are the goddamn captain of this fucking rig, then deliberately and with grand dignity reach around his overmuscled thermal hull of a torso. You pinch his butt.

 

"Ooh, Captain Aspera, ooh." You return the gesture with your free hand, then pull him into a simple hug. It strikes you anew how much you really, really like him. You can't remember if you've ever actually said that out loud. "I really, really like you," you explain.

 

"...oh," you say, and you feel your face heat nearly to boiling. Your fins have pinned back from sheer bewildered self-consciousness and you no longer have any idea what to do with your hands. "Er. Thank you, Commander."

It is definitely time to get back to your office. And possibly hide under a desk.

 

"Are you blushing, oh my god that is so cute. No, stay and let me tease you, the alternative is paperwork."

 

"Paperwork would be preferable," you protest. "Death would be preferable. Stop looking at me." He doesn't let you go and you can't exactly tip a tragically wounded soldier injured in the line of duty, ect, straight off his medical cot, so you press your burning face into his shoulder. Ha. You will just stay here until one of you expires or Sal comes to save you because horseplay in his medical wing is not allowed and this sort of hideously overaffectionate horseshit is probably allowed either.

...Sal is not coming to save you any time soon. Sal is a monster and you are going to kick him on the shin first chance you get.

 

You regret that you only have one arm to hug him with. "Now I know how to embarrass you -- don't worry, I'll save it for special occasions. Wouldn't want to wear it out." You smooch his flaming earfin. "Spades!"

"You're disgusting!" Murfey calls out.

"You're just jealous!" You call back.

"Damn right!"

 

You produce a sort of garbled, involuntary wail of dismay and soul-deep humiliation, push back against Kadros's grip till you pop free, blurt, "As you were!" because why not be a disaster verbally as well as in every other possible mode, and limp off in the hastiest abscond you can possibly manage without tangling your cane in anyone's tubing.

If your fins ever unpin you will be very fucking surprised.

 

You watch him go, grinning, until Murfey cracks up. "Stop laughing at our captain," you tell him sternly.

"I'm laughing at you. Who woulda thought it -- love turns Double Deuce the Murderbot into a soppy goofball."

You have to admit this is true. "Oh, all right. Carry on, then." You produce your phone again and try to figure out how to contact Galley, since his tablet is a clone of Erskin's phone; do you just troll Erskin and ask him not to listen in? That doesn't sound very practical.

 

After some random poking, Bel's phone rings with an incoming call from 'Helmsman Fucktruck of The Pornografisting Brigade'.

"Were you trying to call me?" Galley asks, sounding very pleased.

 

"I was! I'm a little confused by this setup, I wasn't sure how to call you without calling Erskin. Anyway, I just wanted to check in and see how you're doing, and whether you need anything."

 

There's a long pause, and the sound of clicking and muttering.

Then: "Cake," Galley says hesitantly. "You said you'd bring me more cake. I'm back online, so. Uh..." Another long pause, and the call terminates. It almost immediately rings again.

"Cake," Galley repeats, more firmly.

 

"I'm in dialysis for a couple more hours, and then I'm not sure how long it'll take me to obtain cake, but I will make it happen. Any preference on what flavor?"

 

"Uh, cake flavor?" Galley asks, sounding puzzled. "I want cake that tastes like cake, please, which is the point of eating cake, probably." There's another pause. "Okay, so apparently cake comes in non-cake flavors for some stupid reason. What's the best flavor of cake? I mean, as.... an expert, here. Please submit your analysis."

 

"Mm, well, I like citrus flavors. Lemon cake is a classic, and orange can be super good. Orange plus chocolate is amazing if done right. You know, I don't think I'd say there's a best flavor of cake, I think the ideal cake experience is variety. Trying different good flavors. I think the cake I brought you from the party was vanilla."

(i'm sure trolls have wonderfully awful cake flavors but i can't htink of any rn, dang i'm making myself hungry)

 

"That can't be right," Galley objects. "I don't want to waste time on substandard cake experiences, it's inefficient use of personnel and resources. Additionally we're bound to be caught out at some point, which further limits the scope of the project. According to the research I just did right now, the five most popular flavors of cake among trolls are chocolate, tuna fish, lemon, vanilla, and ham. The top three popular flavors of cake among subjugated species is chocolate, with ham a close second and lemon a distant third. The most popular single flavor among helmsmen is null as none of us have been polled."

A pause. "I think I'd like more vanilla." A breathy snicker. "That's probably the first time in my life I've ever said that."

 

It takes a moment for you to get the reference, but then the blush is inevitable. "Then I'll bring you the best vanilla I can manage. Why aren't you supposed to have sweets, anyway? I'd hate for my gifts to put you in an insulin coma or something."

 

"I'd prefer your gifts to put me in an entirely different state of unconsciousness, yes," Galley says, then barks with laughter when Bel's blush intensifies.

"A number of organs trolls possesses are replaced by the helms rigging," Galley explains, catching his breath. "The extent of the modifications depend on the ship, rig, psi rating, and captain. It fosters a symbiotic interdependence between systems of command and propulsion."

He makes a rude fart noise with his mouth. "I'm supplied with a perfectly calibrated nutrition balance by my bioware, Commander, so any food I eat with my mouth is treated as a foreign substance and cleared out by the squishy pink horror that comprises most of my inside bits and puts extra wear and a tear on the system and gets automatically flagged by my minder as sabotage, lowering interaction approval ratings for the provider of the ill-gotten goods. Plus sometimes I get sick."

A brief pause. "You're still going to bring me cake," he says. It's not a question.

 

"Of course. But what's this about lowering approval ratings? Does that mean the more cake I bring you, the less you'll like me?"