THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

"I try," you smile, and nip his knuckles. Then you let him see the ship in your other hand, and settle back for Round Two. The Sergeant's got a good laugh, and it seems fairly easy to provoke. You like it when you can get people laughing— you start to play it up for her, shifting the piece from one hand to the other, just when Bel's got a few of your fingers open but before he can quite pry it out. Eventually he manages to get it before you do, and holds it triumphantly in the air, far above your head.

"Sergeant, would you mind awfully getting that back for me?" you ask, pointing. "It's extremely important that I hold it in one of my hands."

 

"I think he would probably appreciate it more if you tried to get it back on your own, sir. And I'm sure everyone would enjoy watching you climb him like a tree." You grin.

 

"On board a single night and you're already planning a mutiny, I see how it is," you sniff, rising grandly to your feet— and leaning on the table as your vision lurches and twists up awkwardly with your sense of smell with your sense of— hell, it feels like the empty bowls are alive, buzzingly so, that's wretched— you swallow, hard, and carefully sit back down.

"Think I'll take a tree-climbing raincheck, if you don't mind holding off the gorey revolution for a little while," you say as lightly as you can, and fumble over a bit of bread. You nibble it very slowly to try and give your senses some time to unscramble.

 

Bel sits back down and, with hugely gentle caution, pokes the ship into one of Aspera's hands, then tries to steal his bread.

"Awww!" you beam, chin on hands.

"It's because I sprayed his ears numb," Bel theorizes. "It was burn spray. Your lusus gave it to him."

"She's still helping out in medbay, huh? I should probably go help her." You check your phone for the time. Still 40 minutes left out of the hour break. "But not yet. I am making myself take an hour to relax. You have to do that sometimes or you burn out."

 

You wrestle your bread back from Bel, realize you don't actually want it, and let him have it again.

"Would you like to see around the ship?" you ask. "Or, well, the recreational parts, the bits that aren't crawling with zombies, I mean. I'd honestly like to avoid going back to the Medical blocks as well."

 

"I'd like to see the residential areas, if that's all right. Bel, where's Binesi?"

Bel makes the most hilarious thinking face, still gnawing bread. He turns to Erskin. "Where's my lusus? I just remembered him and now I miss him like hell, I want to see him."

"I miss him too, let's go find him. I'll fetch one of those cart thingies, I think I saw one down the hall a bit."

"I'll... find a restroom," Bel grimaces, and wobbles off to do so.

 

You don't know which of them to follow, and standing up proves a fairly daunting task. You stack all the dishes back on the tray and attend to the spills and crumbs with a napkin while you wait for someone to come back. Running out of things to clean before anyone does so, you force yourself upright, sway a bit as you get your bearings, and then stump off to go see if Bel has managed to drown in a toilet.

 

You have not, in fact, drowned in a toilet, but you may be sort of drowning in your own eyes. Specifically, you are fascinated by your reflection in the mirror, by the lingering signs of infection and the way they're fading at a quite visible rate. When Erskin comes in, you explain: "This is really cool."

 

"I say," you say, impressed, and pull him down by a shoulder to peer at his eyes. It was all a mucky burnt-out red-black from corner to corner last night, but his sclera's lightened nearly back to the proper yellow and his irises have gone cobalt again. An abnormally dark, shadowed cobalt, but you can tell the iris apart from the pupil, that's excellent.

"Would you look at that, you're almost pretty again," you tease him.

 

You beam, pleased by the compliment, but you also boop his snoot because he's full of trouble. "Too bad there's no easy fix for you!"

((o no the sass is back :D))

 

Your hand goes self-consciously up to the newest batch scar-tissue laid thickly across the socket of your only recently-regrown eye, before you realize he's not gormlessly saying whatever he thinks, he's just teasing. You punch him lightly on one absurd, tree-trunk arm.

"That's enough backtalk out of you, Commander," you tell him. "Come on, now, let's go show off our stunning good looks to the Sergeant. And possibly get you a shirt."

 

You want to make a joke about the shirt-wearing being counterproductive to the good-looks-showing, but can't put it into words, so you give up thinking about it before you find Pancho. Your brain is tired and doesn't want to do things.

Pancho has found a cart, and is waiting in the broad hallway just outside the mess hall. She's chatting with someone, but says 'bye' to them and pays attention to you immediately, which is pleasing just because it's her. You're important to her, and it matters to you to be important to her, and the whole shebang is pretty great. "Pancho, I need a shirt."

"You don't have one in your sylladex?" She watches you frown and wave your hand at the air for a few seconds before realizing: "Oh, of course, you gave it up when you went into quarantine, didn't you? Well, mine are too small, but I've got a poncho."

"Pancho poncho!" you crow, delighted, as you accept the hooded capey thing and put it on. It smells like waterproof fabric spray and her. It also gives you sonarbeast wings, and you have to be stopped from swooping back and forth across the hallway as if you might achieve liftoff via the magic of camo-patterned canvas and arm-flapping.

 

You ease yourself carefully into the driver's side of the cart while the Sergeant wrangles her giddy moirail, then— after some painful consideration— scoot sideways to the front passenger side. It's not likely to make a good impression if you bump one of these into a wall, for all that they don't go fast enough for serious injury. At least you can give directions.

 

It doesn't take you long to wear yourself out. Pancho hug-bundles you into the back of the cart, then takes the driver's seat. You pull your arms in under the Pancho poncho and doze off while Erskin gives Pancho directions to your hive.

 

Bel needs to be prodded awake to get through the thumb-lock on his door, and after that you stand in the entrance block and look around curiously. You haven't been here since the two of you were chalking out the plans for it, and it seems he's been busy.

"Is there tea? Coffee?" you ask, limping hesitantly for a door you think might be the meal block. Making some'll give you something to do with yourself.

 

"Yes, probably," you say absently, much too busy showing Pancho your hive -- and relearning it yourself -- to focus on his question.

Everything here is a surprise, but is also obvious and familiar once you've seen it. It's a really weird feeling. The shelves of old books make you think, Wow, I must really like old books! at the same time you're feeling warmed and pleased because yes, there are your beloved old books. The squashy couch and armchair look cheap and battered, but they're decorated with silk pillows and cashmere throws. You probably brought the textiles with you but got the furniture from some storage room aboard, you theorize, a moment before remembering doing so.

Getting memories back is exhausting. You almost just curl up in the big chair and resume napping. But a glimpse of white beyond the patio door reminds you what you're really here for. You throw the door open and hurry out to greet the immense eagle who is in the process of landing with a joyful scream of greeting. And then it's just feathery hugs and beak-groomings forever.

 

You rummage around until you find drink things and heating devices. Weak, mildly sweet mint tea for yourself and Kadros, coffee strong enough to stand a spoon in for the Sergeant. She's got a ways to go, it sounded like.

You captchalogue everything, plus a hunk of iffy-looking meat from the hull for the lusus, and go out on the landing to pass them out.

Bel's custodian makes you viscerally nervous, but he's a sweetie, really.

 

You're so busy noozling your dad's chin feathers that you don't notice you're being offered a mug until Pancho tugs your hair. You smile up at Erskin as you take it, having the beginning of a thought about how you know he wouldn't prank your tea right now before your brain gets tired and gives up on it. You're sitting down so your lusus can put a wing over you and mess with your hair, Pancho's under the other wing, and you think probaby the best place for Erskin is on your lap. You try to indicate as much by tugging on the hem of his shirt.

 

"Oh, er--" you are really not keen on that beak, but too late, you're sitting. Or, rather, half sprawled. You tuck you legs in fast and huddle as defensively as you can under Bel's chin while also looking stern and brave. You sip your tea in a manner reminiscent of a complete hardass who doesn't give a toss about enormous troll-devouring beaks that may or may not be curiously prodding your head.

 

You feel him tense up, and snicker softly. "Erskin is nervous," you explain to your lusus.

Eagledad beak-bonks one of your horns lightly as if to chastise you for being rude. You think maybe he doesn't understand why teasing Erskin is important and good. Well, you're in no condition to explain it, so you just focus on slurping hot tea and huffing hot tea breath against the back of Erskin's neck to make him wiggle.

Pancho says, "You two are adorable."

"I know!"