THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

Now that you have your own phone back, you take an arm's length selfie, just because you can. Then you nestle your cheekbone against his shoulder and let yourself drift off. Things could be a whole lot worse.

(and i too shall sleep, i think.)

 

You wake some time later to the sound of another troll entering the hive. It's not Bel, and you're not at your hive so it's probably not Lainey. Murfey's probably not even up from his surgery, poor fellow.

"Sergeant...?" you mumble, tightening your arms around Bel in sleepy, irrational posessiveness.

 

"Captain," you return cheerfully. Aww, they're adorable. And clothed, which you appreciate. "Baby animals incoming, don't squash 'em!" The babies are still clustered around their parents, but cautiously beginning to snuffle outwards. Itsy stiffens to alertness, her cute little purple dot eyes intent on the Captain. "My lusus's matesprit is curious about you. Her name's Itsy, cuz she's bitsy."

 

"Oh, no, you're a poet too," you laugh, and then the aforementioned Itsy comes into view. You freeze clean through to your heart.

"Sergeant," you say, very slowly and carefully. "Is there any particular way to discern whether you're still asleep?" Because you've had this dream before. A very great many times.

 

"You look at least mostly awake to me," you venture. "Oh, yeah, she's pretty close to your color, is that going to be a problem? It's just, I don't have quarters yet, I was going to crash in Bel's 'cupe."

Loggan, picking up on the tension now, has her feet planted wide like she's going to defend her wife and brood against all comers. You squat down and pat her reassuringly. This isn't hostility. This is just confusion, you think, on both sides.

 

"Pretty close," you repeat, faintly, and have to clap a hand over your mouth to keep from giggling hysterically. You hold your other set of fingers out, carefully, for the little griffin to examine. She gently closes her sharp, narrow beak on the last two fingers of your right hand, the ones that don't bend. She looks different from the lusus of your wigglerhood that you dream about, sometimes. Smaller, older. Badly scratched around the beak and forelegs. A lot more real.

"Where did you find h— her?" you ask. "And, and, er. When, how, was she— was she hurt?" You wipe roughly at your eyes, which are acting up.

 

"Yeah," you say, surprised and curious. You sit down crosslegged so the babies can nest in your lap and be within sight of their mom while she nibbles the Captain's fingers. "We found her in the woods when we were questing for knotted pine for a project, she was kinda messed up, and I was studying to be a medic, so." You shrug.

 

"The— what woods?" you demand. You give a longitude and latitude, "—there, was it anywhere around there? Were the injuries sort of— long, serrated cuts? Does he— she. Like." You look at the lusus, and can't quite bear it anymore. You pick her up and put her on your lap and she grooms your hair back between your horns, from where it's fallen into your eyes. Your laugh is a helpless and soggy thing. "Does she like hiding things under flowers, and drinking pine-needle tea, and does she always bring you lunch."

Bel is starting to stir. You don't think you want him to see you like this, but there's nothing you can really do about it. You wouldn't move for all the gold and jewels of empire.

 

"Yes, and yes, and -- oh my god, is she yours?" You gasp and cover your hand with your mouth, delighted. If Bel were a little more awake you'd hug him for sheer joy. But you're probably still in the no-sudden-moves stage of things, anyway.

 

You groggily pry one eye open to see what all the fuss is about. Oh, Pancho brought the critters. "Hi, Itsy," you mumble, not really up to trying to figure out what's wrong with Erskin's face.

 

"You KNEW?" you demand of Kadros— this emotion, at least, is straightforward: sheer indignant anger. "Hold on, your moirail had— all this time and— do you know how few high-violet lusii there are? FOURTEEN. ONE OF WHOM IS GL'BGOLYB."

The griffin tugs a lock of your hair, admonishingly, and you crumple a bit, all your emotions jumbling up in guilt and regret and cautious joy. "Sorry," you say, mostly to the lusus. "This is all very improbable, isn't it. And I suppose it's sixteen, now, with you still alive and Whitey sort of— existing, like that. What a bloody mess."

 

"I knew she was looking for her troll," you say apologetically, "but I expected a girl. Which is ridiculous, because mammal sexes don't map to troll genders, which I know perfectly well since my mom is the father of Itsy's eggs, but somehow I never put it all together. Oh wow, this is wonderful!"

Bel sits up a bit more, blinking confusedly. "Wha' happen?"

"Captain Aspera is Itsy's missing troll!"

His jaw drops gratifyingly. "No way."

"Yes way!"

 

"Eggs," you repeat slowly, and have another look at the little cluster of satellites orbiting pancho's lusus. "Oh, hell, that's— that's. Er. That's that."

You look at Pancho, your emotions settling out to a blurry sort of shock. "Are we—" you squint,"—littermates...? If your lusus and m— mine. And mine. Have further progeny together. Surely we're not quadrant corners? Or, I mean. I suppose we're that too, but through Kadros. What a headache."

 

"I think," you say consideringly, "that we are probably bros. I'm cool with that if you are."

Bel's wibbleface is distracting. You try to ignore it.

 

You smile at her, scrubbing at your eyes again. "Right, then. Hell of a relationship to have with someone you just met, but I'm game. I mean, what's the worst that could happen, you take my lusus in a break up?" You give a ragged laugh.

Leaning back against the couch's arm lets the lusus— Itsy?— stand up in your lap and balance her forepaws on your chest. "Itsy," you say, trying it out. She goes henk!, a wonderfully happy noise, and butts her soft little head against your chin before inspecting your earfins and burbling in stern disapproval. You card your claws along the downy softness of her back, purring shakily. Her wings seem to be in excellent condition, when you go to check, but you preen them just because they're there. No mites, no split feathers or stray casings or even any bent shafts, and all of it smoothly oiled. You suppose if Pancho grew up with Kadros and his big featherduster, she'd have learned how to help keep your lusus' wings in order, too. If you had to be replaced, at least it was by someone so competent.

 

Loggan pads over and puts her front paws on Erskin's arm, sniffing him and Itsy in turn. Itsy beak-nuzzles her face fluffs a bit before returning to inspecting the Captain. The babies, reassured, suddenly try to join in on the snuggles, a peeping flood of white fur and white feathers.

Bel, laughing, extracts himself from the fluffalanche and plunks down on the floor beside you, pulling you into his lap. You tuck yourself happily under his chin.

Purring fills the room.

 

After a few overwhelmed minutes, you pull yourself back together. As fraternal as you and Sergeant Pancho might apparently be, now, you're still uncomfortable letting so much raw emotion show. You sort most of the fluff conglomerate to the end of the couch and move your lusus— your lusus!— up to his— their?— up to your lusus's familiar old place across your shoulders. You're big enough now that she hangs neatly over just the one shoulder, but her balance is magnificent and she hardly wobbles when you lurch to your feet and brush yourself down. She doesn't even brush the edges of your injured fin.

"How are you doing, Sergeant?" you ask. "You must have been on your feet several nights straight, by now, I hope things are going to be settling down for you soon. Can I fetch you anything from the kitchen? Kadros splashes out for the good coffee, you know. I'd have been by much earlier to nick it, had I known."

 

"I'm about to grab some sleep, so I'd better not on the coffee... heh, what am I saying. Not like it could keep me awake at this point. I'll have what you're having. And if he's got anything edible lying around, I'm starving."

"Freezer," Bel mumbles against your hair. "Zap it."

"You hungry too, babe?"

"I could eat."

You smile at your new apparently-hatchmate and conclude, "Seems there's frozen meals in the thermal hull, we could all have a snack."

 

You have a rummage in the freezer, transfer as many meals to the electromagnetic radiator as you can, and go about preparing coffee. You need to sober up and get back on your feel, already— you're not sure what needs doing, at the moment, but there's certainly something. Probably a list of something's as long as your arm.

You scritch your lusus under the chin while you watch the heating device fix up the meals. It's hard not to be anxious that she'll just vanish. You mourned your lusus, you grieved for ages, it was harder to deal with a missing limb than their weight on your shoulder, or their bright presence by your side. How do you adjust to having something you're so used to— to doing without?

And where is she to live, now? She's clearly got some sort of life of her own, now, with a matesprit— is that even the right word for it?— and half a dozen pups and sweeps of familiarity with Pancho and Kadros. Is she to stay by the Sergeant's side? You have a tidepool block. You could house her in proper style, couldn't you? But even you yourself don't like living there, you're abnormal, and anyway wouldn't she want to stick with her matesprit and pups in whatever biome they like?

You pour the coffee with most of the rest of Kadros's cream and a good deal of his sugar, then bring it out to the Sergeant with the stack of hot meals on a plate, and lever yourself clumsily down to sit.

Itsy catches the side of your hand when you go to pick out the vegetables, and you regard her with shock and dismay. An attack...? When she puts her crest up at you and scolds, you huddle into yourself ashamedly and look to Pancho.

"I don't, er..." Well, this is humiliating. "I don't know what she means, here...?"

(erskin has neglected to wash his hands. or get a fork.)

 

"She's a fusser. She fusses. Stickler for table manners." You reach for your own meal, and she makes a motion as if to peck you as well. "Can it, Itsy, we're all on our last legs here, it's not a dinner party." You pick up your bread-pizza-thing and take a bite out of it, but Bel takes out a hankie and wipes his hands and face, which gets an approving nod out of the lusus. "Our hands are dirty, apparently," you conclude.

Bel hands Erskin a clean hankie, doing a terrible job of hiding how much he wants to laugh.