"That won't be necessary, sir," you say quickly, ears warming. "The, er. Face kissing. In any case, I've ordered the aquaponics equipment and fish eggs out of my own pocket, because I felt it would be best to get that running as soon as possible, rather than trying to build it up incrementally in the margins of regular requisitions. I hope that was all right."
"Oh! Very thoughtful of you. Where's the records for that, I can pay you back right now— you know, it might work better to purchase additional supplies through your account, too many places know me by now and treat my personal requests same as my professional... Hm. I'd hate to ruin your credit, though, never mind. What sort of fish?"
"Cruciatus carp, sir, they can eat the same mealworms and beetle grubs we do, so we won't have to set up a new type of farm to feed them. Sir..." Your brow furrows. "What do you mean by treating your personal requests the same as your professional? An order is an order, isn't it?"
You bark a startled laugh. "Good heavens, man, and you were a marine! An order is an order. You can't tell me you never practiced, hm, a spot of creative interpretation." You pour yourself a second coffee and offer the pot to him. "Didn't you see— oh, no, there it is, sorry." You go and fetch your grey tablet from the boot pile. "Here you are. Requisition forms for the last few years."
"Of course I did, sir, when I couldn't get what my troops needed via the official channels, but I didn't allow it to be done to me. You're... you're royalty." You hold out your cup and look from the coffee to his face in a way that may or may not convey what you're thinking: Why is somone a mere whiff of lupine away from fuschia drinking shitty instant coffee?
You can't help it, you laugh at him again. "Yes, yes, so they said, when they hauled me up here." You wave the coffee back towards him and explain, "Kadros, my dear chap, this heap's a dumping ground for freaks and rejects, who'd waste proper resources on us? It'd be like ordering a gilded cup for—" you slosh your own coffee about, "—dregs. And I'm just mad Captain Aspera, who took his aptitudes with a muzzle on. I'm not royalty, old thing, I'm a beast they put a little hat on to laugh at." You toast him with the last of your coffee and knock it back. "Let's go make dirt," you say. "If you're going to be stuck here with me you might as well know what needs doing."
You slug your coffee and set the empty cup down on the small square of desk you've so far managed to clear. "Right," you say, "Show me." As you follow him toward the composting block, you work on packing your emotions gently but firmly back into their box. Yes, it's genuinely infuriating that he thinks being a prince in disgrace puts him on a level with the rest of trollkind, as if the very fact that he's alive after fucking up his aptitudes that badly -- hell, the fact that he got to retake them twice -- isn't proof his violet blood is fucking sacred as far as the Empire's concerned. He's infuriating and ignorant, and likeable, and very very pretty, but he's absolutely out of your reach -- and even if he weren't, you don't do relationships. Pancho is the only quadrant that matters and she's not even here. So it's all academic and no. Nope. Nope times ten to the nope. Isn't it lucky you'll be working with lusus shit this evening? You can't think of a less romantic setting.
You take enough pity on him to schedule a reaping lesson for some other time, and just take him through the hydroponics area with bales of tall dried grasses. After that, matter reclamation, where the hay and reclaimed biological material gets mixed like the universe's most terrible cake dough. You already put poor Vespid through this past morning— making Kadros do it would have been pointlessly cruel. After that, it gets spread out in great mucky beds in one of the meadow-styled recreation areas, and seeded with fast growing lawnring sorts of greenery, which most herbivore lusii love to nibble and which does a good job of bonding everything together with rootstock. In a quarter sweep you'll grind it up again— you show him the beds that are ready for that— and put the nicely balanced soil in crates and bags and things for potted plants and garden plots and more ambitious recreation areas. "Got all that?" you ask. "It's alright, you're going to get lots of refresher courses. Now we're going to do plumbing, it didn't sound as if you knew much about it but you should probably see what we've got where it you intend to fit it all together with your aquaponics." After he learns the basic configurations of pipes and bolts and wrenches, and what sorts of water should be routed where and your best guess what to do if it isn't— hell, you wanted a specialist in, but there's mostly just you and a bunch of other amateurs all puzzling it out from grubtube videos— it's on to bioware maintenance which feeds into lights and temperature control plus the various mechanical engines in use, then a quick whip through the medical wing. He should certainly know first aid and field medic-ing and all, but by the end of the night at least one of you will have gotten a bump or a scratch somewhere along the way so you might as well. If there's any time at all left you can probably drop by the cafeteria and have a hot meal and sign him up for some cooking shifts next week. Either he can't cook and needs to learn, or he can cook and it won't hurt him to help. It's going to be a long night, but you've been laid out on your ass for the last three and you are more than ready to sink your fangs into a spot of proper exercise.
You take it all in stride, humble and attentive, taking notes and asking pertinent questions. When he goes to sign you up for cook duty, though, you clear your throat pointedly. "Sir," you protest, "I have a number of skills not elsewhere represented among this crew, and more than enough application for them to keep me busy twelve hours a night for the next six months, why do you want to waste me on kitchen patrol?"
You blink. "Alright, we'll hold up on the the kitchen patrol," you say mildly, and let the pen drop on its little string. "I suppose they'll limp along without you for a bit. I need soup, let's sit and have soups, and you can tell me all about what you think I should be using you on."
Soup obtained, you set yours to the side and slap your tablet on the table, scroll down your to-do list with a swooping hand gesture. "These are the things I've noticed want doing so far, and I've been here less than a week. I believe I am the only uptight, micro-managing, tightassed, no-fun bastard ever assigned to this crew. Sir, you need me."
You read through the list and nod thoughtfully. "Alright, yes, I take your point." Then you get up and sign his name on for three cooking shifts this week, the first starting tomorrow night. You sit back down under the blue heat of a cutting-torch stare. "You will do your kitchen shifts," you tell him, picking up your spoon. "Make some friends. Learn a new recipe. Meet most of the ship. At the end of the week pick out, oh, six people, and start a new division. The Uptight Micro-Managing Tightass No-Fun Bastard Division. We'll go from there." You eat your soup.
You tap your stylus against your chin slowly, one, two, three, then nod decisively and start making notes. "We'll need a work space... furniture... can make do at first... lots of space near my quarters. At least one cart, probably two eventually. Coffeemaker and mini fridge or people flame out. And... hmm... mhm... right." You look your captain in the eye and smile. "Sir, is it cheating if I learn a new recipe from my moirail, who is a certified gourmet goddess, or is showing off expected?"
"I will, sir. Give her a smile?" You take a picture of him with his spoon, and send it to Pancho with the text, My new CO has ordered me to learn a new recipe. Help me show off like an insufferable dick. "She might not get back to me before the first kitchen shift. No net access on ground maneuvers."
"They'll keep you busy enough," you say. "No one's expecting you to be fantastic at everything right off the bat, Kadros, and I expect we'd all hate you if you were." You finish your soup, go into the kitchens to wash it, and come back out drying your hands. "It's morning," you say. "I've still got to go run through the hangars and check up on the airlocks and ventilation, but I suppose it's about time for you knock off for a bit. Go ask them for an ice cream if you like, there's apparently mint."
"No, sir," you say mildly, and finish your soup in one long swallow. You put your tablet away, ready to follow him again.
It takes you a few steps to realize the man's following you. "Your quarters are in the other direction, Kadros," you prompt him.
"I'm coming with you, sir. To check up on airlocks and ventilation." You look him right in the eye, chin jutting stubbornly.
