THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

"Oh, er. Well, I can't feel my leg," You joke. Then you concentrate, sort of wallow about for a moment with your eyes closed to concentrate. Everything checks out, just about, you're only heavy and sore— and thin, when you open your eyes again and see. You push yourself to sitting as best as you can and stare at yourself in absolute dismay. Something like a perigee of disaster has burnt through all your meat. You examine with mounting horror your arms, all wire and vein, your stomach hollowed, the cartilage of your gill coverts angled out all stark and ugly between your exposed ribs. You look like you're fucking nine again.

"Oh my god," you say weakly, and prod the knife's edge of your hip. "Fuck."

 

"Jeez," you agree. "Reckon the nutrient mix in the IV was calculated wrong."

Sigs clears his throat. When you glance over, he says apologetically, "It was deliberately insufficient. That's part of, er, encouraging the rogue bioware to vacate the premises. I'm sorry for the discomfort, Captain. You can eat as much as you like now, though; the helmsware is gone."

 

Another highblood! You puff up defensively between him and Jethro, then make a serious effort to relax and pretend you had just frantically heaved yourself into an upright sitting position for professional reasons.

"Well! Right! Yes." You take a deep breath in and let it out, then run the words back through your addled noggin. "That's good to hear. I haven't had the best perigee, though, I don't suppose you're the entire architect of my— er, decline, Mr Sigmah."

You lean surreptitiously against the side of the tank. "I think I am going to eat everything," you decide. "Then go back for seconds. It's a good thing my concupiscent partners like them slim, I don't even want to think about how long it's going to be before I can fix myself back up. I had the very devil of a time of it when I was ten."

 

"I hope your matesprit's a good cook," you grin sympathetically, "cuz if I recall right, Bel's a real hazard in the cookblock." You turn your attention to Sigs. "What do you need, temperature and blood pressure? I can do it, I'm right here."

"And blood oxygenation. Thank you, sweetie." He flashes you a smile before returning his focus to whatever he's working on over there.

"Sigs is my matesprit," you explain to Erskin. "I dunno if I mentioned that." You reach for his arm, steady his elbow with one hand while you towel the sterile slime off in preparation for the blood pressure cuff.

 

"Lainey's passable, if you like toast and eggs for every meal— she's pyrokenetic, and damn lazy. We both make pretty significant use of the automats. And I've got ration bars stashed all over, for when I'm too busy for meal... breaks..." the cuff tightens on your arm and you experience the hazy tranquility the pressure of it always brings on. "...Mm."

 

You don't reply just yet, focusing on the task. It's been a while since your training. When you read off the result to Sigmah, he says it's within the normal range for Erskin's hemochrome, so you move on to giving Erskin a thermometer to suck on and putting the oxygen pinchy on his finger.

When you've finished all these checks, and it's time to step aside and let Sigs do his thing, you hesitate, and say tentatively, "I like cooking. Iffen you don't mind it ain't fancy. Chili and stew and stuff like that."

 

"Stew's my favorite," you smile. "We'll have to get you signed up for kitchen shifts, if you're going to be here for awhile. It's always nice to get new recipes in rotation."

When Sigs approaches, you can't quite help huddling into yourself. He's been perfectly peaceable so far, but you're worn enough to be completely intimidated by the mere presence of a bigger, older highblood, and you wish Jethro hadn't moved away.

 

You notice that cringe, and move to his other side so you can rest a hand on his bony, slime-slick shoulder while Sigs does his thing.

Sigs reaches for Erskin's stump, then hesitates and visibly changes tacks, remembering your admonition that he is not only allowed but expected to explain what he's doing before he does it now. "I'm going to look your leg over and make sure it's healed enough for you to come out of the tank. It'll probably be a little sore, but if you feel a sick, infected kind of pain let me know, okay?"

You give him an approving nod. He reaches his pink-gloved hands into the gel to palpitate Erskin's stump. You give Erskin's shoulder a steadying squeeze.

 

You lean your head against Jethro's arm, feeling the reassuring thrum of warm psionics with one fin and the side of a horn— he feels a lot like Arguus, if a bit cooler and a lot tougher. Sigmah is gentle with you, and the results of him messing about with the remainder of your leg makes the whole situation sort of crash in on you all at once.

"It doesn't hurt," you say wonderingly. "I— a little sore, yes, but— it doesn't hurt."

 

"Excellent," Sigs beams proudly. It's so cute how pleased he is when he knows he's helped someone. "I advise giving it a night or two before attaching your new prosthetic, just to be sure it's fully healed, but you're free to go. Jethro can help you get cleaned up and dressed and call someone to take you to your quarters."

"Awesome. Good job, both of you." You give them a big dorky thumbs-up.

 

You grin back, so tremendously pleased with everything that it's easy to shake yourself out of your shyness. He's a thoroughly alright sort of chap, highblooded or no.

Hm. You do a little internal arithmetic. If as many Zero-sum survivors— who you've still got to see to personally, you're sure Bel and Lainey did the paperwork but you should at least show up for a handshake or something—transferred over as you recall, and now Sigmah, and Murfey of course and Bel himself, that'd mean the Sunslammer's more lofty echelons have increased by about five times over in the last quarter-sweep. Bit of a change from it just being yourself and Lainey, even if it's mostly blues.

Well, if Heinsz has gone and bitten anyone above her station again, it wasn't on your watch, a thought that cheers you up considerably. Maybe you can give her a promotion just to head off trouble.

You realize you are dozing off against Jethro's side and wake up all in a jolt. You feel weak as a baby mewbeast, and twice as inclined to a nap.

"Sorry," you mutter, yawning. "I'm up, I want to get up, let's get— let's get me up. Er." You paw slimily at the slick sides of the tank. "Er..."

 

"Babe, how does this work?" You poke at the tank's controls, wanting to raise the mesh chair thingy.

"Here, drain it first." He clicks a button, then goes to fetch towels.

A small motor hums somewhere in the tank's base, and the blue slime starts to lower. You helpfully pick gobs of gel out of Erskin's hair.

 

You yawn again and lean into his hands, your eyes closing at the sensation of getting your hair groomed. You probably need a haircut. You're probably shaggy as sedge. You make a little wordless noise of appreciation at Jethro. He's awfully kind.

When the towels show up, you force yourself back to some sort of coherency again and manage to wipe clean your own damn skin, though you need help with your back, you've gone stiff as well as skinny, and can't get your arms around.

"We're going to have to cooperate on the trousers," you say, after struggling into a t-shirt so soft and old it's got little holes at the shoulder seams, and your sign's gone half gray from garden chemical stains. Not that you'll be straining any seams, now, the poor thing hangs on you. You get some equally comforting shorts out and sort of wave your arm, for Jethro to perhaps help you balance on the edge of the tank, or something.

 

"I got a handy psi trick for this," you tell him as you take the shorts. You hold them open with your psi, at easy stepping-into height, so you can steady him properly with an arm around his back and a hand for him to grab. You can proper lift him, actually, with no trouble at all, he's that light. You don't really do so, though. He's got his pride. Let him steer as long as he doesn't fall down.

 

"Ha! More like a handless trick," you grin, and struggle over the side. "I don't suppose I'm going to hop in those and float away?"

You hop in them. You don't float away. Instead, you are pretty much completely overwhelmed by gravity, and your remaining knee is not at all happy about it. You pull your chair out just about in time, and manage to pretend you're sitting, not collapsing.

"Phew," you say. You're actually happy to have the damn fourwheel device— it's not the tank, or being carried around like a pair of shorts, and for once you're actually sitting in it without the gnawing distraction of your leg hurting. It still doesn't hurt.

"Lainey's on her way to pick me up, right?" you ask, wheeling the chair off in a random direction. You pull a sharp turn and go the other way. Fuck, this is exhausting, your arms hate you now. You drift to a stop and rub at the remainder of your complaining biceps.

 

"Well, I guess Sigs messaged her? Reckon she texted you about it, not him. Where's your phone at?"

 

You rummage around for your phone. There are sixty three messages—from all the department heads, not just Lainey, though about ten of the most recent ones are hers, but you're interrupted by the woman herself before you can read any.

She peers into the room, sees you're up, and gives a cheer.

"Erskin! My sugargrub!" she runs over and drapes herself over your shoulders from behind, nuzzling your damp hair extravagantly.

"Lainey! My darling sweetpotato!" You twist around and kiss her all over her face.

"My love pepper!"

"My darling jam!"

"My rake of adoration, look at you, you're so thin!"

"I know, it's awful, I'm hideous."

"Absolutely, I'm sickened, I'm revolted, I may faint, go away and get me a hotter boyfriend right now."

"Moonflower," you say, with grave hurt. "And stem and associated leaves and so forth. You wound me."

"Don't you moonflower me, love-nugget. This is unacceptable. Stop it at once."

"Pbbfth," you go, into the side of her neck, and she gives a laughing shriek and kisses you deeply.

You vaguely remember Jethro when you are allowed to surface for air.

"Lainey, this is Jethro. Jethro, this is Lieutenant Commander Gawker. She's mostly in charge."

"I'm entirely in charge, we all just let Aspera wear a little hat because it makes him happy." She goes to give Jethro a friendly fistbump.

 

"I am deliriously fuckin' pleased to meet you, ma'am," you tell her sincerely, returning the fistbump. It makes you happier than you really want to think about, finding out that Erskin's matesprit is goofy over him. He deserves that. You tell him, "Imma text you later about physical therapy, kay?"

 

"Yes, of course, I can't wait," you tell him. "I need a beach body, you know, I have my own tidepool so it's extra crucial."

A flash of horns catches your eye, and you look over to see Arguus peering shyly around the door corner. He gives you a little wave, clearly wanting to come in, but too shy of Jethro to try. You automatically sit straighter, square your shoulders, firm your voice— protective, confident. Captainly.

"Arguus! Lainey, you didn't tell me Arguus came out too! Arguus, come over here, it's alright! Everything's fine. This is Jethro, he's nice."

Arguus slinks in like a hesitant noodle. He makes a wide detour around Jethro and comes over to cup the side of your face and give you a big, beaming grin, relief written all over him. You're incredibly touched that he'd come out just to see you a little sooner.

You throw your arms around his waist and bury your face in his sweater. He makes a tiny prr of happiness and runs his fingers through your hair, rubs your hornbeds just how you like. At this rate you won't have to be carried back to your hive, you'll float there all on your own.

 

Your smile deflates, along with your soul and your confidence, though you manage to get a semi-convincing pleasant expression back on your face before anyone looks at you. You don't want to give this Arguus guy the impression you're mad at him, especially with how shy he seems. You're just... disappointed, that's all. And you wish Erskin had mentioned -- but you shouldn't have assumed his pale quadrant was empty. Even trolls with good moirails can end up in dire medical straits. It's not Arguus's fault.

"Don't jump right back into work now, hear?" you tell Erskin amiably, and turn away to start cleaning the heal tank. It's not your job but it needs done.