THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

"That's kinda worse, Cap," he points out.

You roll your eyes, and raise your voice: "Who here is sober-ish and wants to drive us to Captain Aspera's quarters so I can shag his silly fish ass rotten?"

Since half the bar has been eavesdropping on your banter -- and probably tweeting it to the rest of the fleet as well, if you know yoour crew -- there's no point pretending modesty, and you really don't want paperwork-instead-of-sex.

 

"Are we invited to the shagging?" A junior lieutenant wants to know.

You squint thoughtfully at Bel.

"No," you conclude. "Sorry! But Bel will probably kiss you on the face."

There's only half as many offers after that. You pick out one of the more sober— and happily quadranted— ensigns in the bar and wave her over, a lovely lowblood smartass roughly five times your age from hydroponics. She's got horns that go on half of forever and great hips, you wouldn't mind if your kismesis reconsiders his stance on completely irresponsible intoxicated promiscuity with casual acquaintances.

"Get a chair for Bel," you tell her. "Kados. Commander Bel. I bet he can't walk."

 

"Oh fuck off, I can walk just fine." You prove it by exiting your chair with careful grace. "Just not in a straight line." You give the volunteer your charmingest smile. "Thank you, Ensign. You're a lightsaber." Um. "Lifesaver."

 

"Pchooom," the ensign says, and eases herself under one of Bel's arms. "Come on, I'll dump you in a cart and come back for the Captain."

"You won't! I can move! I am the king of locomotives! Locomo...tors..." You aren't though. You mash your knuckles in the spokes of your wheels and curse. "Murfey, help a friend out."

 

"Gonna waive the hand-biting clause? I don't wanna be a necklace." Getting a vague indication that yes, he can safely push the chair, he takes the handles and follows along behind you as you do your best to move roughly in the correct direction without crunching the ensign too badly beneath your blueblood bulk.

"We shoulda done this the other way around," you point out when you're almost at the cart. "Murf can bench press me."

 

"I'm enjoying this," the ensign says, and pinches Bel's butt. She tips him into the passenger seat and goes to help Murfey set you in the back. You take a halfhearted snap at her but miss by miles, then have to grab at a lot of things in order not to fall out of everything. When you're all the way situated you let go of Murfey's shirt, and, a little more reluctantly, the ensign's horn.

Then you grab Bel's hair. You may or may not also go "Hee!"

 

"Nurk," you reply, tipped off balance, and only save yourself from falling by sprawling across his lap. You beam up at him. "Hi, Troubleface," you say adoringly. You poke at his nose and miss. "Look at that face. So trouble. Such shenanigans."

From somewhere off to your left, you hear Murf bid you goodday, sounding amused, and the cart starts moving.

 

You snap at his hand, actually catch it, and spit it out again. Then you haul him a bit more upright so you can actually, properly hug, and push your face against his neck for safety. He is warm and smells basically flammable and you are very happy right now.

 

It's almost a surprise when the cart stops; you were lost in snuggling Erskin and time compressed or something. The helpful ensign does her duty, getting you both off the cart un-stumbled, and you thank her sincerely. When Erskin opens the door to his quarters, the breeze from it sends glitter swirling into the hallway. You have to hold onto the doorframe to laugh without bumping into stuff.

 

You grin and wheel precariously through your mudroom— your mud-and-glitterroom, now— before giving the fuck up.

"Carry me," you order, imperiously, and lift your arms at him.

 

"That's a super terrible idea," you scold, even as you obey. You scoop him up and kiss him, and waft along on your lightheadedness without tripping over anything: a miracle. "Where are we going?" you ask eventually, contemplating his tidepool biome and whether the glitter would kill every living thing in it, or just clog the filters.

 

"Somewhere soft, for when, if when you fall over," you mumble, and kiss his neck. This is such an excellent maneuver you do it several more times.

 

"Mm. S'nice." You reel toward his lounging area, his concupisent couch, which you last saw up close when you were first spore-infected. You remind him of that time as you tumble onto it with him atop you, careful not to let him bonk his head or wrench his still-healing leg. "You were so mad at me for risking myself, and not letting you take the same risk. Was it losing me you were afraid of, Erskin? Or looking like a Rear Echelon Motherfucker in front of your men?"

There's no venom in it, not even needling for form's sake; you're too fond of him right now. You're just curious.

 

"Oh, I. We should've... I'm the Captain, it was my job, to, to keep my crew safe. You're new. You're not... you were brought in for, for paperwork! For orana—organ—izing. It wasn't your job. But I couldn't do it."

Thinking about it makes you sad all over again, and you hide your face. "I can't even fight for real, for, as a real troll, I never got combat training, never had time f'rit. 'M not even a real troll. Can't even do Captaining right. You had to save us."

 

You give an undignified snort. "Hoofbeastshit, Erskin. You're one of the realest trolls I know. If it's combat skills you want, I'll train you. I went because I'm expendable and you're not. Or." You falter. "I thought I was expendable. Until you convinced me otherwise."

 

"Noooooooo." You chew on him a little, then realize you might have to clarify your position: "You're important, you're crucial, you're you. You're... No one's expendable. It's a lie."

 

"I know, I know, it's all right, I know." You curl around him, protective. "Keep telling me until it sinks in. It's -- now -- I mostly never wanted to die, but now, here, I want to live." Your voice breaks. "Fuck, Erskin, I was so worried when you got sick, you have to take better care of yourself from now on. You're not expendable either."

 

"Okay. Okay. You'll take care of me too," you explain— request?— and then there is kissing. A lot of kissing. You hold on to his clothes— he's got way too many clothes— and sink all your urgency into his clever mouth.

 

You don't try to make a competition of kissing. You're too drunk, or too relieved to have him back, or too tired after a double shift and a night out. All you want to do right now is make him happy. Even if you were sober you wouldn't know how to articulate your gratitude for the hope and sense of purpose you've found here, being his First Mate and his rival and his friend, but maybe you can convey it a little through touch.

After a while you break the kiss so he can strip your sweater off, then fall back into it while working on his buttons. He tastes like lipstick, sticky cocktails, and home. "I'm home," you explain when you break again to be relieved of your shirt. "With you, I'm home."

 

"You're an embarrassing romantic, is what you are," you tell him, though you're thoroughly flattered, and try to help him get your clothes off. It doesn't go very well. You focus on sucking big smudgy marks into his neck, instead, and that goes much better.