THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

You smile shyly. "Well, if it wouldn't put you to any trouble."

 

"A lil' bit of trouble's fun sometimes," you grin. You're already making plans for what to cook first.

 

You make the short but surprisingly arduous trek over to sit on Jethro's rock with him. You want to observe the crab traps too and who are you bloody well fooling, you want to sit next to him. Sitting's free. It's your rock, anyway, you can sit next to whoever you want on it. now would be a great time to think of something clever and funny to say, to explain your sudden and possibly suspicious rock change maneuver, but you can't think of anything.

You feign a great interest in crabs.

 

This is really nice. You're not even all that tempted to angst about your pale crush on him. You can just enjoy sitting side by side, watching all the little crabs go apeshit over the chunk of frozen cod you put in the trap. While you wait for it to fill up, you get out another and wordlessly show him how it folds and unfolds.

 

"Ooh, neat!" You take it and do the folding and unfolding yourself, extremely pleased with a new gadget. "I say, this is clever."

Sitting around doing nothing is much more comfortable now that you've got something to do with your hands. You play with the empty trap until the one you're ostensibly watching fills up, then regard it with just a little bit of regret.

"Suppose you'd better nip that off to Murfey," you say. "I'll put this one down for you, how about?"

 

"Not right away, it ain't good for 'em to be all crammed up in there for long, and Murfey can't use 'em at the bar if they arrive dead, right? Put it down a couple hours before you wanna have me come pick it up. Like maybe... lunchtime-ish on Tuesday?" You give him a hopeful grin.

Then you pop the filled trap into your attic modus, give Erskin a fist bump, and take off for Murfey's. You text your matesprit on the way, asking him to meet you there for dinner, since you heard a rumor there'll be fresh crab on the menu.

 

==> Be the mutant crimelord.

Excuse you, surely they meant 'Be the owner of the luxurious Star Pearl Casino,' and something something legitimate businessman -- oh, respectability is boring. Look, a flying monkey space casino!



Just look at the ammonite designs in those custom stair rails. Exquisite. You've been away too long on this tedious murder mission business trip. It will be good to get back to the genteel business of parting the crews of docked ships from their money, and pay your respects to your darling wiggler generous host.

The Ammonite's duty helmsman negotiates a smooth docking with the Sunslammer's more traditional single helm. "Lovely," you tell her absently as you throw on a gauzy shawl over your customary outfit of skintight swim shorts and an assload of jewelry. "Well done. You're promoted."

"To what?" she mutters, and you giggle. It's a little joke because, obviously, she's a helmsman, there's nowhere better for her to be.

"Just kidding, darling, but I'll send all three of you treat baskets. Be good!" And with that you sweep from the ship, high-heeled sandals clicking on the boarding ramp. If Captain Aspera isn't there to meet you you'll pout like a starlet. You're fully prepared to be theatrical as hell about it.

 

You're propped against a bulkhead and companionably trash-talking with Bel in between managing the docking crews in preparation for the arrival of Captain Ironfist on extremely insufficient notice. The ship that docks first, though, is Whitey's.

"Oh! That's Lord Dasyat!" you remark stupidly to Bel. "I thought he managed the Casino remotely? Lainey said he'd shoved off."

 

"He did, but I guess it makes sense for him to visit from time to time. Do you want me to --?" But it's too late, he's bearing down on you both like a terrifying bling tsunami.

 

There he is, and good old Bel too, and -- oh hell. Your grand mood collapses into pure concern. Erskin is a stick. A wobbly stick. "My dear Captain, what in the galaxy happened to you?"

 

You feel the same strange emotional hunger for him as you did the last time you saw him: you want him to want you, and care for you, and he very clearly does, but the hunger doesn't go away. It also adds in the desire to be hugged. Whatever part of troll brains make you like this can go get fucked.

You summon up a bold smile. "I'm back up on my feet, sir! Look, Kadros got me this one. Sparkly, isn't it?"

(i've definitely forgotten how much of past events whitey knows or doesn't)

 

(me too so haha winging it)

"It's terrible, you must hate each other tremendously," you approve. "But you're so thin -- is this from your illness, the one I brought in the specialist for? Are you truly recovered?"

You stop yourself from putting your hands all over him to make sure he's okay, because you are not his lusus, damn your mutation and his adorableness. But you have to give his shoulder a little testing squeeze. So bony.

 

(haha sorry whitey, the contract is sealed)

You lean into him helplessly, and one of your hands comes up to rest on his arm. He's the exact same temperature you are, it's bizarrely comforting, and he smells lovely.

"That specialist saved my life, I don't mind telling you, but the treatment took awhile and was, apparently, fairly rough on the hardware. I'm not entirely recovered but I'm right on schedule for it, you know how it is— anything that can't kill a seadweller outright is just wasting everyone's time." You slant a toothy grin at Bel. "You might keep that in mind, Commander."

 

"Wasting your time is my purpose in life, sir," you return easily, grinning back. You were ready to try to distract Whitey if he got inappropriate, but they both seem to be enjoying -- whatever this is -- so you don't call attention to it. "Welcome back, Whitey. Murfey's Bar and Grill is open now, you should stop in and see what he does with fresh seafood, it's crazy good. We've got aquaculture ticking over. Everyone's full of vitamins these days."

"Let's all go," Whitey proposes, looking at Erskin moonily. "Right now."

"Can't. We've got an old battleaxe of an indigo coming in and we need all hands on deck to keep him from shredding the warmer half of our crew."

Whitey's nose wrinkles delicately. "Ugh. I hate that sort. And you can't afford to lose anyone, can you, you're still understaffed." He puffs himself up protectively. "Then I'll wait with you."

You manage not to laugh. Much.

 

"It's really more like warmer three fourths," you say. "And yes, we really are understaffed, the skeleton compliment for this ship's 200, and we're down to about 150. We lost more people to the infection and knock-on effects than we got with the Zero Sum transfers, and of course everyone in charge of allocating personnel is tremendously busy right now." And the work injury and fatality rate only accelerates, with everyone running such desperately long and busy shifts, as much of a miracle worker as Sergeant Pancho may be. You keep getting day terrors of the Sunslammer being whittled down to just the last, littlest bone-sliver crew of you and Galley.

You pat Whitey's arm. "Don't fret. We've been through worse."

 

"It's too bad no one in charge of allocating personnel ever has to dock here," you grumble. "I would get such transcendant joy out of making them wait until they were down to their last cubic liter of oxygen before letting them dock, because we simply don't have the staff."

Whitey giggles wickedly. "Bel, you cruel angel."

"I'd do it, I swear on the Empress's flawless rack I would."

 

"While I can't in good conscience allow you to endanger our Condescension's most important personnel, you're my First Mate and I have to defer to your judgement on the petty details of supply. How many cubic liters of oxygen anyone may or may not have is certainly beneath my notice." You punctuate the statement with a grand and superior and not at all sarcastic gill-snap.

Bel knows full well you can reel off how much breathable atmosphere's on the Sunslammer down to the last deciliter, you spend so much time fussing over the ducts and pipes, and you're going to kick him in the ankle the moment he calls you on it.

 

"Oh, I suppose I was hallucinating the last six times you asked me to do the math for greenspace carbon turnover, then," you say in the same superior tone, and dodge his kick neatly, because you were completely expecting it.

"Could you delay this Ironside fellow on a similar pretext?" Whitey suggests.

"Ironfist, and no. It's political."

"Naturally, I know nothing of politics," he lies transparently. "But I am at your service, my dear Captain, if there's anything I can do to assist." He bows over Erskin's hand.

 

You fluster. "I-- er, no, it, it's perfectly a-alright, it's, it, really, thank you?" You pat him a few times. "It really is political..."

Ironfist, unlike you shiftless lot of rejects, is an active and vital and highly decorated player in several different wars, and about as highly ranked as it's possible for a bloody landlicker to get. His nova-class destroyer's current crew compliment has an extra zero on yours and this upcoming week is going to be a fucking massacre if you're not diplomatic as hell.

 

"Ah..." Disappointed as you are, you suppose your particular kind of charm isn't for everyone. "Then I suppose I shan't wait with you after all. I'd only complicate things. But do let me know how it's going." With a bracing pat of encouragement for Erskin, and a mock salute for Bel, you stride off toward the casino. You need to warn your staff anyway. Iron-whatsis certainly won't be culling any of your lowbloods.