THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

"If they're all your size we'll run out of room," you tell him, and pinch one of his barrel-stave ribs. "I— about the fighting, Bel, I should have— you deserved my confidence. I do know you're a, a, combat specialist, a marine still. But I didn't... know."

You didn't know he fought like that. Not even like a machine, not even like a dance: like an animation, like every step and swing had been decided in advance by a team of experts, and the entire fight was simply one long, elegant construction of color and motion. You're still not entirely sure how to process whatever emotion had happened when you realized he wasn't going to die, was very likely going to walk away. You certainly don't know how to convey it in words. You just give his chest a little headbutt.

"I've never seen anyone else survive him," you finally say, and hope that at least covers a bit of it.

 

You glow with pride. "We're unstoppable, you and I." One more kiss. "We'd better let Pancho patch us up. Then I propose we recuperate at my place. Galley can warn us if Lard Ironfail tries to pester Lainey on the bridge or get involved with the repairs again."

 

You hesitate for a long, calculating moment, then give in. You're desperate enough to lie down somewhere quiet and safe for a bit that you'd probably take an even larger, stupider risk for it. Ironfist can very probably keep for a night.

Also, you need Pancho to clean out your socket, you haven't had the chance yet and don't want the new eye growing in all weird because of an infection.

 

Someone must've warned Pancho, because she's ready and waiting with all the appropriate items. Aside from a brief pap and a scold-you-later look for you, she's completely professional and a little bit merciless. Before you quite know what happened, you're lying down with cold packs on all your sprains, cracked bones splinted and cuts closed with wound glue and butterfly stitches, feeling the warmth of a painkiller spread through you. Once she's done the same for Erskin, she fetches something from a cooler -- it looks like a pickled onion in a little jar -- and brings it to Erskin's bedside.

(pancho next)

 

You are not enjoying Lord Ironfist's visit one damn bit. Not only have you and Sal been worked ragged with all the injuries his crew's been dealing to yours, you've had two scared little girls hiding out at your hive, and one of them keeps forgetting she's hiding and tries to go to work. If one of those fucking clown cultists spotted a baby helmsman off wires and running around loose -- you don't want to think about how bad it could get. And poor Lu doesn't seem to quite understand the difference between her kind of clown religion and theirs, so you're almost glad her moirail is glitchy just because it gives you an excuse to keep her home, but she fusses about the lusii she's supposed to be taking care of.

Now, on top of that, your pale bro has gotten himself beaten up -- it was only a matter of time, really -- and the Only Good Captain In The Fucking Fleet has lost an eye.

"You're in luck, bro," tell him. Usually you call him Captain in public, but fuck that right now, he deserves to be reminded that he has family. "I've got some frontline tech for you to try out. See, our job in the ground invasion forces was to get boots back on the line ASAP, without worrying too much about long-term recovery or cosmetic effects. Some of the techniques we used were damaging bullshit I will not be perpetrating on you guys, but some of them were hella useful." You hold up your jar so he can see it with his good eye. "This? is a temporary tissue scaffold. It will let you regenerate your eye in a matter of nights instead of perigees. Downside, there's a chance the tissue won't differentiate properly and we'll have to do a second surgery to get your vision back. But you'll be done with the pain, risk of infection, and saggy eyelid way faster. Wanna try it?"

 

You blink, then take the jar and peer at it with interest. "Well, we can't do it now, it'd be a waste of material— Ironfist only goes after the one eye, it's an in-joke, so I've never lost two to one visit and don't think it's a good time to start. It'd be a damn nuisance if he escalates..."

A thought finally occurs, and you facepalm. "I'm an idiot, Sergeant, we can just keep the eyepatch on and he doesn't have to know. By all means, go right ahead."

 

You'd been just about to suggest that, so you can't help grinning. "Just as you say, sir. Lie back then, just going to give you a local, get that area nice and numb..."

The surgery takes no more than fifteen minutes, and that's not even the fastest you've ever done it. You're being gentle because you genuinely care that he be able to regain vision eventually, and not just for professional pride. You also clean up the scrapes around the eye, leave him the clean scar through the eyebrow since that's the kind of thing that makes a troll look badass, but smooth out the ones on his cheekbone so they don't pucker up and distort his facial expressions. It's very important to know which scars to let your patients keep and which ones to get rid of.

Finally, you provide him with a temporary eyepatch, and give him a handful more in case that one gets ripped up or Bel draws dicks on it. "You're good to go," you tell him proudly. "Try not to let the Purple People Eater maim you any worse, I don't have scaffolding for anything bigger than a lung."

 

"I'll give him a bit of extra hell just for you," you assure her. "You are as usual a magnificent goddess of light and screaming and being extremely good at sticking new eyes in people and I can only aspire to one day kiss your toes." You roll on to your side on the work table to catch a bit of a nap while Pancho un-pulps Bel and are promptly, profoundly unconscious.

(he'll wake up to go back to bel's place, or after a couple hours)

 

You let them both rest until your breaktime comes up, then volunteer to drop them off home on your way to lunch. Sal doesn't object, partly because it frees up space, and partly because he's learned never to get in your way without a really good reason he's willing to coherently explain and defend. He may be technically in charge, but you've never let kind of thing that keep you from running your surgery your way.

It's hella cute how they support each other as they wobble to the cart. Theirs is the palest blackrom.

 

You wave bye to Pancho, then go flop onto Bel's couch with a long, luxuriating moan.

"Bel," you mumble into a pillow. "My dark pumpkin. My violence grublump. My big sparkly bastard. Bring me a food."

 

"Your itty precious murder tank just mopped a floor with his face, Trouble, and he is tired."

"I'll fix you a food," Pancho offers. "I'm on my break. I'll just eat here, then time won't be a problem."

"You're the absolute best," you tell her sincerely, and kiss her forehead, leaving a little smear of ointment from your split lip. The way she wrinkles her nose as she rubs it off is adorable. You go flop carefully on top of Erskin. "How did you survive this crap before you had us? You may be built seadweller tough, but that guy is a plague, and his crew's been cutting a swath."

 

"Mmm. You can survive a lot when the only other option is don't." You roll over onto your back underneath him and get your arms around his shoulders. Click your horns together. "Never fought him like that, though. He likes to win, so I give him just enough of a fight that he doesn't think I'm handing him the victory, and he can kick my ass from one end of a week to the other without any really permanent damage done."

You give his horns a good shove with your own and enjoy the ache. "I've got a lot of practice knowing when to lose." In case that wasn't clear enough, you pinch his butt.

 

You snort a laugh into his neck and nip his fin. "I haven't, but I worked it out with my big fat brain. I mean, I did lose fair and square in this case, but I knew I couldn't afford to win. He'd probably do something stupid like fire up his weapons systems inside the drydock, wouldn't he?"

 

You shudder. "Yes, I expect so. And if he died, his friends and family would turn us all into paint. Not a very enjoyable victory celebration, you ask me."

You touch a thumb to his split lip. "And you're not even a good color, are you?" you tease.

 

"I'm apparently a 'shitblood'," you answer laconically, nibbling his thumb. "I've always suspected that subjug habit of constantly reminding people about their blood tone is indicative of insecurity and low self-esteem."

 

You're thoroughly distracted by his dark lips and bright fangs, the flash of blue as a little drop of blood presses against your fingerpad. The soft touch of his tongue.

"Oh," you say breathlessly. "Right. Sure."

 

"Oh," you reply softly, delighted, as you realize he's not listening because he's too turned on. It's suddenly extremely important that you claim him for yourself, overwrite all Ironfist's thoughtless battery with your own touch. You begin by kissing his eyepatch. "You're mine," you remind him."

At which point you're interrupted by a pointed throat-clearing, and realize Pancho is standing over you with bowls of something that smells amazing.

You sit up as fast as you can, which isn't very in your current state. "I didn't forget you were here," you lie.

"Course you didn't," she grins, handing over your lunch: noodle soup with a poached egg in. You dig in even though it's still too hot. The salty broth stings your lip, but you're too hungry to care.

She gives Erskin his bowl too, then goes to fetch her own. She sits down on the floor beside the couch. "Am I allowed to refuse Ironfist's crew medical assistance? One of them swatted a medtech who was cleaning a scrape, bounced her off the wall and broke her wrist. I'd like authorization to tell them no, you have your own facilities on your own ship, you're not welcome in ours."

You grimace. "I'd just be concerned with backlash and escalation."

 

You breathe in, out, trying to think. To weigh options. It's a lot harder than usually. "They're testing all previously established boundaries, because I've been in such poor form and we're so terribly understaffed. And this whole bloody mess with Wavebane..."

It's a fairly well respected phenominon that crews which run too wild on carriers ship back out with a significantly smaller compliment than they docked with and nothing to blame but unfortunate accidents. The same inexplicable, mysterious event just happening to occur here should set Wavebane against every other carrier Captain in the fleet should he try to string you on a jut over the matter.

Ironfist's crew has always behaved within acceptable parameters, for a bunch of slaughterous madtrolls, and the games you'd played with their captain had been a bit more in the way of foreplay. It had been enough to lock horns, haul ass, and cut your losses. But this round's got more players than you and Ironfist's murder boner. And damn it all, you're angry.

You make the call: "Any of them you can kill with clean hands, do it. Anesthetic overdose, embolism, whatever." You nod to Bel. "Equipment failure. I don't want to hear about any fighting, mind you. But we're entitled to draw some fucking lines in the sand."

 

You let out the breath you've been holding. "Oh thank fuck. I had no idea how I was going to keep you from finding out about the ten assassinations I already did."

 

You burst out laughing. "Bloody grub-buggering hell, Commander Kadros, you are proactive!"