(no subject)

[youfallinline]

He makes soldier over an accident, captain over an injury, lieutenant over a corpse.

If the progress rate has to stay stagnant, then he's reached the end of his military career, because that's the bottom of a very long line of casual atrocities he's willing to sign his name by. About time he wins rank over pure merit.

The world doesn't stop when your navi goes down, they tell them in school, when fighters rival high-school girls in forlorn sighs and idyllic dreams of their yet-encountered "other half."

The world doesn't stop when your navi goes down, they tell them in school, neglecting the afterthought, but everyone'll act like it.

Day one after he return's the standard mourning: obligatory pats on the back, careless condolences, soft words and shy sympathy. It's awkward, overdue KIA etiquette, when they're all a pack of strangers, and the lead wolf's just gone lost his mate. These things happen to green boys, not senior officers, and all of Encke's broken bones and the recuperative PT in the world won't erase the parting line in his file that acknowledges a two-man miracle mission and a trade of a single casualty for a pivotal haemorrhage of enemy defences.

Day two's for logistics, ol' Cook's scoundrel eyes glinting glee when he barks reassurance over the briefing desk that good news, they're getting Encke a navigator shuttled in, and it's one hell of a catch. The navi squad, science div, regiment and men, women and children back home are all proud of Encke, so take your medal and your complimentary whiskey, and get the fuck out. (Encke does.)

Day three's the slow burn wait, every incoming shipment of anything searched for some crate in the back where a moron might've packed a navigator. Or something. They all pretend they're not curious, just cool cats waiting on their mouse, but the new navi's the talk of a small cage, and it's no help that they haven't even got a name to work off of.

Day four's for hope: shuttling takes a while.

Day five's for passive-aggressive notes to the "border patrol": they're not denying a ride in to a special operative of the fleet, are the morons?

Day six's for give and take: if you pretend you're not watching the clock, it might tick along faster.

Day seven's for boozing: his med results come back solid, and he has the decency to wet half the fleet in celebration of his new prefix. They drink to the navi, still anonymous, still MIA, then some moron asks whether he's ever coming, a navigator defends his absentee soon-leader, and it all goes down in a brawl.

Day eight's for conspiracy theories. No explanations needed. Someone might be listening in.

Day nine's for shouting: Cook said, Cook wants, Cook ordered - so where is the navi?

By day ten, he's in the teeth of the rumour mill, bureaucratic victim, extravagant morsel, local pariah. If there's a story, he's heard it, Once upon a time, in a Coltron 'fested galaxy, far, far away to The fucking End: his navi's defected, his navi's got the district plague, his navi's the first woman the Sleipnir's ever seen on board. His navi's a little bitch, his navi's a craven, his navi's incompetent, his navi's running the military show.

His navi's late.

"Where the fuck have you been?" is the first thing snarled between gritted teeth by way of greeting, when he strides in at a hard step. It doesn't matter that his navigator's likely just topped a 10-hour flight with two more hours in briefing, doesn't matter the meeting room's just barely been abandoned and the cameras are still taping one hell of a show, doesn't matter the other lieutenant's not even had the chance to remove his helmet and the rest of the standard quarantine gear. A lot of things don't matter after a ten-day wait.

Comments

[daphnis]

Ten days. All things considered, the delinquent navigator hasn't made bad time.

There had been a good deal of conflict surrounding his promotion and reassignment; there still is, if Cook's attitude during briefing was anything to go by. Keeler's used to the attitude, the stiff down-nosed glares that are practically standard protocol for navigators and sci div, but he's observant enough to know the difference. Cook, despite this being their first assignment together, had clearly not been in favor of his promotion. Dead weight, a burden on his ship and crew, and he's assured Keeler in no uncertain terms that he runs everything tight and efficient. The very antithesis of Keeler's body by nature. But the orders come from a position higher than Cook's; a position that recognizes the inherent foolishness in wasting prodigal talent like Keeler's, and sees fit to use him to every advantage.

Despite the dismal med scans, Keeler's accolades are tried and true. A fact he finds himself repeating -- to himself and to others -- more often than he particularly cares to.

Encke's outburst gives him pause. His last fighter hadn't been quite so bullish. Of course, there had been a respectful distance between them; congenial and professional despite their shared quarters and the veritable expectation for Keeler to bend to his fighter's whim. Because Keeler had established the boundaries early on, just as -- he's sure -- he'll be forced to do with this one. His last fighter was good; not great, but skilled enough to keep them alive. Despite a fond farewell, Keeler had the distinct impression that he was as eager for a new navi as Keeler was for his promotion.

The delay can simply be blamed on unfortunate timing. His transport to the Sleipnir should have taken two days at most, but with frailty like Keeler's, unforeseen circumstances sometimes arise. Near-collapses aren't uncommon, and two hours into their initial flight necessitated a return to base until Keeler could be stabilized. Medications were prescribed, more drugs to add to the list of chemicals that keep him fit and functioning, and when the med scans cleared, they were on their merry way again. Albeit dismally late.

"Sorry. Sci div kept us a bit longer than expected."

The flight helmet is redundant at this juncture. Keeler inclines his head, lifts it away to tuck it under one arm instead. The braided rope of white-blonde hair tumbles over one shoulder, framed against skin like fine china and ice-pale eyes. His smile could diffuse a volcanic eruption; calm, patient, the very vision of serenity, if not entirely genuine.

"You're Encke?" He asks, extending a hand to the fighter in greeting. "Task name Keeler. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

[youfallinline]

And he stays there, transfixed, eyes wide and mouth lax, because, Sorry.

Shit and hell, no and sorry. He is so fucking sorry for the cruel mishap of fate that left Keeler like this, frail-boned and carefully poised and irredeemably gorgeous in a place where pretty things get passed around with compliments and estimates of breaking. Encke's never had one so pretty before, but he's heard the bitching, the moaning and the justified complaints from fighters stuck babysitting the ship's best belles. Whoring's a past time here, rape an overlooked hobby, and if your navigator's playing prey to either, you've got a garden variety of STDs, psych ward visits and power game fodder on your hands.

Encke'll need a transfer by week three. He can tell. The little sheepish smile on the navigator's face spells out both their certainty.

"Sci div doesn't have the clearance to delay a command order," he says in a low voice that makes a warning against further lies implicit, and doesn't take Keeler's thin olive branch of a hand. Encke can - will, if he must, snap both twigs.

Because the ledger right now's not adding up in Keeler's favour: late, liar and pretty.

A frown. "I'm your fighter. You gonna give me grief, navigator?"

[daphnis]

The smile doesn't falter. It borders on vapid, at times. Because he's either too smart or too foolish to allow Encke's venom a chance of sinking in. Because kill them with kindness has been his motto and mantra since joining the fleet, as well as his defense against every verbal slap and shove aimed at him. It's poise at its finest, and he doesn't back down. No more than to take back his hand, and rest it upon the top of his helmet.

Encke wants honesty? He'll get it, brutal and biting, though Keeler had been hoping for a more private venue. A glance to the cameras in the corners; every briefing is recorded, standard protocol, and it's a few seconds longer before the tiny red lights extinguish themselves at last.

"Sci div has plenty of clearances when your navigator suffers an a-fib collapse during initial transport." Keeler states evenly, too measured given the gravity of that explanation. "So again, sorry for any inconvenience. My fault entirely."

Keeler can't tell if this is confusion or irritation or perhaps even concern, but if Encke's brand of charm is this overbearing macho bullshit, Keeler's going to need every ounce of his considerable patience to handle him. He can see the reproach already in his fighter's eyes, and his head tips ever-so-slightly to one side, struggling to read it for what it is.

"But I'm here now. I read your dossier." I know about your last navigator; do you plan to make a habit of losing your partners? "Did you get a chance to read mine?"

Another oversight. Keeler doubts Encke would have accepted his transfer if they'd given him a chance or a say. His dossier is littered to the point of bursting with nigh-perplexing med scans. Congenital heart defect, and inoperable, and possible transplant candidate all blinking in bright red assessments and plans. Continued service has never been recommended, but coterminus with his inconceivable flight results, his battle commendations for sharp wit and quick strategy, elite ability and recommendations from nearly every C.O. he's worked under--

It's clear why medical discharge has never been an option.

[youfallinline]

Read Keeler's dossier? Read his - son of a bitch, we didn't even get your name.

His name, let alone his legion of medical excuses, because it doesn't take no science div experimental telepath to tell any boy who needs more than Dramamine to complete a basic transport ride is (bed)ridden with prescriptions and diagnoses.

And he can't fly.

The colour drains out of him, the sheer will and vitality, and he slackens, instantly, the bones of his previously clenched fingers melting, all of him a testament to breathlessness and awe. You don't fly solo. If your navigator can't put you up, you don't leave the ground.

"A-fib collapse..."

Shit. Shit, no. Christ, they - fucking hell, they gave him - his fist comes down on the briefing table, and anger simmers through him, silver-hot, coarse. This is it. He's grieving. It's the first stage, shit, he needs to control this, it's not a done thing, even if he's apparently alone against a bureaucratic hydra who's rewarded him for an excellent performance with a little bitch who must have sucked a hundred cocks for every rank stripe, because he sure as Cook's bad temper can't be fit for active duty.

His eyes rise to meet the navigator's, chaos against pale blue. He's a career soldier, not a conscript waiting to finish up his rounds, pack up and go home, there is no home for the likes of him. Did he fuck up that badly, losing his previous boy? Wasn't much to do, any man who spent two minutes on the flight record can tell, wasn't anything Encke could have done - fuck's sake, send him to the brig, if there was, write him up solid, don't end his professional life like this.

It's a sharp inhale, loathsome and desperate and unforgiving. "Look. Look - Keeler." And the third stage of loss is bargaining. "Look, man, come on. I can't - you're messing with my head here? I can't be grounded."

He worries his lower lip til a string of iron announces the bleeding.

"I'll - got some strings to pull, Bering owes me one, I can get you a transfer." No, he can't. He couldn't even get the name and now that he thinks on it, it must have been deliberate, a sharp, visceral attack against his likely objections. Keep the fighter in the dark, let the big boys and navis think, standard procedure. "Come on."

[daphnis]

"Why would you be grounded?"

Keeler's brow lifts, the first crack in his facade. Unfit for duty. Weak. Slut. Those are always the assumptions. Any explanation but the truth, because a sick man can't possibly handle himself under pressure, can't possibly succeed and excel on the front lines. It's an impossibility that his accolades were earned out of pure merit and skill, and if it wasn't pity that pushed him up the ranks, he must have bent over one too many desks to be worthwhile.

Fine, he gets it, he's used to it, but this is the first time those assumptions have earned him a reaction of sheer panic. Even his previous fighter had the good sense to give him a fighting chance before writing him off completely. Apparently, Keeler can't strike the same vein twice. It's insulting at best, and by this point in his career he's resolved to let his talent speak for him.

With a sigh, Keeler brushes past Encke, and taps a number of clearance protocols into one of the conference table's digital screens. He leaves his file open, scrolling through to his battle accolades.

"Date 0103454, fifty-two ships spared due to rescue maneuvers in the Colteron assault in Sector Thirteen. Date 0105354, Colteron destroyer eliminated through strategic flanking by five scout crafts. Date 0102655, scout crafts outfitted with improved cloaking devices under development by Task Name Kee-- Mm, you know, I'll let you go through these yourself. The list from Eastern Quadrant alone is extensive, and I don't want to take up too much of your day."

Ass. Keeler's smile is complacent, but his eyes have gone hard; a jarring combination for such a pretty face. He spares Encke one last, very pointed look, before setting a brisk pace for the door.

"I'll show myself to my cabin."

[youfallinline]

He lasts a good, hard 15 seconds, confronted with iron evidence that this plaything's got enough leverage to not only earn a rank better men die for, but also to get that better man to do housekeeping on his record later. Pristine stats - his hand motion forces the digital display to a scroll - good performance, all-star reviews. Give Encke a break. As if doctoring records weren't such a noble military tradition that most their database runners could pass for bestseller novelists.

"That's nice, Keeler," he supplies with a smile of his own, bitter and biting when Encke tires of Keeler's God damned sycophanchy, "but we don't play tag here."

And look at this pretty doll waltz away, still thinking he's nice and cozy on some pocket-sized rearguard carrier that never sees action, and not a newly enrolled recruit on the fleet's unofficial suicide brigade. Keeler's security card's with Encke, just another conventional accessory to the introductory tour. He thinks to mention - opens his mouth - then plain smirks, because let the nuisance hit the door and start begging, til Encke harvests just the good grace to relieve him from technological misery.

"And you don't get your own cabin here, princess." It's a small dagger to dig deep, but shallow wounds bleed best. God knows Encke's ego's taken plenty of them in the past minute. "You get shared quarters. You eat with the boys. You get no special favours. And if you think I'm letting you drag our pair name through the mud trying to earn any, I'll bloody you til they won't give you a pity fuck, let alone the goody bag."

[daphnis]

"Good. Same as my last assignment, then."

Keeler doesn't allow the barbs to strike home. The cabin shared with his former fighter was likely a bit roomier than what the Sleipnir had to offer, but he had a feeling that would be the only differing commodity. Despite Encke's accusations, Keeler is no stranger to military life. He's accustomed to the nutrient-rich gruel they pass off as food, and the raucous mess halls. He's shared cabins -- but never bunks -- with his former fighter, and never been spared the pains of sharing close quarters with a complete stranger.

Encke's pissed, and he can stay that way, for all Keeler's concerned. Let him see a few battles at Keeler's side, let him bear witness to the plain and simple havok that Keeler can wreak in the ravages of dead space. Princess, indeed. Encke has absolutely no concept of what the fleet has just given him.

It seems he'll get his chance sooner than anticipated.

Keeler hasn't even reached the door before the proximity alarm sounds. The deafening buzz, discordant and perilous, that never fails to send a cold chill down Keeler's spine. His ears perk, the adrenaline flows, and his smile turns almost manic as he spares a glance over his shoulder to Encke.

"Well, that's exciting." Keeler's interrupted by Control spouting their orders over loudspeaker -- 'Teron scouts at five hundred klicks, Alpha Team report to bay for intercept -- and he takes that moment to affix his helmet again, to tuck his braid up beneath the back.

"Care to dance?"

[youfallinline]

Every hair on him wakes, something dancing the line between horror and arousal rousing him to full attention. Keeler's fast, sure hands fastening the helmet, he notes absently from the corner of suddenly alive eyes - muscle memory. Most navigators perfect it to a precise art, a powerful compensation mechanism to combat the time they dedicate to strategy. As soon the course is decided, they can enact it, no half seconds of delay, no crippling hesitations.

All right, so maybe Keeler graduated military school. That's nice. Doesn't eradicate the hint of authority from Encke's barked objection.

"Sure do. Solo." He lets it weigh between them, insult, injury and war declaration at once. "I'm not flying with a man who just got off a ten-hour shuttle. Your sight's not stabilised. Fuck knows if your balance has. You're not fit for service today, Keeler. The book will tell you so."

The book, which Encke takes great pains and somber precautions to never revisit beyond similar circumstances of manipulative convenience.

But never mind that. Never mind anything. He gets up; unlike Keeler, he doesn't have his full gear along, and it's time to get moving.

"And you don't have a pass yet. Can't log into the ship system without it," he throws over his shoulder.

And if the cold, minute weight of Keeler's card gives the lie to his pronouncement, then, well. At least it can't go snitching to its owner, now can it.

[daphnis]

Keeler plays nice until necessity dictates otherwise. Hell, he plays nice far beyond that point, on rare occasion. But Encke's fighting him at every juncture, stone hard to sunny smile, and Keeler isn't about to sit idle while his boys have all the fun. Scout interceptions aren't normally crucial, but absent from the first red alert aboard his new ship; what kind of precedence does that set?

Not a good one. And just now, Keeler suspects that's precisely what Encke is gunning for.

Despite the weight and stature Encke has on him, Keeler isn't about to bow or shrink. He seizes Encke's shoulder, shoves him back against the closed door and narrows his pale eyes through the helmet visor. Sweet little pushover, compassionate leader; it falls away, and in Keeler's eyes, there is gravity. All the weight and burden of war emerges, the frigid glare of a battle-hardened warrior. It sets a terrifying bent to his pretty face, discord in beauty, anarchy in grace. A challenge, rising all too quickly to the gauntlet Encke's thrown.

"I get it." Keeler's tone is even, measured. "You think you've been cheated. You think I'm lying. But fact's straight, you can't fly solo, and the longer you act like a petulant child about this, the less chance our boys have of coming back safe for supper. So if you're not going to let me on our ship, then you damned well better get me to the bridge so I can call it from there.

"I'm not risking lives just because you can't get past some jaded fighter machismo bullshit."

[daphnis]

Isolation, as it turns out, suits Keeler just fine.

Over the next week, he almost makes a point of it. Encke still won't let him fly, still insists he hasn't acclimated to the new artificial atmosphere. And while there's a dull ache in his joints on a near-constant basis, Keeler can't say he's in agreement with that sentiment. As far as Keeler's concerned, he could be half-dead and he'd still navigate a ship through enemy rain, then back to bay safely. But he doesn't argue. Point in fact, he's trying very hard to stay out of Encke's way.

If the fighter was trying to push him away, he's succeeded splendidly. Their days throughout that first week are simple. Keeler feigns sleep through Encke's morning routine, though he's acutely -- painfully -- aware of every shift and step. He leaves for the bridge before his fighter returns from PT, and can never be found in the mess hall on the same shifts. He even has the courtesy to busy himself on the bridge until long after the cabin access logs show Encke's turned in for the night. Then a quiet shower when he returns, with no long blonde hair left in the drain, and slips like a wisp into the bottom bunk for the night.

Keeler's easy smile and compassion earn him respect among the crew; despite that, as far as Encke is concerned, it's like he's not even there. A ghost of a navigator. And, by Keeler's estimation of Encke's attitude, that's exactly how the fighter prefers it.

But a week on the bridge has him stir-crazy. A full week, never seeing the inside of a bird. It's been years since that happened. Much as he wants to respect Encke's wishes, he needs a bit of respite. They've banished him from the bridge early tonight, dismissed him back to his cabin with orders to relax, but it's not yet late enough for Encke to be asleep. And so, the bay is where he finds himself, surrounded by the cold expanse of ships and the earthy reek of propellant.

Standard T-301s. Keeler's only worked with the 300s, and he's been itching for the upgraded models since their announcement. It was one of the greatest perks of his transfer to the Sleipnir, and it's the greatest tragedy of his life that he couldn't slip into one straight away. Discretion, however, is key.

The bird designated for lead team is nigh-indistinguishable from its fellows. Were it not for the extra stripes along the undercarriage, no one would know the difference. Keeler hoists himself up, yanks the cockpit open, and settles back into the navigator's seat with a sigh. He doesn't start the engine, doesn't even flip the switches for electrical. Rather, he smiles, letting his eyes fall shut and his head fall back against the seat.

God, he's missed this.

[youfallinline]

With a survival rate of one corpse for every four safe returns, the Sleipnir doesn't boast its numbers. It's always the ship in the promotional pictures, never the one in the stats - a war recruiter's sweetheart, til it comes down to the inevitable, 'And do you do there? And then it's time for the cold, hard truth, ice water on a wide-eyed face. You hurt boy, and that's your one duty.

And one of Encke's countless duties is heading ship surveillance. You never know when the pressure mounts and someone cracks, when they steal away with a fighter worth every organ in their body on all available black markets, or when it's their brother or their friend or their lover who made the KIA headlines, and now they want to even a score with the whole fleet by way of good ol' technical sabotage.

It doesn't take a forced, covert, or suspicious entry in the dock area to raise a red alert - it just takes a man and an open door.

Usually, it'd be a four-man squad heading out to run interference. Usually, they'd be drawing up disciplinary charges before they even capture the offender. But then the intruder's ID card is recorded, and it's their lieutenant, of all people, and then it's only Encke joining the premise with a half a smirk and a decent idea of what the hell's going on.

He keeps cat-quiet, the soles of fighter boots surprisingly light, for all his boys're fond of making noise - that's effort right there, not manufacture that aids the stomping. Besides, Keeler's not watching for him. Keeler - and would you look at that nigh-purring face - isn't watching at all.

Avoiding an apparently overdue heart attack for his navigator, he keeps some distance, stopping by the fighter's starboard.

"Not gonna start her?" he calls out smoothly, leaning in to pet polished metal, new paint. "Not nice, teasing a lady, if you're not following through. Gets'em antsy."

[daphnis]

"Are you antsy?"

Keeler's not sure where he's found the strength for sarcasm at the moment. Not when he's startled out of his reverie by that voice; one he had -- blissfully -- nearly forgotten in the past week out of sheer avoidance. And it figures. It fucking figures that they send Encke to discipline him, of all people. Cook would be too much to hope for. Frankly, he'd settle for anyone else; because at least then, cutting as the reprimand would be, it wouldn't touch him, wouldn't make him feel stupid.

It's infuriating that Encke has that power over him, to make him feel so irredeemably brainless and replaceable and hated. It's infuriating that Keeler continues to respect him despite the treatment. Because no matter the bastard he is behind closed doors, he's damn good at his job, and he never challenges Keeler's authority. The one saving grace he's willing to spare Keeler, it seems.

"Wasn't planning on it," he continues with a little smile. "Unless you want to join me."

And he won't, and they both know it. Because not to mention the countless write-ups and reprimands for joyriding; Encke hasn't given Keeler a fighting chance since his arrival on this ship, so why should he start now? Everything was working against them from the start, he supposes. Nothing has gone smoothly and everything is still raw, and Keeler cannot for the life of him work out how to fix this.

Perhaps he's not meant to. Perhaps they're not meant to--

"Come to take me to the brig?" Bet that put a bounce in your step."

[youfallinline]

His brows raise, slightly caught aback by Keeler's forthrightness. Passive aggression, hard stares, long silences - there is the navigator he knows. Actual communication's often like a suffering beast between them, with neither of them just merciful enough to put it out of its misery.

"Yeah, danced all the way up here, showed off all my moves," he says wryly, because they both know if he wanted Keeler in the brig, he'd be kissing double doors and shackles by now. Contrary to all expectations of military composure, he has no qualms about slinging Keeler's skinny little ass over his shoulder and hauling him on deck. But his part time role as Keeler's warden and antagonist has exhausted a great deal of its earlier charm, and he's as sick and tirade of the withdrawals and verbal duels as he is of the ten-times watered piss they pass for canteen coffee.

Closing his eyes tightly, he rotates his head, working the muscles of his neck, his back. Too many rounds today, too much running. He eases in place, glancing at the fighter with accrued fondness.

"Final third watch patrol comes back in thirty," he begins hesitatingly. "If the lieutenant wants to fly out and inspect formations, I'll have him in the air in ten."

Fingers beat a short rhythm on the fighter's metal. He picks up lightly, "...course, if I can find him. Been a while since I've seen the look of him."

A prickly reminder, if a necessary one; navigators have the unfortunate habit of assuming their fighter 'lessers' have the intelligence and social subtlety of toilet-trained amoebas. Message conveyed: I noticed.

[daphnis]

What do you expect? Encke made himself clear on the day of Keeler's arrival; case in point, Keeler's not sure if the implication is accusatory or grateful. Of course he's given the fighter due space, of course he'd made himself scarce. Isn't that what Encke wants? Hands-off, burden-free, simple. Why does Keeler's absence even warrant mentioning?

"And venture into the black, without my illustrious fighter at my side?" Keeler casts Encke a wistful glance. "Not a chance."

Keeler's courting danger again. Let alone passive aggression, it's difficult to tell whether or not Keeler is sincere at any given moment. His smiles are too easy, his tone too languid. There's always a hair's-breadth of nerves separating courtesy from verbal cuts, a filament upon which their every conversation is based. Though just now, that balance seems a touch less precarious, tentatively sure.

Idly, Keeler's fingertips trace the rivets along panel separations, the edges of dark displays, the cold silver of jutting meters and switches. The touch is long, slow, almost sensual, his gaze momentarily lost in the perfect symmetry of his ship's controls. Distantly, he's aware that standard manners dictate he should thank Encke, that he should be gracious for the fighter's offer to get him in the air. But it's bad form to leave bay without your fighter, bad luck if you're superstitious, and Keeler is just careful enough that he doesn't want to tempt fate. It's a pity Encke refuses to climb in the cockpit with him; if the fighter could just see him fly, Keeler's fairly sure he'd have him won over in minutes.

"You seem like a man who values his privacy," Keeler says, on the edge of apologetic. "I didn't want to insinuate myself."

[youfallinline]

...the fuck. Keeler's on drugs. He's on drugs, or he's... playing those empty odds that find navigators entirely too profligate, somewhere between line-reading and breaking and flirt. It steals a blush off an upright man, and sews more baffled questions than Encke has time to harvest.

Son of a bitch, you're all mind games behind that indignation, aren't you? He feels inexplicably old - too old for this. Five years came and went since he last duked it out with a navi, and the bastards always win.

He's slow to recover, both his balance as he rights himself and his wits after the gut-coiling realisation that he's initiated bloodless battle with a navigator.

"Said I'll have you in the air, not wave you off," he mutters, glance searching something, anything that will justify his attention on the floor. The maintenance bots have, once again, cemented their place in his wanting affections through untimely competence.

Inevitably, he hunts down Keeler's doll eyes, fixates on their judging pallor.

"I value my privacy, Keeler. And I value my ship. You've already had a happy time of 'insinuating' yourself in both."

It's a high lift, but he makes it fairly, climbing on the starfighter's rightmost balance wing and taking a seat. Long legs fling on the side, and he stretches them, briefly admiring the artificial shine of dark boots. There's a cockpit's skull between, and they're an odd pair, always bluntly divided.

"You're leaving somewhere with me tonight, and it's either a cabin or route N-12." An even shrug. "Your choice."

[daphnis]

There was a point, somewhere around day three, where this stopped being personal altogether. Where Keeler -- more for the benefit of his sanity than anything else -- assumed that Encke's behavior in the conference room had little to do with him; that it wouldn't have mattered if he was the best damned navigator in the fleet (which, the numbers and statistics have shown him, he's in the top three), Encke would have given him the same chilly welcome for his ten-day wait.

That's what makes this so strange. Encke isn't fighting him on this. He isn't darting insults. He's helping, offering to fly with Keeler, and--

Perhaps it's good Encke's back is turned; Keeler's smile is practically blinding.

"N-12 it is," Keeler chirps, pulling closed the fighter hatch with one hand as the other makes a grab for his helmet. "Initiating launch protocol, stand by."

It's all automatic, mechanical, practiced ease. A swipe of his card to boot electrical, and he has to stop, eyes alight at the soft glow that flickers into life before him. The control panels are all flat, smooth glass, the display is crisp and clean, and the navi-orb snaps to his fingertips with all the responsiveness of a hungry lover. Keeler bites his lip, offering a low groan of approval.

"Oh, 301; you sexy son of a bitch."

Helmet secured, hair tucked beneath, he switches on the comm system.

"Lieutenant Keeler to Bridge, please prepare bay for launch. Lieutenant Encke and I will take patrol tonight."

Roger...

[youfallinline]

Complaints are minimal.

It's not the smoothest cockpit entry, but he wrestles with the hatches and fasteners fairly, slides into his seat and occupies the premise. The helmet's cold, but a good fit. The leather-covered foam seat assumes his shape, bends and twists beneath him, but at least doesn't bite. And he can't fault the view, Keeler hot and bothered over the controls, much as he often appreciates the scenery so much more when it doesn't imperil the metaphorical virtue of his ship.

"You bite your tongue, Keeler, we don't talk like that to the lady." he mutters, adjusting his visors and introducing the sequence for optimal lighting. It's always dark in the vast cosmic unknown, but the 'weather' can influence visibility, and with a storm coming in, he doesn't want their eyes blighted.

He open s his own com-link.

"A-5 ready for departure, standard route, mark us as coming." There's the occasional benefit to surprising fighters with inspection, but the humiliation of being surprised at blame never wanes, breeds resentment. Always better to give patrol some notice to pull themselves together.

The low thrum of a started engine system and its minor vibrations create a pleasant disturbance from the inevitable anticipation: most flight accidents happen during take-off and landing, and with hundreds of raids under his belt, he still can't dispel those few moments of rampant butterfly raids.

He focuses on the first available distraction - "You smell nice," he offers carelessly, the harmless proximity of Keeler's soft body somehow invading all of his senses. Takes a few rides, getting used to a new partner, knowing your every move's weighed, watched, stored away as fodder for future prediction until a pair's learned itself and its ability. And Keeler does smell nice, an airy, faintly sweet scent he can't identify, but always locates in the morning, hiding behind the navigator's brush in the bathroom, behind his shirts in the supply drawers.

Moving platforms slide away with their fighter cargo, clearing a strip for take-off with a short lag before the ejection doors start to open. Emergency bay exits are always smaller than their formal take-off equivalents, but he's not waiting the quarter of an hour to get all systems running.

"Set course, navigator," he signals, and braces for sudden movement. "How d'you want the take-off?"

[youfallinline]

They're in Coltron space, where peace and decent liquor are short-lived, so he's surprised, but not impressed when his little assault against Keeler's defences results in baby step-coverage and little else. The radio silences between them are no longer hostile, that much is clear, but his navigator's now more skittish than a friendly ghost, as careful to dance around Encke's habits as ever.

Still, there's progress in the hesitant comfort between them. He could even have sworn he saw a white hair in the drain this morning.

He misses their first 'date': brawl in the fucking brig, heavy disciplinary action, immediate dismissal, an eight-hour scandal.

He misses the second day make-up: unannounced urgent tech shipment, sensitive cargo, every piece needs to be signed off and polished, five hours and, for his bent back, a lotta grief.

On the third day, he guards both his and Keeler's schedules jealously, and seizes the first polite occasion once 2000 hits to arrange a strategic retreat to his navigator's office with two trays of the day's gruel and a hefty amount of righteous indignation at its disastrous colouring. That thing, he frowns down at the greenish blob of something in a side bowl, is going in his stomach. God help him. God help them all.

The doors challenge him; the considers them, the plates in hand, the overall balance, then he yields, whistling and tapping his foot to wake the sensors. Finally, his dignity compromised, the system remembers him, and two scans later finds him inside Keeler's premises in either the day's best surprise, or its most organised culinary attack.

"Yo." A cheeky smile, as if he's not days late. Trick to play with the brass: you smile big enough, you can bullshit your way out of anything. "How you doing, beautiful? Won't keep you long. Got my word for it."

[daphnis]

Encke sidles into his office, trays in hand, and Keeler can't help but wonder if -- behind that grin -- the fighter isn't looking a bit sheepish. Days late, yes; but with good reason on all accounts. Keeler's tempted to point out that he's not losing his temper over it, not storming into their cabin every night and demanding to know where Encke had been. But he'd like to assume those days are behind them.

Instead, Keeler returns the smile, glancing up from his displays, before swiping them away with a wave of his hand. Navigator by trade, but tinkerer by passion; he'd spent a majority of his day looking over the specs and various frequencies for their comm system. Equations have exhausted him, consumed him, all throughout his vain attempt to find the sweet spot between delay time and sound quality.

In all honesty, he's appalled the Sleipnir's former lead navigator never endeavored to correct these issues. Then again, this isn't exactly part of the job description.

"Keep me as long as you want," Keeler seems glad for the distraction; weary of blueprints. "I was about to head down to the mess hall anyway."

With Keeler, about to can mean anything from ten minutes to two hours, depending on his degree of absorption.

[youfallinline]

On the To Do list: prim, proper and prissy habits of which Encke needs to break his navigator, and a repertoire of dangerous statements one should not make before one's fighter that Keeler's got to overview. Keep me as long as you want is one of those first steps into sinking sand, but he appreciates that at least the scenery hasn't descended from the pinnacle of home-made porno cliches.

...except for the desk. He can see the desk being used to - he laughs, setting down the trays only to recover a few of the extraneous spec sheets. Doesn't take no telepath to tell what they're for, not with the CLASSIFIED tagline discreetly pinned to the side.

"They've been at this for months, Keeler. There's no answer." But he indulges his own curiosity for a moment, thumbing the ends of the rolled prints to take a peek at the results inscribed on the corners. Can't be done. It's been the Sleipnir's motto for its comm woes for so long, it's probably now making cameos on their boarding guidelines.

Idly, he takes a seat on the corner of the desk, entirely too casual; eluding duller duties makes a man pleased with himself.

A cursory glance over the office reveals it an organised chaos (navi staple), but operational. He smirks. "Settled in all right?"

[daphnis]

"Well enough. And if they've been at this for months without finding an answer, then they're really not trying."

It's not that difficult. One way or the other, Keeler's resolved to have it decently functioning by week's end. Perhaps not perfection, but sometimes one has to settle for the realistic rather than the optimal.

Keeler feels like he's been wrestling that since their flight a few days prior. Because realistically, he shouldn't be blushing when he recalls the easy innuendo and the brief brush of Encke's flesh. Realistically, it makes no sense that he's gone back to his previous schedule -- returning to the cabin after Encke's abed -- simply so he won't have to wrestle the conflicting emotions that arise from watching his fighter undress. Realistically, that's all fucking terrible and he feels terrible for even considering it.

Considering Encke. Beyond the threshold of the celibacy he's maintained since recruitment. A few jokes and a simple touch, and he was practically fawning? It's so utterly ridiculous, Keeler almost loathes himself and Encke for dragging this out within him, kicking and screaming, and--

Fuck, he's staring again.

Keeler draws a slow breath, and drops his gaze to one of the trays, pondering the "food" with a note of disdain.

"Do I owe this visit to business, or pleasure?" Keeler asks, amid another wave of mental rebuke at the phrasing.

[youfallinline]

They're good people, trying their fucking best dies on his lips in the single strategic retreat he's executed unrepentantly in his entire life. Let it go. Let it go, Encke. It's standard for a newcomer to question the competence and direction of his predecessors; Keeler meant no lasting offence by it. Let it go.

"Bit of both," he says instead, arming himself with saintly patience and, in its physical absence, the bowl of soup. It reveals itself as zucchini, parsley and mint, an unusual combination no doubt wasted on palates numbed by crackers and contraband liquor.

"Tell the truth," he begins between confident mouthfuls, "I thought we'd have to have us a conversation about playing hide'n'seek again, but uhhh... even this little brain got a clue of what's going on, by the end of it. All the nightly disappearing acts." He stops pensively, possibly to swallow. "No shame in finding someone. Company's good."

Because it's a safer wager than any sane man will bet against that a pretty little thing like Keeler could only owe his absences to someone having had the sense to do a little bit of courtship. He hasn't heard anything, but many fighters appreciate discretion until the 'catch' is secure, and silence will be guaranteed if Keeler's beau wears his whites. Sleeping with a direct superior wouldn't bode well for a navigator, not if the arrangement went public. So, all in all, the quiet grind of the rumour mill doesn't surprise Encke. There're some stories spreading already about their fictional romance, hardly unhelped by Keeler's... swoon-like landing in the bay, but nothing beyond the usual suspicion about what goes on behind the closed doors of any assigned pair's cabin.

"Don't worry," he resumes, the very picture of understanding, "Not gonna ask who it is, or anything like that. Not my style."

Now, pining a little once Keeler confirms his affair, because Encke having the man both close and unattainable is such a fucking tease - that might be along the lines of his thinking.

[daphnis]

Keeler has a spoonful of soup halfway to his lips before Encke speaks again, and the entire suggestion is so ludicrous, he has to let it rest in the bowl again. At least, if he has any hope of stifling his laughter, one hand over his lips even as his shoulders shake silently.

Perhaps it's better for Encke to believe that. Better that they don't descend into a conversation of why and but maybe and come on baby, it's natural. Because god above, it was hard enough to resist the advances of his former fighter, with whom there had been virtually no attraction. Or worse yet, a discussion regarding why he hasn't been returning to their cabin until late. Because for Keeler, resisting temptation involves eschewing it, escaping it. And perhaps distance will make the entire thing more bearable.

Not that it has yet, and he only concedes that begrudgingly. He's sure Encke won't believe the truth. He hasn't believed a good deal of Keeler's truths to this point, fighting every revelation tooth and nail. As if he has a chokehold on history. Perhaps that will be his saving grace, because Keeler can't bring himself to lie to Encke. Won't. Because pairs should trust each other, and he's trying.

"No," Keeler laughs, and clears his throat behind his hand. "Ah-- No. I've been celibate since recruitment, actually. I guess I just get caught up in work. Probably not the healthiest thing, but don't take it personally. I'm not trying to avoid you."

Well. White lies can be excused.

[youfallinline]

'Celibate since recruitment' - meaning, even a rank-skipping prodigy must have spent at least two good years going dry. Jesus Christ and Virgin Mary, small wonder Keeler's drawn tighter than live wire. Though the confession brings its own implications: Keeler's not used to the affectionate song and dance they tread on the Sleipnir, has never entertained the overtures of casual flirting. He's probably fucking lost whenever someone looks'im over - which has to be often enough. Encke pities him, in a way. If he's to be believed.

He raises an eyebrow, consulting his soup. "...right. Gonna have to start collaring you and bringing you to bed, then."

Keeler's own bed, he does well to remind himself, because that's dangerous ground there. You don't fuck your partner. First rule, bottom line: you care for your health, you don't cross that threshold. It's smooth sailing and a fierce bond when the frolicking's good, but a pair divided spells death danger. A shot for every time he's heard of a fighter railing on his navi, or a navi sabotaging his fighter's career would put him in an alcoholic coma by the first two minutes of the count.

Still, he can't think of many who'd mind the visual: Keeler dragging behind obediently in his leash. A chuckle to himself. "Won't that be a treat."

But he recovers, setting the soup aside and letting it to fend for itself and defend half an inch of territory on Keeler's desk from the army of study screens.

"Look... " Look where, Encke? Fuck rhetoric. He sighs."I take your point. You're doing a... " Phenomenal, to go by superiors' reviews - "Decent job. Considering everything. So, let's try to make sure you stay out of the med bay. It keeps you good and me off ground. Common interest." And then, sweetening a so-and-so deal, "You get me, beautiful?"

[daphnis]

Let's keep you out of med bay, with the assumption that Encke would have any control over that eventuality. And it is an eventuality. Keeler's record is four months; four sweet, glorious months without a single visit to the emergency room or the aforementioned med bay. He's had the luxury of a great many things in life, but long-lived periods of perfect health have never been one of them. It's not a question of if, but when.

"I'm doing my best," Keeler folds his hands together, and rests his chin on the upturned knuckles. "But it's not really something I can control."

Keeler's gaze drifts momentarily to his tray-- harder still to stay in good health with this as their daily offerings.

"And collaring? What an interesting term for it." Keeler smiles easily as his attention returns to Encke. "Almost like I'm your pet, and I know that's not what you meant to imply."

Keeler knows that was not the implication. Not because he actually knows, but because that had better not have been the implication. Despite the wide vastness of space, there seems to be some universal constant that navigator is subservient to fighter -- pliant and supple and willing -- and Keeler has struggled against that institution for the entirety of his career.