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"Now, what I want to know is," he gives by way of greeting, catching hold of Keeler's lapels as soon as his navigator commits the indiscretion of allowing him entry to his private cabin, "whose cock do I gotta suck to get assigned here?"

A brow is raised incredulously, automatic doors close snap closed behind him, and Encke kisses his navi at long and at fucking last, the pleasant buzz of half of an original wine bottle transferring between their tongues, deeper from Keeler's plump lips somehow, richer and depraved.

It's hard work on a good day, shoving a gorgeous man against a plush-laden wall and abusing the inside of his tender mouth without meting misfortune on your trousers; and it's damn well unreasonable, when they're arguing against the stiff limitations of their ceremonial uniforms, and each time Encke's gloved fingers fly into precious, pale hair, they connect with the honourary decorations on Keeler's shoulders; and it's overall vile, when there're now six layers of clothing between them, rather than the far friendlier two. It's all a mess, yes, but Encke's never not risen to the occasion, and this day (night by now, he has to remember, they've whiled over eight hours in a bloody battle room) won't see him start any bad habits.

Keeler's an old one by now, aged over the three weeks since their encounter, both saving grace and poison. Their - 'relationship's still tentative, a rocky road gone occasionally paved by natural chemistry and underlying good intentions. They share a bed and a bird and the best damned sync on their plague of a ship, and physical bonds largely innocent of any overture past kissing, a choice few gropes and careful insinuation. Doesn't matter: Encke wants him. Wants Keeler weak or strong, biting or mewling, willing and committed, and with his own thoughts clear.

Wants him enough that when the summons came to rendez-vous on the luxury carrier Proxima with the fleet's elite for an intel and tactical exchange, Encke's first worry didn't go to the brass, who ever do love wasting his damned time, or to his second-in-command, who'll need a raise after covering solo for 72 hours, or to their inevitable welcome committee among their peers, who hold battle-worn Sleipnir officers in the same regard as blockbuster action heroes and mythical beasts. No, Encke groaned because after all the shuttling and the meetings and the wining and the dining, they all got the rare privilege of private quarters.

...like hell. Like hell, when half the tactical group members drooled the carrier a new humidity reservoir after looking over Keeler. As far as Encke can tell, the day's best intelligence decision involved him crowding his navi in Keeler's quarters and letting the hell of unhinged self-restraint loose after hours and hours of Spartan discipline and unmoving attention.

And food porn. He can't forget the food porn.

"Those were real peaches on the platter. And they've got women, Keeler. I saw a fucking skirt." And wide hips and a wasp's waist and a fine, fine set of - he kisses his navi again, hard, eager and definitive, leaving his silent mark. Fine set of everything, and he's got better in his arms right now. "Welcome to the Proxima, sweetheart."

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Thank everything they're not in the Sleipnir. Thank everything, because he knows the kind of duress standard furniture can take, and he's got a 98.5% certainty he'd have wrecked a bed tonight, pushing, shoving, scratching at the mattress, just like Keeler's insides wreck him, sweet tremors and undulations of pliant flesh everywhere around his body. Leeching him.

There's nothing in those final moments: no subtlety, no finesse, no romantic trigger of synchronized climax. He just knows, warm seed between them, and the rest of him privately relieved by Keeler's foresight to feud with their uniforms, that it's all right to finally follow on his navi's - his lover's cue.

"Damn," he whispers hoarsely , because military discipline's all good and well, but he commits the fucking idiocy of looking Keeler in his gorgeous face, and it's all Encke can do to spare an officer ten minutes and a tirade on public disruption when he muffles his groans in Keeler's shoulder.

Beyond that, it's all standard: you come in the man you've wanted for a month same way you come in a common whores, with the exact shallow gestures and simple mechanics. A strange emptiness scours through him, as if, having declared some kind of - fuck him - affection, this entire interlude should have been more meaningful, should've brought some kind of personal revelation with it. But then he pulls out - slowly, because he's not that fucking asshole - to cut down on at least some parting pains early, and there's white on white beside his withdrawing hand, Keeler's hair all in disarray.

And everything thaws.

Keeler's going to cuss a space storm in the morning, when he wakes up to tangles and the immediate need for a braid (sir, yessir), and Encke'll get to laugh at his fussing behind the rim of his coffee cup. The laughter he's looking forward to infects his lips even now, and he rolls over to the side of the bed, runs a hand over Keeler's arm warmly.

"Don't doze off, sweetheart." Then, those four words, "We need to talk."

Keeler needs more of this post-coital reverie. It's exactly the brand of calm and clarity that he lacks on a more regular basis. No need to think, no need to worry, just the pleasantly static buzz that leaves him completely and utterly in the moment and without concern. Encke pulls out and rolls away, and Keeler finds himself unconsciously following, turning himself to press against the fighter's chest and wind an arm around his waist. Just the way they normally settle down for the night, curled around each other and drowsy from the day's exertions, with the newly-birthed caveat of nudity and carnal knowledge.

But then, We need to talk. And Keeler groans internally, resists the temptation to roll his eyes. Because immediately, his mind engages the high anxiety, abandons lucidity for apprehension. Praise doesn't come in the guise of We need to talk; there are a million things that could come out of Encke's mouth right now, and a vast majority of them will leave him hurting. He can hear them on Encke's lips already. We can't fall in love; which Keeler knows, even if it's already too late. Or, Ground rules: no talking to other boys, which is as ridiculous a command as the notion it accompanies. Or, We can't let this interfere with our work; when it's going to -- in a thousand tiny, incomprehensible ways -- whether they strive for a disconnect or not.

Deep breath, and Keeler shifts again, eases himself back enough that he can meet Encke's eyes, and looking every bit the child about to be chastised. Because what else could this possibly be?

"Mm," Keeler offers as an invitation to proceed, then: "How are you even capable of thinking after that? Starting to think you worry more than I do."

"Comes and goes," he says agreeably, melting submissively before Keeler's largesse, because if his navi'd pulled the dirty trick of widening his deer eyes and batting those long, pale lashes, they'd be one serious talk short, with many make-outs in even trade to follow.

He sighs, gently grasping the back of Keeler's neck as he might've a kitten's nape, gripping and letting go in a lethargic massage. This conversation needs patience, relaxation, all the foreign elements that contradict the navigator M.O perfectly and completely. "Look... Keeler. The big bad boys tonight and all their dinner talk, the base they wanna plant in enemy territory. That's probably the Sleipnir."

Because nothing's bigger, sturdier, better, and as warships go, they're in the Cadillac of space slaughterhouses. And if the Forces That Be decide, this is it, this is what we're sending out, this is the last ground and we're standing it here - it'll be either the honour roll or suicide for everyone on board.

"When they ask who's volunteering, I've been thinking, I'm... I'm all right. Staying on. I'm good. It'd mean a whole lotta pay, couple more stripes. Could use that on the discharge file." He pauses, because all that bullshit takes gumption to spew, and he's running out of steam; running out of half-lies; just running out. "And it'd get you on that transplant list."

That transplant list, the one Keeler should've headed years ago, where excellence and genius and a well-packed punch of personal charm can't buy a beautiful tin boy his heart. But rank might. Need - the need to keep Keeler alive and well and operational for a fucking desperate measure sure as hell would.

Encke's done the math, and it's worth it - well worth staying on board for a ship that might be sinking half-way through sail for that.

He notices belatedly that his hand's stilled over Keeler's neck; he resumes the motion, because gods spare the man who forgets to pet his cat or his navi, then aims for nonchalance. "So, omy end, I'm - yeah. But, you've... you've got your doctor momma and your family and... we've got two more days on this ship. Don't want to hear nothing from you til they're done, but think it over. Then let me know, and I'll let... some other folks know. Yeah?"

Now it's time for Keeler's eyes to go owlish. Part shock, part wonder, and wholly disbelief, as he tries and fails to grasp the opportunity that's been presented. Because leaving the Sleipnir was never an option that entered into the equation for him. The Sleipnir is where he's stationed, and it's where he'll stay; never mind the very real possibility that leaving this assignment meant abandoning Encke, and that -- above all else -- is something he's utterly unwilling to do.

But it carries a different weight for Encke. It's not as simple as duty, or the frankly suicidal belief that location doesn't matter when death is imminent. He's putting himself on the cross for Keeler's sake, in a play for rank and the privilege that went along with it. Perhaps lieutenant doesn't warrant a new heart, but commander? Captain? Admiral? Perhaps that does. For all his staggering intelligence, Keeler hasn't considered the possibility that his rank could mean the difference between impossible and probable.

And that Encke is willing to march into almost-certain death, that he claims it's for Keeler's benefit-- It's hard enough wrapping his head around the scenario without considering the implications of that.

Hope is painful, and Keeler hasn't allowed himself to feel it in so long. Because there's only ever been disappointment, gentle let-downs that always felt like the end of the world; because even with a neurosurgeon for a mother and more battle accolades under his belt than most of their veteran military, Keeler still hasn't earned himself that distinguished place and that sacred promise. That the medical community will try for him, because he's worth it, rather than simply allowing him to waste away into nothingness and obscurity and a nerve-wracking painful death. A life of fear, of near-constant anxiety--

Could there really be a future without that worry?

"I never figured that leaving the Sleipnir was an option," Keeler muses despite Encke's warning, and a smile tugs at one corner of his lips as he casts eyes downward. "There's nothing to think over, Soldier. My place is at your side, and we have a duty to the warmachine."

Oh, for the love of -

"Give it two days, Keeler," Encke manages with a groan, eyes threatening to roll out of their sockets when his navi follows what appears to be a natural instinct for sheer and utter contradiction.

A choice few insults go lost, muttered in the air as Encke stretches to reach the bed table and fish blindly for a few rounds, before emerging triumphant with a fistful of complimentary chocolate thins. Here, the Proxima flaunts its resources - where economically-sensitive hospitality would have the bedside sweets individually packaged to weather delay until service, the damned ship's got enough treats and hands to delegate that fully exposed chocolates can go replaced every six hours. The ever weary guest needn't even bother with opening the seals. Fucking hell.

Encke smiles wanly at it - the sheer obscenity of it all - and waves the candy before Keeler nonchalantly. "Second thing is, I'm putting a few pounds on you." Eight or ten would make a modest ideal, but knowing Keeler, he'll settle for a few. "Not negotiable. You get some meat on, or I'm submitting you to the med ward myself."

And he would, by everything, he'd drag Keeler by the collar and drop him off with the head doctor on call without worry or waver. His good ol' navi might pull rank to arrange a discreet discharge under normal circumstances, but they've got equal weight to throw, and Encke's qualms about snitching to the brass on this are few and far between. He'd sooner not - there are lines, and then lines, and he can't cross that Rubicon without sacrificing Keeler's cooperation on simple, petty things for many months to come; but Encke'd do it and call the deed well done, if that's the only way to see his navi finally registering on a fucking scale.

Because Keeler's so thin. He's so thin and so frail and so uniquely placed to invite breaking that Encke'd do it with his own two hands, if he can't harden him.

"Barely touched dinner," he scolds with a light frown, dropping a chocolate square to knock at Keeler's lower lip expectantly. "You like me shoving things down your throat that much?"

A few pounds on his fragile frame means eating, means actually paying attention to something other than his work for more than two minutes, and that always invites dark thoughts he'd rather not attend. Sitting alone at a table allows for too much time to mull things over, and when it comes right down to it, perhaps Encke's right. Perhaps he's broken, because he sure as hell doesn't want to be alone with his thoughts for longer than it takes to stave off abject starvation. It's easy enough to blame it on the dismal Sleipnir gruel under normal circumstances, but if Keeler can't even stomach more than a few bites of exquisite Proxima fare, then maybe he really does have a problem.

So he'll try. For Encke's peace of mind, if nothing else, he'll try. Teeth scrape at Encke's fingertips as Keeler accepts the offered chocolate, and he sighs as he allows it a moment to rest on his tongue. There's an edge of warning to Encke's tone, and Keeler hasn't quite decided whether or not that's to do with some deeper question of control. And again, Keeler is struck with the notion that if Encke's trying to exercise some battle of domination over Keeler, he's selected the wrong opponent. On an interpersonal level, there isn't much Keeler could care about less.

Of course, it could be genuine concern for his safety and health, and that possibility is more baffling still.

In any case, med ward admission isn't a threat Keeler weighs lightly. With a dour frown, he snatches another chocolate from Encke after the first, and offers an edgy glare as he nibbles the corner of it.

"'course I do, Daddy," and at that, Keeler's tongue peeks out to catch a bit of stray cocoa from his lips. "Much as you love shoving them, I'd wager."

Edited 2014-05-10 18:46 (UTC)

'Daddy.'

I don't fuck children, he doesn't need to say, all hard frowns and two flexible fingers, invading Keeler's mouth to slip in the crumbles of chocolate shell, and press down that slithering snake's tongue before it can hiss away more venom. He's a vicious little bitch when he wants to be, this slip of nothing of a navi is, cross Encke's heart. All of them are. Give them an opening, just one, and the maze of a mind the average navigator's pretending to work for the fleet's common good will focus urgently on taking down all your defences. Using them against you. Using you against yourself.

Their glances lock for a second - timed, lived along with the solid beat of Encke's choked breathing - and then he withdraws both digits, happily returned to feeding Keeler his midnight snack with the oblivious disregard favoured by gods and cowards.

"You've got no idea," he says lightly, as if he's not reviewing just the shade of red Keeler's sweet, pale ass would ripen into, if he were thrown over Encke's knee and given its belated beating. It'd teach Keeler not to take this, his fighter's concern, his own fucking health, one and ten percent seriously. It'd teach him good.

But a bloody argument isn't how their first night together should end, no spiting due, no spite and no anger.

A sigh, subdued.

"I'll cook for you, now and then, if you've got a thing against the menu," he offers tentatively, because there'll be no breaking him from the gossip mill's maw, if word back on the Sleipnir gets around that the ship's lead fighter's so damned whipped, he's putting on an apron and cutting contraband deals to get his ass in the kitchen for his navigator.

His eyebrows draw up, apprehensive. "What do you like?"

If you have something against the menu, like every enlisted man and woman isn't completely disgusted by the drivel they pass off for standard fare on the ships. Like any sane person wouldn't object to their selection; gruel which -- even on its best days -- is tacitly nauseating. Even still, he can't allow Encke to cook for him. Not when he's already going to some rather staggering extremes to look after Keeler's health, and for reasons that Keeler still cannot quite work out.

Let alone the depressing fact that Keeler isn't even sure what dishes he prefers anymore. He's lived on nutrition bars and protein blends and plain rice for so long, even the Sleipnir's regular hot menu comes as something of a treat. Whatever is fastest and easiest to consume in his office between drills, or midway through whatever tech spec blueprints he's pouring himself into on that particular evening.

"You don't have to do that," Keeler demurs, and it comes with the sudden realization that Encke really is far better than he deserves. "I'll... start joining you in the mess hall, I think. Get myself on a schedule. That'll help, right?"

There's silence for a moment, thoughtful, and Keeler savors off half his chocolate in its midst.

"...I used to like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches," he murmurs, at some length. "With sliced bananas and honey. And that rainbow cereal they sold back on the colonies. They stopped making it when we were ten. Do you remember it?"

...sweet tooth, huh? To hell with words and winks and hard, heated glances; next time Encke wants his navi out of the Tactical Ops room, he's luring him with candy. Tie some on a string. Drag it across the strategy table. Watch Keeler climb it on all-fours and catch it between his lips, and make sweet, sweet love to it with his tongue before giving it a good swallow.

-- damn. Encke'll have to investigate that battle plan one day. Not today, though. Today, this is good. Warm. Intimate. Keeler's a soft weight in his arms, wonderfully susceptible to the taunts and teases of Encke's tickling fingers, when they slip down to hook over the dismissed covers and drag them over them both. The temperature and filter and ventilation are set up to what Encke's come to identify as the Proxima standard in languish, but you can never trust a draft, not with Keeler's low immunity at stake.

They'll work on that. A schedule, snacks, the additional mouthful: anything will help the cause of upgrading Keeler from glorified skeleton to at least starving runway supermodel proportions. Even peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. And the... rainbow cereal Encke's supposed to have befriended.

"Sure," he agrees casually, lazy half-smile coming out to play; no point in serving Keeler the realpolitik reminder that outlier colonies get the crumbs of luxury goods and exotic imports, where the spoiled scion of a neurosurgeon's house was probably privy to the cream of an overpriced crop. The only damned rainbow-toned tidbit Encke's ever put in his mouth was a set of psychedelic condoms, and he's never wandering in that run-down satellite ring brothel again.

Gave bloody good head, though.

Almost as good as -

His voice melts, all smooth butter and feigned disinterest. "And how'd a nice surgeon's boy get so good at holding all them other things in his pretty little mouth?"

Because natural talent and intuitive ease still don't amount to the kind of lethal skill Keeler's tongue and teeth work in the bedroom - not without a story to tell.

Isn't that the question of the year? How does a nice, sweet, celibate boy like Keeler learn to suck cock like a privileged whore? It's not enough to simply assume the obvious, Encke has to ask about it too, and that's not the sort of question to which one wants to know the answer. Because Encke's right; you don't get that good without a great deal of practice, and if Keeler has really been celibate since recruitment at age eighteen, that leaves some rather interesting implications regarding his teenage years.

The only answer he can provide is a soft blush and a bashful shrug, downturned eyes and the urge to hide his face against the crook of Encke's neck. No sense in playing coy when Encke had enjoyed the fruits of it firsthand, but there's still an element of shame in it, no matter how enjoyable the result.

"I went to prep school. All boys." Keeler says, at some length, and almost too quietly to be heard. "You pick up a few things."

Or more than a few. There's ample opportunity for self-improvement when you're the prep school bicycle. Though there's something to be said for the mental image of a young Keeler in khakis and blazers, on his knees in a locker room, bent over a dormitory desk-- The best of the best in secondary education, and Keeler spent a vast majority of it between the sheets. His picture's coming clearer now; why a privileged doctor's son thought himself more suited to military life than med school.

Drift colony private school slut is probably the cliched past Encke expects of a navigator anyway.

"Worked out for you, though. Didn't it?" Keeler asks with a wry grin, fully expecting an eyeroll either way

The frown's inevitable, sculpture-hard, deep. Prep school. All boys. You pick up a few things.

Like how to welcome it up the ass real nice, sobs swallowed after you take a bruising. How to bleed without letting your agony become someone else's problem. How to answer gropes and tooth loss with 'please' and 'thank you's. How to lose yourself.

Still, the last hour saw no mental blocks Encke could discern, no kicks and screams, no resigned whimpers; and a quick mental review of one of the better hours in Encke's sweet, sweet life reveals nothing in Keeler's demeanour to suggest scarring hardship. Maybe posh places get the subtle abusers. And maybe somehow, this lovely, sheer gift of a human being coasted through. Just maybe. Encke can work with ugly odds.

And he can work up Keeler while he's at it, aiming a tragically afflicted glance his navigator's way and sighing with aplomb. "...was all right. You know." His shrug unsettles the thick covers, raises them half an inch. "Nothing special. Maybe if you'd have worn that skirt."

That skirt, nice and red, the perfect pop of ruthless colour against Keeler's unforgiving pallor. Encke's thinking of just the one.

He nods to urge Keeler on: lullaby time, big boys need the full story. "And then you joined the fleet, and no one tried to get you - interested?"

Look at Keeler. This sweet, fucking gorgeous morsel, just calling for a mean old bloke to sweep in for a bite. Look at him. Unless Keeler's whole string of exes stands a regiment of blind fighters, unless every navi who's shared a battle school class or dorm room with him swore a vow of chastity, unless every God damned superior officer considered the path of virtue - unless all the world's exceptions somehow applied at once, someone must've tried to tumble Keeler in his bed.

Of course they'd tried. There's little point in denying that. They'd tried, desperately and single-mindedly, and Keeler had successfully rebuffed every advance. Or patently ignored them. Two in recent memory, and a handful before that; at least, those were the most overt, the only ones to enter into his awareness (though he has no eye for clandestine admiration). It's not precisely high standards or unrealistic expectations, so much as complete disinterest in the entire cat-and-mouse process. Because there were always more important things with which to concern himself here, whereas high school had been a constant effort to stave off boredom. By all rights, Encke should have fallen into that same category of utter indifference.

What makes Encke different? What makes him the exception to the general rule? Even after weeks of castigating himself over it, Keeler hasn't reached a satisfactory conclusion.

But there's comfort in Encke's arms, rare happiness in the wake of their sardonic exchanges. Keeler's fingertips trace the wave of Encke's collar bone and then down, to idly trail between the hard cut of muscles that are far more distracting than they've any right to be, and for the first time in years, Keeler feels content. Comfortable, warm, at ease and unconcerned. No small feat, considering his tendency toward anxiety. Perhaps that contentment -- that happiness -- is the only reason he needs.

"That kind of thing didn't really matter to me, after I joined." Keeler murmurs, and then -- without warning -- delivers Encke a sharp bite to his shoulder. "But if it's just all right, I can go back to celibacy. If you'd prefer."

He's got a mouth on him, Keeler does, and that much is obvious. And he'll fucking utilise it, all tongue and teeth, and Encke hisses through the sharp residue of acid, tangy pain. The muscle's fine, hard meat leathered by exercise, resilient before military siege and incipient colony heat, pre-conditioned; it's the sheer audacity of it all that stings, the rare reminder that beneath his etiquette and polished phrases, the downcast eyes and subtle plans, Keeler's full fire, all-consuming. Rich.

That won't do, now.

That won't do at all.

No, no. Encke hisses - who the hell wouldn't - then he plots revenge. He's lessoned under the best of them on this, withstood the conjugal comedy of his mother's wayward pet cat, which, in its silver age, was joined by a pup. The dog bore through hostilities, took it all in play, loved his best friend for fucking ever, the grumpiest feline that ever did live. Hell, the stupid mutt would even wag his tail for more, after all the clawing. And then the inevitable happened: the dog upgraded from palm-size to rhinoceros proportions, and where Encke had cast his silent calls that he'd slaughter next time so much as one claw peered his way, dear Fido had a better solution to end the conflict.

He still loved the cat, you see. So, whenever it'd try to bit, or snap, or raised so much as a paw, the dog wouldn't oppress, wouldn't chase, wouldn't even bark.

...he'd sit on her. Lay most, but not all of his weight, and pin her down, til the bloody cat's temper waned and gave way to the inevitable surrender. You don't mess with something twice your size, after all.

Maybe Keeler needs that reminder of casual jungle rules; obligingly, Encke wraps his arms around the navi's twig of a waist,, then slowly rolls both of them over, until he's got Keeler beneath him again, defenceless and immobile.

"Now, what?" he teases lightly, eyebrow arched in slightly condescending rise.

Now what? Now, Keeler's trapped beneath Encke, perhaps figuratively as much as physically, staring up at him with a complacent grin and lazy eyes. Now, Keeler really can't care less that there's a sharp irritation so plain in Encke's eyes, or that the weight against his own stomach is bordering more on painful than comforting. Despite his size, he can take it; despite what Encke seems to think, he's resilient, in form if not constitution.

But Encke fails to see the inherent flaw in his own plan. The way -- stretched out over Keeler as he is -- that he's opened himself up at the neck for a bruised retribution. Because Keeler's more viper than cat, and the sooner Encke learns that, the better off he'll be. Unlike that cat, Keeler doesn't shy. Rather, his arms and legs all wind long and warm around Encke's weight, and he buries his face in the crook of the fighter's neck. Vengeful teeth find the tender flesh there, bearing down to precursor a quiet growl and a firm drag. No aim to bruise, but no aim to abstain from such either.

Vindictive little bitch of a navigator, despite all efforts to the contrary. And Encke deserves every taunt and tease that's delivered him.

"No idea what you've gotten yourself into, do you?" Keeler asks through the clench of teeth around Encke's skin, through the breathlessness of the weight upon his chest. "Not a damn clue."

That's right, Keeler, give it up and cuddle, there's a b -

"- bitch," he snarls, teeth pulled, lips thinned. The burn of the bite spreads like lightning, scrawny and crisp, fractured at its extremities. He laughs with the exhale of a breath too long held. "Son of a bitch."

Keep it up, and the first thing out of Encke's mouth when he meets Keeler's momma's gonna have to be one hell of a well-tailored apology. She might like the hear her pretty boy talk first, see her son play the fleet tough guy - and fail, miserably, whenever Keeler's sterling spoiled scion pronunciation twists cussing into caricature.

It's kind of funny how navis think they've got it in them to rouse hostilities, or - cute, Keeler; real cute - head straight for the jugular.

...or withstand strands of strain. He can feel it, the residue-turning-prominence of tension that sheaths Keeler's body, the barely perceptible rise and fall of his chest, as breath organically tempers in response to Encke's weight. Muttering, he concedes first, turns them over again until the pale leech draining him down's nice and cosily perched atop Encke, rather than squashed beneath him. He's not letting Keeler off this quick - not, the sharp pulse of pain on his neck warns, after this stunt - but the only discomfort he wants to greet kindly in his bed involves delayed gratification and saccharine navi mewls.

Heavy fingers catch Keeler at the neck, firm and unrelenting in silent reminder, before sweetening into a caress of the white-cased scalp. "Yeah?" A chuckle. "Why don't you brief me, then, navigator. What am I dealing with?"

"Me."

That, as far as Keeler is concerned, should be explanation enough. You're dealing with him. You're dealing with the prodigal son of the navigators, the cream of the bloodstained, war-mongering crop. You're dealing with the alpha of the omegas. You're dealing with a man who can take apart a fragile mind just as easily as he disassembles a maintenance bot, and that in and of itself should be terrifying. But Encke doesn't seem to have a healthy respect for anything, far less the inherent strength of the man in his arms. A healthy respect would require him to recognize the inherent danger with which he's fallen to bed, and he's unwilling to give Keeler even the most doubtful of benefits.

But it's fine. As far as Keeler's concerned, he can go on believing his navigator's helpless. It'll make his moment of realization that much more keen.

"Did I bruise you?" Keeler mocks a pout, faux empathy, and leans down over Encke's shoulder to kiss away the lingering wetness from his own mouth. "I'm sorry, baby. Maybe you should be more careful where you bare your throat."

Keeler's hands stray once more, smoothing across Encke's chest, tracing his muscles in a manner almost pious. It doesn't occur to him that statement could be taken metaphorically. He's not about to break Encke's mind, though perhaps he's doing a fine enough job of that without even trying.

Five seconds in, he lies dumbstruck, because this is the drama price tag of committed relationships that all one-night stands and friend-with-benefits deals thrive off of. This happens to other people. To the love-struck fools, the perennial romantics, that moron in tech prep who's still holding a candle for the day when his married crush in science div will finally see the error of his ways and tumble both of them in bed for a quickie.

It's hot and cold, fresh and old.

This whole face-heel turning's getting old, Keeler lashing out as if he hates himself when he's around something good. As if he hates Encke for trying to give it.

"...yeah," he says emptily, stupidly, more to fill the silence than contribute to whatever storm's brewing inside Keeler's pretty little head. 'Bare his throat'. Give him a break. Give this whole damned thing a break.

There's stiffness when he starts bringing himself up to sit, more in his neck; he dispels it with a quick rub, then passes the back of his hand over his cheek, knuckles strong against his eye.

"Should... should head out." To his cabin, where they had bloody well better had been just as generous with the mini-bar stocking. "Need a shower."

And a cigarette.

And a few seconds to breathe.

"Now? But--"

But they've just finished. But Encke's slept in the same bed with Keeler for the past few weeks. But Encke's warm and comfortable and -- by this point -- familiar enough to lull Keeler to sleep when nothing else can. But Encke had promised a night of utter debauchery that he's tapping out of in the first round. But Keeler wants him to stay, and why the fuck would he leave?

Keeler stares. Words of protest die in his throat, and Encke can veritably see the walls reconstructing themselves behind his eyes. It was a joke. It was a fucking joke, and Encke is shoving his way out of bed. If Keeler threw this sort of tantrum every time Encke poked fun at him, they'd be back to separate bunks and a forcibly polar schedule. Perhaps they would be anyway, after tonight. Every inch of separation is a brick, every word out of Encke's mouth is mortar, and stockades are far too easy for Keeler to construct.

Conquest. Even Keeler's own mind is accusatory. That's it. That's the only explanation that makes any goddamned sense. Three weeks of a feigned relationship seems an awful lot of trouble to go through, particularly for something that -- with his rank and his body -- Encke could have gotten anywhere. But perhaps that wasn't what Encke was after. Perhaps this was all some power play on the fighter's part; a game of domination and mastery. Perhaps ripping Keeler's heart out was merely the insult to the injury.

And just like that, it was all a mistake from the start.

Keeler swallows hard and offers a smile, leans up to press another kiss to Encke's shoulder. Fine. If that's what he wants, if he needs to believe he's won -- he conquered -- then so be it. Keeler isn't going to feed into this ego struggle any more than he already has. There are a million little tasks setting themselves into place now; how to separate himself again, how to physically and emotionally distance himself without damaging their professional relationship, how to ensure it doesn't happen in the future. It starts now, with Keeler pulling the blankets over his shoulder, and rolling onto his side with his back to Encke.

"Alright," the acceptance is easy and even. "Sleep well."

His first mistake was not realising there's an 'after' this. After, Keeler curls up, diminutive in an ocean-wide bed that only looks bigger for the one person still half-heartedly intent to occupy it.

His second mistake was ignoring a classical flight before fight scenario, delaying until he could not only estimate, but witness hard damage, the way Keeler licks his wounds with the silent pride reserved for captains who decide to go down with their ship.

And his third mistake was assuming at any time, at any point, that Keeler is anything but a brilliant emotional amputee, who borrows control by osmosis and exercises strategy as a desperate measure against getting hurt.

That's three errors, counted - counted again, as Encke wastes away minutes, on the brink of leaving his seat at the edge of the bed, but never quite prevailing - and they're three more than he can afford. His hand reaches out to offer lies and comfort, to dig out the traces of Keeler's fine hair between onion layers of organic cotton; it falls, disoriented in empty retreat, eluding contact.

He needs his downtime, there are too many implications between them for Keeler to give them, and now, breathing uneven, he's stuck claustrophobically between two equally bad calls. The burn in his chest stings, spreads, and he exhales through it, keeps it in check. He needs a cigarette. He needs whatever interval of time and thoughtlessness tobacco and tolerable vice can provide. He needs -

"Keeler," he says softly, slow to rise and face the lines of the man who's now 'officially' his lover and his owner and his victim. The sheets slip beneath his bent knee with comic perseverance when he leans down and - finally, awkwardly - collects Keeler and his train of blankets like a bride bereft, one hand secure beneath the soft inside of his navi's legs, while the other struggles to support a thin back without bruising it. Maybe there's some use to Keeler's flimsy frame, because Encke can damn well carry him like this the entire span of this monster-cruiser, let alone the short distance to the suite bathroom.

"Sorry." And there's the conceit of debate on whether he's apologising for disturbing Keeler's beauty sleep, or his whole fucking life for the past three weeks. "That should have been a proper invitation."

Encke's arms beg a thaw, and Keeler -- despite the ice walls he was constructing -- melts to it. He doesn't like being hauled around. He'd go so far as to insist he hates it. But Encke has ignored that handy fact up to this point, seems insistent that navigators -- his navigator chief among them -- are glass damsels hellbent on destroying everything they touch. That he still assumes Keeler needs handling with kid gloves is testament enough to the fact that he's learned nothing about his navigator in their short time together. And in lieu of beating them, Keeler has determined to instead join them.

There are worse things in the world, after all. It's hardly a chore to be in Encke's arms, even when he's suddenly and inexplicably down to his last nerve. He shouldn't be. After all, it was merely assumption and conjecture that Encke would be staying after their tryst; an assumption supported not merely by evidence, but by Encke's own words, granted. But assumption nevertheless. Is Keeler so entitled now, that he would hold that against Encke?

No. Some things are merely second-nature. Staying the night after your partner deigned to break his six-year celibacy for you is one of them.

Still, with a soft sigh, Keeler's arms wind around Encke's shoulders as he's carried to the bathroom. Even if this is just a desperate maneuver to cover his ass, Keeler can excuse it. Because excusing transgressions, at this juncture, is easier far easier than establishing that distance again.

Abstinent from objections, Keeler's like a child, or a stone, or the colossal spare engine in hangar 4D that Science Div's politely relinquished to obscurity and the custodian team stubbornly refuses to acknowledge as part of their collection dues. Sociable physical weight betrays the navigator's presence; everything else - sound, sight, scent - is absent. Perfunctory. Still.

Plain fatigue's the conventional fault in these arrangements: a good fuck takes its toll. But then, Keeler's manned a ship's tactical department for forty hours of duty without sizeable strain, and however highly Encke might want to rate the night's performance, a tumble between luxury sheets can't mete anything close to service exhaustion.

He opens his mouth to say (anything) something, but reaches the bathroom threshold, and then manoeuvring the door without upsetting Keeler's balance gives him enough of an excuse for delay. For a moment, he almost forgives himself that, single-mindedly focused on carving their path without letting the unexpected dimness blind him. The bathroom's all a cream beast, well-worked tile, if not marble, and a fragile shower of warm light that went introduced more, Encke can wager, for atmosphere than practicality. It's all so wretchedly romantic, from the discreet petal bowls and candles littered with largesse, to the inviting curves of the large bath tub on display. An altar for pathetic, desperate men to bring their borrowed whores and bill off "love", but he'll take it tonight, as he sets Keeler on the tub rim and toys with the water dials that'll draw their bath. Encke'll take it and be damn well happy.

"Always thought to hit up law school when I'm out of here," he murmurs absent-mindedly, letting fingers dip and twirl in the pooling water, as he takes inventory of the bath salts on the nearby shelf display. When he's out of the war, not if. Not in Encke's wonderland.

"Martial prosecution pays enough for the hassle." And will conveniently red carpet its entry for a retired senior officer with medals and stripes.

His hand stops briefly over the lavender infusion, tipping enough of the substance in to summon a fury of bubbles and the inevitably chemical waft. Good. Acceptable.He nods, briefly satisfied, and gives the edge of the tub the obligatory wistful pat to signal his approval. "And the first cheque's reserved for one of these beauties."

Then the pleasantries are over, a moment's peace bought at the price of practical concerns, both now depleted. Dark, dead eyes hunt down Keeler's watery glance.

His voice is butter before the knife, heated and smooth. "Should practise, if we want to break it in together."

When the war's over, that's a damn good goal to have. And Keeler can see it all too readily; Encke, tall and dark and intimidating in a three-piece suit and red silk tie and shiny black shoes. Polished to perfection, because Keeler would mindfully press his slacks, starch his shirts, shine his shoes, and send him off to court with a kiss. Blissful domesticity, and it's heartbreaking to even imagine. Until a few minutes ago, Keeler has never considered it as a possibility. He was never meant to get out of this alive; it was either going down in a blaze of glory, or flickering like a dying flame in some starched and sterilized med bay cot.

Now he's meant to plan a future after. Now there's actually some minute chance of survival, some hope that he'll survive every impossible battle, that he'll get his new heart, that he can live. That he can live with Encke.

And that hope is such a fragile, painful, hateful thing.

"You'd make a good lawyer," Keeler agrees with a smile. "Didn't figure you as a 'nice, hot bath' type, though. Just full of surprises."

Keeler slips down into the water with a sigh, and one dip beneath the surface has his silvery hair a soaked mass sliding down his back.

"Come on. Get in here, and I'll give you that back rub."

...that backrub. That ten-minute piece of religious enlightenment, proof that God's alive and well, exercising benevolence from the tip of Keeler's clever fingers. Every muscle down Encke's spine has been crying for a wet encore ever since he last cornered his navi in their fish bowl of a shower stall.

That's enough to get a man melting, and he concedes the point to his knees, when he lazily comes down on them, the cold hit of the tiles an aggressive reminder that this is bloody marble that will be denting his skin, and his sorry ass had better not forget it. He won't. He won't forget a thing about this moment, Keeler sprawling like a galactic mermaid, some cross between the remnants of a childhood fairytale and perverted possibility. Content. Keeler, content.

"Nah. I want to look at you a little," Encke manages late, and leans to rest an arm over the tub's rim, and his heavy head upon it. Good angle, lazy vantage - and when he reaches just so, he can still kiss the curve of a shoulder, the fine line of Keeler's neck, the tip of a perked ear.

Fingers wade through water idly, sending foam Keeler's way until, finally, Encke salvages a floating sponge, lifts it within view to signal the beginning of a far overdue scrubbing.

"Just lie back and tell me how to spoil you a little." Because God knows he can't get to often enough, not with half the ship vying for Keeler's attention, and some exit port or reactor winning exclusivity.

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