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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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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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