After The Storm

Rich follows Ben back to the Reliant along with about half the guys who went out, all damp and smelling of soap except for Rich, who's got a fresh helping of fish smell thanks to Ben's haul. He's startled that Basil doesn't choose to stay behind with Nate and the other guys who are more into women than dinner, and also pleased about it, which he's not thinking about. Maybe Basil's hungry too. He's so lean, he could stand to eat more.

After dumping the fish where he's told to on the edge of the sundeck, Rich goes below to scrub off fish slime and stray scales and put on a clean black t-shirt and his least-ragged black work jeans. He hesitates over putting his work boots back on: they're soaked through and honestly disgusting, but the thought of going into a crowd without steel over his toes and heavy leather around his ankles is frankly dismaying. He's broken toes before, it's not fun.

But he's not going to get jumped at a fish-fry where he's the guy who brought the fish. This is the Reliant. It'll be okay. And if it's not, at least he'll be on the top deck, where he can pick up anyone who's coming at him and throw them overboard. His feet will be fine.

By the time he gets back up on the top deck, barefoot and feeling very brave, the mechanics are halfway through constructing an absolutely massive grill out of spare parts and sheet metal. Phil has his dreadlocks pulled back with a couple colorful loops of electrical wire, and is in the midst of butchering and preparing the fish, because Phil apparently has hidden depths and an unnerving facility with big knives. Ben is supervising, mostly by way of deadpan heckling, and only snorts disdainfully when Phil threatens him with a handful of fish guts.

Rich hadn't realized he was getting tense, hovering around the edges of Phil's work zone to keep an eye on the blades and if any of them might get pointed at Ben, but he relaxes when he realizes that Phil didn't even joke about threatening Ben with a knife instead of the guts. Phil's on Ben's side, anyway, everyone here's on Ben's side, Ben is not getting stabbed with anything. Rich can relax, and maybe even retreat to a more casual distance from the butchering to try and chill out.

"There he is, the employee of the goddamn month," Ben says when he sees Rich watching, and gives him a small, sardonic smile, which is more smile than Rich has ever gotten from him before and honestly feels like a victory. He looks more relaxed than Rich has ever seen him, actually; he's wearing a wrap and everything, even if it's a plain, black, full-length affair, and his arms are bare, exposing the incredibly cool tally-mark scars of a former Spook. Ben's got thirteen pale, raised lines cut into the underside of his left forearm, and when Rich was an intern they used to dare each other to ask him about them, but no one was ever brave enough.

Today, Ben smiles at him and drawls, "You're lucky I'm your boss, and therefore above passing on any of the 'big fish' jokes these nasty motherfuckers have been telling about you."

"Hey, you're the one who hauled this 'big fish' away from all those hungry birds in the first place," Rich says, daring to tease, and spreads his arms out uncertainly, showing himself off. "If you wanna get nasty about it I think you, uh, you got the right to be first in line." Ben's a handsome guy, sure, and professional—he's stern and snappish, but not cruel. Rich thinks if he wanted to exercise his rank the way Hendricks never had a taste for, he'd be quick and neat about it. It wouldn't be too bad.

"Let me stop you there, kid," Ben says, holding up a hand firmly. "I like to eat as much as any guy, but I'm not catching any fish recreationally any more than I'm getting caught by any birds. I'm right out of that shit. Not interested."

"I—oh!" says Rich. He stands there like an idiot, face burning at his own presumption, then manages, "Sorry?"

"Nothing to be sorry about, dumbass," Ben says, waving it off. "If I wasn't in a good mood right now I'd give you a hard time about it, but right now there's a real, actual, non-metaphorical fish to fry. Fuck off and enjoy the party."

That Rich can do. He gives a flustered, awkward nod, which Ben returns with significantly more poise, then heads hastily away to watch the mechanics finish setting up the grill instead. They can elbow each other and shoot him significant looks and make jokes about how much meat he's brought them to enjoy, but he doesn't owe anyone anything so far, so none of them have the leverage to lay a hand on him if he doesn't want it there. It feels good to stand there and smile at them and know that. It feels really good.

A sudden public poke from a comm application he hasn't had activate in years startles him, and he fumbles it open along with everyone else on deck. It's Two Cents, the consensus voting app, and Phil's set up a mass poll to see what flavor he should be cooking the fish.

There's a buzz of chatter as everyone discusses it, except for Rich, who stands there quietly reading the three options over and over. Lemon and cilantro, lime and red pepper, or honey barbeque: they all sound so good it makes him drool, he doesn't have any possible way to narrow down a preference. The Two Cents app is called that because you get three votes—three percentages—and you're supposed to put your two cents in on the option you want most and then your remaining third on the option you'd settle for, but Rich can't choose. In the end, when the poll starts counting down the last minute, Rich distributes his three votes evenly among the three options, feeling like a complete moron. His first vote in like five years, and he's got no preference whatsoever.

Lemon cilantro wins by a narrow margin over barbeque, and there's a ragged chorus of sincere cheers and insincere boos from the crowd, before everyone goes back to chatting. Rich just stands there, feeling deeply relieved.

The party settles in comfortably after that, with everyone lounging around waiting as Phil fusses over exactly how to dress the fish, sending people on various errands. Someone shows up on a hoverbike with a big bag of lemons and a whole bunch of cilantro and is warmly cheered—a couple guys boo, laughingly, and are elbowed by their friends. Another guy comes back with a couple huge sacks of red potatoes and another bag of onions, and helps himself to some of Phil's knives to start slicing them up, and a third guy shows up with an absurdly huge frying pan and a little portable stovetop, and starts doing obscure cooking-type things with the potatoes and oil and spices.

The three of them seem practiced at this, confident and happy: they must cook for parties a lot. The Reliant is somewhere that has parties. Rich had forgotten that, somehow, put away the memory of hanging out in big cheerful groups of people and eating until he was full and never thinking to be scared.

More crew emerges to stand around chatting and relaxing. A mechanic Rich doesn't recognize brings out a helios ball and starts tossing the glowing, free-floating orb around with their friends, and on the other side of the sundeck a couple guys are trading around a guitar. Rich watches from the edge of the growing crowd, wondering over how everyone's so at ease, just laughing and joking with each other, confidently happy. No one's circling around anyone else, posing or threatening, trying to win some temporary advantage. The most hostile group at the party is the gulls, who are obviously as interested in the fish as everybody else is, and way pushier. They're only temporarily dissuaded by the fish guts Phil throws over the side for them to chase. Everyone else is just enjoying the evening air and the break in routine, and honestly, so is Rich.

By the time Phil starts throwing fish steaks and fillets on the grill, Rich finds that Basil has drifted over to stand near him, wearing a midnight-blue sarong patterned with star constellations, and a softly worn old white t-shirt that fits him distractingly close around the chest. It's got a red twenty-sided die printed on it above the slogan 'This Is How I Roll', and the total effect is dismayingly cute. Even the single work glove he always wears doesn't detract from the effect, not that Rich would say anything if it did. Basil's hair is still loose, a fluffy black starburst around his head, and Rich wants to stroke it and see if it's as soft as it looks, which he's going to stop thinking about now.

"Hey," Rich says.

"Hey," Basil says, with that nervous smile that Rich is unfortunately finding more and more compelling.

"Hey!" says Nate, who Rich totally failed to notice tagging along behind Basil, and who apparently totally fails to notice the way Rich and Basil both jump when he inserts himself enthusiastically between them. There's a chain of dark hickies along the side of Nate's throat, disappearing down into the neckline of his shirt, and he looks incredibly pleased with himself. "Look, man, you brought the food over without a word of complaint, I feel kinda bad for scaring the birds off, y'know—"

"Oh," says Rich, who was entirely unprepared to be apologized to, let alone for something he was grateful for. "Uh, no, it's, I'm good, it's fine."

"Nah, come on," says Nate, and pats Rich on the arm. "We should pool our credits and S.O.S. the Completion, get some PRTs over here, make it a real party. We could order a girl for you specific, since—"

"No," says Rich, and pats Nate firmly. "Ha, ah, no, I'm good, I'm...let's just enjoy the fish, and...hang out? That sounds like a good party to me. I'm good."

"Nobody on this boat's any fun," Nate says mournfully. He reaches up to draw one of Basil's curls out long and let it spring back before strolling off to vanish into a group of chattering mechanics.

There's a few seconds of awkward silence, and then Basil glances over and gives a sudden little huff of laughter.

"What?" says Rich defensively, and Basil keeps laughing, ducking his head to hide his face. "What's so funny?"

"Let's just enjoy the fish, Rich!" Basil says brightly, and punches him on the arm. Rich can feel his face heat abruptly: growls at him a little and reaches out, daringly, to pull the same springy curl Nate just tugged. Basil glances up at him and grins, flushed and bright-eyed. Shoving a fall of curls off his forehead, he looks up at Rich with those big, gorgeous brown eyes and opens his mouth to say something—

"Who wants drinks?" someone yells from a couple steps behind them, and Rich's twitch goes entirely unnoticed against Basil's violent jump.

"Whoa! What! Oh," Basil gasps, and puts a hand to his heart. "Shit, man! Volume?"

"What, were you distracted, Wright?" Anton shoves a jar of beer into Basil's gloved hand. "Hey, big boy, you drink?"

"I drink," Rich says, as mildly as possible, and dares to take two jars from the little guy, tucking one under his arm and unscrewing the lid of the second. Anton grins up at him like he's done something funny instead of rude, so, hey, score. He's actually shirtless now, with a number of bright lake-glass necklaces gleaming against his bare skin and a sarong patterned with interlocking lizards in gaudy pink and green and orange done up in a fancy series of pleats, and Rich feels once more distinctly overdressed in work jeans, even if he did leave his boots off. Maybe he'll work his way up to casual wear, one party at a time.

Of course, he'll have to find a wrap in his size first. It's not like it's hard to find sarongs, they're standard relaxation wear and there's at least one boat just for printing patterns, but most of the sarongs out there aren't sized for somebody like Rich. He hasn't worn them regularly since he started getting growth spurts; after he turned thirteen his favorite watermelon-patterned green wrap went rapidly from ankle-length to knee-length to not fitting around his waist in about a year. Even when he was just turning fifteen, too self-important to be caught dead in the colorful cartoons and fruit patterns of children's wraps, all but the largest sizes of adult wrap were too small to fit his oversized, awkwardly-towering frame.

He had something pretty and mature and sunset-patterned that fit and played nice with his too-pale skin and too-red hair, when he went to the Sympatico. Rich has no idea what happened to it, though. Probably got torn up at some point to bandage something. The Sympatico was a bad place to show some leg.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Rich has his jar all the way to his lips before he remembers his manners.

"Should I, uh?" he asks Anton, gesturing his jar out towards the railing, and the waiting blue sheet of the lake.

"Don't worry about it," Anton says, and takes a pointed sip of his own jar, "I already gave the lake her due, we're good."

"Okay, cool," Rich says, and eagerly tastes his beer. It's delicious: dark and tangy and complicated, a million times better than the painfully straightforward burn of vodka. "Oh shit, this is great."

"Good food needs good booze, right? Just try and pace yourself with these tonight, I got 'em from Mark and they're really goddamn strong," Anton slaps Rich's side playfully. "If you drink like you lift we're gonna be in trouble, big guy! It'd take a float-rig to get you back to your berth."

"What, you think I can't handle my liquor?" Rich sniffs, mock-offended, and takes an exaggeratedly dainty sip, pinkie extended like a snooty fantasy princess. That earns an actual laugh, and Rich grins happily down at him and takes another sip. He will be good. No one's gonna pick a fight tonight, he's sure of it, he doesn't have to be on guard, he doesn't have to worry about hurting anyone or screwing anything up, he can relax. He's earned some relaxing.

Basil shoos Anton off to distribute drinks elsewhere, then starts up a conversation about if Rich thinks he might like to play Spellcraft again, which Rich does, and they end up sharing a lounge chair while the food grills. People wander by and congratulate Rich on his haul, and Rich finishes off his first jar and then the second, and the world gets softer and warmer and infinitely nicer to exist in. This stuff must be strong, if he can feel it after only a couple jars.

"Hey, boys," says a friendly voice, and Rich looks up from setting his empty jar down, already smiling. It takes him a second to recognize Raoul, and another second to wonder why he hasn't seen the guy before now, and by the time he remembers, simultaneous with registering that the bandanna tied around Raoul's upper arm is the dark red of a captain's jacket, he has the feeling the transition from 'reasonably welcoming smile' to 'paralyzed terror' on his face is obvious.

It's not his fault he was taken off guard, though. The captain of the Sympatico would never have appeared in public without his jacket on, no matter how relaxed the occasion, if relaxed occasions had even happened on that ship.

Here, Raoul's scruffy and casual as he shoves long, wind-blown dark hair out of his face. His tanktop is slightly ragged around the neck, his sarong has a playful pattern of brightly-colored tropical fish, he's barefoot like everyone else, and the only sign of his captaincy is that bandanna.

"Hey, Raoul," Basil says just as Rich pulls himself together and says, "Sir! Captain Mencia!"

Raoul blinks at Rich, eyebrows arching in his thin, olive-brown face. Rich can't help but notice he still has that ridiculous mustache.

"Well, look who grew up polite!" he says, mustache shifting with his wry smile. "It's still just Raoul, kid." He waves a hand around them at the relaxed, cheerful crowd. "No one needs 'Captain Mencia' at a fish-fry. Especially not before he's gotten any fish."

Rich nods carefully.

Raoul's eyebrows gain a crease between them, but he's still smiling when he says, "So, have you been settling back in alright?"

"Yessir," Rich says, "I'm doing my best, sir." The crease gets deeper and Raoul glances over at Basil, so obviously Rich is still messing up— "Raoul," he corrects himself, and swallows the 'sir' that wants to follow it.

The crease disappears and Raoul pats him on the shoulder, relaxed again. "Damn right you are! I heard you got us that fish yourself?"

"I just carried it over, s—Raoul," Rich says, and winces at how dumb he sounds, ears heating. "I mean, Ben's the one who made the deal for it."

Raoul lifts his eyebrows again, looks pointedly over at the huge fish head and skeleton finally being hauled away under the jealous watch of the flock of yelling gulls, and back to Rich. "Yeah, and I bet he could've carried it over here, too, if you hadn't felt like helping us out." Before Rich can figure out what to say, Raoul steps back, smiling at him and Basil. "Okay, I'll let you boys get back to enjoying the evening. You've earned it!" and he walks off again with a nod, vanishing into the crowd.

Rich looks after him, tense and still, before collapsing in on himself, hands shoving into his hair as he breathes out long and shaky.

"Hey, are you okay?" Basil says, putting a cautious hand on his back.

"Fine," Rich says, very steadily. "Gimme a sec."

"Yeah, I mean, sure," Basil says, "but it was just Raoul! He's cool, he's nice, don't you remember him?"

"Yeah, man," Rich says as patiently as he can. "It's fine, okay? Just chill."

Basil is quiet, giving Rich time to start to catch his breath and scale back from high alert. Then Basil says, "Let me guess. The captain of your old boat full of violent assholes was also a violent asshole?"

Rich snorts a startled laugh. "Yeah! Shit, yeah, kid, good guess."

'Violent asshole' doesn't cover it: 'short-tempered power-hungry paranoid douchebag with a nasty gang of equally awful douchebags behind him' is closer, but Rich doesn't feel like explaining that. Especially not to Basil's expression of wide-eyed, earnest sympathy. He doesn't need that tilting any closer to pity.

"Fuck," Rich sighs, "I need another drink."

"I can do that," Basil says with a firm nod, and goes to get them refills himself, rather than wait for Anton to come back.

Basil brings Rich two jars this time, and Rich thanks him fervently. The beer helps, and then suddenly there's a line forming for the fish. Rich goes to lever himself off the lounge chair to go join it, except Phil's coming over with a plate and like the biggest and most beautiful cut of meat that Rich has ever seen, with a fancy little lemon slice on it twisted to look like a butterfly, and a pile of mashed potatoes on the side that's gotta be a food block's worth all on its own.

"You don't wait in line, kid," Phil says, and gives him the plate. "You get as much as you want, as soon as you want it, just lemme know."

"Oh," Rich says, sitting down hard. "I—thanks. Uh. Thanks a lot."

He isn't tearing up or anything, because that would be dumb. He's just preoccupied with blinking. Phil ruffles his hair, which should feel condescending but actually is absurdly nice? Friendly. And heads back to help serve dinner to the other guys.

Basil waits in line, then comes back with more beer.

"You're useful," Rich observes, taking his—fourth? third? fifth? who cares—pair of jars from the kid.

"I try!" Basil smiles. He's flushed and unsteady, holding his plate in his gloved hand with intent concentration and eating with the bare hand. Rich is maybe more hung up on the way he licks his fingers than he should be, considering like…

"You know, I was such a dick to you when we were younger," Rich says, apologetically.

"Oh, well, yeah," Basil says, blinking at him. "But we're cool now, right?"

"I'm trying!" Rich says. "I'm trying so hard, man."

"Well, there you go. It's cool. You're cool."

"We're really cool now?" Rich asks. He doesn't mean it to come out so clumsy and vulnerable, but it does, and he feels himself flushing with embarrassment. "I mean, like, I was just such a huge dick to you, if you wanted to like…if you weren't cool with that. It'd make sense."

"Pffsh, no, c'mon," Basil says. He shifts where he sits, and leans his shoulder deliberately against Rich's arm. He's really warm. "You grew up. We both grew up! And like, hey, dinner! You got us so much dinner. You're fine. It's cool. I don't wanna be mad about dumb old shit that doesn't count anymore, okay? Eat your fish."

"God, I am," Rich says, and eats more fish. "I haven't had this much to eat in basically forever, this is amazing."

"This is so fucking good," Basil agrees. "I can't believe fish is so boring when it's in a block and so goddamn like, magic, when you eat it like this. Why don't we eat it like this all the time?"

"Calories," Rich says uncertainly, and Basil nods like that made sense.

"Yeah, calories," he says vaguely.

It's a good thing Rich has been drinking, because it means when he hears a whisper of movement behind them, he's relaxed enough he doesn't dive off the lounge chair and throw his plate at whoever it is. He just glances back, sees the ginger hair and snaps out a hand to catch Mitch's wrist before the marker tip can reach the side of Basil's neck.

"No," Rich says sternly. "No marker attacks, not right now."

"Aw," Mitch says, but caps the marker and shoves it in his pocket readily enough as Basil grumbles at him. "Come on, muffin, where's my kiss hello!" he chirps, and Rich doesn't even tense up when Mitch half-tackles Basil, laughing.

"Mitch!" Basil complains, elbowing Mitch off before he can get Basil in a headlock. "What the fuck!"

"Oregano, aren't you happy to see me?" Mitch says with an attempt at a pout that doesn't work when he can barely stop grinning.

"Not so much right now, no, Montana," Basil grumbles, poking at his fish.

Mitch looks from Basil, glaring at his plate, to Rich, who's still a little wary about the explosion of energy and cheerful sobriety next to him, and the guy snickers.

"Uh-huh," he says, "cuz you're that busy, huh?" and nods significantly over at Rich. Basil just glowers and elbows his friend again. Mitch amiably lets himself be shoved off and goes to perch on the chair next to theirs.

Rich shakes his head in wonder, and instead of keeping it to himself for fear of pissing off an officer, goes and asks, "How'd a fun guy like you end up in Security, anyway?"

Unperturbed, Mitch shrugs. "I don't like it when people fight," he says, like it's that simple.

"When we were kids," Basil says, "anytime there was a fight, you'd find Mitch in the middle of it, goofing around until everyone stopped being mad at each other and started being mad at him, instead." He's trying to look exasperated, but it's coming out more fond than he probably means it to. "He was still doing it when we were deckhands, this skinny little tween dropping his chores all the time to go find trouble and get in its way. He was just this, this completely unstoppable little moron."

"And it worked so great, I figured I'd make a career of it!" Mitch grins, and gives a showy, goofy bow from the waist. "You're welcome, citizens."

"Huh," Rich says. "Well, cool. Good for you."

Technically, Security is supposed to be more about mediation and conflict-resolution than wading into trouble with their stun-batons out and just hitting everyone until it's over. In reality, places like the Sympatico exist. Mitch does make a lot more sense as an officer in the context of some little kid's idealized sense of peace and safety. Of what Security should be. Rich wouldn't have figured anyone could reach, what, eighteen? nineteen? and still stay that sweetly naive, especially not a guy whose career involves seeing people at their very worst, but Mitch seems to have managed it. Thoughtfully, Rich eats some more fish.

"Hey, so, subject change!" Mitch says. "Rich, did you really carry that fish all the way back? Like, without a float rig or anything?"

"Yeah?" Rich says, puzzled.

"How much you think it weighed?"

"Mitch, come on!" Basil says.

"It's fine, man," Rich says, shrugging. "Maybe three-fifty?"

"Dang, that's awesome," Mitch says, and Rich can't help perking up. "What's your upper limit, you know?"

"I don't know for me specifically, never had it tested," Rich admits, "but Dad said my mom could do half a ton. I've probably lifted five or six hundred like back in manufacturing. Pretty sure I could do more."

"Half a…" Basil says.

"Whoa," Mitch says, mouth dropping open. He looks delighted.

"Oh hey!" Anton says, dropping onto Mitch's lounge chair and stretching out a leg to nudge Rich's shin with one bare foot. "Are we asking Rich questions? I've got some!"

"No, we're—agh," Basil says, glaring at Anton, who's bright-eyed and pink-cheeked and looking more than a little buzzed. "Fine." And like it's a natural follow-up, he scoots over until he's almost in Rich's lap, one elbow propped on Rich's thigh. Rich blinks at his elbow and back to Anton in case looking at Basil makes him think Rich isn't cool with this, which he definitely, absolutely is. Mitch has a private little giggle fit, but Anton just grins at Rich.

"So, big guy, how the fuck are you so pale? I know you Hastings guys are supposed to be like, ghost white, and the Sympatico probably didn't have a sundeck, but you didn't have anywhere to get some sun?"

"No," Rich says. "'S kinda weird the way you guys take it for granted. Like, you got the sundeck, and you're allowed on the sundeck, nobody's gonna get pissed and try to muscle you off, and you can even fucking relax when you're out there! Shit, man. You guys just. This ship is so nice."

"Muscle you off?" Mitch says, frowning, at the same time Anton says, "Why couldn't you relax in the sun?"

Rich snorts at him. "Are you kidding? Can't let down your guard like that right out in the open, that's a good way to get jumped."

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"...Jumped," Basil repeats, and a hand touches Rich's arm. Basil's gloved hand, touching one of the long, shiny white lines of scarring that stripe his forearms. Basil looks like he's…feeling something? He looks vaguely distressed and confused and thoughtful, but who knows why or which one's winning.

"You thought Mitch had a knife," Basil says slowly, brows furrowing, and then blinks and takes his hand away again. "Is this from, was there a knife fight?"

The word 'fight', singular, like there was just the one, is startling enough Rich snorts, despite the weird pang of muffled hurt somewhere under the warm buzz of the alcohol.

"Man," he sighs, "there were knives everywhere, it was a fix-it boat. Motherfuckers would lose one edged weapon and drop into the nearest garage bay to sharpen something else. You'd be thinking 'Okay, there's just two guys, I can get through this,' in the showers or whatever and then one of 'em pulls a knife and now you're hoping they don't want you dead all that much. My—this one guy I was cool with, Trimmer, he never went anywhere without a six-inch steel straightedge. Called it his multitool. Saved my life like half a dozen times with it, he kept tally marks on the back that he'd point at sometimes if he wanted to try to win an argument with me."

God, he misses Trimmer. Rich takes Anton's beer away and drinks most of it in one breath, then wipes his mouth and realizes maybe he's starting to get drunk and also possibly he should shut up.

"Shit," is all Anton mutters, and gestures for Rich to keep the beer when he offers it back. So Rich finishes it.

"Did you have a knife?" Basil asks.

Rich shakes his head, wishing he had more beer already. "A knife isn't gonna stop another guy's knife, and I wanted to not get stabbed, not to stab other people. And anyway—" he holds out his arms, showing off his size and reach. He's got arms bigger than some guys have bodies.

"I'm already a weapon," he points out. "It's faster for me to, you know, just grab someone and mess 'em up, than to fuck around waving any knives myself."

"Okay," Basil says, looking even more upset. "Okay, uh, yeah. Wow."

Mich leans forward, frowning darkly. "Okay so, hey, all of this is like, completely awful to hear about, man, but what was up with the Sympatico's Security? Where the heck were they when all these knife fights were happening?"

Rich shrugs. "Four guys per fifty crew sounds like a lot but it's only like, one or two officers per shift, y'know? On a whole fucking boat full'a knives and assholes. They played it safe, they only stepped in to save their favorites. If you weren't one, Security just made a fight that much harder to get through to make sure everyone knew not to push it. So it was safer for everyone to handle shit on our own."

"That sucks," Basil says, thumping his head against Rich's shoulder.

"Well, yeah, but I was big, I was too big to take out with just—I mean, it wasn't—it wasn't too much of a thing, for me, I can take a lot of hits, that's why my arms look like this, anything short of like a fucking harpoon kinda gets stuck and then, and then the guy who stuck you doesn't have a knife anymore, and you can wreck his shit for trying. It was okay, I'm okay now."

"Yeah, but—"

"No, no buts, we're done with the knife stuff—you wanna know what really sucked?" Rich demands, waving his empty beer jar and then setting it carefully down before it breaks. "Doing the work of three guys and getting the credit of one lazy fucking slacker! That pissed me off, that's what I'd rather be like, be complaining about, since we're complaining now."

Anton blinks. "Three guys? You mean the other techies?"

Rich ticks them off on his fingers. "Schwartz was drunk all the time, the fuckin' deadweight, he basically just ran his still and traded what he brewed and downed the rest and that was his fuckin' job, and Hendricks was even worse. Schwartz at least shared what he brewed with me to make up for how I did all his fucking work, but Hendricks didn't wanna do a lick of work that he could make someone else do for him, no trading, no nothing, just taking. And he was our boss, he had all the privileges and passcodes and shit, you were dead if you crossed him too bad, he could—he could just delete you, if he wanted! I think that's what happened to the guy I replaced. He sure let me think that, anyway. When I tried to lodge a complaint about him further up the command chain. He let me know just how bad it'd be if I ever tried that shit again."

He shudders at the memory, slams back his beer, wipes his mouth, glares at the deck plating. "So I got to do fucking everything for everyone and then Hendricks would take credit for like ninety-five percent of it, and I'd get the demerits and shit for slacking off when I didn't have enough hours in the day to get my own work done! If you looked up the encyclopedia entry for 'Freeloader', it'd have a picture of the guy. Fuck him."

Rich realizes he's snarling, teeth bared and voice doing that stupid, low rumbling growl that baseline humans can't make. Mitch and Anton are staring at him wide-eyed and worried. He reins himself in, swallows a few times, and rubs at his face in embarrassment.

"Sorry," he says lamely. "Sorry, um. Kind of a sore spot, I guess. I promise I didn't pick up the same work ethic as those guys, I'm not here to freeload, I swear."

"We are literally eating the three hundred pounds of fish you hauled back to the boat just because Ben asked you nicely," Anton says, and gives him another beer. "I don't think you have to worry about anyone here not thinking you, of all people, aren't literally hauling your actual goddamn weight."

"And anyway you're allowed to be mad about assholes," Basil says fervently, leaning hard against Rich's chest. "Assholes who treated you really shitty! That's messed up!"

"That did sound like something I'd be pretty ticked off about myself," Mitch says, which is cool to hear from Security. "People abusing their positions like that, that's just—that shouldn't happen, not in the Fleet!"

"Well, it does," Rich says, as gently as he can. Mitch seems very young, all of a sudden.

"Well, it shouldn't," the kid repeats unhappily.

"So why didn't someone stab your useless boss, anyway?" Anton says, and gets frowned at by Mitch. "What?! I'm just saying, since it was going around…"

"You couldn't just, just stab anybody," Rich says, and has to fight the urge to lower his voice, the feeling that he's saying things that shouldn't be said too loudly. Flaherty's gang isn't going to corner him somewhere and make him sorry for talking about their business. He's out of there now, it's fine. "Couldn't stab Hendricks. He was, y'know. Delivering packages. For Flaherty's people."

"But," starts Anton.

"'S good, too!" Rich says bitterly, and liberates Anton's next jar of beer. "'S a good thing, 'cause who do you think the clubs would blame when they came to check out the corpse? Some random jackass from another department or the huge bastard with about fifty million reasons to want his boss dead?"

"Did…uh," Mitch says, looking uncomfortable. "Did you ever...?"

"No, I never fucking killed anyone!" Rich says, flaring up. "Hell, I was doing my damnedest not to even hurt anyone more than I had to, not that anyone ever fucking appreciated the effort! I don't like fighting! I don't want to! But no one ever even asks, they see some big scary soldier tweak and get ready to fuck with me and I'm sick of it!"

Mitch looks slightly guilty, but mostly relieved.

"It's okay, man, you're okay, ease up," Basil says, "we know you're cool, okay? Mitch just says dumb shit like, constantly." He sighs heavily. "But that all sucks so bad, that you had to, like, deal, so much. With so much. It was a lot. God."

"Aww, Sage, don't be so sad," Mitch says, visibly shaking off the grimness of the conversation to grin mischievously at Basil. "Everything's okay now, like Rich said—and we're gonna make sure of it!" He slips off his chair and kneels up in front of Basil to squish Basil's cheeks together, and laughs when Basil makes complaining noises and smacks at him. "My fuzzy snuggy-wuggy shouldn't be sad about anything, you know that super awesome Officer Ford guy is gonna take care of all of you!"

"Oh my god fuck off, jackass!" Basil wails, trying to squirm free, but Mitch just laughs harder and starts exaggeratedly petting his face and cooing.

Rich leans to one side to get out of the way of flailing elbows and blinks questioningly at Anton.

"They've been like this ever since Mitch was assigned here last year, or—year before, whatever," Anton says. He rolls his eyes. "They were childhood friends or something, emphasis on child. It's disgusting."

"Why are you—pffhaha—why're you being so mean, babycakes?" Mitch demands. "Has the love left our relationship?"

"Yes! It has!" Basil says. "God, why are you like this!"

"Security wanted a dog," Anton says sadly. "We all wanted a dog. But we got Mitch."

Rich stares at him, and then at Mitch, who rather than stiffening up in offense and getting ready to hand out demerits for disrespect all around, grins and makes as if to lick Basil's face.

"I exist specifically to get you big old important grown-up guys to lighten the heck up," Mitch says, and succeeds at licking Basil's cheek. Over Basil's howl of outrage, he crows, "It's my service to the Fleet!"

Basil plants a hand on his face and shoves him right over onto the deck.

"So, are you and Basil like…a couple?" Rich says. An hour ago that question would've seemed like a bad idea, but now it seems totally reasonable and also kind of urgent.

"Yep!" Mitch says, and sits up to pillow his cheek on Basil's thigh, batting his eyelashes.

"No!" Basil yelps, flailing at him.

"We're married," Mitch says gleefully.

"No we're not," Basil wails.

"He gave me a twist-tie engagement ring when we were nine and my heart has been his ever since!" Mitch says. "He treats me so gosh-darn mean sometimes but I don't mind. I know my special dearest darling sparkle-spice loves me back, somewhere deep down."

"Kids," Anton says, with fond despair.

"I'm not," Basil says, scrubbing his glove at the wet spot on his cheek, and he sounds so hilariously young—he looks young, even, flushed and gangly and tousled, goofing around with his buddy, that Rich's heart turns over in his chest and he starts laughing helplessly.

"You're the picture of maturity, baby boy," he says, and ruffles Basil's curls into a wild, frizzy cloud until Basil is wailing and swatting at him, not Mitch. He used to call Basil that, he remembers, baby boy, because he was the resident child genius and that pissed Rich off so much, that Rich had to basically claw his way out of the cadets just to be a mechanic, and then jump through a million more hoops to rate an assignment as an intelligent systems technician, and then find out some punkass little baby department darling had tested so phenomenally well that he'd been interning since he was thirteen…

But Basil's not thirteen anymore, he's a young man now and he's drunk and adorable and sprawled back against Rich's chest in a loose warm tangle of limbs and freckles and fluster, and Rich is having some distinct feelings about that. He wants to get his hands on the narrow stretch of that warm brown stomach where Basil's shirt has pulled free of his sarong, pull it up further, see if he's freckled everywhere.

"...'M drunk," Basil says, face smooshed against Rich's chest, and pries his face up to blink at Rich. "Am I drunk? You, are you drunk too?"

"You are definitely drunk, kiddo," Rich says. "I'm, like, tipsy."

"Fortunately!" Anton grins, and waves a hand at him. "You gotta keep some motor control, cuz we're sure as hell not carrying you out of here."

"I want more fish," Mitch decides. "Anyone else want more?"

"Me, please," Rich says immediately, handing over his empty plate. He's fuller than he's been in years, but he's not gonna turn down more food.

Mitch nods easily and goes off toward the grill. Anton hesitates for a moment, looking at Rich and Basil, then goes after Mitch in a sudden rush. The little guy falls in at the officer's side and elbows him, saying something that makes Mitch glance back at Rich and Basil and then laugh; they push into the crowd around the grill and Rich loses them.

"Sorry," says Basil quietly.

Rich blinks, startled, and glances down at him. Basil has pushed himself up, and he's watching Rich's face with bleary concern.

"For what?" Rich says. "This is great!" He waves a hand around at the food and beer and friendly people, smiling warmly. "This is awesome, man! Life is so good here!"

"Yeah but…" Basil glances down at Rich's arm again, the scar he was poking at earlier. "Making you talk about—think about, I mean, just, 's none of our business."

He pauses and then pushes himself up even further, almost off of Rich completely, tugs his glove down a bit, and starts methodically pulling at the brace underneath. "So," he says, with hazy determination. "So, uh. You should probably see. So it's fair."

Honestly Rich is interested in seeing whatever Basil wants to show him, especially if after the brace comes off, the shirt follows. Distracted by watching Basil undo the straps, it takes a minute to track back to the thing he said that Rich needs to argue with.

"Some of it is your business, though," he says. "I mean, everyone knows where I'm from, it makes sense people wanna know, like, what was going on there and if I'm as dangerous as…" he waves a hand somewhat dejectedly, "as I look, or whatever."

"You don't look dangerous," Basil mutters.

Rich raises his eyebrows. "I'm built like a battleship had a baby with an iceberg," he points out. "I'm huge as shit and I got a coloration that everyone recognizes. I'm literally a soldier mod, kid, it's normal for people to keep a close eye on what the fuck I'm up to."

"I mean, yeah, but like…" Basil trails off, then shakes his head and goes back to determinedly fiddling with his brace. "You're cool, though," he finishes lamely, and pulls off the brace and glove together. The hand underneath…

"Fuck," says Rich, intrigued and vaguely horrified, and takes Basil's wrist, turning his hand back and forth. The smooth flesh of Basil's arm ends in a welted, gnarled ring of scar tissue halfway down the forearm, gruesomely pink against the freckled brown skin, and continues on as a stunningly sophisticated prosthesis. It's covered in sturdy plates of clear plastic, closely articulated at the joints, like a medieval plate-armor gauntlet built by some techno-wizard. Under the plastic there's a complicated structure of metal bones and tendons with colorful wire nerves, all of it flexing as Basil's artificial fingers give a nervous twitch. "Fuck, man."

"It wasn't like...a fight, or a…whatever, whatever you're thinking, it wasn't bad," says Basil, who looks thoroughly self-conscious, ruddy cheeks flushing darker and darker. "Just, y'know how you're supposed to definitely 100% make sure a fabricator is turned off before you stick your hand in the hopper to see why it's jammed?"

"Uh...yeah?" says Rich, confused. "What—oh."

"Yeah," says Basil dryly, and wiggles his fingers, watching the mechanical joints flex smoothly under their protective shell. "So, definitely make 100% sure the fabricator is off before you stick your arm in there."

"Shit, yeah," Rich agrees, and then thinks that sounds dickish. What's the right, prosocial thing to say here? "That really sucks, man. That prosthetic's fucking cool, though." Was that dickish? Like maybe he thinks it's worth it for Basil to have lost his entire hand, holy shit, because it looks neat? Why is it always so hard to tell if he's being an asshole?

He puts a cautious hand on Basil's shoulder and squeezes a little. "Um, I'm…really sorry it happened."

"It's cool," says Basil, and takes his hand back, fumbling with the glove and the straps on the brace, frowning the focused frown of the uncoordinated drunk. "Happened like, pretty soon after you left, so. 'S been, like…years. I made...I designed, I mean, I didn't make it, I designed it, I fixed it. 'S not a big deal."

"Shit, that must've been rough, though," Rich says, thinking about trying to defend himself with only one arm, or a new arm he wasn't used to yet. Then he remembers Basil probably never had to defend himself, which Rich discovers some confusing feelings about, relief and resentment and a weird sadness he doesn't want to think about. He takes another drink and shoves it all away.

"Yeah, I mean, no," Basil says softly. "It's whatever. I got over it, Mitch helps me with maintenance, no one around here's ever been mean about it. So, so there's that, and...I wasn't hiding it from you because I think, uh, I mean there's nothing wrong with missing a chunk or two, okay? I know a lot of guys lose bits, there's accidents, it's not wrong. But, it's, it wasn't an accident, it was my fault. I was stupid. It's embarrassing."

"Everyone makes mistakes and gets fucked up," Rich says. "You lost it a couple years ago? You were a kid. Kids do stupid shit."

"I'm not," Basil starts, and then sighs, long and slow. "I was a kid. I'm older now. Okay?"

"You make sure the fabricator's up for it before you stick bits in now," Rich says, and Basil gives a sweet, tipsy giggle, leaning heavy and warm against his side.

"Yeah! Yeah, you gotta, you gotta stay safe, haha." Basil fumbles at the straps again, then frowns and lets the brace drop to the deck. "Okay, I'm, speaking of. Safety. I'm real drunk. Shit."

Rich picks the brace up and says, "Here, gimme," and fits it delicately back on over Basil's prosthetic forearm. It takes a minute to line it up and pull the straps tight, then fit the glove on properly, and he's pricklingly aware the whole time of how closely Basil's curled against him, the guy's warm unsteady breath on the side of his face.

"You could," Basil starts, and swallows hard. "I'm, uh. You could help me get back to my bunk, if you—uh, if you felt like, uh. That would be cool. If you felt like that would be cool."

"Yeah?" Rich says, hopefully. Very aware of how close they are. "You don't want Mitch to walk you back?"

"No, I want you," Basil says, and then in a rush, "to get me there! I mean, take me! To my bunk!" Then he blushes deep rosy-brown.

Rich doesn't have to be the smartest guy around to interpret this particular offer. And he'd be the dumbest guy ever, probably, to not go for it. Basil's cute, sweet, soft, nice—this could actually be good, this could be so good.

"Cool," he says, smiling at Basil. "Okay, yeah, cool. Okay. I think I could probably haul another fish back home tonight. If he wanted."

That vivid flush lingers on Basil's face, half-hiding his freckles, and the way he bites his lip and looks up at Rich through his eyelashes makes Rich's heart race.

"Yeah," Basil says. "Yeah."

"Cool," Rich says again, breathless, and finishes off his last jar. He sets it carefully down on the deck, and eases off the lounge chair. His head's light and thick, a comfortable couple steps away from the harshness of the real world, but he's still got his coordination. Basil doesn't, when Rich helps him up: he sways and grabs for Rich's arm, wide-eyed, and stares around like he can't figure out why everything's moving.

"Next time pace yourself, kid," Rich says, amused.

"I'm fine," Basil insists. He doesn't let Rich's arm go, clinging with both hands. "The boat's—it's the boat, right? The boat's going around. I'm fine."

"Sure, sure," Rich agrees, because this is adorable. "C'mon, let's go, pick your feet up."

"I'm fine," Basil repeats stubbornly. "I can handle some drinking, you know, I do it, I do plenty, like—I'm cool. I'm not a kid." He shuffles off with Rich, his face a mask of intent determination, and they get back to their passageway without anyone tripping over much of anything.

"So, this is you," Rich says, and stands there prickling and anxious while Basil sways forward and palms his door unlocked, shoves it open with one hand.

"Yeah, I, yes," Basil says, and doesn't detach his grip on Rich's arm. "Hey, can you carry me? Like physically."

"Yes," Rich says cautiously.

"Can you though," Basil repeats, and looks up at Rich's face with obvious invitation.

"I—yes. Yes I can," Rich says, relieved. He picks Basil up and carries him the last couple meters to his cot, then grabs the rumpled topsheet and pulls it off, taking the messy scattering of books and game pieces and tools with it. Basil's crap can stay down on the deck tonight. It isn't invited. He dumps Basil on the bed, admires the way his shirt has ridden up his stomach, then gets his hands all over that exact stomach.

Basil, for his part, contributes a lot of enticing giggling and squirming, and does not at any point say 'Actually no, I changed my mind, go away,' which is great for Rich's emotions right now. And also, come to think of it, his dick.

Rich frees up his own pants situation to avoid any future strangulation, then sets about methodically sucking marks below Basil's ribs, and nipping and nuzzling at his stomach, and Basil squeaks and makes little breathy noises. The kid is pretty drunk, though, so when Rich finally reaches his star-printed sarong and sets about getting the folds unwrapped, he's not particularly surprised that Basil's barely half-hard, and that it's clearly going to take some more in-depth work to get him all the way up.

Basil isn't as chill. "Aaaugh, I dunno why it's doing this," he moans, muffled by the hand and glove pressed over his face. "I get it up all th'fuckin' time, fuck!"

"Cuz you drank too much, smart guy," Rich says, unperturbed as he gets acquainted with Basil's dick, slow and coaxing. "Alcohol's a sedative." His own dick is much more interested in the goings-on, straining up out of his open pants for attention, but it's also more than used to waiting its turn for Rich to attend to it.

"Nuh-uh," says Basil, and makes a compelling series of gasping noises as Rich strokes him gently, freckled hips bucking up off the sheets in uncoordinated twitches. "Ah, ah, ah fuck, Rich. I didn't dr—hha, didn't, I, nnh." He slumps, panting, hips still twitching but obviously trying to gather himself, and then shudders and loses it again as Rich plays with his dick, grinning.

"Didn't you?" Rich teases.

"No, but, I wanna," Basil bursts out plaintively, and does his best to swing a leg around Rich's waist, trying to pull him in closer. "I want—why can't I—agh, fuck."

"Man, relax, it's just gonna take a little patience!" Rich tells him, relenting. "Don't worry, I'll get you there." He leans down and puts his mouth on the head, teasing gently at the foreskin with his tongue, and Basil makes an amazing noise.

Rich looks up and grins. "See, if you hadn't had so much to drink, I bet you'd have gone off then and there, and that'd be way worse, right? I'd have had to pack up and go home after three minutes."

Before Basil can finish saying indignantly, "I would not!" Rich goes back to work, and the end of Basil's protest turns into a loud moan.

It takes some time and patience, like Rich expected, and Basil gets embarrassed and apologetic again before Rich gets him all the way up, but he does get there in the end, and then it's just a matter of applying some well-practiced interpersonal skills. And Rich finds himself really enjoying the application, which he'd forgotten was a possibility with a straightforward blowjob. Basil is a lot more fun to blow than anyone Rich has done it for in the last few years, though: loud and grateful and incredibly responsive, cute as hell—and he's got a nice dick, too. It's awesome. Basil is awesome.

Rich finds himself pulling back when it seems like Basil's getting close, toying with him with just his lips and tongue, going slower and slower the more frantically Basil twitches and whimpers.

"You gonna pack it in already, baby boy?" he asks. "Gonna call it an early night?"

"God, I, god, fuck," Basil pants, dragging his hands across the sheets. "No, I'm, I'm good, I'm good, I can last!"

"Good," Rich says, and just keeps teasing, giddy with happiness. Basil lets Rich take him apart, shuddering and groaning, writhing desperately underneath his mouth and hands, louder than anyone Rich has ever been with. Safer, sweeter. Life is so good right now, it's incredible.

"M'close, close, gonna—please fuck oh god fuck I can't, stop," Basil finally wails, and Rich pulls off fast.

"What?!" he demands, heart pounding. "You okay?"

"Nnh," Basil says, and he's got tears in his eyes. "Shit, man, I, nnnhah, I couldn't, mmn. Couldn't hold off, it was, it was too good."

"Oh," Rich says, and lets his forehead rest against Basil's trembling thigh, relieved. "Okay, phew. Thought I hurt you."

"No, fuck no, you're amazing, shit. I just—" Basil makes a vague hand gesture. "I'm not a kid, a baby, I don't—you said—I don't wanna—I'm not gonna come too soon. I can last. I'll be good. I'm good. Okay?"

"Okay," Rich says, touched. "There's nothing wrong with fast, though, like—"

Basil's sweaty and dark-eyed and flushed and probably well past drunk, but he still manages an impressively skeptical glare.

"I'm not a baby," he repeats stubbornly. "M' gonna go as long as you."

Rich can't help it: he starts giggling. Basil curls in on himself at that, expression going from mulishly determined to defensive and hurt, and Rich has to wave a hand at him apologetically.

"No, no, sorry," he gasps, "Just, you said—pff—baby boy, no one's as long as me, okay?"

Basil blinks, and Rich points down at his own crotch. At that Basil sits up, leans unsteadily forward to have a look at how long Rich actually is, and starts laughing too.

"Okay," he admits, after a good long minute of hysterical giggling, "okay, okay, shit. I can go—I can go a third as long as you, so there!"

Rich puts his forehead down on the mattress and wheezes, overwhelmed with mirth. The ship's spinning around him, a bit, and everything is light and easy and joyous and he's probably had enough to drink that he's stupid with it, but god, what a great night. What a fun guy to spend it with.

"Okay," Rich says finally. "Cut you a deal. I'll keep blowing your little bitty baby brains out, if you keep telling me when you're close, and afterwards I'll even pretend to be impressed at however long you can last. Cool?"

"You'll be impressed for real," Basil says.

"Uh-huh, yeah, definitely yes," Rich says, and widens his eyes theatrically. "This is my impressed face, for sure."

"Pfsh, jerk," Basil says, and flops back down on the mattress. "C'mon, fuckin'—bring it, Rich!"

"Mmhm," Rich goes, and gets down to business.

He expects that after one or maybe two more times getting close and stopping, Basil's going to run out of patience and want to come already. Especially when the guy can barely talk, when he's a mess of shivers and moans, his face sheened with sweat, his brown eyes bright with tears, Rich thinks it's only reasonable for him to ask to keep going and finish, but Basil doesn't.

Rich is definitely enjoying it. Basil can't manage a warning when he gets close, now, but his noises get an urgent, anxious edge when he's getting right to the edge of coming, his thighs and the muscles in his stomach twitching and shivering. And every time Rich pulls off and braces himself over Basil to watch, fascinated and hungry, as Basil's body goes slack and trembling against the sheets.

It's intoxicating, to be pushing him so far, making him feel this good and then making him wait, and even better that Rich isn't making him, Basil is calling the shots and willingly going along with it. Eventually, though, Rich starts to feel guilty about it. Basil is so wrecked, eyes distant, brow creased and almost pained, making desperate little noises on every breath.

"Okay, baby boy," he says when he pulls off that time, voice rasping, "I'm impressed, alright? I think you're about ready. You good with that?"

Basil whimpers faintly, then licks his lips. "Tol' you…m'notta kid," he mumbles.

Rich puts his forehead down on Basil's thigh to hide his grin, helplessly fond. "Yeah, guess you were right," he says. "So? You wanna come, or should I fuck off and let you sleep?"

"Nnno please!" Basil gasps, "please Rich I wanna, can, please lemme?"

"Okay," Rich says hoarsely, his own dick aching. "Okay, I gotcha." He puts his head down and gets serious this time, and Basil wails and shakes and moans, and it's amazing.

He howls out loud when he comes, and Rich's ears flush with how hot that is, even as he gentles the guy through it and finally pulls away, breathing hard. Basil's sprawled out on the sheets, gorgeously wrecked, twitching and whimpering still, squirming a little with aftershocks. His eyes are shut—Rich can see them flick behind his eyelids, but he can't seem to get it together enough to do so much as crack them open, raise his head, say anything, he's just gone with the pleasure of everything that was done to him. That Rich did to him. Rich did this to someone, took him apart, made him feel so good he couldn't even stand it, can't recover from it. He isn't sneering down at Rich and tucking himself away and walking off like nothing happened, he can't. He won't.

Rich grabs his own dick, hand slick with Basil's come and rapidly getting slicker with his own pre, and pumps himself hard and fast, looking at Basil, reveling in what a mess Rich has made of him. His softening dick against his freckled hip, the fast shuddering rise and fall of his chest, the way his mouth is soft and rosy and slack as he pants for breath. Spread out and open and soft and so cute—

Rich comes, grunting quietly with the force of it, bracing himself against the edge of Basil's cot. Kind of—oops, okay, kind of coming on the edge of Basil's cot, he'll have to clean that up, but—god, it feels good for now, so who cares. He strokes himself more and more softly through the last of the orgasm, biting his lip, taking the time to enjoy it and not run calculations on how soon he can pack himself back in his pants and bail. He's got time. Basil's too wrecked to kick him out, Rich can take a second.

He leans against the cot for a long, dreamy moment, hand still on his dick, rubbing slowly, and breathes. His head's spinning, heavy now as alcohol and a damn good orgasm finally catch up to him and weigh him down.

When he's good and ready, he climbs carefully to his feet and looks around for some hygiene wipes. He doesn't find any. Basil's berth is a dump, an insane rat's nest of nerd crap, books and cards and dice and snacks and toys and dirty clothes and bits of paper mounded up everywhere. Rich eventually grabs a questionably damp sock from the corner of the room and uses it to wipe his come off the cot, then throws it back in the corner.

He's gonna just…dart back to his berth really fast, rather than try to clean his dick off with anything here. It is probably not possible to clean off with anything in here. Basil's room is way more enjoyable pre-orgasm than post.

"Mnfgh?" Basil goes, when Rich cracks the door open and peers carefully out.

"Go to sleep," Rich says.

"Mnnphf," Basil replies, and does so. Rich checks both ways and then strides across the passage in two steps, palming his access plate, turning the handle and squeezing through the door in one smooth move. No one sees his dick who hasn't been invited to, success! He goes and gets his own packet of hygiene wipes, cleans his dick and then his hands and uses another on his face and arms, clearing away sweat and an embarrassing amount of fish grease. Yuck, he blew someone while wearing dinner. Next time he's gonna be less drunk and also make sure Basil has hygiene wipes in his room beforehand.

He flops on his mattress, stretches luxuriously, and thinks giddy, elaborate thoughts about what the next blowjob he gives Basil is gonna involve, until he falls asleep without even noticing.