Beach Landing

Cohost writing prompt: @make-up-a-starship-pilot — Starship pilot who hates the beach

Allie queues up a jump calculation batch, tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and coolly says, "I'm not putting her down so you can can have a day on the beach."

"Aw, c'mon."

"If I put her down, she's going to need a drydock service." Allie refuses to look at Nutmeg's pout, fixing her eyes on the wall chrono behind her. The wall chrono. Definitely not Nutmeg's sleeve of smart ink, blood sugar displayed in realtime in the bloom of climbing vines.

She bites down to cage a nagging have you eaten yet? at the half-furled petals.

"Do you know what salt and sand will do to the landing feet?" she says instead.

"She needs a service anyway," Nutmeg says, which is true. "That calc batch is going to take hours." Which is also true. "You want to really."

"What am I even paying you for," Allie says dryly.

"Because you like having someone to boss around."

"Then why isn't it working?" She makes the mistake of looking at Nutmeg's face, and Nutmeg widens her eyes and wets her lips.

"Swimming," Nutmeg coaxes.

"I don't have a costume," Allie tells her dismissively, and watches the sweet, smug curl of her lips.

"Me neither," Nutmeg says, straight-faced and honey-laced and unholy.