Cohost writing prompt: @make-up-a-starship-pilot — Starship pilot who's stuck in a bar full of mech pilots and marines
On an obscure Buffer Worlds planet, while the company's intelligence officers comb through hearsay and implication in search of pirate spoor, the rank and file delightedly join in a local festival which mostly, like local festivals everywhere, seems to involve drinking and foodstuffs.
"Apparently this is the anniversary of a battle between this town's historical polity and that of the next town," Nene explains over a tall, slender glass of slightly vaguely sticky and, she suspects, devastatingly alcoholic.
"Ah, a victory celebration!" Knock-Knock says appreciatively, chewing on a skewer of grilled meat.
"You'd think," Nene says dryly. "I'm told they lost and their opponents burned the local fortifications right to the ground. But people do enjoy excuses to stop work early and eat festival food."
"Speaking of ill-fated situations...." Knock-Knock flicks a pointed glance across the room, and Nene nods and sighs.
On a stool at the bar, elbow to elbow between Very Roll and Gossip Auntie, deepnavigator Hren is hunched over a drink like a sad gargoyle brooding over a gutter, making fluttery little gestures as she talks.
Nene heaves, again, a deep sigh.
The deepnavigator's refusal to look at problems head-on, determined to somehow circle them and slip away when nobody is looking, is the lingering aftertaste of everything she has done for weeks, waking old aches in Nene's chest and new worries in Two Marks.
The pilot counts the empty glasses on the bar as she approaches, quietly asks the bartender for a glass of water with ice, and presses herself against the length of Hren's back to prise the half-finished drink from her fingers and replace it, interrupting an extended forlorn mumble that sounds very much like but I would deserve it.
"Drink that instead, please, lovely," Nene tells her, running the backs of her fingers up and down Hren's upper arms.
"All right," Hren says meekly, and sips the water while Nene, above her head, silently makes severe eyes at the other pilots.
In the morning, Hren huddles wretchedly, hiding her face in her pillow, and Two Marks gently strokes her shoulder.
"You should have a shower, and eat breakfast," she says softly, and Hren makes a pitiful noise. "I know, please, you'll feel a little better."
"I don't want to feel better," Hren says into the pillow.
"I want you to feel better," Two Marks tells her. "You are my lovely wife. And you want to feel better for when I make you talk about drinking too much because you were feeling sad."
"Oh no," Hren says.
"Oh yes," Two Marks says mercilessly, placing a kiss on the point of her shoulder.
Hren gingerly positions herself beneath the spray of the shower, face resting on the cool wall; scrubs the night's foul taste from her teeth; stumbles into clothing and wanly enters the kitchen, where Two Marks gives her a warm hug and a cup of herbal tea, then bustles about with a bright energy which Hren dearly loves and, right now, makes her dizzy to look at.
Hren closes her eyes until Two Marks puts a delicate omelette and a small dish of cut fruit in front of her, then very carefully eats, a little at a time, sipping on her cooling tea.
"Shall I talk about it now?" she says, looking down at the empty plate, turning a piece of fruit over and over in her fingers.
"When you feel ready," Two Marks says, and kisses her on the temple. She pauses thoughtfully, then puts a quick shower of more kisses on Hren's cheek. "I'm not being cruel, Hren; to want to know why you're sad."
"No," Hren sighs. "I know," and she loops her arm around her wife's waist and leans against her. "It's just that— I know it's not— Nene—" and she stops and frowns and turns her face up. "Did Nene bring me home?"
"She did."
"She didn't stay?"
"We talked about you," Two Marks says. "Nene went to her quarters to catch up on some reading; we decided you might need a quiet wife morning."
Hren turns her face back down. "Did I say something?" she says meekly.
"No," Two Marks says. "You were drunk and sad and wanted hugs, and you fell asleep. What do you think you might have said?"
Hren pauses. "Hosch-Twelve said a thing, some time ago," she says eventually, reluctant. "All ooh, shipling— and you can't trust Apparat and that's, I know there's nothing more to that than, it's just as—"
"It's just as racist as anything my family might tell me to watch out for," Two Marks says, light but dry, "simply because you're Peninsular."
"But wouldn't I deserve it," Hren says quietly. "If the two of you left me, together. I was so bad to her, Aren—"
"No," Two Marks says firmly. "You wouldn't. You don't. And I am the worst of the three of us, lovely; I wouldn't have forgiven you, if I were her, I'd have burned all your pretty dresses and made such a scene at our wedding, and I wouldn't have been my friend, nor yours again, either. Nene is so good."
"She is," Hren says glumly. "She would have been. She'd have been understanding, if I'd simply told her we were marrying, and I knew it. I hurt her and there was no reason, and so won't I just do it again? Won't I hurt you?" and she shudders and sniffles.
"No," Two Marks says. "I don't believe you will, because you are good and brave, even if you don't believe it; and if there is a next time, I believe you'll remember what you did to her, and you'll remember how much it has hurt her, and you; and I think you'll do better."
"You are not allowed to say that," Hren says into her shoulder, overwhelmed. "...I love you."
"I love you," Two Marks says, combing fingers through Hren's hair. "Shall I tell you what I worry about?"
"You shouldn't worry about anything," Hren says, emerging, still blanking back tears. "You are the best wife."
Two Marks huffs a laugh. "Nene is our girl, and she is so good," she says. "I worry that I am not as exciting as she is. And I worry that she is our girl, and really, she would rather be a wife, and one day she will go away and find that for herself instead."
Hren begins to say something, and Two Marks covers her mouth. "These are worries," she says airily. "I know not to fret on them, no more than you should yours. You are loved, so loved, and I would not be without you."
Hren gently takes the hand over mouth and moves it enough to fold it closed and kiss the back of it. "There are places they'll do that," she says, quickly, before she can think twice about it. "The three of us. If you— and if she— and I probably couldn't go back to the Peninsular Stars any more, but I wasn't going to, anyway."
Two Marks blinks into her face with wide, wide eyes.
"—We should talk about that more when you're not so hung over," she says. "And think about it. And talk to Nene — she might not even. And—" she puts her hands gently around Hren's face. "You are the best wife," she says. "Not because of this; I love you so much anyway."
"But you're the best wife," Hren says, smiling shyly. "I'll have to just be your best wife. For now."
"Always," Two Marks reproves. "Though perhaps you'll have to settle for joint first, some day."