Chapter Text
Dark silent snow boots padded along the industrial hallway, long neon strip-lights lighting the way. Much like the rest of the Rhodes Island ship, resources were spent better than decorating connecting spaces, which was something Courier could appreciate, even if he himself was more of the meticulous nature, wherever circumstances allowed him to be.
“Observant, thoughtful, tactful” were words he’d heard the Doctor praise him with, and while praise alone did mighty little to truly impress him, he’d have to admit it was the impression he preferred to be known by. There was more to his sweet smile and kind blue gaze, but he didn’t for a moment believe he was the only one being discreet about personal matters within associate ranks.
His reservations were, in part, purely because business was business. Karlan Trade CO. and his boss had stakes in Rhodes Island medical research - which, in turn, benefitted from the financial and occasional military backing. While he, as the messenger, wasn’t really in a position to make judgments on behalf of Karlan Trade, he could still tell the people composing the Island worked hard and brought results to the table. If there was anyone out there able to actually find the ultimate blocker or eradication of the Oripathy spread, he was sure it’d be these guys. And he didn’t mind relaying this to his boss either, which he believed did actually help in opening a way for a tighter bond between the two organizations. Even if he was never the focus, never the main actor in such an occurrence, It was pretty satisfying to see how his contributions slowly benefited everyone involved.
The other part of his reservations, he supposed, was a bit due to his Kjerag nature. Much as he preferred to not be lumped this or that way, he’d be lying if he didn’t admit he found pride in serving the Silverash family and conducted himself accordingly. Not any kind of stuck up of course- just respectful. Cautious. Polite.
… which wasn’t to say some Rhodes Operators made such conduct easy. He was easy to get along with to a fault, he could likely count on one hand the number of operators that actually grated at his nerves. Unfortunately, he was headed to see one such person, much to his dismay. But- business was business. He had his sword to pick up from repairs that he could not head back to Kjerag without. The guard on it had gotten damaged enough to partially dislodge, all thanks to a rather persistent group of Reunion individuals that had their own idea of how to greet messengers. It wasn’t his favorite occurrence but then again, did it truly matter if none of them ever lived to tell the tale? He certainly wasn’t about to report on temporary nuisances such as those. And once his sword’s balance was restored, there truly would be no reason to. The rest of the minor physical injuries he’d sustained would heal, most already have.
His shadow pooled over the pressured door leading to the Ship’s workshop quarters 05 and he sunk a bit deeper into his long red scarf. There was no reason to stall, just because he happened to not be terribly fond of the mechanic beyond. It was just Courier’s luck that Chiave would be on shift when he’d walked in yesterday. On paper, there was nothing wrong, per se, with the man. Well, nothing except Oripathy infection - but post-mortem procedurals aside, that didn’t affect Courier. The whole disease was a global problem and he’d always prided himself above petty discrimination of the infected, especially given it was present in the very family he was working for. But in person, Chiave… well, he had a rep. For good reason, in the Itra’s humble opinion.
He stretched his fingers habitually, fixing one red fingerless glove before he’d had enough of his own avoidance of the inevitable. His thumb mashed against the dully glowing door button and the air pressures gave with a quiet hiss, leaving the panel to slide open sideways and out of the way.
The light inside was perceptibly stronger, especially where it pooled over the few worktables in the middle. Elsewhere, it hinted green; a power-saving mode was Courier’s guess. His nose was immediately assaulted by that lingering scent of mechanical oil and burning metal that never quite left a regularly used warship workshop.
He couldn’t immediately spot the mechanic, but his scent was here; old and new. And by scent it wasn’t so much the smell of someone unwashed or something similar, though much could be said about the poor stained and battered mechanical suit the dude wore. It was more so that scent played a much bigger role among Itra than many other races. For him in particular, it did make tracking down people significantly easier… but it also sometimes told him things about them that he didn’t necessarily want to know.
“Ah, Blue Eyes,” came from behind a tall panel directly to Courier’s left, and he glanced over in time to see the dreaded redhead pull his goggles off the slightly upturned ridge of his nose to dangle from around his neck. The nickname almost made him wince, but he smoothly transitioned his expression into a smile.
“Hello, Chiave. Don’t mean to bother, I just came by to see if you’d managed to have a look at my blade?”
In the time it took him to produce the greeting, the mechanic had already cockily made his way over, bushy amber Vulpo tail in tow, grin in place and all, and threw an arm around Courier’s shoulders, pulling him into a one-armed hug that left very little in terms of personal space. Or regards for personal scent, but that much was a given. He smelled of some faint sandalwood concoction (morning shower gel?), a bit of coffee- no milk (breakfast, likely), and a whole load of Siracusan cockiness.
And just like that, Courier was being led by the shoulders to one of the narrow disinfection capsules on the far wall.
“A look?” the grin never faded, wide enough to show canines - which Courier decided didn’t bide well. “Psh. I did more than that. I made it amazing. Took an all-nighter but just wait and see.”
Oh no he did not. He better not. Courier licked his lips in frustration, but the evergreen smile never faltered. He managed to take a hefty step away from under the slightly taller man’s arm as the other reached to turn off the capsule program. “You really didn’t need to bother. As I specified when I dropped it off, I just needed a little guard securing-”
It was as though his words had fallen on deaf Vulpo ears.
“I saw the guard being all busted up and then remembered you like being all protected and shit and use it to block attacks instead o’ dodging so like-” Chiave turned to him to gesture vaguely in that Southern fashion as the capsule released the cleansing gas still holding the blade (and Courer’s dread-filled gaze), “I added a little bit o’ juice in there. Chiave style.”
The gas dissipated some and- much to Courier’s surprise, his poor trusty sword didn’t look visibly different. So he chanced a glance over to Chiave whose hands were casually following his explanation. It wasn’t overly exaggerated, but rather paced, well added in to add emphasis and perhaps draw attention. Yes, his hands were rather wide. He wasn’t wearing the leather protection gloves so his forearms were bare, wine-red suit sleeves rolled up. The scars found on his arms were proof he’d had stuff blow up all over them before… or rather a testament of the rough life he’d lived so far, with that daredevil attitude of his to boot. Courier mused he probably expected him to be scarred on some level but… actually seeing the marks strung a couple of chords. They’d both bled for their beliefs and carried the proof of it. It just so happened that Courier’s was protecting his master’s life, while Chiave’s was… diving headfirst into things without thinking or likely something along those lines.
“So, say you run into some idiots that want a piece of all of this,” the Vupo went on, vaguely gesturing to Courier’s abdomen and hips, before turning to reach for the freshly sanitized weapon as though he hadn’t just done that. “You press here, and there’s a generator I put in the grip- and zap!” he exclaimed way too excitedly, hand splaying dramatically in some notion of an explosion. “Fuckin’ tazed. Givin’ you time to serve him like some fuckin’ affettato with melone on the side. You can just freaking sashimi the coglione and bust his ass open like an expired Poly gel-pack and he’d still be left gaping like he’s waiting for his balls to drop and his mama’s waiting at home with sleepy-time coco.”
Chiave looked extremely pleased with that explanation, though Courier found himself having questions. Many questions. And not as much patience to phrase them as nicely as he’d like, but he tried. “That sounds… impressive. But wouldn’t that disrupt the blade’s balance? A generator sounds like quite a bit of added weight…” he ventured, already mentally preparing himself to how much it’ll cost him to reverse these ‘improvements’ when back in Kjerag.
Chiave gripped the weapon, expertly tossing it up into the air and catching it by the scabbard, just below the shiny new blade guard. He popped the guard up with a worn, calloused thumb, offering the grip towards the Itra - but not before leaning in close. Courier didn’t realize he’d taken half a step back subconsciously before he felt his heel touch against the panel behind him. The mechanic leaned closer still, but now it was a matter of principle. Feet firmly planted on the ground, he wasn’t going to get cornered like that by no one - even if it meant having the rest of this conversation nose to nose.
Their noses did almost touch, with Chiave only leaving a breath between them, sword's hilt still offered over. “Aw, you scared you can’t carry a couple of grams of generator extra?” he chided.
The Itra’s smile was stiff. “Far let it feel as though I am ungrateful… I was referring to how a few grams can change the balance of a sword. And so require getting accustomed to. I worry only that I might not have the luxury of that time.”
There was an undertone to the daring way Chiave was leaning over him, his elbow planted on the panel just beside Courier’s shoulder. And it wasn’t that Courier couldn’t sense it, or couldn’t place that thicker, deeper scent. Or couldn’t gauge what kind of thoughts made the Vulpo’s amber eyes dart to his lips, before forcibly lifting up to hold his scrutinizing gaze. He’d been around the block long enough to know what such a look had a potential of holding, especially within high-strung environments. But that didn’t take away from the fact that he wasn’t about to do anything about it. And was guarded enough to not let Chiave get too comfortable with trying something either, politely so. For now.
“I want you t’ go back home and then come back again, alive. Don’t think I can’t still smell blood on you,” Chiave’s voice lowered, breath blowing past the red scarf and along Courier’s neck, spurring a wave of goosebumps. “I balanced it fine, that’s a new guard. I ain’t some amateur, Blue Eyes. Take it and see.”
This could have been a perfectly good opportunity to remind the mechanic that that was not, in fact, his code name, but Courier spent the moment boring said blue eyes into the amber ones to try and read the depth of the sentence he’d just been sprung upon. On one hand, yes, Karlan Trade was important to Rhodes Island, and he was the man going in between so his death would be a headache for a lot of people involved. But he’d never pegged Chiave to think outside the box to weigh the pros and cons of wasting a full night of sleep installing upgrades that hadn’t been commissioned for a messenger of a partnered business. No, this sounded pretty personal, with far more self-serving intentions. Or, in other words, Courier was observing a rather high possibility that he was legitimately being hit on.
He grasped for the hilt of the sword still offered to him and drew it out. It was a bit of an arm flex with Chiave still in his face, though the mechanic did lean back ever so slightly to observe the hold.
In the limited space, Courier made a couple of quick maneuvers. He could tell the sword was a hint heavier and the shock-trigger button was not as easily accessible as Chiave had made it sound, possibly because he hadn’t accounted for his own hands being bigger than the Itra’s. The biggest issue he supposed was that the new guard was unflatteringly plain compared to the overall design, but still balanced to perfection, new generator and all.
As soon as his testing movements had stopped, Courier could feel the amber gaze boring into him expectantly. No matter how the man rubbed him, and whether he had underlying intentions of doing that literally, they were still in a workplace and the messenger knew how to conduct himself.
“I’m impressed,” he admitted it straight to the man’s face. “I’ll give it a try. I’ll let you know about how it performs in battle. Thank you for taking your time with it.”
He half-expected the man to react in some sort of… loud outburst of self-elation. He’d come to expect something of the sort after all the times they’d been sent upfront on missions to hold the line and buy the rest of the team time. Courier had always been the diligent one hanging by the com line for commands and staying on the defensive, while Chiave’s tactics were more along the line of ignoring all commands, drawing attention, and then blowing enemies up when surrounded. Courier had his preferences and opinions on the matter, of course… but to say he could pinpoint exactly what Chiave’s tactic was in the present scenario, with him, would be a lie.
Especially because Chiave merely smirked and added a “Yeah… good. You do that.”
Courier gave him a couple more moments to get any loud exclamation out of his system, or perhaps realize he was still half leaning over him and move back, or maybe even try some macho takeover Vulpo seduction tactic that he could nip in the bud with the sword he still had drawn… but nothing of the sort happened.
Instead, the Siracussan merely blurted: “You should drop your convenience smile more often. Doesn’t look as good on you. Doesn’t touch your eyes.”
It was… the dumbest, most disarming thing Courier’d heard in a hot minute. When had he dropped said smile… he’d lost track. Screw this hot mess of a Vulpo.
In one swift motion, he slipped from between the panel behind his back and the mechanic’s toned chest (his suit zipper needed fixing, as did its owner’s manners actually…) and tugged the scabbard right out of his hold. He was already pressing his thumb into the door release button before he offered the man a reply, with his “fake smile”, of course, while the door slid open.
“You should get some rest more often. It’d look good on you. Make you come across less desperate.”
There was no tantrum, no yelling, nothing in his wake as he made his way down the hallway and away from workshop #05, just the sound of the automatic door closing behind him. He wondered if he’d been too harsh, it wasn’t often he chose to not be polite. But he had bigger problems to tackle now with a sword he wasn’t used to using and a long trek ahead of him. If Chiave couldn’t take as much as he dished out, then that was just as well, no skin off anyone’s back.
-
It was a few minutes after that Aosta, with one takeaway coffee in each hand, found Chiave leaned over a worktable with his face buried in his hands.
The white-haired sniper Lupo walked into the workshop as though sights like that weren’t uncommon. He placed one lidded takeaway cup and balanced a hard-bread square topped with cream cheese and ham on top within a reasonable distance from Chiave's elbow, before noticing the open capsule on the wall. Sipping his own coffee, he tried to remember where the button to close it was on the particular model. It was leaking sterilization gas, which was an unnecessary waste.
“What are the theatrics for, boss?” he threw over his shoulder before he remembered what had been in the capsule. “Did Courier come by for pickup?”
Chiave only dragged his face out of his hands enough to perch it onto laced fingers, staring off up at the ceiling of the workshop. “Yep,” he breathed out, voice laced with annoyance. “I swear one day I’m gonna fuckin’ lose it, shove my tongue down his throat and bend him over this bench like the piece of work he is. He won’t know what hit him, won’t know how to walk once I’m done with him - and I won’t know where the hell the Karlan Trade dough poofed off to or how the fuck not to die inside explaining shit to the Doctor.”
The tone in the impassive sniper’s voice was as even as always. “Just keep it in your pants, it’s not rocket science.”
“It is hard. And a rocket.” Came the defiant response from a face mashed against the table surface.
“Gross,” Aosta chimed in, “go to sleep. Or get it out of your system and then go to sleep. Folinic said she’s on her way to take over, I can wait for her.” He finally found the elusive button and watched the capsule close with a satisfying hiss.