Loaded for Wampa
The two Mandos come up the Mantis' ramp in a meandering fashion, the pair of them listing like a droid with a bad motivator.
Gault watches their approach.
Trace is leaning against Torian, one arm up over his shoulders, the curve of her hip pressing into his armored thigh. Her feet leave the ground a few times, churning air, as he propels her along. The kid's hands twitch whenever she takes a lurching step, as if he wants to swing her up and into his arms but doesn't quite dare.
They paint quite a picture.
Gault catches a whiff of them when they finally stumble their drunken way on board: they both smell like frost-covered durasteel and frozen sweat and booze. Mostly booze. Torian can still walk – Gault assumes the only time the kid can't walk is when he's dead – but whatever they've been drinking smells like it could strip the paint off a starfighter.
Trust the two Mandos to get drunk on Hoth. Worst date ever?
Gault grins maniacally at the two of them and folds his arms over his chest. "Welcome home, kids. You just made curfew."
Trace raises her helmeted head and nods two big nods at him, then reaches out and quacks her free hand open and closed a few times a bare inch from his face. This phase of drunkenness is familiar: she's stopped talking and become blurrily expressive, all postures and gestures. This particular combination means Yeah, yeah, you're hilarious. Zip it. My head hurts when that hole in your face makes words.
Torian's head is bare, his hair wet and crazy-looking, as if it froze in the cold air on the planet's surface and then melted a few times. His face is flushed; Gault's unsure if it's from drink or windburn or his body reacting to her nearness. Maybe all three. The kid is pink all the way down his neck, up to his ears. It's impressive.
Torian says nothing, but the look in his eyes says Help me. To Gault, it's as clear and bright as an evac flare burning in a night sky.
Well, then. Alrighty-roo.
Gault takes a deliberate step back to size them both up, scratching his chin in ponderous, theatrical thought. He makes the kid wait for it.
"OK, Trace. Guess what time it is." Gault doesn't wait for an answer, swooping back in to disarm her. "It's beddy-bye time."
She deflects his incoming hands, fending him off with two quick swipes of her gauntlet.
"Ow."
Well, there's nothing wrong with her reflexes.
Gault regroups, shaking out his fingers. He gives her a dirty look.
She wags one finger back and forth at him – naughty-naughty – and then pantomimes freezing him in carbonite with a flourish of her arm that isn't draped around Torian's neck.
No wonder the kid needs help.
Gault tries another approach, letting his voice turn sing-songy, cajoling her. "Come on, Tracey, you know the drill - let Uncle Gault see your BLAST-ers. Wow, that didn't sound creepy at all."
She winces at his voice, her shoulders trying in vain to meet her ears, but doesn't protest further. Gault takes that as a good sign and attempts to relieve her of her blaster belt without being set on fire.
The motion makes her sway back and then lean against Torian, her head ducking beneath the shelter of his jaw, her back to his chest, but her attention focused on Gault; he gets the distinct impression looking into her T-shaped visor that she's daring him to try something stupid. Stupider than disarming a drunk Mando, apparently. How stupid can you get?
Torian looks as if the corners of his mouth are going to meet his jaw on either side of his chin and drop off the bottom of his face with the amount of frowning he is doing. Gault knows his pet name for the Champion plucks against the Mando's nerves; he can feel it, the same twang of annoyance he feels emanating from the kid every time he calls him kid.
Gault presses his luck, and pokes again.
"Watch it, kid. Your face will get stuck like that." Gault gets her weapon belt off in record time and then wrangles her out of her jetpack. He frisks her as delicately as possible. She has grenades somewhere, he knows it.
Torian, as usual, says nothing, his expression unchanging, occupied with holding her vaguely upright, his hands conspicuously above board on her shoulders. He does, however, turn pinker.
Gault confiscates her grenades and anything else remotely incendiary she's squirreled away on her person. He stows her ammo in the hold and then peers at the two Mandos – one standing perfectly straight, the other semi-vertical only with help, both of them obliterated – and gauges the narrow stairs up to her quarters. He could just dump her in a bunk downstairs and take the penthouse suite for himself but chances are the kid isn't having that.
Gault hands her blaster belt to Torian and then turns to present his back to her, stooping slightly. "Your chariot awaits, Trace." When she doesn't move he glances over his shoulder at her and raises an eyebrow. "Giddy-up."
He can feel Torian's look of incredulous confusion burning a hole through the back of his head as she leaves the shelter of the kid's arms to climb up onto his back as if she's getting on a speeder. Gault is too smug not to smirk but thankfully he's facing away from Torian as her arms circle his neck.
"Watch your head, princess. Remember what happened last time."
He expects a slap upside his head (or maybe his ass) but she only holds on tighter, the metal of her gauntlets digging in around his neck. She must be ready for beddy-bye if she's not giving him any further shit in return. Her helmet clunks into his shoulder twice in an encouraging way. Giddy-up, indeed.
"Watch the rear, kid." That didn't sound smug. Nope, not a bit.
Trace is heavier than Mako. Of course, she's more endowed than Mako. And Mako spends her off hours out of armor, like most non-crazy, non-Mandalorians.
When they get up to her room Torian hesitates on the threshold, looking lost, absurdly awkward in his heavy armor. Gault realizes the kid's never been in her quarters before, and is almost positive none of his fantasies included a certain Devaronian being in there too. That makes Gault grin and plow further into the inner sanctum as if he belongs there.
Gault drops her on the bed like a bag of dirty drawers. She sways into the mattress, bracing herself with a limb in each corner as if the room is spinning, holding on. He covers her up, fully armored, helmet and all, settling the blanket over her from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes, as if she's dead.
"Nighty-night, Trace. Don't let the giant space bugs bite."
She says nothing under the blanket.
Torian frowns at him from the doorway.
Gault retreats from the bed, replying to the frown as if the Mando had spoken. "We've been over this, kid. She doesn't take off her armor. Ever. But, hey, feel free, please, if you know better. I'll even help you pick up all your teeth."
Torian says nothing, but moves forward into the room cautiously, a high-wire act of feigned sobriety, pausing only to set her blasters down on the desk. He edges closer to sit on the side of her bed, waiting a beat when his weight dips the mattress. When she doesn't move or make a sound he gingerly pulls the blankets down to her shoulders and begins to remove her helmet.
His hands move with a gentleness that Gault wouldn't have credited the Mando with, except maybe when it came to her. Ordinarily the two of them spent a good portion of their off hours beating the crap out of each other with powered-off electrostaves in the cargo bay. She isn't exactly the delicate type.
When Torian pulls off her helmet Gault catches a glimpse of faded warpaint, the smoky curve of eyelashes against her freckled cheeks. Then her eyes pop open, green and wild in her face, staring up at her fellow Mando. Her expression changes drastically – from drunken bleariness to triumphant recognition – and her arm darts out before Gault can begin to track it, quicker than he can think. He has a bad mental flash of oh-shit-did-I-miss-her-FLAMETHROWER- oh-FUCK-ME but she only points directly at Torian with the grave certainty of the completely shitfaced.
Nobody moves. Gault instantly becomes as still and alert as something with horns can be; in short, transforming into a tree near the foot of the bed. It's instinctive, and it's kept him alive this long.
She stares at Torian as if they are the only two people left in the galaxy, arm out in front of her like an arrow. Her gaze transforms, from drunkenly accusing to heated, smoky, voracious, as powerful and devastating as a lightning strike forking down.
Voomp.
Gault knows that look isn't for him, not even a little bit (and could she have been any clearer about that?) but the temperature in her cabin seems to rise just the same. That look is less promise than it is pure, delicious, threat.
Forget her flamethrower; he's positive that look is going to turn the kid into a pile of ash.
Torian's eyes are wide, transfixed on hers, her helmet still in his hands. He doesn't move, as if he's waiting for the crash of thunder. Gault can almost hear a vital part of the kid's brain jamming, a bolt busting loose from a lever and skittering down a drain somewhere. He expects her pointing finger to turn over and crook, beckoning her Mando into the bed: threat galvanizing into demand. Into now, damnit.
She leans forward. Torian swallows, the dry click loud in the silence. She keeps leaning until her accusing finger reaches Torian's nose. Her gaze crackles, smolders, and then she very deliberately pushes his nose like a button, her lips moving as if she's saying something, one word, one syllable, something with an O in the middle of it, but no sound comes out of her mouth.
She gives him one final searing look, a sudden smile that is wicked and surprisingly goofy and all teeth, and then The Grand Champion of the Great Hunt flops back and pulls the covers back over her head without a word.
Kaboom.
Torian takes a long time to blink, a quick shake of his head rattling his brain back into some semblance of working order.
Gault catches his eye and tips his good horn towards the door. Retreat?
Exit, stage right. Down to the galley.
"Yikes. Now I need a drink." Gault makes a beeline for the alcohol.
Torian sits down, becoming perfectly still and staring straight ahead. He has a stunned, defeated look on his face, as if he is seriously considering bashing his head into the bar over and over again until his life starts making some sense.
"Kid?" Gault squints at him warily, expecting the sudden appearance of vomit.
"What did you mean?" Torian's voice is huskier than usual, fuzzy and deep. "What'd I do to her?"
He speaks.
Gault vaults the tiny bar and grabs one of the glowing bottles, then twirls it around like a four-armed bartender droid. "What are you having, kid? I make a mean Meltdown." When Torian doesn't answer, he grabs a shaker and shrugs. "More for me, then."
Torian wordlessly stares at him while he makes his drink. The kid's silence is unnerving. It makes him babble. More than usual.
"She got like this before. I mean, it was a little different, less dancing, more drinking. Way more fighting. She got very punchy. I think that was the night she broke her hand. Again. You know, because breaking it once wasn't enough. Quite an evening, all around. Found her and Mako passed out butt to butt in her bed."
Torian frowns at him again.
"Not like that, kid. Believe me, it wasn't anything like that. I would've taken pictures."
Torian's expression changes, his eyes growing darker, bluer. He doesn't clench his fists, doesn't grit his teeth, doesn't say a word, but the way the Mando shifts his weight lets Gault know it is getting dangerously close to Zero Beat-Down Hundred Hours, Standard Devaronian Punching Time.
Gault raises his hands and gets out of immediate pummeling range, abandoning his drink.
"Easy, kid." In his experience, it is never a good time for that.
"What was it like?" Torian is giving him a chance to reconsider his choice of words. Charitable of him. Maybe he knows Trace will be pissed if he slaps around her favorite Devaronian. The thought almost makes him smile. Almost; smiling at this point would be impolitic. It will also probably get him punched, which he is trying to avoid. The Mando has a nasty left hook.
Gault pauses, considering. "Sisterly." He says the word carefully and, to their mutual surprise, sincerely.
"What happened?"
Gault flaps his arms, glancing sadly at his drink, waaaaaaay over there next to the semi-pissed-off Mando. "I don't know, kid. You'd have to ask her. Or Mako, probably. Tracey was a little out of it."
"Happened before. Why blame me now?"
"She was with you, wasn't she? I blamed Mako last time. All this bonding, it's bad for morale. Or, something."
"What?"
"Trace has always been better at the work-hard part than the play-hard part of being an independent bounty hunting woman of galactic kick-assery."
Torian gives him the strangest look, one eye squinted half-shut, the other bulging out of his face, as if his reply has tied the kid's brain into a knot. Gault takes that to mean please clarify, kind sir.
"I mean she doesn't get out much. She needs to blow off steam every once in a while. Since you got here, well."
Torian keeps staring at him, waiting for him to complete the sentence.
Gault scratches his stump, thinking of how to put this delicately. She wants to repopulate Clan Cadera with your blonde Mandalorian babies you dumb shit just doesn't seem delicate enough. Maybe Torian would appreciate the unvarnished truth? Gault has a sudden vision of the Mando grabbing his techstaff and beating him about the face and neck until he's a bloody mess on the floor.
Nah.
The kid will have to catch him first.
Gault lets out a long-suffering sigh. He's had enough of Mando mating rituals. Isn't it supposed to be easier than this? Don't they just throw each other down on a pile of vanquished enemies or something?
Does the kid even realize that if he'd played his cards right in the cantina, he could be butt to butt in bed with her right now?
There is a sudden whoosh of frigid air from the ship's entrance, then the muted, annoying babble of the droid.
Mako's back.
Gault thanks the stars for the bail-out.
"Ah, speak of the devil cyborg."
Mako looks as if she's come from someplace moderately less frozen than Hoth, her cheeks flushed with peachy color, a fur-lined hood pulled up over her head. She's drinking a gigantic container of boozy-looking purple fruit-slush through a straw. Gault is instantly jealous. She's bright-eyed and humming, the way she always gets after an exceptionally good slicing mission. A floating skiff trails behind her bearing at least a half dozen credit lockboxes.
Show off.
Mako's gaze travels between the two of them, taking in what Gault belatedly realizes looks an awful lot like a male bonding moment. She turns and stares at him as if he's sprouted an extra horn while taking an enormous, meaningful, loud slurp of her drink.
Everyone on the ship is drunk except him. He is so renegotiating his contract.
Gault holds up his hands in surrender. "Whatever's wrong, it wasn't me."
"You know, Gault, I seriously doubt that." Mako peers at Torian with her concerned healer's look, as if she expects to find blood. "Where's Morro?"
"Sleeping." Gault manages to imbue the single word with so much innuendo even he isn't quite sure what he means by it. Unconscious? Dead? Mostly dead? Two wookiees short of a picnic? He points at Torian. "The kid here wants to know about the time you and you know who you know what. Whatted."
Mako's eyebrows twist into a delicate knot. "What?"
Gault nods triumphantly. "Exactly. It's like we speak each other's unspoken language. Fluently."
Torian grips his head tight, as if his brain is trying to run away. "No."
The knot between Mako's brows doubles. "No what?"
Torian stares straight ahead, his expression one of excruciating pain. "Whatting."
Gault can't help but laugh at that, risking both an ass-kicking and a possible, additional kick to his shin from the cyborg. And his shins are delicate, damn it. He dances out of kicking range, holding his stomach, when Mako refocuses her eyebrows on him.
"Wh- Gault."
That makes Gault laugh more.
Torian rises suddenly, his posture rigid, as if he's about to perform an about-face. He leaves the galley without saying a word.
Mako watches Torian leave with one eyebrow raised and takes another huge sip of her drink, as if she's determined not to let the two of them kill off her buzz.
Gault sees a golden opportunity to snag his own drink, and a platinum opportunity to escape just in case the kid has gone to get his rifle.
"Ah, my work here is done." Gault grins at Mako and pats her on the head, fluffing the fur. He toasts her with his drink, and is amused to find she clinks her cup against his in drunken reaction. "Welcome home, sweetheart."
Exit, stage left.
Author's note: Gault stole a line from The Sure Thing. Best John Cusack movie ever. Driving with a load not properly tied down.
Note from management: Heavens to Murgatroyd.