4. The Fury (En route to Nar Shadaa)
Malavai Quinn was a man of exacting standards and efficiency. He installed himself on the ship, aptly named 'The Fury', and quickly managed to make himself indispensable. It was a trick he had been using for most of his career, to make it so things cannot run if your absence. He quickly learned all the complicated or boring tasks no one wanted to do, wrote any notes in a shorthand incomprehensible to anyone other than himself, and made sure to take exactly two days of shore leave once everyone was good and used to things being done without them having to think about them. The resulting panic, and relief once he returned, made sure no one entertained thoughts of getting rid of him.
He tried the same thing on the Fury, and quickly found that he may have made a grave error in becoming crucial to the workings of the ship. Vette started doing less, and to stop things from getting out of hand, he picked up her duties too. Then Ven'fir started getting restless on the long trip, so he made sure to come up with things to keep the Sith entertained. Then a few old acquaintances remembered his existence and asked for some help with an assignment or two. Lord Baras sent him more emails that all the previous combined, asking for reports on everything from Ven'fir's combat training, to asking if his apprentice was eating enough vegetables. He was used to tiredness, but even he was feeling the exhaustion as he fiddled with the squeaky pilot's chair on the bridge. He sighed, his uniform jacket over another chair and his undershirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He lay on his back on the hard floor, fully aware that fixing squeaky chairs was not his job. Still, no one else seemed to be stepping up to do it, so here he was. He fumbled for a wrench to tighten an offending bolt, and let his mind wander. He had asked Toovee to handle this, but the droid was fixated on repainting the Sith's quarters. Again.
Footsteps drew him from his thoughts, too heavy to be Vette and not metallic enough to be Toovee. Ven'fir, then.
The Sith had been a relentless flirt, keeping up a constant stream of low level lewd remarks that the newly minted Captain never felt he would be able to handle with grace. He was unused to attention of this sort. He had been propositioned before, but usually by people wanting a favour, or those who were looking for an officer in their pocket. Most Imperial officers just dealt with any amorous Sith as they came, but Quinn had never felt comfortable with it. He supposed he had been on secluded Balmorra for far too long, and Sith were a surprising rarity there.
He heard the footsteps stop, and shifted to wriggle out from under the wide chair. He heard Ven'fir chuckle, and his weight settle against something.
"Not that I don't enjoy the sight of you half out of uniform and on your back," he started, and Quinn mentally sighed. There it was. "I must ask, what are you doing?"
The Captain extricated himself from the chair, and quickly stood up, realising too late his hair was probably a mess, and there was a little smudge of machine grease on his cheek. He scrubbed at it, embarrassed, as he met his Lords eyes. "I'm fixing the chair, m'lord." He murmured, "You said it was annoying you this morning."
Ven'fir's eyebrows headed for his hairline. "I suppose it was annoying, but you didn't need to take the thing apart and fix it today, Quinn." He said simply, as though Malavai's dedication was weird. "I didn't know your skills included 'fix-it man' too."
Quinn allowed himself a little smile. "They don't, my lord. I would avoid sitting in this one, if I were you."
Ven'fir's eyebrows rose higher in surprise and he laughed.
Quinn liked that laugh. It was utterly unrestrained, and while the volume sometimes made him wince, it was always refreshing to hear honest laughter, and not the quiet titters scheming Sith managed to let out.
"Vette can have that one then," the Mirialan grinned. "You've been on duty since… well, since before I got up this morning, and I'm about to head off to bed now." He said, shrewd. "Have you taken a break?"
Quinn fixed his hair as best he could and straightened his undershirt, wishing he had kept his uniform jacket on. He felt distinctly unclothed in the thin garment. "I don't need-"
"If you drop dead from exhaustion, I'll have you posthumously demoted." The Sith grunted, narrowing yellow eyes. "Besides, l you're making the rest of us look bad."
Quinn blinked. He hadn't thought of that. Was he showing up his superior? That wasn't good. His thoughts must have shown on his face, because Ven'fir sighed. "That was a joke, Quinn."
The Captain felt stupid, and couldn't help his skin flushing. He could feel treacherous crimson suffusing his cheeks, and ducked his head. How embarrassing, could he not even communicate like a normal person? Clearly not.
"Oh. My apologies, my lord." He murmured, head still bowed. Ven'fir grunted, and levered himself off the workstation he had been leaning on. "I… Apologies."
The Sith waved a hand, yawning and showing off impressively sharp teeth. "Whatever. Have fun with the chairs."
Then he was gone, and the Captain stood there like an idiot, feeling embarrassed and annoyed with himself, his hair a mess and oil on his cheek.
There were a lot of things Quinn liked to keep hidden. Certain circumstances regarding his family, he would rather not share with anyone, for example. He wrote a letter detailing his promotion to his mother out of obligation only, and she wrote one back for the same reason. It was short and curt, and reminded him of things he'd already failed at.
'Do not disappoint'. The letter read at the end. The unspoken 'again' was implied. He kept the letter, as he did all the others. It was not out of sentimentality, but rather as a collection of evidence. He filed it away, archiving it on his personal holo-account, and hoped never to have to look through it again. Pride that had been warming his belly was gone now, extinguished by a cool tone and not so subtle reminders of things he would rather forget.
Malavai Quinn didn't drink often, but sometimes he wished he could find something strong that tasted like regret and bad decisions.
Gradually, Quinn settled into life on the ship over the next few days. Toovee cooked, which was a relief since Ven'fir not only ruined anything he got his hands on, but Vette often got impatient and ate the ingredients because preparation would take too long. Malavai didn't dare let them know he was a passable cook.
Ven'fir might have been a calamity in the kitchen, but he was surprisingly adept at mixing drinks. Quinn was certain the Fury did not have a liquor cabinet in its spec, but there was one in the kitchen now, and he supposed it didn't really matter too much. It was odd, he mused, that the Sith was so good with mixing his own alcohol. He was, and Quinn fervently hoped no one was reading his mind right then, a spoiled brat. Spoiled brats had people to do that for them.
The Mirialan expected everything to go his way just because he wished it, and the results could be ugly when the universe didn't comply. Malavai usually couldn't stand people like that, but Ven'fir managed to be charismatic and charming enough that his episodes didn't seemed to register as much. Ven'fir was loud and possessed little tact, and even less shame. He was very open about, well, everything. It didn't help that Vette had no mouth filter either, and so Quinn was left feeling awkward and prudish alone.
He had never asked outright, but the Mirialan had told him anyway, about how an alien managed to be sponsored by one of Dromund Kaas' most noble families. His parents had been Jedi, excommunicated from the order for their affair, but still loyal. The Polaris matriarch could not bear children of her own, and found the idea of raising a Jedi child as Sith to be deeply amusing. So, the stolen child became Ven'fir Polaris, scion of a noble house, all because of a joke.
Quinn didn't pry, but the topic suddenly became frigid and the Sith didn't wish to speak of it further. The captain hadn't known what to say to that, so had simply stayed quiet, awkward and feeling something wriggling in the pit of his stomach. The Mirialan had given a brittle grin, and traced one finger over the geometric tattoos over his face. There weren't many of them, and they were surprisingly subtle, for such a character so larger than life as Ven'fir.
"Went through a teenage rebellion," he had said, his skin giving way to stark black ink. "Wanted to get these done, like proper Mirialan's do. My mother did this when she saw," He said with another horrible grin, his finger now moving over the scar that marred his face. It stretched from his forehead down to his cheek, over the bridge of his nose, neatly ruining the geometric designs. "I didn't get any more."
Quinn swallowed painfully, and refused to let his face show any of the emotions churning in his gut. Pity was one, and so was an odd feeling of dread and kinship. He managed to catch himself before he touched the mark on his own face, much less obvious but just as troublesome.
'Not quite perfect', a voice seemed to whisper, and it sounded like his mother. He ignored it, like always.
It wasn't until Quinn had the unfortunate experience to field a call from Lieutenant Quisun, who blushed and stuttered and looked both hopeful and nervous, did the Captain realise that Ven'fir might be serious about wanting him in his bed. Lieutenant Quisun had given Ven'fir some trivial task back on Balmorra, and Quinn couldn't for the life of him figure out why the Lieutenant was now after the Sith's personal holo frequency. It wasn't until the dejected Lieutenant disappeared from the holo, did Vette fill him in.
"Ven'fir had him," she said with a crooked grin, leaning against the doorframe. "Behind the tent at Sundari outpost."
Quinn felt himself go pink, his mouth falling open in surprise. The Twi'lek smirked, relishing his discomfort. "Yeah, I made myself scarce for that. You sent him away though, how cold." She snickered, pausing and eyeing him in a way that made the Captain feel self-conscious. "He looks a bit like you." She laughed, and made to leave. Quinn was left standing alone, red faced and with the realisation that Ven'fir seemed to have a type, and he was it.
That was not a cheering thought.
Quinn had been waiting for Vette to finish in the bathroom, listening to her warble. She was thankfully quick in the shower, which she said was because she didn't have hair to wash, which Quinn agreed probably helped. He yawned and shook himself awake again, wanting nothing more than to shower and go to bed. He had hit the training room after his shift ended, and enjoyed a whole half hour of uninterrupted exercise before Ven'fir had found him and decided to watch. The Sith had smirked and leaned against the wall, and the officer had done his best to ignore the pricking feeling of being stared at for the next half an hour. It was on some level, flattering. Malavai was significantly older than the Sith, and the fact that Ven'fir seemed to be intent on chasing him? That was utterly not on the cards, but a compliment all the same. Of course, Ven'fir shamelessly hit on him every time he could, and took every opportunity to get his hands on the Captain. Quinn did not enjoy physical contact much, and was even less used to it, especially from a young, attractive man like the Sith. He sighed, feeling his skin crawl as he recalled warmth seeping through his clothes as Ven'fir came over to help put the weights away, the Mirialan letting his hand rest on the small of his back as he leaned around him. He had jumped at the contact, and Ven'fir hadn't seemed to notice or care his Captain was uncomfortable.
His mind sometimes entertained thoughts of what it would be like to let Ven'fir do the things he often suggested. He tried not to think, but it was hard not to when the attention was constant. It was odd, in that while the Captain was curious enough to have the occasional steamy daydream, he would be the first to refuse such an offer, not least because it was a huge breach of protocol. In his experience, Sith got what they wanted and when they were bored, tossed their spent entertainment away. He refused to lose his job over a one night stand who wouldn't protect him afterwards. He swallowed painfully as his head swam, his skin crawling as he recalled hands and teeth and perfumed skin, pretty smiles and an iron grip.
He burst from his own thoughts as the door to the bathroom opened and Vette stepped out in a cloud of steam, a towel wrapped around herself. It was short and Quinn quickly averted his eyes, awkward. The Twi'lek gave him an unimpressed stare. "What, can't handle more alien than you usually see?" She asked, lip curling and eyes narrow. The Captain sighed, and kept his eyes away.
"Why don't you have clothes on?" he muttered, pained and voice clipped. Vette shrugged, causing her towel to ride up an inch or two over her thighs.
"Dropped them in a puddle." She answered lightly. "Besides, you didn't answer my question."
Quin allowed himself to turn his head back and meet her eyes, folding his arms. He was still in his training gear, and he regretted not changing out of the short sleeved top as he felt steam condensate on his bare skin. He usually wore long sleeves, gloves and a high collar precisely because it covered so much, and this was beyond uncomfortable.
"Vette, it's not proper." He muttered, sighing. Maker, he was tired. "It has nothing to do with you being- Uh, an alien." The words sounded uncooperative in his mouth, stumbling and inelegant.
The Twi'lek scoffed. "Right," she said drawing the word out. "So you, the fanatical Imperial, don't hate aliens? Is that what you're trying to tell me?"
Quinn wondered how this was his life. A Twi'lek grave robber in a too small towel was questioning him on his attitude towards the socio-political viewpoint of the Empire, while they both served on an alien Sith's starship, chasing Jedi across the galaxy. He sighed, and looked a little lost.
"I've not really thought about it." He managed, lamely. He just wanted a shower.
Vette blinked at him.
"You've… You've never thought about it?" she parroted. "You've honestly never noticed the slavery, the discrimination, the barefaced cruelty and racism that your Empire promotes every day?"
Quinn wanted to scream. "No," he muttered instead. "It's really not something I have noted, or have much of an opinion on. I don't want to wipe all aliens off the galaxy," he said, sounding tetchy. "But I also don't feel the need to go on a crusade to free any of them. I don't know many aliens personally, save you and Lord Polaris. I don't want to murder either of you, if that helps." He said, eyes narrowed. He could feel himself getting frustrated, and desperately tried to calm himself. "So no, I don't think about it much. Now, can I please go and take a shower?" He knew his tone was nothing like polite, and by Vette's raised eyebrow, he was looking rather frazzled.
She snorted, flicking lekku over her shoulder. "Fine. Keep your eyes closed. One day you'll realise that doing nothing is almost as bad as the ones who hunt us for sport." She said simply, and turned to leave, leaving him standing there dumbly, annoyed and confused. His mind was churning now, and there went any hope of a restful night's sleep. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, trudging into the shower.
It wouldn't be until he was done and groping blindly in the steam, did he realise Vette had also stolen all the towels.