Chapter 99: Wash's Wacky Christmas

"Ah, Christmas." Jersey smiled as she steamed into Tokyo bay with the warm rays of a Christmas morning sun bathing her superstructure. It'd been a long, cold, wet, miserable trip over, and she was pretty sure parts of her bra would stay damp for the next week.

But she could put all that aside for now. She was almost to dry, warm land. Soon enough, she'd be able to strip naked and sink into a steaming hot bath to soak for the next however many fucking hours she wanted to. Just thinking about water that was actually warm lapping against her bare skin made the battleship shiver with anticipation.

This was going to feel so good. She could picture it now, a belly full to bursting with Christmas dinner and a steaming hot tub all to herself.

Or… maybe not to herself. If she played her cards right, she might get some fucking eye candy out of the structurally-superfluous tittybitch with a hatred for shirts that made the fucking Nazis seem tolerant. Maybe fucking… something God knows Musashi wasn't good for anything else.

Jersey almost let her train of thought drift further. CNO knows she'd been feeling cranky ever since she put to sea, she could use a little night battle to work off the stress. But the big battleship quashed those thoughts with a hard bite to her tongue. She was a fucking battleship of the United States navy. And she had a… a… a friend. Right. Yes, that was it.

But most of all, Jersey was looking forwards to one thing in particular. "I want fucking KFC."

Prinz Eugen pivoted on her heel and shot an adorably confused look at her cruiserweight companions. "KFC?"

"Kentucky Fried Chicken," explained Lou.

"Oh." Prinz Eugen's precisely engineered Teutonic features gleamed with the kind of utter bewilderment only a Prussian cruiser ceded to the American navy just long enough to face the brunt of its newest weapon before reincarnating as a pretty blond girl could manage. "This explains nothing."

Lou chuckled. "It's chicken, yeah?"

"I know what chicken is!" Prinz Eugen bristled Germanically.

"But you flour 'em, spice 'em and fry 'em," Lou smiled and patted her slender belly. "Not as good as catfish, but damn good."

"This I know," said the stoically bewildered German, "But what does it have to do with Christmas."

"Literally fucking nothing." Jersey tugged at her scarf to keep it sitting right. "Japan is a fucking bizarre place that exists purely as an example to sane countries of what not to do."

Kongou shrugged, "Dess."

"Thank you, teaboat," Jersey dipped her head, but she as too far into her tirade to bother actually looking at the smirking British-built battleship. "But the fucking point of the matter is, KFC is fucking delicious as shit."

"Shit does not seem very delicious," said Prinz Eugen.

"Shh," Frisco patted Prinz Eugen on the head. Or at least she tried to. But she was looking at Jersey while doing so, and the non-treaty-compliant German's superior height put Frisco's pat right at chest-level.

"So," Jersey clapped her hands together and smiled. "If it gets me fucking fried chicken, I'll allow the Japanese weirdness."

"That's not the only good thing it makes," said Johnston with a lewd giggle.

Jersey didn't even need to look to know exactly what the perverted Fletcher was doing. As ways of hiding her sheer unmitigated terror, it wasn't the worst, but she really needed to add a few extra pages to her portfolio. "Johnston!" snapped Jersey, "Stop staring at Musashi's tits."

There was a pause. "I might not have been."

Jersey huffed. "Mushi, was she staring at tiddy?"

"Of course!" Musashi thundered out at the top of her capacious lungs.

"Traitor!" hissed Johnston.

"It's Musashi," opined Hoel.

"Mmm," said Heermann, "You think she'd every lie and say someone wasn't oogling her?"

"The other way around, yes," said Hoel. "But not that."

Johnston huffed, but didn't say anything. Evidently she realized her sisters had a point. Musashi would never lie in a way that made her seem less imposing and attractive. Lie and say someone as staring at her when they weren't? Yes, absolutely. But—

Wait!

"Hey!" Johnston bristled, and even her feathery headdress seemed to pout in the gentle morning breeze, "She lied! I was totally not staring at her pagodas!"

Jersey rolled her eyes. "Johnston…" But before she could chew out to the perverted little destroyer expressing so enthusiastically what parts of Jersey herself wanted to do, she noticed a division steaming out to meet her.

A division lead by Nagato.

Who was, as usual for her class, wearing a skirt that was barely longer than Jersey's gunbelt. If it wasn't for the heavy steel collar riding around her hips, Nagato's skirt would've been unbearably lewd. As it stood, the armor plating just made Nagato's chiseled belly unbearably obvious.

Jersey had to fight back the part of her that wanted to strip her on shirt off and prove that anything Japan could do, American Industrial might could do better and more sexily. She also had to suppress the part of her that was slowly drooling into her scarf.

She was so distracted by the inexplicable sex appeal of the Japanese battlewagon, she almost missed the look on her face.

Nagato's lips were pressed tightly together, tension clear in the muscles of her neck. Her eyes were glassy and slick with tears, and her gaze hovered somewhere miles behind Jersey.

"Jersey," the battleship's stern voice had a soulless, mechanical rasp to it, like she as forcing each word out through a tiny slot.

Jersey felt a pit form in her stomach that could swallow an island. "Yes?"

Nagato pulled into formation a few hundred yards abreast of the big American. Her heels clicked together and her spine stiffened to parade-ground attention. "I, Nagato," her gloved hand came up to her brow in a oiled salute, "Of the Japanese Maritime Self Defense Force am your relief."

Jersey brought her own hand up to return the salute. "O… okay," she said, a growing sense of worry building in her throat.

"You…" Nagato stopped and bit her lip. The Japanese battleship might not be as tall as Jersey, but her body rippled with muscle and strength. And she'd never looked quite as small and vulnerable as she did right now. "I… there's been a development in the Gulf."

Nagato's gaze fell to her shoes. "Captain Takeda… you should hear it from him."

Jersey tilted her head. Takeda… she knew that name. How did she know that name. There weren't any Japanese ships she knew captained by a man with that name, at least not ships she'd have any reason to be so invested in. Hell, there weren't any Japanese ships in the Gulf period, at least not ones with Captains. Just…

Just American ships.

Wisky.

"No." Jersey heard herself say the words, but it wasn't her speaking. Her body moved without her consent. Her hull knifed though the water as redlining boilers pushed her turbines all the way to their limits while she stood terrified and numb at the back of her own bridge. Crewmen pushed past her like ghosts as they manned their stations while she stood frozen like the Admiral she'd so desperately despised.

Jersey'd served twenty one years on active duty. She'd existed for more than half a century. And all that time, she'd never really known loss. She hadn't even been launched until after Midway, she'd never lost a sister—or even one of her beloved big cousins—in the line of battle.

Her friends had all died quiet, peaceful deaths. Tucked into bed as a living museum, or turned to scrap by a nation that no longer needed such instruments of warfare. It was about the best death she could imagine for a ship.

And now her beloved little sister, the littlest battleship of them all, the last battleship was… Jersey didn't even know. She could be damaged, sunk… whatever it was, it was enough to drive calm, stoic Nagato to tears.

Jersey numbly planted her feet on the waiting pier and with the last shred of consciousness her rattled mind still had grasp on, she fell into line behind a pair of waiting sailors. They were talking to her, she knew that. They might even have been talking to her in English, but she couldn't understand a word. She could barely even hear them over the horrible silence devouring her mind.

Everything around her flowed in slow motion and far to fast at the same time. People passed like shades, muttering soundless words of… sympathy? regret? Jersey didn't even know. They'd all lost sisters. Lost at the hands of her friends.

After what could have been seconds or centuries, Jersey found herself settled in front of a laptop. A sailor—or shipgirl. Kongou, maybe? Jersey honestly couldn't tell—put a friendly hand on her shoulder before leaving her alone with the man on the screen.

Jersey didn't recognize him, but she knew him right away. Captain Bill Takeda, captain. USS Wisconsin. His face was covered in bloody cuts, and a bandage stretched from the open collar of his uniform almost to his jawbone. One eye was covered in gauze, while the other had a deep gouge running over its brow.

"New Jersey," the calm, soulless voice of a man fighting to keep his own emotions in check cut though the haze like a knife. In an instant, Jersey was fully present again.

"Sir," Jersey felt her eyes melt, but she didn't fucking care.

"There's… no easy way to say this," Captain Takeda winced. His voice was raspy and weak, and ever word seemed to strain his scorched neck. "I was captain of the Wisconsin."

"I know, sir," Jersey didn't bother wiping away the tears welling up in her eyes. Even if she could get her arms to respond, she'd just smear around the mess.

"Five days ago," said Takeda, "we were defending the Panama canal when we came under submarine attack." The captain paused. His mouth hung ajar as he looked for the right words. "We're… there's only so much we know. But Wisconsin took somewhere between twelve and nineteen torpedoes. At least six of them under her keel."

Jersey paled. Torpedoes were a battleship's worst nightmare, especially a Iowa-class. And six fish under the keel… that'd break even a battleship's back. "How…" her voice cracked like shattered metal. "How many made it out?"

"Two-thousand," said Takeda, "Seven hundred and twenty-nine."

Jersey blinked back tears. Her arms felt heavy as iron and flimsy as rubber, and all she wanted to do was cry. But… that number… it couldn't be…

"Don't ask me how," said Takeda, "but she stayed together for forty-six minutes." The corner of the captain's battered mouth twitched up in a smile, "Long enough for every soul aboard to escape. Your sister went down without a soul aboard her."

Tears flowed down Jersey's face even as a smile crossed it. Her vision went blurry as her icy eyes melted to warm salt, and she cradled her head in her hands. Her sister, he beloved little sister, the littlest Iowa had died alone.

She'd died alone. Even Jersey herself couldn't claim that honor. She'd died alone in the heat of battle. Her last dying act was to tell the universe in no uncertain terms that her crew was off limits. Dying at the breakers was a good death for a warship. But dying alone at sea was the best.

Even in death, she'd done her duty. "G-good girl," Jersey whispered. She'd never in her life been so proud of her little sister.

—|—|—

Battleship Washington was beside herself with happiness. The dinner she'd cooked for Yeoman Gale had gone over brilliantly. Gale seemed to enjoy the fresh salad and hearty lasagna, even though she didn't eat nearly as much as Wash did. But more importantly, Gale had let Wash stay and eat with her! The two of them were still friends! There was still a chance that Wash could give herself to Gale and be revived with loving arms and soft, ideal-for-cuddling belly.

If… if she could ever work up the courage to confess her love to the sailor. Wash was pretty sure Gale loved women, even women who were actually ships carrying the souls of men deep within their bosoms. But… but it was still hard for her to broach the subject.

Wash was just another battleship. A good one, yes, but she lacked the spectacular pretense of the Iowa sisters. She was a battleship. They were the greatest, most powerful battleships the world had ever or will ever see. They were larger than life heroes of steel and fire. Even decades after the dawn of the carrier, they still made nations stand up and stare at the thunder of their guns.

How could Wash ever compete with that, especially if she was competing for someone as perfect as the Yeoman. Gale was a human. She needed eight hours of sleep a night, she needed three meals a day, she needed warm clothing at night, in every way imaginable she was more fragile and delicate than Wash. Yet she woke every morning and ran herself ragged, only to wash up and report for duty.

She was spectacular. Any ship would be proud to have her as their captain. Wash was just happy to have her as a friend.

But that wasn't the only reason she'd been giggling for the past hour. She fiddled with the end of her long silk scarf in a vain attempt to burn off some of her furious nervous energy. She'd bought Gale the perfect gift this Christmas, and she couldn't wait to tell her roommate.

"Kirishima?" Wash bumped the door open with a swing of her hip. The room she shared with Kirishima wasn't the biggest room on the base—that honor went to the triple shard by the cruisers—but it wasn't the smallest either.

Wash's side of the room was pretty barren. She'd hung up a flag for decoration, and put a few of her old naval manuals on her desk next to a battered paperback of Changing Destiny she'd borrowed from Tenryuu. Kirishima's room had no such restraint.

The Japanese ship had festooned the walls with posters and flags. A Union Jack flew over her bed, and a vast rising sun battle flag was tacked up against the wall. Pillows, plushies, and lovingly washed blanket bearing the image of all four Kongous lay piled up on her bed. Her desk was all but overflowing with her computer on one side—currently playing a video of someone with a soothing English accent painting miniatures—and a vast collection of tiny yellow soldiers spilling over the rest.

"Huh?" Kirishima spun around in her spinning desk chair and scrunched up her nose to bring her glasses back in line with her sea-gray eyes. She had another one of the tiny yellow men clutched in one hand, and a fine-pointed paint brush in the other. "Oh, hi wash."

"Hello, Kirishima!" Wash let out an uncharacteristic giggle. She would have hugged the Japanese warship if her hands weren't occupied with a most-likely fragile miniature. "What're you working on?"

Kirishima set her model down, "Latest batch of Space Marines. Imperial fists this time." The littlest Kongou smoothed her abbreviated skirt and smiled, "Did you know there's a 40k chapter on base?"

Wash nodded, "I know, Gale goes there sometimes."

Kirishima chuckled, "So, any news?"

"We're…" Wash hung her head, "Still friends."

"Oh," Kirishima darted over to give the big American a nice warm hug. "That's too bad."

"But I got her a present though," said Wash. Her smile hadn't dimmed yet as she looked over at the converted battlecruiser. "I think she'll really like it."

Kirishima blinked. "Are you going to tell me or what?"

Wash blushed, and puffed out her chest a bit. "Well, I saw that she's really into miniatures and wargaming."

"And DnD," added Kirishima with a smile.

"Yes, that," said Wash. "But she doesn't have any naval stuff."

Kirishima's face instantly lost all its mirth. Her eyes narrowed to cunning slits, and her whole body tensed as her crew manned their battle stations, "A-and…."

"I bought her Axis and Allies: Naval Miniatures."

Kirisima pounced. She swung one leg over the American's lap and loomed over her, her eyes aflame with furious intensity as she planted her hands on Wash's shoulders. "Which set did you buy her!" she demanded.

Wash blinked with equal measures serenity and confusion. "War at Sea?"

"WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT!" thundered Kirishima with all the terrified rage her body could generate. "Do you know what comes with that set?"

Wash blinked again. "S-ships?"

"Yes!" Kirishima bounced off Wash's lap and darted over to the vast stack of board games slowly sneaking towards collapse at the foot of her bed. "Here," she fished a box out and tossed it to Wash, "Read it."

Wash fished the model list out of the box and started to read. Hmm, Kongou was included, as was Hood and Sammy and… oh. "I'm on this list," she said quietly.

Kirishima nodded so violently her glasses almost fell off her nose. "You bought her a little model of yourself."

"Oh," Wash paled with horror. What had she done…

"You're telling her you want her to play with you," said Kirishima with frantic energy, "You might as well have shown up naked with a big old ribbon tied around your upperworks!"

Wash cradled her chest for a moment at the thought, then the horrified realization set in. It was forward, too forward. Gale was just a friend, to do something do drastic! To a woman as kind and gentle and ladylike as Gale! "No," mumbled Wash. Had she really just torpedoed her chances with the love of her life with a single poorly-chosen gift. "N-no.."

"Okay," Kirishima started to pace frantically from one side of the room to the other. Before long, she was just bouncing from bed to bed with a worried expression on her face. "It's oh-six-thirty, yes?"

Wash nodded.

"According to my calculations," Kirishima pushed her glasses up her nose and flourished a pencil and notepad, "you should be able to stop her if you hurry."

She didn't need to say any more. Almost before the words had left her mouth, Wash was gone. Only a little depression in the bedding where she'd sat and a large pile of splinters where the door had been gave any evidence that the battleship had been there in the first place.

Kirishima clutched her hands to her chest, "Godspeed, Washington."

—|—|—

Yeoman Gale cradled a cup of steaming hot coco to her chest and chuckled as her best friend Jen Bowers handed out presents. Christmas morning on base was always a special event, but it had only gotten more adorable with the arrival of shipgirls. Akatsuki and her sisters were dressed up like little elves, and the four of them tottered around with presents balanced on their heads. It was almost unbearably adorable.

"Here you go," Inazuma tottered over to Gale with a big box wrapped in bright red paper sitting on her head.

"Aw," Gale set her mug down on the carpet and took the box off the smiling destroyer with a little bow. "Thank you, Inazuma."

Inazuma let out a blushing mew, and tottered back to the tree to pick something else to deliver. Gale wasn't entirely sure if the girls had gifts of their own, or if they even wanted anything. The seemed to enjoy delivering more than anything else.

"Let's see," Gale settled the box on her lap and turned it around to find the note. "This is from Wash."

Bowers let out a gigging "ooooooh," and deftly dodged a wad of wrapping paper sent her way.

"Let's see what it—" Gale was suddenly cut off when the door exploded open off its hinges and a busty blur of a scarf-wearing battleship bolted though the sudden opening.

"NOOOOOOO!" Wash dived though the air and smashed to the floor right in front of Gale, sending her mug a full foot into the air from the sheer shockwave. Luckily, the drink landed on the soft well of Wash's ample stern instead of anywhere where it could break.

Gale blinked.

Wash snatched the present back and cradled it to her chest. "This… uh… was meant for s-someone…" Wash glanced at the floor and her face blushed a brilliant red. "Else. S-sorry."

Gale blinked again.

Wash quietly collected herself, and backed out the door with mumbled apologies.

Gale blinked yet again. "Okay…" she glanced at Bowers, "Did anyone else just see that?"