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Chass’ head is still swimming from the alcohol when she stirs in the middle of the night to find her bunk— Yrica Quell’s bunk , she corrects herself— empty save for her own body.
Well, at least no one can say that she didn’t try. Best case scenario, she figures, is that Quell assumed she was simply too inebriated to make it to her own bunk on the upper level and silently agreed to trade for the night. The worst case is that she gets yelled at in the morning, and needling Quell will make this whole endeavor worth it in and of itself.
Right now, though, it’s late, and Chass knows she needs to get as much sleep as possible before the hangover sets in. She passed out with her clothes on, but even so she can feel a chill running through her bones, and a brief flail of her arms leads her to the conclusion that she must have tossed the blanket off during the night, her hand eventually finding its edge and making to pull it back over her—
And finding it stuck, something out of her view pinning it to the ground far too well for her to free it in her compromised state. Chass props herself up on one arm, the world tilting on its axis as she shifts herself to peer over the edge of the bunk and very nearly falls off.
There, in the dim half-light that passes for night on the Lodestar , is Yrica Quell, curled up on the cold metal floor with half of Chass’ blanket bunched under her head for a pillow. Chass knew Quell was short, of course, but she’s still struck by how small the other woman looks, how small she instinctively tries to make herself, barely making a sound as she tosses and turns on the metal.
If Chass was smart, she would leave well enough alone, not push it any further, and hope that Quell is equally disinclined to speak about this once they’re both sober.
Chass na Chadic has been called many things in her life, but smart is certainly not one of them. So she reaches out, gently brushing away the flop of blonde hair from her commander’s face, and presses one pointed fingernail directly into the center of her comically-large forehead, trying to suppress a giggle as Quell flickers back into consciousness and looks up at her with bloodshot eyes (not that Chass looks any better, in fairness).
“Y’know,” Chass’ words come out in a slurred whisper, barely audible above the hum of the ventilation systems, “generally, when you come back to find a pretty girl waiting in your bunk for you, she’s not expecting you to sleep on the floor, commander ,”
Chass can’t help the smile that spreads across her face nor the warmth that blooms in her chest as she watches Quell’s brain spin up to make the leap into the waking world. Yrica— stupid, clever, infuriatingly pretty Yrica Quell, who Chass hates and who has a remarkable talent for making Chass go all soft and mushy and unearthing feelings that she thought she had buried forever— goes completely still as her pupils adjust to the light and she remembers where she is and how she got there.
“I know, I just—” Quell’s voice is still thick with sleep and alcohol, far from the calm, authoritative tone that Chass is used to hearing. She likes this Quell even more, somehow. “I didn’t want to push it, I guess,”
“ Dumbass ,” Chass mutters under her breath before flopping an arm over the side of the bed in offering. “Get up here, you bastard, unless you want to sleep on the floor,”
She isn’t sure what she’s expecting , but she’s still pleasantly surprised when she feels Quell’s warm hand find a grip on her wrist, moving to press her back against the bulkhead to give Quell space to haul herself up. When she settles on her side (because there’s not enough space for both of them on their backs in the cramped bunk), she’s close enough that Chass can feel hot breath on her face, legs weaving together into a tangled mess under the blankets. They stay like that for a long, silent moment, neither wanting to make the jump into the uncharted territory between them.
In the end, it’s Quell who breaks the stalemate first, raising a shaking hand toward Chass’ face. The look in her eyes is almost reverent, head tilting in fascination as she runs the pads of her fingers along the sharp point of Chass’ horns before continuing down. Chass can’t help herself, a gasp escaping from her lungs as Quell's delicate touch reaches the sensitive skin where they meet her face.
“ Shit, I’m sorry, I—” Quell recoils, a look of guilt already washing over her face before Chass reaches out and catches her arm.
“No, it’s… it’s good. I’m just not used to it.” Chass whispers, looking straight into Quell’s piercing blue eyes with all the honesty she can muster before guiding her hand back to the spot it had left, “more?”
Quell obliges, rubbing gentle circles into the skin as Chass leans into the touch and tries to bite back the absolutely fucking embarassing noises that try to rise from her throat. It’s true— she isn’t used to it. Her previous partners, save for a few exceptions, had completely ignored her horns at best, or at worst considered them as an active impediment, a frustration to be worked around. Those exceptions had often been worse , grabbing them roughly or otherwise pushing the limits of her patience until they got themselves thrown out of her bed. Once upon a time, she had seriously considered getting them removed, cutting and grinding until there would be nothing left but easily-concealed scar tissue.
She doesn’t know what exactly had stopped her from doing that, but she’s thankful for it now. Quell touches her like she’s something precious, and she almost believes it, her muscles releasing tension that she didn’t even realize she was carrying, something entirely separate from the shitty alcohol fluttering in her stomach.
She doesn’t even realize that her face is moving closer to Quell’s, compelled by some invisible force, until she meets resistance. Quell pulls back with a hiss of pain, hand shooting up to clutch her forehead as her eyes screw shut.
If she were anywhere close to sober, Chass would probably feel guilty about this, take it as further proof that she’ll only ever hurt people by letting them close (as if she needed more of that). Instead, she laughs , the noise bubbling up her throat and out of her mouth as she kicks her legs wildly under the blanket. After she has a moment to recover, Quell laughs too, high and sharp and sweet and filling Chass with a level of warmth that she hasn’t felt since…
Chass shoves the memory back into its box before it can ruin her mood, trying to stay in the moment. What matters right now is that, for the first time since they met, Yrica Quell is laughing, for Chass and precisely no one else to hear. Almost no one, at least— the noise finally becomes enough to earn an annoyed grumble from one of the adjacent bunks, and Chass half-considers going over and strangling them as she watches Yrica snap back to self-consciousness.
“It’s probably for the best,” Quell avoids looking her in the eye as she returns to the pillow, “we probably shouldn’t while we’re, y’know…” Quell’s voice trails off before it can resolve into an excuse, but Chass assumes there was an equal possibility of it being ‘ drunk ’ or ‘ on a mission ’ (not that either of those has ever stopped Chass before, but Quell looks like an anxious wreck already, so she doesn’t push).
“Okay,” Chass whispers, joining her hand with Quell’s before her bunkmate can pull back and put her guard up again, “Stay, though? We can talk, at least,” Whatever is happening right now is tenuous, more than likely to vanish in the morning light, and they both know it, but Chass isn’t ready to give it up yet.
So they talk about everything and nothing at all, swapping old stories and stupid jokes in equal measure. Quell talks about home, blinking tears from her eyes as she talks about the people she left behind, but much like Chass she has no interest in seeing her family again and even less in dwelling on their memory. They move on to lighter subjects after that—an extended argument about what Kairos looks like under her mask, namely (Quell thinks the answer is nothing , which Chass admittedly hadn't considered as an option). Each of them is barely absorbing a word the other says, of course, because it doesn’t matter beyond being an excuse to stay in each other’s orbit for as long as they can, even as the drowsiness creeps further into their voices with every new line of discussion.
“What are you gonna do after… after this ?” Chass asks, already half asleep herself and not even expecting to receive an answer
“My—” Quell cuts herself off as she pushes her shoulders forward, shrinking in Chass’ grasp. “When I was still with the 204th, someone told me that I didn’t know how to stop fighting. I think he was right.” She pauses, taking a shaky breath as she looks up to meet Chass’ gaze with wet eyes. “I want to figure out how, I guess. What about you?”
Chass runs her fingers through Quell’s hair, pulling the commander’s head to a rest at her collarbone as she turns the question over in her mind. When Chass closes her eyes, she sees the dream again— the shitty apartment on Coruscant, the noodles, the alleyway, the press of cold metal against her skin— but it’s not as sharp as it used to be, the colors less vivid as her brain pushes it into a dark corner to make room for something else that she can’t quite see yet.
“I think I’d like that,” Chass whispers, pulling Quell closer to her chest as she snores like a malfunctioning engine, “the figuring it out,”