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“Now and again.” Patrick pulled up one of his legs to rest the sole of his boot against the wood of the building he leaned on. “It’s just a power play. Young klah’eel hotheads getting a thrill out of trying to assert their dominance over their human officer. They get over it.”
“You never told me.” Mal’ik dropped his arms to his side and his concerned frown twisted into guilt, then—Patrick’s stomach clenched coldly—pity.
“It’s never been important. It still isn’t.” Patrick pushed off the building and walked past Mal’ik toward the sky port.
Mal’ik’s heavy stride crunched after him on the rocky path. “Patrick, that young man did not smell like he was simply testing the limits of his captain’s authority.”
Patrick’s heart skipped a beat. Really? He scowled, and when he caught sight of the setting sun glinting off an expensive ship, he picked up his pace. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mal’ik. Of course, he is.”
“That kid wants you, Patrick,” Mal’ik said with an edge of frustration in his voice. Patrick knew why Mal’ik was pushing. He was protective and he wasn’t used to Patrick deflecting, but Patrick didn’t want to engage. It was like not wanting to see the wound after being injured in a firefight and being forced to accept how bad it was. “Enough that he was ready to fight through me to get you.”
An absurd hope bloomed in Patrick’s chest, tangling around his heart, but Patrick wrenched it free. The thought of Fal’ran wanting him, really wanting him, Patrick, the human, filled him with a longing that he didn’t want Mal’ik to smell.
He forced a mocking skepticism onto his face and turned around to give it to Mal’ik, walking backwards down the path as he scowled at him. “We don’t all live in the same fantasy world as you, Mal’ik. Not all beautiful young bucks want to fall into bed with creaky old soldiers.”
Mal’ik snorted and Patrick softened at the pleased bashfulness on his scarred face. “Maybe not, but that one definitely does.”
Patrick faced forward again. “No, you read it wrong.”
Not that Mal’ik did that often. The man was slow, thorough, and deliberate. He didn’t jump to conclusions. If he thought he smelled genuine interest on Fal’ran, then he…might have.
Was that better or worse than if Fal’ran was just playing a game he’d get over?
“Honestly,” Mal’ik caught up to him when Patrick slowed at the border of the sky port. “I’m less interested in what I smelled on him and more interested in what I smelled on you.”
Only a few days out from the Trial, the sky port was three times as full as usual. Sleek ships lined up in neat rows on the tarmac: Qeshian, Klah’Eel, and Human, but also ships flying the independent flags of the few species state breakaway groups.
It was a political and diplomatic marvel that all of those groups were in one place without the planet breaking into an all-out war. Patrick supposed it had only taken an existential threat to them all. Enemy of an enemy being a friend and all that.
“That one yours?” Patrick pointed with his chin at the expensive-looking ship flying the still blank, black flag of Southern Tava above another flag with the Turner Corporation logo fluttering in the wind.
“Yeah. Patrick—” Mal’ik made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat when Patrick strode off towards it. That was rich considering how hard he’d made Patrick pry back when whether he’d slept with Oliver had actually applied to their job. “Patrick, you had his scent all over you.”
Patrick scrubbed his hand through his hair with a grimace and stopped outside the fancy ship’s gangway. “It was a moment of weakness.” And not his only one either, but he didn’t need to admit that.
Mal’ik passed him and flipped open the biometric scanner to press his palm on it. “Did you fuck him?”
“What?” Patrick dropped his hand from his face as his voice spiked into a higher register. “No! Of course not!”
Mal’ik flipped the scanner closed and raised his hands at Patrick. “I wouldn’t judge you if you had.”
“Well, no, you’d be in no position to do that, would you?” Patrick shoved his hands in his pockets so that Mal’ik wouldn’t see them shaking. He couldn’t hide that his ears had combusted on the side of his head, though.
“You want to though, don’t you?” Mal’ik led the way up to the door and his deep, calm, and judgment-free voice brought down Patrick’s defenses again.
“You saw him, Mal’ik.” Patrick sighed and scuffed his boot on the gangway as he followed Mal’ik up and into the ship. “He’s gorgeous. And you should see him fight. He’s quick and cunning and decisive and he’s got an instinct for it that reminds me of you.”
Mal’ik raised a horned eyebrow at him as they walked down a hallway, and Patrick blushed again. He could only imagine the stars in his own eyes, but hell, he meant every word.
“And he works his ass off. Everything he does, he does as hard as he can.” Patrick started gesturing with his hands, trying to convey to Mal’ik the magnitude of his seriousness. “He’s fearless and he’s smart. He grew up on the Moon Projects. No one ever gave a shit about him, but he will remember every single thing you ever teach him. Whether or not he applies it…” Patrick laughed and shook his head, picturing the stubborn glint Fal’ran could get in his eye when he disagreed. “But I swear, Mal’ik, you have never seen a soldier put in the kind of effort he does.”
Mal’ik paused with his hand on a door and looked back at Patrick with a bemused smile. “I saw you.”
Patrick stuck his hands back in his pockets with a half-smile. “Yeah.” Patrick wasn’t an idiot. He’d seen the similarities between him and Fal’ran. Two young men with chips on their shoulders and something to prove to people who didn’t want to see it. “Well, if I do my job right, he’ll end up better than I have.”
Mal’ik winced and didn’t say anything, and that said it all. Even Mal’ik knew Patrick was fucked.
Patrick shrugged and broadened his half-smile into a full one. “But fuck it, whatever.” He nodded towards the door they stood outside of, which, now that he was paying attention, had a faint, thudding sound coming from behind it. “Are there drinks and Oliver behind that door?”
