unwatched pots
The 212th were still big kriffing heroes by the time they got furlough. They spilled from the Coruscant barracks in double time. Most didn’t bother to get changed out of their armour, but a small group in neatly ironed dress greys split away from the crowd, determined to try something different from 79’s while they had the chance.
If they picked the cantina because its’ sign was the right colour, the bouncer still nodded to them when they walked in. The waitress even tried to show them to one of the nicer tables in the balcony greenhouse. But it felt too exposed; they’d be a somber clot amidst the more colourful civilian crowd, and all the windows made the back of their necks itch. They settled for a high-walled booth where Boil could watch the only door.
That the people coming in the door could also see Boil hadn’t seemed relevant, but somehow it was. By the time the fifth drink had been delivered to their table, Waxer couldn’t stop laughing at Boil’s face, a terrible mix of moustache, confusion, and a little fear. Sure enough, there was a comm code written on the coaster, and a Twi’lek at the bar scowling at him.
“Another one for you, ner vod,” he said, and slid it across the table. The Twi’lek stopped scowling, and twisted on her bar stool in case Boil made eye contact. He didn’t, partly because he was afraid to, and partly because he was evaluating his new cocktail.
“Melon,” he announced, and rearranged his drinks queue so it went second in line, behind the something sunrise. That one was 212th gold, and had arrived with chunks of fruit on little plastic lightsabers. Wooley reached around his Corellian ale in an effort to snag it, and got stabbed in the back of his hand with one of the empty lightsabers for his trouble.
“Fierfek, ouch,” he cursed, shaking his hand out. “What made you so popular?”
“Fucked if I know,” said Boil. “But it’s cost effective.”
“Cost effective for you, maybe,” said Wooley glumly. “I’m going to ask the waitress when the next one turns up.” The evening had gotten so strange that none of them questioned his statement.
Sure enough, the Zeltron waitress swung past their table with something fancy on a tray.
“From the lady in orange and blue,” she said, and slid it onto their table. Boil took it, sipped it, and began to rearrange his queue again.
“Ma’am, excuse me,” said Wooley. “But why him?”
“Pardon me?” she said, professional smile slipping a fraction.
“Why does he keep getting free drinks?” said a frustrated Wooley.
“It’s, ah. It’s his face,” she said, eyes darting off to the side.
“Ma’am, we’ve all got the same face,” said Crys, who’d re-bleached his hair late last night.
“Please, ma’am,” said Waxer, smiling at her like she was Numa. “We really don’t know. He’s a surly fuck.”
“It’s his beard,” she said, disarmed. “They’re Togruta and Twi’lek, right? They want to know what it feels like.”
“Is that all?” burst out Wooley. “They want him to kiss them?”
“Um,” she said, “Sort of?”
“You know.” She made a V with her forefingers, and flicked her tongue between them, to everyone’s utter confusion.
“Kiss them between their legs,” she elaborated, blushing but persistent. Boil froze like a startled nexu, drink halfway between table and mouth.
“Oh fuck me,” said Crys, and put his head on the polished wood of the table. If it had been 79’s, he would never have dared in case he got stuck.
“As long as it’s not his personality, ma’am,” said Waxer, and flicked her a credit chip.
“Does it mean anything? If he drinks the drink?” asked Wooley.
“No-o,” she said. “Not if they’re decent. It’s just showing they’re interested.”
“Thank you very much, ma’am,” said Waxer. Released, she wove her way back to the bar.
“Fucking fuck me,” said Crys, still to the table.
“I told you this moustache was going to take me places,” Boil lied, stroking it approvingly.
“Places you’ve never been before,” Wooley pointed out.
“How hard can it possibly be?” scoffed Boil. He picked up the most recent drink - a creamy mead - and went over to the Twi’lek in orange. She pulled out a chair for him, beaming as he sat down.
“Nine hells,” hissed Wooley. Boil was letting her touch his moustache.
“Someone’s not coming back to barracks tonight,” said Crys, and appropriated the melon cocktail. “Hey, this is good.” The Twi’lek at the bar did not look happy. He ignored her.
“Share,” said Waxer, and between them they managed to make a respectable enough dent in Boil’s abandoned drinks that he scowled at them when he came up to tell them he was leaving with the Twi’lek in orange for another place that she knew, just around the corner.
“Got my commlink,” he said, showing his forearm. “I’ll let you know if I need medevac.”
“79’s,” said Crys. It wasn’t a question; the 212th would be there in force, and this was far too good a story not to share.
He got back just as Waxer was getting up for breakfast, stripping his greys efficiently before he crawled into his untouched bunk.
“It was amazing,” Boil slurred. “She was amazing. Women are amazing. I am never shaving this off. Ever.”
“Cuntdrunk, vod’ika. M’tongue’s sore.” He rolled over. The snoring started immediately.
The Marshal Commander was not entirely surprised to find that no one else in the entire 212th had shaved that morning. They had furlough for another week. Enough time for the regrowth to have worn smooth.
“Do I want to know?” he asked Waxer, for the sake of appearances. He was rewarded by the quick dart of furtive glances around the mess hall table, before Waxer straightened his shoulders.
“No, sir,” he said, decisively. “You really don’t.”
“Where’s Boil? You two are usually inseparable.” Cody sipped his caf, calmly waiting.
“Uh, he’s still in his bunk, sir,” said Waxer. “Must have been something he ate.”
