Warnings: canon typical violence, language

Rated: M

Summary: Soul Eater- famous movie star uses his influence to worm his way onto the USS Death City a fact that rankles- Maka Albarn a lieutenant who mans her ship with an iron fist. She is not thrilled to be the assigned nanny to this privileged playboy. If he really wants to learn the ropes of being a sailor, she'll make sure he learns them. Six weeks should prove long enough to not wreak havoc on her repair ship.

Notes: This is based on the story For His Eyes Only written by Candace Irving.

The USS Death City has lost its damn mind, she thinks as she stomps her way into the Captain's cabin. It isn't even 0800 and she's been saddled with playing nursemaid to the newest member of her ship. She arrives at her destination with the precision of a fleet commander which she currently isn't.

Maka Albarn is a lieutenant.

For most people on the ship, as is evidenced by the commotion on decks as sailors and officers alike dash about completing morning duties, having a movie star aboard is a godsend. This isn't the case for Maka because she has a million and one things to get done in the next few days before they get underway.

Death City is a nuclear repair ship, not some fuck boi's vacation yacht. It seems that she's the only one present who remembers this very important distinction. She knocks on the door of the captain's cabin with more force than necessary, hoping to death one rational person still remains above the madness.

"Enter!" barks a voice from the other side of the water tight door.

Crossing the raised threshold of the watertight door, Maka stifles her internal scream. Captain Buttataki is wearing his Navy whites, and if the look he's giving her khaki's is any indication, she needs to get with the times.

Of all the pompous things, she doesn't think some Hollywood fly-boy needs to be shown that level of welcome. And yet, as the only lieutenant left in possession of rational thought, she is but a single dissenting voice among the masses.

"Sir, have you reviewed my reports for the next drill?" she asks, but as she pans across his personal desk, she sees that her folder lays pushed off to the side under a slew of other daily reports.

"Not yet, I've been-" Primping. "-preparing. Speaking of, has he arrived yet?" the man asks. Captain Buttataki looks like a man that would be more comfortable growing coffee beans on some island wearing Birkenstocks and wearing a vest made for fly fishing. Of course meeting a bonafide Hollywood actor has addled something in the man's brain.

He referring to the thorn that's yet to be grafted to her side, Soul Eater. Enamel grinds loudly in her ears. "He has not."

Can it be that her captain looks slightly disappointed? Maka resists the urge to vomit out of protest. After all, this is her ship and she'd never disgrace her lovely decks like that. Damn them all for being such fangirls.

As the senior officer in the Damage Control division of the USS Death City, Maka understands that she is toeing very close to the line of insubordination with her attitude, and a part of her doesn't care. The only thing that keeps her in check is her mama.

"Well-" The tone Captain Buttataki strikes lets her know she needs to reign it in. "Let me know as soon as he does."

It's an unofficial dismissal with only one correct response. "Aye, aye Sir," she says, saluting and showing herself out, heading to the one place she knows she'll find refuge on this godforsaken madhouse.

/

Maka enters Medical, fuming like a steamship at full speed ahead.

"Good morning to you too, sunshine," says Liz Thompson, the resident doctor aboard the floating chunk of iron they call home.

"Can you believe this shit?" Maka hisses, venting the pressure that's been building all morning as she crosses to the Keurig Liz had somehow managed to procure for the medical ward. There's even a small locking medical cabinet in the wall housing unit where Liz keeps a stash of espresso cups just for Maka. The latter jambs the cup into the machine like it's personally offended her.

"Easy tiger, you break it you buy it," Liz says observing the ongoing battle: Maka versus Machine. Then, turning back to the subject at hand, Liz asks. "What? Aren't you even the teensiest bit curious?"

The good doctor waits until she has Maka's attention before she waggles her perfect eyebrows and mouths, He's fucking hot!

Maka's face heats faster than the instant hot water feature and is likely to burst into flames until Liz has mercy and starts laughing hysterically. "I kid, I kid." Suddenly, her face goes very serious. "Except I don't. Really Maka, you haven't seen the movie?"

From across the office, Maka flips her the bird.

"Watch out," Liz laughs off the dirty gesture. "He might take you up on that."

"Liz!" Maka laments. "You're supposed to be a medical professional." She kicks herself for being such an easy target. Especially around Liz, she should know better.

For her part Liz looks nonplussed. "You try explaining safe, consensual sex to pervy sailors while rolling condoms on bananas and see if your head doesn't become a raging dumpster fire, miss."

Liz had grown up busting balls in Brooklyn; rowdy sailors were a non-issue. They'd become fast friends- when they'd met at school- almost instantly.

At least by this time, her espresso has finished brewing, and Maka drinks it piping hot to avoid saying anything. Which is a mistake, since Liz takes the opportunity to give her a once over. "Didn't captain order the whites?"

Maka scowls, a burnt tongue adding to the bitterness she's having trouble swallowing this morning. "I don't see you primping," she shoots back.

Gel manicured nails tap her mug as she replies. "I've had a busier morning than most days," she says simply. "What's your excuse?"

"Don't need one. It's ridiculous that we're even giving Hollywood the golden treatment." Maka holds the cup close to her nose trying to inhale the caffeine as well as ingest it. "Maybe he'll do me a favor and drive off the pier."

Laughter fills the air. "Damn girl, I'm surprised." Liz gets up, stretching the stiffness from her back.

The DCA tries to stem the little stab of jealousy. Even khakis can't hide her friends full figure, Liz's long blonde hair in a smart knot at the base of her neck. She looks away as Liz levels her with a contemplative stare. "Okay, but if you change your mind, there's a supply of condoms in my top drawer."

Coffee spews from Maka's lips, and she dashes for the paper towels, thanking the powers that be that she didn't soil her uniform. "Goddamnit, Liz!" Her finger twitches but the ribbing from earlier is still fresh in her mind.

"Just saying," Liz says innocently.

Thankfully for Maka, the public address system interrupts their conversation, "-DCA, your presence is required on the quarterdeck."

A smile splits Maka's face. "Well, shoot. Looks like I don't have time for the costume change, after all."

She feels Liz's knowing gaze follow her out the door.

If he's honest with himself, and he rarely is, he doesn't want to be here.

Abandoning ship has crossed his mind a time or two on his way in- there he goes with the humor again. A sardonic grin stretches his face except now, sans the bike, he feels semi naked. Then again on land he's in control of his fate, but here? His frustration with the ocean seeps through because he knows she's a force to be reckoned with.

His motorcycle boots thunk up the gangway, each step a gallows green mile. It's a past he never thought he'd have to face, not in this lifetime at any rate. At least here, he still has a moment left that belongs to himself, but he feels it slipping away as he reaches the ladder marked Officer's Brow. The anxiety tightens in his gut click by excruciating click, a G string pulled past tension.

There are only a few steps left before he'll be shut in for good.

He needs to review his game plan- Soul Eater, one hit wonder- overnight acting sensation, twenty-nine, here to win the hearts of all and-

"Face the rear of the ship and snap to attention." A voice cuts through his train of thought like a scythe through harvest wheat.

Soul stands there indecisive, glancing over the deck. On a quick pass of the deck he spies a lone khaki who stands out like a sore thumb among the sea of Navy whites. His boot hovers before the final rung as he questions, "Say what?" Something about the timbre of the voice makes the command vibrate, a hard strum on the G.

"I said, face the rear of the ship and snap to attention." A fierce wavelength. "Now!" A person who clearly isn't accustomed to repeating orders twice.

His body is responding before he's even given his conscience consent. Almost like a pianist before the striking of the first chord, his spine straightens. It comes back to him almost instinctively- almost.

"Good," says the khaki.

Something about the way it vibrates in his bones makes his face break out in a grin. Playing up his piece, he says, "Would you like me to salute?" He shoots a glance over his shoulder, unable to see who he's addressing.

"No." The response is curt.

It's gone- that hint of validation he'd thought he'd earned. Well shit, he thinks, not exactly sure why it even matters to him.

"Turn to the officer of the deck- he has two gold stripes on his shoulder boards- state your name and request permission to come aboard." Her voice rings out clear over the deck and he's hard pressed not to follow the directive. He snaps a perfect right face.

"Good!"

His brain hums a very taut G, and he wants to grin, but he snuffs the urge out. "Soul Eater, requesting permission to come aboard, sir." And he, tries not to cringe, because it's a weird ass fucking name.

That's the one thing he'd begged his boss to not jack with on his last job, but he'd been overruled. They'd needed something exotic and some greenhorn shmuck had shouted, "Why not Eater! Like he eats souls or something." Soul had been very, very displeased. Clearly the kid had had a strong thing for vampires back in the day, but given the assignment, the name had unfortunately stuck.

The man Soul faces, the officer of the deck, has electric blue eyes and a mad grin on his face. "Permission granted."

For a second, Soul wishes that it hadn't been.

"Lieutenant Benjamin Starinsky-" Holds a hand out to Soul for a very firm handshake. "Welcome aboard, Mr. Eater."

This is when the khaki finally steps into his field of vision. "Lieutenant Starinsky will need to search your bags," she says.

The sound goes out save for the ringing of the G, time slows, his body automatically handing Lt. Starinsky the large duffel he's packed. Because, in front of him stands a woman created by the gods, and she may not even be human- more like a mermaid with legs. He's fucked.

Soul takes in the vibrant green of her eyes, the curve of her jaw, the dusting of freckles bridging a sun kissed face. There's a fullness to her lips that has that G vibrating, hard. If anything, the drab khaki uniform highlights her simple beauty, and he hates himself for noticing how it cinches at her waist as his eyes travel down her front searching for the name tag.

"Hollywood!" She barks, severing his thoughts like a piano lid crashing over the keyboard and his head jerks back to the black lashes framing bright green. The mascara is the only concession to make-up he can obviously see on her flawless face hidden under a red ball cap that proclaims USS Death City, AD42, and it's damn appealing.

Because for the first time in his life , he understands why he's never found anyone attractive. This is the first time he's met a siren. The fact that she could probably hand him his ass right here and right now is having a very interesting effect on his inner sanctum. "Soul Eater," he says, hanging desperately onto his apathetic mask, made all the more difficult due to the tension in the G pulsing through him as he extends his hand. "But, you can call me Soul."

A small part of him hopes she doesn't go for the hand shake. Except, she returns it with equal firmness which proves too much for the sustained note in his head, it pops with a jolt of electricity, like a blown amp, that she must've felt as well. Her hand jerks out of his and is blocked from sight when she tucks it behind her waist.

"His bag is clean, Lieutenant Albarn," says Starinsky, who returns the hefty bag into his distracted gut, hard.

Noted, Soul thinks, wishing she'd have given him her name herself. Still, his eyes scan the deck, evaluating the security.

"Standard procedure," Starinsky explains. "All items onboarding or offloading a Naval vessel are subjected to search and seizure."

He gets it, hadn't expected anything less. "No worries," he responds more jovially than he actually feels.

"All electronic devices have to go through IT," he adds, and the humor is evident in his tone before he even delivers a punchline. "Sorry we don't have complimentary Wifi-" pronounced 'wifey' in a thick LA accent "-this isn't Princess Cruise."

"I only brought an MP3 player preloaded with music," Soul says as he observes the Petty Officer of the Deck exit the guard shack on the quarterdeck. He's the only officer Soul has seen armed with a pistol at his side, and he makes a mental note to check if it's loaded or not. "It's fine if they check it. I even brought a solar charger to stay off the grid," he drawls. "So when do I start?" As if he hadn't since the moment he stepped foot on deck.

"Here. Now." Lieutenant Albarn is back in his field of vision, the G toned tinnitus back on full blast. "You'll begin with an overview of the ship, along with a crash course in seamanship, Mr. Eater. Public Relations ordered that in accepting this particular assignment, the Navy should be supportive all the way."

Translation: someone will be babysitting him to be sure he minds his P's and Q's. "Can you translate?" he asks, so he's clear.

"It means you've been assigned a running mate- think of them as an on board tour guide- to make sure you make it back to Hollywood with that chiseled face intact." It's clear she's said more than she'd meant to, and his eyebrow arches with the pull of that string as she's trying to recover the stutter step. "They'll answer questions and assist in your characterization." The look she gives him dares him to take her insult as anything but.

"Wait," he says. "You're telling me I've been assigned a sitter."

There's a tension in her jaw, a tightening that indicates she isn't too thrilled about what she's going to say next. "Not exactly."

Oh, he thinks it's exactly like that. "So, who's the lucky duck?"

There is rapid fire blinking from under that red cap and he's mesmerized despite himself. "That duck is a person."

Soul waits for it. Attuning himself to that plinking G that picks up speed that aligns the planets in his favor this one and only moment in his life. He thinks it even as she says, "Me."

Shit, shit, shit.

It isn't supposed to work that way, he thinks. Every other time he's wanted the pieces to fall into place they haven't, so why now? He feels the strain on the amplification, but it's clear she's been roped into this against her will. She hasn't met his gaze since they shook hands, and he can feel the tension radiating from the way she's holding herself- There's the universe he knows so well. That's fine, he didn't come aboard to chase destiny, he has a fucking job to do and he's going to do it.

A hail comes, "Attention!" The captain is on the deck.

Soul turns to face a craggy man approaching who looks as if he'd be more at home brewing cold press in chacos and Bermuda shorts with extra cargo. "Mr. Eater- Solomon." Soul cringes. "Welcome, welcome! I hope the crew has conveyed what an honor it is for The Death City to host you."

"They have indeed," he says, shaking the man's hand. Soul glances at Lieutenant Albarn before grinning a wide, very fake, gracious smile.

She may not be looking him in the eye, but he's aware of her assessing his every move, and he isn't sure what to make of it just yet.

"Well good," says the captain. Soul doesn't miss the narrowed look he shoots at the woman standing next to them. "You're here now and that's what matters. Right? DCA."

There is a terse jut of a chin and a slight reddening of the cheeks that highlights the ghosting freckles he'd noticed earlier.

The captain's broad, weather worn, crinkled face turns back to his. "DCA will show you around after you stow your gear. You'll be dining with me at 1230." The man isn't asking. Not that Soul could have refused even if he had, he has a list of people he needs to cross off and this is one of the individuals he has to clear. This is when he notices that the jaw of the Lieutenant is flexing in an off beat frustrated way. Clearly wishing she could be any place else, he thinks.

"Sounds great," Soul says, when in reality it sounds anything but.

With a flurry of salutes the Captain takes off, leaving Soul with his new running mate who is now crossing quickly to a door. Soul momentarily thinks of the code: He who falls behind- is left behind. He slings his bag over his shoulder in a fluid motion, the leather of his riding jacket creaking with the added weight. The lever on the door slows her down enough for him to catch up.

She's crossed the lip of the door before his question leaves his lips. "Why DCA?" He'd been thinking Death City Analyst… damn cute ass..ets- but that's pushing it.

Lieutenant Albarn looks at him like he's a barnacle she'd really like to scrape off her deck. "It's who I am. I'm the Damage Control Assistant. You'll see as we go along most of the officers are known by their post."

His running mate is walking as she's talking, she fills him in on a few positions and what they do until she rounds a corner and the lights go out, plunging them into complete darkness in the middle of the morning.

Soul's blood sugar drops when a small hand reaches out, resting firm pressure on the leather, and he's glad of the extra protective layer. Had she touched him on his bare arm, lord only knows how that blasted note would have reacted. His hand is still tingling from the contact earlier and in the darkness he recalls the green of her eyes in vivid detail, for once his photographic memory doesn't fail him...

"Hey, at ease," she says, her voice steady, and he detects a hint of vanilla hazelnut in her breath. The air is tense and he feels as if he isn't the only one holding his breath. Although maybe he is. In the eerie silence, his thinks his ears play tricks on him. He's latched onto the sound of her heart beat, but then thinks it has to be his arm on information overload.

Time bends, and what felt like minutes is more likely only a few seconds. Then, he hears a rumbling and a whirring of electrical machinery coming back to life, the mundane sounds of HVAC drowning out the ghost of the sound his ears are straining to hear. The sensation extends to his eyes, so when the lights flood them in eye searing brightness, he's momentarily blinded. After he stops blinking his eyes track down to verify her hand is on his arm. The good lieutenant's eyes follow his line of sight and upon seeing her hand there, she jerks it away as if she's been scalded by a pan she didn't realize was hot.

"That's the ship dropping the load," she says by way of explanation as she resumes her incredible pace. For someone who barely reaches his shoulders, she has a maddening long gait and he's falling behind. "The electrical load," she further clarifies. "While in port we run off shore power. When we're at sea we run off our own juice."

"I take it, it's dangerous to blow a fuse then?" he attempts to joke but is frozen by the completely unamused face she has directed at him over her shoulder.

"Listen up, Hollywood-" she starts and her tone cuts him, but he cuts her off anyway.

"-Actually, it's Soul." He's not sure where that bravado came from. "Soul Eater, but you can call me Soul." There's an underlying need he doesn't understand and doesn't want to question, because that G is pulsing with the importance of her saying his name.

He's locked onto her eyes, drawn in by the endlessness of them while the seconds tick by, and he thinks she's going to honor the implicit request.

"Listen, Hollywood." She steam rolls him. "I have no idea what you think you're doing here, but this isn't some VIP luxury cruise and my ship isn't your play thing."

"Yours?" The question clearly irritates her, and he's not mad about it. If she isn't going to respect his name, then he isn't going to play nice either. "Oh, I figured it belonged to that guy we just met, with the gold spaghetti bedazzled ball cap."

The fierce lieutenant does a one eighty at the base of a ladder and he all but manages to stop without colliding into her. The heated look she levels him with makes him acutely aware there's not enough space between them as he's branded by her angry stare. "That ball cap is a cover-" He hears the IQ judgement in her tone "- That spaghetti is gold leaf-" He grins, noting she couldn't fault him on the color "- That guy is a Captain- Captain Buttataki to be specific. And no, I don't agree with this half-baked plan to bring on you, a civilian, so you can debase our image and condense years of hard work to a forty minute Thursday night slot. This is my ship, I train the crews that fight her fires, send out the welders to stitch her up, and purify the air when it has become contaminated by the latest toxins. That's what makes her mine!"

It confirms that she can indeed hand him his ass. As quickly as she'd stopped, she's turned around and her boots stomp up the ladder, leaving him with little choice but to follow feeling like the worlds biggest asshole. Instinct and anxiety war with his next plan of action.

"Hey! DCA, wait up."

The good lieutenant is stabbing the lock on a nondescript door that matches various others along the passageway when he finally reaches her. He was told to use the movie star privilege to its end. It's a position that makes Soul feel extremely uncomfortable given that his intuition has picked up a sustained G that seems to indicate he should trust the woman who has just shoved the door open to the tiny room he presumes he'll be occupying shortly.

"Here you are, sir, your suite for the duration of your trip. Enjoy!" she says, voice dripping feigned hospitality.

Maybe if her tone didn't indicate she'd be more happy if he dropped dead he wouldn't have opened his mouth. "Hey now, I thought you were supposed to show me around," he says, surprised he could make it almost sound flirtatious. Almost. He feels he's hit his mark when her face burns bright in her cheeks, reigniting those freckles, and he might have a bigger issue than he'd originally planned for. If she's going to be this easy to rile up, this might not be much fun. Then again, he could get used to seeing those back-lit freckles.

His guide stomps into the room, arms thrown wide. "Welcome." She stabs a finger at the bunk. "Here's your rack. That unit there turns into a desk. You have access to your very own sink. A mirror you can stow your toiletries behind." A very angry index finger flips the compartment open and it swings out violently only to be stopped by the chain spring before it returns back to its rightful place. "There-" The modular wall system might even shrink before her countenance "- is your closet." The last thing she points to is a large black D with a letter Z inscribed within on the porthole. "That is a Dog Zebra and any door, hatch, or porthole bearing that symbol must remain shut from sunset to sunrise while we are underway-"

"Why?" He can tell she's only gathering up steam so the moment she takes a breath, he cuts her off.

The look she gives him is cold and it confirms what he suspects- It's written in the way her shoulders are held too tense. The way she doesn't quite meet his gaze- she doesn't want him here. Not on her ship and definitely not in her personal circle. Fine with him. It's not like he's ever been the person sought after by others, he's Soul- not his brother. Except, here he can't afford to be himself. He has to be Eater.

Psychologically speaking, he can work with anger. If she was indifferent to him then he'd be up a creek, but her frustration at being shackled to him, that he can use. He has to change her mind. Maybe he can use what he's reading from her to his advantage.

"Okay," he says, taking a step back and leaning against the modular unit in- god willing -the best James Dean way he can pull off.

It throws her, his backing out of her bubble. "What?" she asks, and she's certainly not sure of his angle.

"I get it," he says, surveying the room. "You don't want me here." Her face blanches a little and he can tell he's on the right track. "Right now, you're probably thinking of how many strings I had to pull to get my ass on your ship-" Those long blinking lashes are going to be a problem for him if he doesn't get to his point soon. "-That, and now you've been saddled with me." He cringes internally- wrong choice of words for the visual he's just gotten. "While, lord only knows how many duties you've got on your plate that take priority over showing me around."

Soul ends this monologue by checking the face of his Montblanc. He doesn't have much time, maybe only a few minutes.

"What do you want?" she asks.

Of course, she goes for the jugular. Unbidden, his teeth worry at his lip, more from anxiety than trying to play a part, but the way her eyes snap to his mouth sends that note vibrating. Willing his heart rate down, he peels himself from the wall and takes a slow step towards her, and he takes the fact that she doesn't step away as a positive indication.

"Remove your cover," he says, voice lower than he had intended to cover his nerves.

Probably a good precaution because the eyes that look up at him have darkened to an intense Forest hue. "Please." He isn't begging, but may as well be.

She's searching him and it feels too intimate, staring into her eyes like this, but he can't look away now even when she asks, "Why?"

A part of his brain notes it's lacking the tone from earlier. He leans just a bit closer, voice still pitched low. "'Cause I asked nicely."

Lashes flutter and this time he's aware of the rise and fall of her chest, he's standing too close- Icarus next to the sun. Don't do it, he begs. Don't…

His eyes track the hands that go to her red ball cap. And he sucks in a breath as ash blonde fringe falls, framing her strong desire to figure out what the hell he's after, the rest of it braided down her back and tucked away out of site under her collar.

And in this moment, Soul doesn't even know where he's going. It's as if he's been thrown back to those times he's ever felt happiness. Alone, on a deserted highway with miles and miles of desert, ash colors punctuated by jeweled colored green, wild and uncontained. A force to be reckoned with. He never imagined the desert could take human form.

Worse than that, the G is tight in his head again and it crackles with electricity when she asks, "Like what you see?"

Fuck him, he's dead. "Maybe." The tone screams yes, and even the indifference he tries to inject the word with can't cover that up. Soul doesn't miss the way she's roving her eyes over his frame assessing him, probably assuming he's the hollywood garbage he's pretending to be. Hates that he doesn't care. "You?" He hadn't meant to ask but feels he's invested and doesn't understand why. Thinking around the sustained sound in his head is making processing difficult.

There is a fire in her eyes and it takes everything he has not to back away when she repeats his own word back, and he doesn't miss the way that blush burns those freckles. He doesn't question it like he wants to because she's moving on. "Next question, Mr. Eater."

Easy. "Your name?"

Those lashes are going to end him. "Maka."

He wraps his vocal cords around it in his mind a few times before he says it. He likes it- it fits her well. It's fierce like the rest of her.

"Well, Maka," he draws it out, savoring it. "I think I'd better unpack," he lets it hang. What exactly 'it' is, he's not even sure. "Maybe you can fill me in on the Dog Zebra later."

Thankfully, she saves them both by cramming her cover back over her hair, her hand sweeping her fringe back in the process as he catches a hint of jasmine in the air- and it's all lieutenant from there. "You've got 20 minutes," she says, before shutting the door to his stateroom.

Only after she's gone does Soul let out the pressurized air he's been de-oxygenating the past few seconds. Twenty minutes doesn't give him much time. Quickly, he steps over to the desk she pointed out, letting the writing surface down to locate the personal safe each stateroom has. He opens it, pulling out the slip of instructions to set the new code. Side stepping to the rack, he sits to remove his motorcycle boots. His duffel may have been clear, but he sure as hell hadn't been.

Removing his gear from his boots and concealing it in the safe, Soul spins the dial and sets it back on his home number, resetting his focus on the mission ahead.