The Pirate King Ch. 05

The cold kiss of iron slammed against my arms.

I gasped and looked down into Wicky's smug face. "Cap said you weren't to be in irons, but." He shrugged, anger making him uglier than ever before. "Let's see you untie this." He laughed as he walked away, his goons smiling among themselves.

"Wicky!" He didn't turn. "Wicky!" I roared it. I let it tear loose from my chest, everything in my lungs becoming weaponized and dangerous.

But he was gone.

I stared down at the irons. I could do this, I told myself. My heart was pounding, my chest aching. It was nothing but irons. Two and a half years of my life spent in them, yes, but I was not there anymore. I was on a ship. I was with the sea.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I could do this. Even in irons, I could do this. What were irons to me? I just needed a plan. I would get to the Captain, and I would take care of him. And then I would kill Wicky. And then I would - what?

I would figure it out from there. For now, the Captain needed me. That was my first priority.

There was a window at the end of the row of cells. If I could get myself out of the cage, I could reach the Captain through the outside of the ship. These men could not keep me from him. These men were nothing; I was the sea, and the Captain was the sky, and I would not be denied. I had carried him in my arms, I had touched him. I put that from my mind. It was more important than that. I imagined him, so drunk he couldn't speak in that room. Upset. Alone.

No. It was even more simple than that. He had asked me not to leave him.

I had to go back.

I undid the knots that Wicky had left me in. I spent some time looking for rust on my irons, looking for weak spots, but where Wicky's knots had been weak his choice in irons was strong. I gave up, wanting to scream. I could do this, I reminded myself. For the Captain, I could do this.

I turned my attention to the door. Option one was picking the lock. I could do that, but it took time and tools, neither of which I had. Option two was hitting it until it gave.

I took option two.

Luckily, where my manacles had no rust, the door was riddled with it. My body weight carried me through the hinges on the fifth try.

At that point, I suppose I could have looked for a key, or something else to release me from the last of my confinement. But I had already wasted enough time, and the Captain needed me, so I hurried to the window and began to climb towards the Captain's.

It was harder than I expected to make the climb while constrained, and I lost time that I needed. That the Captain needed. I almost fell twice, my grip slipping when I reached for something that I did not have the span to reach. When I finally reached the right window, I didn't take the time to look inside and make sure it was empty, I just hauled my body inside.

It was a small miracle that the room was unoccupied. I did a quick scan, listening and looking, but there was nothing but the sound of quiet murmuring outside the door. Wicky must have posted guards, the sanctimonious ass.

There was nothing.

I stopped, suddenly very concerned. Where the hell was the Captain?

A small moan drew my attention to the bathroom, and I made my way across the room. Fuck, I thought. Fuck fuck fuck. He had to be okay, I had just gotten him back, he had to be okay...

The Captain sat slumped against the wall, his shirt drenched in vomit. It looked like he'd tried to make it to the toilet, or maybe the bin, but had fallen and hit his head before he could. A bleeding cut on his forehead was testament to his struggle. He raised his hand feebly as he saw me enter the doorway.

"Oh, shit," I breathed. I was going to kill Wicky. I was going to destroy him, separate his soul from his body and rip each apart separately. I would bury him at sea with no silver and no way to guide him to the afterworld, and when his ghost came to haunt me I would do it to him again, and again. "C'mon." I kept my anger out of my voice, feeding it to the sea as a promise. "Let's get you cleaned up."

I grabbed a damp cloth and a glass of drinking water, then slid myself between the wall and him. I don't know that he recognized me, truly, but he seemed to relax in my arms all the same.

I gently cleaned his face, then got him to down some liquid. The manacles made things awkward, but he hardly noticed in his drunken state, and it was best to go slowly anyway. Soon he was clean from the neck up. When it came time to take off his shirt, however, I found him reluctant.

"No," he muttered, pushing at me. At first I continued, thinking he just didn't understand what was going on, but he was becoming agitated, almost afraid. "Please, no, I don't want to, don't make me. I'll be better, I'm sorry." He squirmed in my grasp, fighting me, his face twisted in an emotion that I didn't want to link with any action I would ever do, not to him.

I stopped. "Okay," I murmured. "Nothing you don't want, okay." I pressed my face to the top of his head and tried not to let his words sink to my stomach, didn't let myself think about what they might mean. "I'm here. Nothing can hurt you."

That seemed to reach him. When he was settled, I gently extricated myself from his body. He made a small noise of protest, and I almost stayed, but I needed to find something.

It felt invasive, to go through his drawers, but I found what I needed quickly and was soon back at his side. "Look," I told him, bringing his hand to the shirt I had found. "I have a new shirt for you." He felt the shirt, took it in. "Will you let me take this one off? It's dirty."

After a time he nodded, and I slowly pulled at the bottom of his shirt until it come off over his head. I caught my breath at the sight of him there, even sour smelling as he was, at the feel of his bare skin against mine. I washed him gently, thoroughly, but quickly, keeping my fingers light and delicate. I wanted to grab him, to run my hands over every part of him that lay exposed, but I was careful to only touch what I needed to. I watched his face as I did, making sure I wasn't upsetting him, but he seemed okay.

When his skin was clean, I pulled the new shirt over his head, ending with my arms around his waist. He sighed and settled back against me.

This was perfect. This would be perfect, I amended my thought, if only he were sober. I sighed, feeling him fall asleep against me. It wouldn't do to have him asleep here, not in the cold bathroom. Not against me. I didn't want him waking up confused and lost, to find himself wrapped in arms he might not actually want.

I shook him awake gently and got him to drink more of his water. "Sailor," he slurred, looking up at my face with eyes that made my heart want to burst. How could one man's face be so perfect? It wasn't fair to everyone else in the world. "When did you get here?"

I smiled down at him and pressed the cup to his lips. My manacles rattled, and he looked down. "Your hands are stuck," he told me, pulling away from the cup. I nodded. He collapsed against me again, his eyes fluttering closed. "That's hot."

Despite everything, despite how much I hated what these irons meant to me, what they had done to me in the past, at his words I had to smile.

When he finished his water I carried him to bed and left him there as I cleaned up the mess in bathroom as best I could. There were no more towels, so I sacrificed my shirt to the cause. When I returned to the bedroom, I found that he had tried to climb from the bed and was now kneeling on the ground, his head still on the covers. I sighed and lifted him back up.

"Don't leave me again," he mumbled.

"I'm right here," I told him. "But now it's time to sleep."

He nodded, curling up, and I tried not to smooth back his hair, I really did, but my hand moved on it's own accord and he relaxed so immediately, so completely under my touch that I did it again.

As his breathing settled, I sat back and looked across the room to the chair. To be fair to him, I really should sleep there. It would give him distance, and from there I would still be able to keep an eye on him.

I looked down at the figure before me, crouched on the doorway of sleep. He was murmuring something again, and I reached out and let my hand rest on his shoulder. He settled instantly under my touch.

I couldn't leave him.

Besides, it would be better to sleep on the bed. I would be able to feel any sort of movement that he made and would be able to react much more quickly. This was the safer option, I told myself.

The window was still open, letting the cool night air into the room. I gently slid him under the covers, then settled myself next to him on top. That, I thought, would remove any ambiguity. We couldn't touch on opposite sides of the sheets.

Next to me, the Captain stirred. I stretched out my hand and let my fingers touch his palm. His hand immediately curled against mine. My stomach twisted, seeing just that small gesture of affection. I watched him for a long time, my hand in his, his face so serene, before drifting off to sleep myself.

***

The Captain woke sometime in the night. He opened his eyes drowsily, feeling the familiar haze of rum swimming through his head, and expected to see the floor of some room, or perhaps the side of his toilet. The Captain was no stranger to drink; for a long time, it had been his only friend, his only confidant.

Instead of unforgiving wood floor, he found himself in his bed. He felt comfortable, foggily safe even. A warmth spread through his body, and he realized that he had even made it under his covers. How strange, he thought. How did this happen? He opened his eyes to further explore this anomaly and that's when he understood that he was dreaming.

Across from him was the most beautiful man he had ever seen. And he had seen this man before - had dreamed of him so many times, had watched him from across the ship and yearned, and needed, and tried to absorb without the luxury of touch. And now he was here, right here, so close the Captain could feel the air moving as it escaped his lungs. His face was so soft, his breathing so gentle as it pulsed through his bare chest that the Captain almost forgot to breathe himself. He traced the lines of this man's body with his eyes and found his hands manacled, the irons making his shoulders set at the unnatural angle they were at, the only unnatural angle on his entire body. He followed the arms further and discovered that his hand was in his, their fingers gently entwined.

This man, of all men, in his bed. In irons. Touching him. The Captain smiled. What could it be but a dream.

Well. He was going to enjoy it. It was so rare that he got good dreams these days.

He closed his eyes and fell back asleep.