#winterwitchery

“What other thing, Rick?” Evie asked walking in and immediately wrapping her arms around his waist. “Is this about that billionaire at the hotel?”

“Evie-“

“I told you, we’re not taking his money, no matter how stupid he might be to offer that amount without a clear contract in place.”

Without saying another word, he grabbed her shoulders, pushed her away, and turned her to see what he was looking at.

“Oh.”

“Now that we’re all here,” the strange man said, cuddling into Gertie, “let’s all get better acquainted.”

With a growl, Rick tried to push past his wife, but she reflexively held out her arm to hold him back.

“Now dearest, we’ve already discussed how you can’t solve every problem with threats of violence or screaming when that doesn’t work.”

“Nefertiti, always so patient and wise,” the man said, smile glinting in the lamplight.

Evie easily held back her husband’s second attempt to attack an intruder before asking any pertinent questions. And she had many questions. Like why she knew him but not who he was.

“I don’t have all of my memories, so I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”

As though he didn’t walk but glide, the stranger came forward, Gertie comfortably settled in one arm as he raised a gloved hand with a crystal in it.

“Memory is such a tricky thing. But I can offer you everything you wish to see with this gift.”

Rick tensed behind her, unsure of what to do, but she merely watched the man speculatively.

“Who are you?”

“I’m the Goblin King, of course.”

Something fluttered at the back of her memory, and she felt herself sway before Rick’s hands firmly held onto her shoulders.

“Jareth,” she whispered.

“Ah, so you do remember. How fortuitous.”

“Not everything.” She said with a shake of her head. “But I remember enough to know I should never accept a gift. Your favors always came at a high cost.”

“You know this guy?” Rick said, unable to stop himself from pulling her closer despite trusting her instincts.

“I did once. Enough to know that he had a recipe for honey-infused peach tea that I was always partial to.”

A genuinely pleased smile spread across Jareth’s face, turning his features more impish than predatory. “I’m so glad you remember. I am always so pleased when people recognize my more unique skills. Shall I share it with you now as we discuss why I’m here your child and the other is missing?”

Suddenly realizing they’d forgotten all about Alex, both parents winced.

“So let me get this straight,” Rick said setting his beer down. He’d tried the tea but decided he needed something much stronger once the terms goblin and labyrinth started getting tossed around. “Alex wished his sister away and he’s now running your maze thing-“

“Labyrinth, dear.”

“-yeah, labyrinth, to try and win his sister back. But you realized you knew her mom and decided to make a side agreement?”

“More or less,” Jareth said languidly. “Nefertiti was always so entertaining during my visits that I felt I should make this one concession.”

“Uh huh.” Rick took a deep breath, ready to try and break the entirely crazy situation down more, but Evie cut him off.

“And why did Alex wish his sister away? He dotes on her.”

“Most times, yes. But I’m afraid she was rather fussy because of the teeth she’s developing and he was very put out that he was left behind on your most recent expedition.”

“He knew he was grounded for trying to excavate the ruins in his headmaster’s garden. The man is still sending us bills for the destruction to school grounds. We had three new ones arrive while we were gone.”

Jareth tilted his head in what seemed like admiration. “An enterprising young man, to be sure. But it appears he hasn’t learned the lesson that there is indeed harm that can come from reading a book. Especially when one reads aloud and means the words.”

Rick merely glanced at his wife, but it was enough to make her sigh.

“Oh stop it.”

“So,” he said, focusing back on the important topic at that moment. He was willing to point out Alex’s obviously inherited traits later. “What happens if Alex doesn’t make it to the center of your labyrinth and win her back?”

“Why, I will give her to you, of course.”

“And we don’t have to run the maze or challenge or whatever?”

“No, with old souls as ours who’ve seen the realities of the world, it never pays to be in another’s bad graces. The boy must have his chance to win his sister, but I’d never take her from one so beautiful and wise as Nefertiti.”

The beautiful and wise Evie let out a groan and waved her hands to dismiss the idea. “That’s all hooey. I want to know how much time Alex has left and if he’s in any real danger.”

“He is now at the halfway point of his 13 hours and I assure you I will return him with no real damage. But I fear I should be getting back, I do believe he’s about to find his way into one of my oubliettes and I do so love to be present when that happens.”

“And you’re taking Gertie with you?” Rick clarified.

“Yes. She must be there for him to win her back.”

“Good.”

There are other people in the cell with him, having glanced up at her arrival, some of them wary, some of them hopeful. Shakky doubts they’ll be either, after this encounter.

“Shakky,” Rayleigh says, smiling. “Am I late for dinner?”

“It’s more than just the food getting cold,” she offers back. “You know I hate sleeping alone.”

“Couldn’t find a replacement?” he asks. “You’re usually so resourceful.”

She shrugs, turning the keys over in her hand. “It’s been a slow week for business. And maybe I’m getting old. My usual wiles won’t work on the youngins.”

That grin again, lifting his glasses high on his cheeks. “Perish the thought.”

“Hmm. You’ll perish first, at this rate.”

He laughs at that, and she knows he’s okay. Of course, she hadn’t doubted he would be, but the affirmation is no less welcome.

The other occupants in the cell are looking between them now, wariness and hope both exchanged with surprise, like they can’t seem to decide what to make of them. Then again, that’s nothing new where they’re concerned.

She makes her way to the cell door, and the lock comes apart in her hands. She could have taken her time pretending to look for the right key, just to let him suffer a little longer, but the other people in the cell makes her decision for her, and a moment later she’s pulling the door open, with a gesture for them to come out.

Rayleigh makes quick work of their collars, before seeing to his own. It’s a deceptively casual gesture, and few words offered to go along with it, but Shakky has dealt with enough escaped slaves to know it’s better to just do it than to waste time explaining. The freedom offered is the same, anyway; it’s not likely they’ll even remember either of them after this, at least not beyond being two strangers who have far too private conversations in public. But at least they haven’t started pawing at each other.

Well. Not yet, anyway. The night is still young.

His cellmates make for the exit first, barely sparing them a second glance, desperation winning out over whatever lingering curiosity might have survived the release of their shackles, but Shakky waits until Rayleigh steps through the door, arms crossed and her cigarette tucked between her fingers.

He ducks his head to kiss her brow. He smells like he hasn’t showered in a week, and she proceeds to tell him as much.

“You don’t like to sleep alone,” Rayleigh says, eyes twinkling. “I don’t like to shower alone.”

“If that’s supposed to be an invitation, it’s not a very good one.”

He grins, and when she turns to walk out, he falls into step beside her. “Maybe so, but you’ve never been hard to ask.”

She laughs, and tosses him the flask. “True.”

He takes a deep swig, before handing it back, fingertips brushing over her pulse once, before lets the flask go.

They walk back in silence, the grove lit gold and beautiful from the sun that casts ever-lengthening shadows across the grass, each dark corner of their island seeming a little darker every year, but some things never change, like the old souls who’ve put down their roots with the trees.

Her bar is as she left it, empty and quiet, and, “Sit,” Shakky says, when they step across the threshold, and she moves to fetch the suture kit. A strange home for even stranger people, but then they’ve never done things the usual way, not even settling down. And it’s a strange domesticity, the one that sees him seeking a favoured chair, and Shakky reaching without looking for the kit she could locate with her eyes closed. But it’s theirs, like all the years that have shaped it into being, and the two of them into the people they are.

When she comes back with the kit, Rayleigh wordlessly offers his hand for her inspection, no more need for hiding his scrapes than he’s ever had; an old, hard-to-shake sort of pragmatism that doesn’t allow for foolish notions of masculinity and bravado.

Shakky clucks her tongue, turning his larger hand over between her own. His knuckles are bloodied, purplish bruises blooming across them. Shallow cuts, but wholly unnecessary.

“This is excessive, for you,” she says, putting his hand down before reaching for the cloth in the washbowl she’s placed on the table. “You could have used your haki.”

“Fists are more fun,” Rayleigh says dryly, but there’s a gleam in his eyes that beckons mischief, and far more than the years on his back should so readily allow. She might have told him.

Instead, she snorts. “Roger used to say that,” she tells him. “And half the time I think he was just being lewd.”

Removing her cigarette from between her lips, she holds it out, and tucks it between his teeth when he tilts his head, running her thumb in a quick sweep over his bottom lip before she draws her fingers back to continue cleaning the cuts across his knuckles.

Lifting his free hand, Rayleigh takes a long drag of the cigarette, before letting it out, sinking back into the chair with the release. It’s unfairly erotic, in that effortless way he has about him.

“Remember to put your clothes in the hamper later,” she says, slipping the needle under his skin. He doesn’t flinch, but closes his eyes to her ministrations. With her cigarette still perched between his teeth and his broken glasses askew on his nose, Shakky has to drop her gaze to focus on her work.

The half-smile teasing at the corner of his mouth tells her she’s been caught, but then she’s never made much of a point pretending at coyness around him.

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” she tells him, smiling. “You know I have a weakness for wounded men.”

He hums, his eyes still closed. “Maybe I should apologise. Shallow cuts and bruises don’t really make for an effective seduction.”

Shakky flicks her eyes up, finding his eyes hooded behind his glasses. “Given the impressive repertoire of injuries you’ve walked across this threshold with at one point or another, I’m inclined to agree. You’re not getting soft in your old age, Ray-san? Next you’ll tell me you just want to cuddle.”

His smile holds that same softness. “Would it be so terrible?”

She looks at him a moment, before dropping her eyes back to his hand, cradled between her own, protruding veins and old scars and fresh stitches that will leave new ones. “Maybe you’re not the one getting soft,” she says simply, and sets about stitching the last of the cuts.

The sun has dipped beyond the grove when she’s done, and the old, guttering lamp offers little light to eyes that used to see better. But she wraps his knuckles and cleans the needle, and then it’s just the two of them and her empty bar. Like it always is, at the end of the day.

Pushing up from her seat, she means to take the kit away, but hesitates, and instead reaches down to push his hair out of his brow, rubbing the pad of her thumb across a still-healing scrape right above his temple. Careless, she thinks fondly, and means to remind him of the fact.

“Dinner?” Rayleigh asks before she can, tilting his head to look at her. “I’ve only had bread and water for the past few days.”

“The food is already cold,” Shakky counters, touching a fingertip to the corner of his smiling mouth. “A shame, too. I made your favourite.”

“You don’t cook.”

“No?” At his raised brow, she smiles. “Then I guess I’ll be your bread and water tonight,” she says, plucking her cigarette from his lips, before leaning down to kiss him. He tastes of cheap scotch and nicotine, the sharp, smoky tang slipping onto her tongue like it belongs.

“That doesn’t sound like much of a punishment,” he laughs into the kiss. The weight of his palm settles over the small of her back, easing her into his lap. She comes because she wants to, but doesn’t tell him that. Another small game they have.

“Oh, Ray,” Shakky says instead, tucking her palm against his cheek. The cigarette sits between her fingers, and the taste of him is still on her tongue. And she sees his grin curving, an old, knowing thing, even before she adds, smile full of promise,

Thebalcony offers a welcome respite from the stifling conference room – and fromtheir colleagues, new and old, the cool air and the quiet hush draped over theevening, sheer as gauze. Headquarters, in its newer, harder trappings, but thesea beyond the shore is the same as ever, vast and dark under a horizon touchedwith lilacs. It’s not a gentle sea, but kinder than the walls encasing her,pillars and archways of stone, and little mercy to be found in either, former pirateor not, and no matter who signs her paychecks.

Shehears his approach, and he hasn’t kept her waiting long, but then he rarelydoes. Economical in most things, but even with his stark efficiency and limitedpatience, he treats her with little of the former, and more of the latter thanhe does anyone else.

“Youdo not usually initiate,” he tells her by way of greeting, something like amusementwinking in his eyes when she lifts her head to meet them. Not a rare thing, she’s come to learn; it’s just thatmost people don’t know how to recognise it for what it is.

“Although your proposition leaves something to be desired,” he adds, coming to stand beside her.

And he’s right; between them, she’s not usually the one who makes the first move, but she’s not about to greet his amusement with deference. Although Hancock doubts it’s what he expects.

The angle of her chin speaks volumes on its own, but, “I don’t see you declining,” she counters smoothly.

“Areyou asking?”

She narrows her eyes at that, and he lifts a brow in silent retaliation. A knowing smile idles at the cornerof his mouth, and Hancock sniffs. “I wasn’t aware I needed to issue a formalrequest.”

“It’sencouraged,” Mihawk tells her, dryly. “We attended the same seminar, if youremember.”

Hersmile comes before she can stop it – quick, startled. She doesn’t hate herselffor it, anymore. “I doubt they have official forms for this kind ofproposition.”

Thelook he gives her suggests the opposite, and she’s tempted to laugh – it sitsin her chest, loosened like her breath, so easy to find now, after years ofshoving it down as far as it would go. Strange, that such a reticent man shouldinspire it.

“I’msurprised you showed up for this,” she tells him then, with a glance at the balcony doorway behind them. From somewhere insidedrifts a curl of conversation, muffled by layers of stone. “You who avoidsocial obligations like the plague.”

“Thepromised company offered incentive,” Mihawk says, with a deliberate look.

Shemeets it without flinching, and doesn’t miss a beat. “Not the open bar?”

“Iam not Red-Hair.”

“Clearly,or this party would be louder.”

Hissmile is brief, but genuine. “I’m not sure it would be animprovement, if it was.” And with another look at her, eyes cutting deep, “Either way, I am content with thepresent company,” he says, simply.

Thatwarmth within her softens – becomes a kinder thing, but, “Your flattery stillneeds work,” she tells him.

He’sstill looking at her, and the gleam in his eyes holds at least two glasses ofwine. “So you say, and yet you are still pleased.”

They’restanding closer now – too close for colleagues, but then there’s no need forpretence here, with no other eyes to bear witness. But he doesn’t move to close the last breath of space between them, so small that she can hear his heartbeat, if she focuses. It’s deceptively steady, although she’s never let that fool her.

“Maybe I’ve lowered mystandards,” she says.

His gaze hasn’t budged from hers. “Anunlikely prospect, knowing your standards. And you.”

It’sher turn to raise a brow. “That could be taken as self-flattery.”

“And I reiterate,” Mihawk says, deadpan, “that I am not Red-Hair.”

Shedoesn’t try to stop herself from smiling this time, and he doesn’t pretend thathe’s not pleased by the sight of it. Both very small concessions, for exceedingly proud creatures, but the roadto making them has been a long one, and even small, they’re anything butinsignificant.

Hehasn’t touched her yet, and once, the reason would have been caution – respect forher boundaries, back when things were new. Now there’s challenge in his restraint; anoffer for her to make good on her proposition, lack of official paperwork notwithstanding.

Thetrail of her fingertips along his jaw isn’t tender, because they’re neither ofthem tender people, and tenderness has no room in this place, between thesewalls. But with that slow warmth persisting, she doesn’t think about the walls – orthe party, or their employers. A rare, selfish rebellion, claimed for herself.Rare, because the world might know her as fickle and selfish, but she has fewthings that are hers – or at leastthe way he is. Her tribe, her crew, they’re both hers, but they’re hers asEmpress, and there is little selfishness in that – the sacrifices she makes, tokeep them safe.

Hedoesn’t ask her to sacrifice anything – asks only for her, and with himself offeredin turn. And it’s bearable, with him – the meetings and the inane, socialgatherings; their employers, and the proximity to Mariejois, the holy cityalways looming, always at the edge of her awareness, no matter which side ofthe Red Line she’s on. Unavoidable, like the brand on her back, but with him, enduring it takes less effort that it did, once.

Herpalm curls around the back of his neck, and the dip of his head seeks hermouth, barely a pause between them. And there’s no more tenderness in the kissthan there was in her first touch, the bitter aftertaste of wine on his tongue and the scrapeof his beard against her chin, but she welcomes both with regal dignity – and onlya little bit of graceless impatience, sitting in the telling grip of herfingers in his hair.

Footsteps, then – an uneven shuffle on the stone, before a shape stumbles out onto the balconywith a startled shout. And between breaths he’s released her, the momentum leaving herreeling, only to catch herself on the balustrade, and he’s put himself in front ofher before she’s had the chance to reclaim her breath; his own, straight-backed posture letting nothing slip, even as she catches the barest twitch of his fingers, only a moment ago buried in her hair.

Red-Noseblinks – then squints at them through the dark,expression suddenly accusing. “Did you two form a sub-party out here or somethin’?Rude.”

Shecatches Mihawk pinching the bridge of his nose. “Leave.”

Thatearns him an affronted look – a fool’s bravery, aided by too much drink. Hancock doubts he’d be so quick to offer it, if sober. “Y’realways so serious, Hawk-Eyes. Sheesh.”Then to Hancock, voice slurring a bit over the words, “Hey – snake lady.” He blinks. “S’rry, can’t rememberyour name.”

Helooks between them, still blinking, his brows furrowed slightly, as though trying to make sense of the situation,but the glaze of inebriation in his eyes banishes whatever worry she might haveharboured, that he should realise just what he’s stumbled upon. “Wait– thehell did I even come out ‘ere for?”

“Icould turn him to stone,” Hancock says, the words offered under her breath.

Thecorner of Mihawk’s mouth lifts a fraction. “They will make us attend another seminarfor that.”

“I’llendure it.”

“Iwill not.”

Shecuts him a look, and he parries it with a raised brow. But the source of theirinterruption is still standing in the balcony doorway, and Hancock considersher patience – finds it lacking, rubbed thin by that still-lingering heat, andthe taste of him on her lips.

Thenext look she gives him is meaningful, and, “I’ll be in my quarters,” she says. Then with a toss of her hair, “Enjoy your new company.”

She’sstriding away before he can respond, across the balcony and through the doorway, counting the seconds, her smile knowing and hidden from sight, and it’s not long beforeRed-Nose’s voice rises behind her–

“Oi, thehell’s that glare for? Y’know, Shanks was right, you have the biggest stick shoved up your–”

Thethud of an unconscious body hittingthe stone barely makes an impression on the quiet – even less than his footsteps behind her. And she doesn’t slow her pace to allow him to catchup, but then he doesn’t need it, long legs eating up the distance between them until there’s nothing left.

“There’llbe another seminar now,” she reminds him, eyes gleaming. “I doubt there’ll be anopen bar.”

Hemeets her eyes, nothing teasing in his own, although she would have been surprised to find that to be the case. Instead there’s something else, brighterthan amusement, or even annoyance – want, she sees, and as stark and earnest as the rest of him, when he offers it.

Andshe isn’t surprised when all he does is look at her, before offering her ownwords back, no flattery, just a simple, wry truth with her at itsheart–