languid and honey-sweet

The crack of his neck echoed in the empty bedchamber as he stared at the man sprawled at his feet, illuminated by the soft glow provided by the oil lamp. The only other sounds were the quiet snores of the whore, naked and asleep, and the shallow, ragged breaths of the man lying at his mercy.

He rolled his shoulders as he squatted to the floor, yanking the man by the collar. “Is your tongue feeling loose yet?” Jason tilted his head, green eyes cold. Uncaring.

The man wheezed, blood splattering from his mouth, staining his chin that ugly shade of red. Blue and purple bruises bloomed under his skin. Jason watched as he struggled but did no motion to help him, or lessen his pain in any way.

He stared at him trying not to think about the person he had become. He couldn't bare to.

Once upon a time he would have felt bad for this. For beating a man to an inch of his life. For nearly condemning an otherwise innocent man to a fate he had already suffered from. 

But not anymore. Not him. Not when he was this close to tasting the end. Not when the secrets the man held could be his salvation. 

Jason watched as the man's lips moved, trying to form words but was unable to, as he fell in and out of consciousness.

He rolled his eyes at the sight before him. Pathetic. 

He pulled the man up from the collar, immediately dragging him back to the land of the living.  

“Speak,” he demanded, ignoring the sharp sting on his fingers and the pain shooting up his spine. His fist instinctively tightened its grip, grounding him.

“Go- The Gov-” the man slurred, a stray tear trickling from the corner of his eye, mixing with the blood and soot on his face. “The Governor's wife.” he rasped, hand slowly raising, clasping over Jason's.

His eyes glinted at the answer, a small smirk gracing his face, “Wasn’t that hard, aye?” he says immediately letting go of him. 

He wiped his hands on the man’s shirt —not that it did him any good, it looked filthier than his hands had ever been— and stomped to the door, the cacophony invaded his ears when he opened it.

Jason stilled for a moment, as his hand touched the hat he had left on the door handle. The thought of calling someone to treat the poor bastard choking on his own blood crossed his mind if only for a second. It disappeared just as quickly. 

He was a pirate, not a nurse. Besides, that whore would wake up soon enough, and he liked to think she’d be gracious enough to take care of him.

He quickly left the room, placing his hat back on his head, calling his crew to make for the ship, descending the stairs two at a time.

There was no time to waste—not when the curse still clung to his bones like rot. Not when he knew how to put an end to it.

You hissed as the needle pricked your finger, drawing it immediately to your mouth sucking on the blood. Just as quickly you pulled it away, manners engraved too deep into your bones to allow yourself such an indecency. You stared at it instead, watching as the blood trickled down your finger before it stopped.

You recall your late mother saying how you’ve always seemed to recover faster than other people. Your father called it a gift from God. You never paid it any mind.

“Perhaps, if you held it like a needle, milady, and not like a dagger, it wouldn’t see fit to bite you.” the velvety voice of Margaret Reed, one of your ladies and long time friend, interrupts your thoughts, forcing you back to reality.

You raise your gaze to lay eyes on her. To anyone else she would have seemed uninterested as she sat on the settee, hand moving with precision as she embroidered yet another flower on a piece of cloth that would be forgotten as soon as she was finished with it. But to those that knew her, the glint in her eye was unmistakable, and what would have otherwise been a reprimand, was teasing words between friends.

"At least the needle possesses spirit,” you exhale as you pick up the needle again, slowly pulling on the thread, “Unlike those spineless dandies you keep calling 'prospects'." you say, your lip tugging into a smile.

“Milady!” she gasps scandalized at your words, hands falling on her lap, as she tried desperately to hide the amusement she felt.

You giggle at her reaction. You always thought it was curious how you ended up being so close to her. Sure, you run in the same social circle, but other than that you were nothing alike.

Where she was the perfect example of a high society woman, always poised and refined, you were trying everything to get away from the role fate had assigned you. You knew how to embroider—although badly— and how to play the piano and lute. You learned how to horseback ride from a very young age, and if anyone were to ask you about science, you would most likely know the answer.

You had received the education fitting to someone of your status. The problem lied with the other things you learned along the way.

Like which door creaks the least at night. Or the shift change of the guards, when your father was fast asleep –although that last one wasn't anything remarkable, everyone in the estate knew by the small earthquakes that followed.

You had also learned how to deter suitors, much to you father's disdain.

Turns out men don't enjoy being told they're lacking in intelligence, regardless of how easy some made it.

“Oh, calm yourself Margaret. There is no one here but the two of us.” you brush her off, “Besides, not a word I’ve spoken is false.” you close your eyes, awfully sure of your words.

You saw her take a deep breath in from the corner of your eye, “True or not, milady, it is your duty to behave like a proper lady—and secure a good match.” she says pointedly.

You scoff at her words, there she goes again. You discard the cloth, rolling your eyes, “And I am to do so by hemming handkerchiefs for men that think embroidery is the height of my ambitions?” you say, words sharp, “It’s pointless, wouldn’t you think?” you stand up, straightening out the blue dress your maid, Anne, had picked out for you this morning.

“The point is being a good wife.”

You offer her a tight lipped smile, as you carefully walk towards the library you had installed in your room, “As you shall be soon, I daresay.” you smirk, staring as her face turns into all different shades of red from the corner of your eye. 

"And, besides,” you continue, seeing she was too flustered to even talk, “of what use is needlepoint, when men govern a colony with half a brain and no manners?" your fingers scan the covers of the well loved books in your collection.

Her gasp filled the room, “Mind your tongue!" she exclaims, "Heaven forbid your father heard you.”

“He should recover, no doubt.” you say, tone dismissive. 

Your father had survived much worse than your words.

“You’ll set the world alight someday” she exhales resignedly, “if the men don’t throw water on you first.”

“Oh, I do hope they try! I’ve always wanted to see a powdered wig catch fire.” you giggle as you walk back to the settee, falling back onto it. Margaret shakes her head in disapproval.

“Milday, you must—” she begins to say, but the knock on the door interrupts her. You both turn towards it, seeing the bright red head of a young servant girl peeking through the crack.

“Pardon the interruption milady, Lord Smythe requests the presence of Lady Margaret.” she says, looking at the floor, too new and scared to look at either of you in the eye.

Margaret snaps towards you, her eyes bright at the sound of her betrothed's name, silently asking for permission to go. As if you would ever keep her from running to him.

Lord Smythe had asked her hand in marriage not too long ago, whilst they were on a walk in her fathers estate. And Margaret seemed ecstatic to begin her new life as a wife, and eventually, a mother. You didn’t understand her, but were happy for your friend nonetheless.

“Run along Margaret, I promise nothing will be set ablaze in your absence” you say giggling, as she hurriedly stands up and heads to the door, saying a rushed thank you and goodbye, before the door closes behind her.

Once you were officially alone you exhaled at the silence that surrounded you, the soft waves crashing against the rocks, hardly audible.

You stared at the closed door, wondering how it would feel to be excited to get married like Margaret was. How it would feel for your eyes to light up at the mention of someone's name. To be excited at the thought of seeing someone.

But all the ‘prospects’, as Margaret liked to call the men your father presented you to, were bland, to put it simply. And, besides, you weren’t keen on giving up your freedom. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Better a spinster, than a wife.

Despite your wishes, you also knew you didn’t have a choice. Not really.

You were the daughter of the Governor, every day of your life has been leading up to the moment of your wedding, to whoever that might be. 

Your feelings didn’t matter half as much as your status, if even at all. 

You tear your gaze away from the intricately carved door, as you stand up heading towards the balcony.

The salt air was a welcome sensation on your skin, your eyes locked on the horizon. You watched as the sun slowly descended to the sea, painting the sky in hues of orange and yellow.

You close your eyes, leaning against the rail. You let the sounds of the sea and the birds fill your ears, completely ridding your mind of all unwanted thoughts as you start wondering how life would be if your fate wasn't your own.

You exhale, smiling at the chance of being free. To do what? You don't know yet. But it’ll be exciting. And new. And maybe a little terrifying. But it’ll be your own.

You smile as you open your eyes, staring at the beautiful picture that had been created before you, completely missing the hooded figure staring up at your balcony ominously. 

Waiting.

Jason knew that it wasn’t very ‘piratey’ of him to sneak into the estate in the dead of the night, and while he’s sure his crew would love to ransack the place and then go get drunk, he couldn’t have anyone following his trail.

The reward was too high for the risk.

He looks around, grimacing at the sight of bust statues of men whose names he couldn’t bother to remember, littered around the hall, lifeless and judgemental, much like the guests in the countless balls his father used to host. His stomach turned at the deja vu, the governor's estate being much too similar to the one he used to call home once upon a time. 

The memories crashed into his mind, like the waves against the bow of his ship, angry and unforgiving.

He remembers the way people danced, created something akin to an illusion, leaving him mesmerized by it. Leaving him wanting, wishing to be like them.

He can almost see, his older brother amongst the dancers, some high society girl in his arms, blissfully twirling around, oblivious to how her partner seemed more interested in the sea, than her.

He can almost feel the weight of his father’s hand on his shoulder, as he looked over the party.

Jason shakes his head, being pulled back into the present by the chilly air entering through the window he left open, shoving the memories back to where they belonged, locked away and buried beneath years of grime and saltwater. All that happened in another lifetime. He’s a different man now, nothing like the boy donning silk and jewels.

Thankfully, after this was over with, he wouldn’t have to think about any of that ever again.

Slipping in the shadows was second nature to him at this point, disappearing between the paintings decorating the walls, leaving no trace of his presence behind. 

His footsteps were muffled by the velvet carpet, as he sneaked around the estate, looking for the room he found out to be yours earlier that day.

He’d be quick. Get in. Muffle you while you were asleep. Get out.

Child’s play for the man the entire Royal Navy was searching but could never find.

Jason's eyes shine in the dark once your door slips into view, a smile slowly creeping up his face.

He walks towards the ornately decorated door, reaching for the handle. He could almost taste freedom on his togue.

But the sound of footsteps, make him stop in his tracks, resembling the statues along the hall.

They are quick as they echo, bouncing against the walls.

Jason curses as he dives behind the curtains, hidden from the sight of whoever is walking the estates hall at this hour.

"Miss Anne, see to it that the young mistress is prepared in good time for Lord Whittemore's arrival” a deep voice ordered.

Lord Whittemore? Jason hadn’t heard that name in years, but he did remember the man. He was prissy, and what his crew, him included, would call a molly. Always dressed to the nines and always looking at young women, despite the fact was already greying under that God awful wig of his. 

He grimaces in disgust at the implication of his arrival.

"And might I trust you to ensure that she properly conducts herself? None of her usual antics." the man continues, not allowing the woman to answer first, "I should hate for the Governor to be met with any measure of embarrassment.”

“Yes, my Lord.” a much younger female voice answers. She sounds timid. Like she’s scared to say anything else.

Jason holds his breath as he listens closely to the footsteps growing quieter, as the pair of them leave to torment some other poor soul he assumes. 

This wasn’t part of the plan. If he takes you now, everyone will know by the morning. Every ship in the area will be searching for you.

But if he doesn’t, you’ll be basically sold off, and he’ll have to make both a new plan and bypass whatever security that prick Whittemore will have protecting you. And God forbid the old man gets you pregnant before he’s able to get to you.

So he might as well get it over with now and spare you in the process. Not that you would care. He's seen his fair share of breakdowns over failed courtships. You'd probably be mad if you didn't get to marry that geezer.

Jason takes a deep breath as he quietly leaves the safety of the curtains, his calloused hand grabbing the door handle. Your room comes into view soon after.

You are sitting at the canape, holding a book in your hands, the warm light of the candle by your side illuminates your figure. 

He holds his breath as you stop yourself from turning the page, his hand immediately reaching for his sword, ready for you to start screaming. You stare at nothing as you listen in closely to his movements. But it only seems to last a moment before you continue reading.

Jason cannot see what the book is about, but it must be interesting enough for you to not pay him any mind.

He takes a moment to stare at you, as he slowly unsheathes his sword, creeping behind you. 

He couldn’t quite understand how you could be the solution to all his problems, or how you were the cause of them in the first place. You didn't look any different from other daughters of aristocratic families. He can’t imagine you’d act any different either.

He didn’t mind that at all. Hell, it made his job easier. 

He’d lock you in a cell, get you to the Pit and break his curse. Simple as that.

Yet, he found himself stilling as he stood above you, breath ragged. Sword in hand. Ready to strike.

You hummed a tune as you turned the page of your book, eyes scanning the page.

“Miss Anne?” you called, not raising your gaze, “Might you be so kind as to see that the bed is properly prepared?” your voice was soft, thinking you were talking to your maid.

Jason watched you for a second longer, reveling at your obliviousness. Then, the hilt of his sword struck the back of your head, a sickening thud echoing in the room. You fell limp right into his arms.

He almost felt bad. 

Almost.

You don’t think you’ve had a headache quite like this before. Your whole head was throbbing, like a thousand little hammers were pounding away in your skull. And the ringing in your ears only made it worse.

You groan as you try to open your eyes, a hand immediately shooting up your face, as if that could help in any way. 

You blink, trying to focus, your hands barely visible as the dizziness hits you again, the second wave stronger than the first.

“Miss Anne?” you call out, sitting up slowly, managing to feel the hard surface beneath you. You must have fallen to the floor while you were sleeping, “Would you be kind enough to fetch me something for the pain?”

You wait for her soft voice, her usual flurry of movement as she scurries to help. But nothing comes. Just silence.

“Anne?” you call out again, ignoring how your head couldn’t stop spinning. Silence still.

You slowly move your head away from the light, ready to call out to her again, but another voice, unfamiliar and rough, cuts through the silence.

“I’m no maid lassie,” it calls and you feel your blood run cold. Why is there a man in your quarters? “And this ain’t your fancy estate.” 

Your hands scramble trying to find something to grab, but you only find wood and dust surrounding you.

You force your eyes open, the adrenaline rushing through your veins, wiping the pain away, sharpening your vision. You take a frantic look around, scanning your surroundings.

It’s dark. Darker than it should be, the only sliver of light spilling from a tiny window high above you. The floor is rough beneath your fingertips, eroded and stained with blotches you’d rather not think the origin of.

Your gaze darts to the far end of the room and that’s when you see it. Bars. Thick, rusted iron bars.

“Who are you?” you demand, the man sat on the other side, hidden by the shadows. You see him lean against the wall, his clothes covered in grime, his boots caked with mud. His face is not visible behind the layers of darkness.

A low chuckle echoes in the room, “Not important,” he says, fingers tapping on his leg, “What matters is who you are.”

You scramble to stand up, immediately noticing the room shifting from side to side as you lose your footing. 

Ship. You were on a ship. Which only means-

“I demand to be let go at once!” you yell, grabbing at the bars, all your loathing and clawing desperation directed at your captor.

But yet again, he laughs. 

“You’re aint in a position to bark orders lass.” he says and you watch him like a hawk as he steps into the light. 

You didn’t know what you expected from the assumed pirate that had captured you for no apparent reason, but a boy, barely older than you, donning a smirk, wasn’t it.

He was taller than you, he probably was taller than most people, strands of white hair falling over the red head scarf he had tied around his forehead, the rest of his hair hidden by a hat. His green eyes looking down at you in derogation.

You knew you couldn’t fight him, you didn't know how. And you definitely couldn’t outrun him, not when you’re behind bars. So all is left bargaining.

“What is it that you want? Gold? A pardon? I can arrange that for you!” you rush to get out before he can harm you. 

“It ain’t gold I seek lass.” he steps closer, his face clearer now, green eyes contrasting the filth on his skin, “I need something else entirely…” he says, and you feel the back of his fingers against your cheek. 

Your stomach turns at the sensation and the smile on his face, disgusted at what might happen to you. Before you know it, you open your mouth and bite down at his hand, dirt filling your mouth.

Jason yelps, pulling his hand away, his gaze hardened as he looks down at you,

“Wench!” he calls out and then starts laughing maniacally.

He couldn’t wrap his head around what just happened. You, dainty, aristocratic, talking with manners he had forgotten existed, bit his hand. He stared at you, eyes wide with surprise, as you seemingly mastered all your courage to look at him, a scowl decorating your face. 

Funny. 

“You’re bold, I’ll give you that.” he said, smirking.

His reaction only fills you with more rage, “Release me! Or I will see that you and your entire crew swing from the gallows!” you yell, shaking the bars that confided you. But it only seemed to encourage him.

“Ballsy!” he says, “I like that in a woman.” he smiles at you, but only gets back a disgusted look on your part.

If Jason said he didn’t find this amusing he’d be lying.

He steps closer, hands raised with the intention of leaning against the bars, but you don’t seem to notice that, recoiling at the proximity.

“Don't touch me, pirate!” you exclaim.

This got tiring too soon for his liking. A shame if you'd ask him, he hadn't had a good laugh in a while.

He rolls his eyes, arm sticking through the bars, grabbing your jaw before you can even react.

“I’ll make you a deal, savvy?” he spits, dragging your head closer, “You’ll tell me how to break the curse, I’ll make sure you get fed tonight.”

You stare straight into his eyes, gulping down the fear that seemed to cloud your head, like the mist clouded the port in the early hours of the morning. But you don’t let it show, glaring at him, keeping eye contact.

“Tongue not feeling loose yet?” he asks, expecting you to fold. 

But you don’t. Instead, he feels the warm stick of your spit on his cheek, slowly trickling down.

Jason turns his head away, trying with every fiber of his being to keep his composure. To not break the door of the cell and beat you to an inch of your life. Instead, he raises his free hand wiping his face.

You hear him chuckle as he lets go of your head aggressively, making you lose balance for a moment. 

He stays still. You see him take a deep breath and turn around, heading towards the door.

You feel like crying at the sight, more than ready to allow yourself to break down finally. But then he stops and your breath is caught up to your throat again.

“Let’s see how feisty you are when pride is all you’ve got left, milady.” he says, and before you know it, he’s out of the door.

You huff, falling as your knees give out. Your head is still spinning by the pirate's taunts. 

You would have never thought that your life you would dissolve into this. Stuck, trapped, in a cage of a pirate ship.

You let out a shaky breath, staring at the door, waiting, dreading, of someone coming in. You try to get it under control. But every breath becomes shakier than the last, and the weight in your chest only seems to be getting heavier.

You slowly reach up, your hand trembling as you search through your hair, gaze locked on the door. You breathe out in relief when you grab one of the countless pins your maids had used to keep the strands in place, making sure your head looked more like a painting than hair.

You pull it out in a rush, immediately pulling it apart, fingers working quick.

He couldn’t keep you in here. You wouldn’t allow it.

You kneel before the lock, the wood creaking beneath your knees, breath held tight in your chest.

You have to work fast. It’ll be dark soon.

Every time the ship rocked, you found yourself trying to keep the pin from falling out your hand. Trying to keep your composure despite all the failed attempts to pick the lock.

The smell of saltwater and mold clings to your lungs, much like the corset on your undergarments.

“Blasted thing!” you curse under your breath, grabbing the pin again, jamming it into the lock.

Picking locks isn’t a skill you possess, and if you were being honest, it wasn’t a skill you’d thought you’d ever have to use. 

You had tried, however, to pick the lock of your fathers study more than once, wanting to be in his presence whenever you felt lonely.

But this wasn’t your fathers study. This was the brig of a pirate ship, and behind the door wasn’t his warm embrace, but criminals that would kill you without a second thought.

Your eyebrows furrow, as you slightly bite on your tongue in concentration, moving the pin carefully, trying to hear the mechanism.

And then you do. A soft click rings in your ears, your eyes widening at the sound.

Your fingers immediately start moving slower, with more intention behind them, twisting the pin in your hands carefully. One more twist and you're out.

But the floorboards above you creak. Your blood runs cold. There’s a voice.

Someone is coming.

You can clearly hear the footsteps growing nearer to you, the voice louder. Your hands are moving in panic, trying to get it to open before whoever it is opens the door.

You stare at the lock obsessively, as if it would cower under your gaze, give up and open at last.

And then you feel it. The light resistance. 

You turn your head towards the door, terrified as you hear the handle move. And with a swift motion, you twist the pin, the characteristic sound of it opening overtaking your senses.

You feel the tears streaming down your face in relief as you scramble to the other side of the cell, leaving the cell door closed.

You hide your face in your skirts, as the person descends the stairs into the room. 

You listen as the heavy steps move closer, their sound overpowered by the ringing of your ears. 

And suddenly, it stops.

You raise your head when you feel something hitting your feet.

Before you, you see a piece of stale bread, the shadow of your captor surrounding you.

You turn your head, shocked, staring at him, as he starts heading out without saying a word.

“Thank you.” you say, grabbing it, but he only grunts before slamming the door behind him.

You sit there, slowly eating the bread he threw at you, piece by piece. By no means was it good, but your hunger overpowered whatever tastes you had grown up with and the fear of the possibility that he would try to poison you.

You sit there, ignoring the numbing pain clawing up your body, waiting for the ship to fall silent, along with its crew.

You’re sure you’ll find at least 3 people on deck, but three people is better than 50, and you need the chances to be in your favour if you are to escape this wretched ship.

You stay, still as a statue, listening closely until the footsteps cease sounding above you. 

The only thing you can hear are the waves crashing against the barrel of the ship.

You tumble on your skirts, as you rush to stand up, falling on your feet as you get to the door.

Your hands immediately reach for the cell door, pulling it wide open.

You feel hot as the adrenaline rushes through your veins, sweat trickling down your face. Your eyes sting with tears you won't allow to escape.

You tiptoe up the stairs, hand trembling as your hand touches the handle, cringing at the creaking sound. Hoping, no one is standing guard.

You breathe a sigh of relief when you find the corridor empty.

The air outside the room wasn’t much different than within it, if only for the characteristic pungent of alcohol added to it. You ignore the bile that rushes up your throat, lightly stepping outside.

You walk slowly, a hand constantly brushing against the weathered wood, splinters pricking your fingers, as you try to keep balance within the shifting ship. 

You pass by the hammocks the crew slept on, thankful their drunken snores muffled your hurried steps.

It only takes you a minute before you find the trap door leading to the deck, the cold air of the night kissing your face. You smile at the sight of it, reaching up to open it, more than ready to-

“What d’ye figure the Cap’n wants with ‘er?” a gritty voice above you catches your attention, as you immediately shoot to the side, scared he’ll come down and catch you.

You hold your breath, listening in, hoping they'll what you are here for.

“How in blazes should I know?” you hear a second voice answer, sounding much younger than the first, “Gold, mayhap.”

“Aye…” the first man sighs, “or maybe he’s longin’ for a woman’s touch.” he laughs, a wet rattling sound that makes your skin crawl.

You’re going to throw up, the sharp feeling of your corset digging into your ribs becomes more noticeable.

“ ‘thought the Cap’n were a molly.” the voice sounds farther away this time, shocked at the apparent intentions of his captain.

“Shut yer gob! He’s wedded to the sea, he is.” you hear the younger one curse as he stumbles, after being slapped probably.

You wonder if they’ll fight. 

You hoped they would. Maybe then they’d be too distracted to notice you fleeing.

“Aye, that’s what they say.” the voice fades, your breath still stuck in your throat, scared that even the slightest sound will make them come back.

You can hear the chatter in the distance still, but it's too far to decipher what they’re talking about.

Taking a deep breath in, you step under the trapdoor again, staring up at it. You slowly lay both your hands on it, sweat clinging on your palms as you push it lightly, smiling as you see it give away to pressure.

You peek your head outside, just enough to scan your surroundings. 

Clear.

You grit your teeth in anticipation as you push it further up, sliding quietly on deck.

The cold air sticks against your nerve riddled skin, relief flowing through your body. 

You could finally breathe easy again.

For a moment you stare up to the night sky, letting the sound of the sea overtake your senses. You would have loved to see the stars this clear again but under different circumstances. Sit under them, draw and study them, until the sun returns to the sky, letting light touch everything within the horizon. You immediately find the North Star. Familiarity floods you. As long as it is in the sky, you'll make it out of here.

A particularly strong gust of wind wakes you up, as if it is reminding you that you weren’t safe, that you needed to leave this place.

You rush, hiding behind the nearest mast, safe from wandering eyes. You search for a boat you could escape with.

You grin widely when you catch a glimpse of it.

Without a second thought you run towards it. Your eyes dart across, looking at all the intricate knots that kept it in place. Your hands immediately reach towards them.

You don’t know how to lower it peacefully, opting for just letting it fall to the water. Then, you could jump in, climb up and row away before anyone can see you.

Your brain buzzed with the feeling of your imminent freedom. 

One of the knots gives away. The boat tilts. You grin.

One more knot. One more knot and you’ll be free.

One more knot and—

You scream when someone picks you up, throwing you over their shoulder. You feel the rough fabric of his shirt against your face as you’re hauled away, the scent of salt and leather mixed with something darker.

You were so close to freedom. So close.

First thing you notice is the red head scarf, tears pooling in your eyes at the realization of who had caught you.

“Let me go!” you start squirming immediately and he tightens his hold on you. You hit and punch his back, as digs his fingers in your flesh in annoyance.

“You think you’re real smart don’t ya?” he says, as you continue screaming and kicking your feet. 

You can barely hear the laughing of whatever crew is awake in the background as he brings you to a room you can't recognise.

“Why me?” you yell at him, your fists hitting his back, “What is it you want?” you yelp as he throws you. 

You expect the pain that follows being thrown to the floor like a sandbag, but it never comes. You open your eyes slightly, seeing that you have been thrown on a bed, and instead of a cell you see a polished room.

“You really have no clue-” he laughs. 

You watch him rush to the middle of the room where a desk is laid, as he throws the things on it around in search of something.

Your eyes immediately dart around, in search for the door, vision blurry with tears. 

From the corner of your eye, you see him stomping towards you, dread filling you at the sight of a knife in his hand. “What are you-” You immediately scoot backwards, trying to put as much distance as possible between you.

“Wh- What is happening?” you ask as you see him pulling up his sleeve. 

You start yelling and writhing when he reaches for your arm. But you weren’t quick enough to pull away, his rough and calloused hands grabbing your wrist.

You bite your lip, refusing to let the tears of pain fall, but your whole body trembles with the force of it. Every inch of your skin burns where the blade touches, and the noise of the knife cutting through flesh feels like a jagged echo in your head.

He is precise as he cuts through your warm flesh, throwing the knife away once he’s done.

“Look.” he says, noticing your head tilted away from the injury he inflicted on you, “Look!” he screams this time, shaking you.

You tentatively turn your gaze on it, your whole body trembling. Your pained expression is quickly replaced by a shocked one.

The cut on your arm had slowly started to close, the blood ceasing to flow. The skin knitting itself closed before your eyes.

You raise your gaze to look at the man before you, but he isn’t looking at you.

The pained expression on his face is directed at his own arm. Teeth visibly gritting, jaw clenched.

You slowly look at his hand this time, restlessness cursing through you at the sight.

At the same place where he had cut your arm, blood flowed on his. Skin ripping apart, flesh slashed open. 

The surrounding area turned that rotten shade of black, a putrid scent filling your nostrils.

Where your own wound closed up, a whole new appeared on him, the knife nowhere in sight.

“This is what you have to do with this!” he says, throwing your hand away, groaning, like it pained him to even stand, “It’s between your life and mine, sweetheart,” he glares at you and you feel shivers rising up your spine at his words, eyes never leaving his. “And I choose mine.”

You spend the better part of the night sitting by the bed, staring at your feet, wondering how long it would take for someone to find you if you just jumped off deck. Maybe you should wait for another ship to appear before you do so. At least then you’ll have a vague idea of how much time it'll take for you to swim close enough to be seen and rescued.

But what if that’s days from now? What if a worse fate awaits you there. The situation at hand isn’t a good one by any means, but at least no one has tried to take advantage of you.

Yet.

You close your eyes letting your head hit the wooden wall of the cabin.

“This is what you have to do with this!” he says, throwing your hand away.

You open them as quickly as you had closed them, the memory of his hand spontaneously bleeding crossing your mind every time you did so.

You let a breath leave your lungs looking around the cabin trying to occupy yourself with anything else.

There were books on the table in front of you. Lots of them. And you could see some photographs stuck on the gaps. You turn your head up, a chandelier with little shells hanging from it. You look down, your dress. You reach and pick up the hem. You run your fingers over the black and brown spots, spoiling the light blue fabric. Any other day, you'd be annoyed at the state of it. You’d drop whatever you were doing and immediately go change. But today? Today you just stared at it unbothered. 

No use crying over spilt milk. 

You let the hem back on the floor, redirecting your gaze at the porthole, looking through it. Not that there was much to see. The North star was still shining bright and unchanged.

You don't know how many hours have passed since you got locked in the cabin, but by the darkness outside it mustn't have been nearly as long as it felt. The thought of it is comforting in a way. There's still a chance this is all a bad dream and that you’ll wake up soon. 

You startle awake from your position on the floor at the loud bang that echoes through the cabin as the door slams open.

You snap your eyes at the sound, watching as the man you had learned was the captain walks in. 

He looks… different under the morning sun. Younger. Softer almost.

Whatever you noticed as he walked in, immediately disappeared as he laid eyes on you, his features hardening, posture straightened in a way you’re all too familiar with.

His boots echoed, despite the room being filled with all kinds of things from top to bottom. 

He crosses the room standing right in front of you as he extends his hand. Only then you notice the plate he was holding.

“Eat.” he says, averting his gaze from you. Your eyes dart between him and the plate before you scoff.

“You’re mad if you think I’m touching that.” you turn your head away from his offering. 

You feel him tense up, annoyance radiating off of him, “Too rough for that silver-plated tongue of yours?” he spits out. Heat crawled up your neck.

“No, I simply have no desire to blacken it with poison.”

“If I wanted to kill ya, I would have done so already, lass.” 

You roll your eyes, turning to look at him, eyes hard trained on him, “Why have you not done so?” 

He opens his mouth but the answer dies on his tongue. His jaw clenches as he turns around. “That is of no concern to you.” he says as he throws the plate on the table and storms out of the room, the familiar jingle of keys following the shut door. 

You fall back as the sound of silence envelopes you.

You feel the corner of your lip twitch upwards as you try to suppress a smile. 

Seems like you’ve won this time. Pity you're still locked in there.

The satisfaction doesn't last for long as you remember the fact. You're still being held captive in the middle of the sea after all. Any positive emotion dims in comparison to the situation in hand. 

The fact that the captain seems to have some paranormal score to settle with you doesn't help either. What's that about anyway? 

It can't be true, that much you know. You've never seen this man before and you've never been out of town. He’s just a heathen after the gold your father will be paying to get you back.

Yeah. That sounds about right.

As for what you saw, or think you saw, it was simply your mind playing tricks on you. You have been abducted after all, and you have been scared and anxious. Yeah. It was a trick of your mind. Or the light. Or anything really. What matters is that it wasn’t real.

Regardless of tricks and magic you're still stuck on this stupid ship, sitting on the stupid bed.

That won't do. You jump off the bed, immediately losing your footing as you struggle to stand up. You haven’t been on board a ship ever. And you’ll never set afoot off land if you’ll have anything to do with it.

You hold onto the desk as you look around for anything that could possibly help you. It was a mess. Not surprising, though it made your search significantly harder. A feather was left next to a small glass bottle of ink, small black blots decorating the map it laid upon.

You take a closer look at the map. It looked a lot like maps you've seen hanging in your fathers office. Only this one was a mess. The noon observation of what you assume was yesterday's measurement is wrong. You scoff, aren't pirates supposed to be good at navigating living in a ship and all?

You look further down, a small inscription is written in the corner. It is in what seems to be Arabic. You exhale annoyed at this, your head cocking at the side. You had always thought learning the language would prove handy. Your governess disagreed. 

You move past this quickly. You raise your head, eyes skipping over the plate that was filled with what looked like porridge, instead they land on gold.

Books.

Relief floods through you as you scramble to get closer. If anything could help you out of this, it would be those.

The books were typical. Collections of maps. Astronomy. Atlas Maritimus. History. Spencer. Shakespear. Navigation.

Shakespear? Interesting. You lean closer, straining your eyes. Much Ado About Nothing.

An amused breath escapes you picking up the copy, flipping through it. Your eye catches something as you do so. Ink seems to decorate some of the pages. You stop at the next one you notice. 

A laugh escapes you as you read the line he had underlined. “I do love nothing in the world so well as you. Is not that strange?” 

You blink. Surely not. You quickly turn the page.

“I love you with so much of my heart, none is left to protest.” you read, “Well, I’ll be damned!” you exclaim, a smile threatening to break out on your face.

You stare at it. The man who surely had killed people before annotated Shakespeare. 

You close the book, your cheeks tingling upwards at this newfound information.

You look back at the porridge he had left you, the thought of eating momentarily crossing your mind before you look away again. You won't be falling for such cheap tricks.

Your stomach, however, would. A whine escapes your lips as you look at the plate from the corner of your eye, stomach growling. 

…It’s just porridge. How could he possibly have tampered with porridge?

You shake your head not willing to spend time or energy thinking of all the different ways one could. Instead you decide that possibly poisoned food is better than no food at all and sit down, reaching for the plate. Besides, he seems to think that he needs you. He wouldn’t poison you. You think.

Despite that you take a spoonful into your mouth and immediately regret it, your stomach tightening. Why does it taste like fish?

You can feel your stomach churning for all the wrong reasons this time. You go to stand up, find something to spit it out before your body decides the same. But you don't manage to.

The door slams open and you accidentally swallow the atrocity insulting your taste buds, hand flying to your mouth in disgust.

The captain stills at the door at the sight of you sitting behind his desk, his eyes traveling from you to the plate.

“You’re eating.” he notes, his eyebrows shifting before he catches his expression.

You lower your head before he catches the horror written all over your face, “I am.” you say, the words catching at your throat, the taste not subsiding one bit. His gaze lingers for a moment before his usual demeanor shifts back into place.

You look at him through your eyelashes as he closes the door behind him, “Here I thought I was trying to poison you” he says with a smirk dangling from his lips.

You clear your throat. “You said it yourself.” you move the porridge around, trying to control your face. “If that were your intent, you would have done it by now” he hums in acknowledgement leaning on the wall. “Or you’re just doing a remarkably poor job at it.” 

His eyes crinkle lightly as his cheekbones rise. A small smile appears slowly and this time he doesn’t hide it. 

Wonderful. You felt like the porridge is going to take you out and he found something amusing. He either deliberately messed with the food or the salt from years at sea had finally gotten into his brain and thought this was a proper meal. You don’t know which is worse.

The captain draws closer to you, looking at the map you dug out the mess he had left, “Ya wanna tell me why yer at my desk lassie?” he asks, any sort of amusement he might have felt long gone. You look up at him from your seat, an eyebrow raising up.

“Your map is mistaken.” you say refusing to let yourself be intimidated. Especially now that you know how he spends his free time.

“It ain’t”

“It is.”

“And ya know that, how?” he scoffs, a hand placed on the desk, as he leans over you. You can see it in his eyes clear as day that he doesn't trust you. Why would he afterall? You may as well be trying to derail his course and whatever plan he had.

But you were not. The map was wrong.

“Because your navigator seems to think that we are twenty-eight degrees north.”

“And?”

“And we are not.” you sit up straighter, pushing the plate as far away from you as possible.

“And how can ya tell?”

“Polaris.”

“What about it?” He stands straight again, crossing his arms, looking down at you.

“It’s too south.” you bite back. You are not going to give him the satisfaction of backing down, however foolish that was. If you'd let him live in obliviousness, you might have escaped easier. But it's too late now.

You hear him smack his teeth. looking at the ceiling, “Get up.” he says, grabbing the map.

It was your turn to scoff and cross your arms over your chest, "You're mad if you think- Let go of me!” you exclaim when he grabs your wrist, yanking it away. But he's quicker grabbing at your arm.

Your breath catches as he brings you close enough to his face for you to see the glint of madness in his eyes.

“Listen lass, I ain't got time for games.” he spits out, “Ya either come with or I drag you, your choice.” he says. Your eyes widen as something flashes behind his eyes for the briefest moment before it disappears as it had never been there. You blink in disbelief.

You gulp down the fear that was stricken into you, “I’ll walk.” you say simply and he lets go of you. 

“Smart.” He turns around and heads towards the door with long strides. You follow behind him, holding your arm where he had grabbed you in pain. You looked up at his back as he towered over you even from a distance. What the hell was that?

The salt in the air is the first thing you notice the moment you set foot on deck. You inhale in relief, the stuffy room you had been locked into seemed claustrophobic after having been in fresh air. 

You raise your hand over your eyes, ignoring the stares you've been getting from his crew as you tailed after their captain.

“Flynt!” he calls out as he climbs up the stairs to the wheel.

“Aye Capt’n!” you strain your eyes against the sun looking at the man that had answered. He looked sickly to say the least. His hair was thinning, and he was littered from head to toes with open wounds. You have heard about this affliction before. You take a step back not recalling whether or not it's contagious.

“The lass says we're at the wrong place.” 

The man, Flynt, turns and looks at you standing behind the captain in contempt, “We’re exactly where we’re supposed to be.” he spits out still not taking his eyes off of you. Shivers rise on your back at this. 

The captain looks down at you before you speak up, “We’re too far south.” you stand straighter.

“And how do ya know?”

“Polaris.” you answer him despite the toothless smirk he throws your way. You feel the porridge inkling to come out. At this point you’ve gathered an audience.

“And ya think you know better?” he cackles, the rest of the crew following him. You cringe at the cacophony, stepping forwards, standing right next to the captain that hadn't said a word still, holding out your hand.

“May I borrow your quadrant?” you ask. You might have been held hostage on a pirate ship and dirtier than the stable boys back at your estate had ever been, but you're still a woman of your standing and you won't let a bunch of no-good heathens change that. 

He scoffed, throwing the tool at you dismissively. You manage to catch it before it falls to the ground and breaks into pieces. You clear your throat as you bring it close to your eye and point it to the sky, carefully using it.

“Thirty-one degrees.” you say offering it to the man gently, but he grabs at it and looks at your measurement dismissively. 

He grumbles something you couldn't quite understand as he copies your movements. After a moment he brings it down and looks at the measurement, his shoulders slumping.

“Thirty-one…” he grumbles, throwing an annoyed glance at you, not daring to say another word. The rest of the crew follows his silence.

You look up at the captain who seemed more annoyed than mad, “Correct it.” he says shoving the map into the man's hands before storming off. 

You follow behind him trying to escape the unwanted stares.

“Back to your posts!” you jump as he yells and everyone scrambles off.

The silence that follows the both of you on the way back to the cabin was deafening. He opens the door for you to enter the room first and out of habit you do so, "That's not a very bright crew you’ve gathered.” you say against your better judgement.

“Shut your mouth and eat your fish porridge.” he says and slams the door shut the moment you are inside, locking you into the cabin once more.

You stare at the door eyes wide. So he did give you that porridge on purpose.

You stomp around the cabin annoyed. You thought that after helping him he might have let you out of this suffocating cabin. Instead he just locked you in once again. He might as well have let you rot at this point.

The rest of the day you had managed to entertain yourself. You snooped through his stuff, which is not very ladylike, but he's a pirate so does it really matter?. You read some of his books. You analysed maps. Then you started staring out the porthole, looking at the sky, looking at the sea, then looking at the sky again.

That was during the day. But now? The sun had set a while ago and the oil had run out, leaving you surrounded by darkness. 

You were starting to contemplate if death is a good solution to boredom. 

It could be. Then you’d be off this stupid ship and you would have pissed off the captain. Two birds with one stone.

Your thoughts are halted by the sound of the door opening. You still at the sound.

Finally he’s back. He might have taken pity on you and brought some oil with him.

You turn quickly towards the door expecting to see his tall frame, “Don’t you know its improp-” but instead you’re met with a far lankier figure. One you recognise from earlier that day, on the deck. Flynt.

“What happened lass?” he spits as he draws closer, “Cats got your tongue?” 

You take a step back as he moves, hands searching for anything that could be helpful, but you find nothing.

“Get away from me!” you exclaim looking towards him, straining your eyes to see. But the room is dark and the moon shine doesn’t do much to help you out. One thing is clear however. The knife he seems to be holding. “I’ll scream!”

He cackles at your words, the disgusting sound reverberating through your skull, “Don’t worry, you’ll be doing that pretty soon sweetheart.” you feel like throwing up.

Your back hits the wall soon after. Having left nowhere to go, you stare at him, hands trembling. 

“What?” he asks, now so close to you that you can feel the heat emitting from his body in waves, “You were pretty mouthy earlier, what happened?”

You take in a ragged breath when you feel the point of the knife pressing on your chest, “You’re scared?” he says, dragging it lower, as you try your best to not let the tears fall. 

“You should be.” you feel your skirts being dragged up, and soon enough the cold metal is pressed against your thigh.

You ball your hands up as you choke back a sob, feeling the warm blood trickle down your leg.

“Still not talking?” he taunts you as you turn your head away from him, “It’s alright.” he laughs and pulls the knife away from your leg, “I’ll make you talk.”

You close your eyes awaiting for the impact. But nothing comes.

Instead you hear heavy footsteps and something being dragged against the floor.

Your eyes shoot open watching as the captain dragged the navigator out of the room.

Suddenly you feel the air return into your lungs. You fall on your knees, a hand clasping at your chest as you struggle to control your breathing.

He wanted to kill you. He would have killed you.

You almost died. You almost died. You almost died. You almost die-

“I said she’s not to be touched!” the booming voice of the captain pulls you out of your stupor. You snap your head towards the door.

You raise your arm grabbing at the nearest point, forcing yourself up, bracing yourself for the pain to shoot up from your leg.

But nothing comes. With shaking hands you pull the skirts up, fingers tracing where he had maimed you. Smooth. Not even a scar. No…

Your eyes widen in realisation, an involuntary gasp escaping your lips.

You rush outside the room and onto the deck staring at the two men. The captain and Flynt seemed to be fighting.

And surely enough, the captain seemed to have a limp.

You feel your throat swell up. He was telling the truth. 

You yelp as you see the smaller man lunge towards the captain. His eyes immediately snap towards you as he hears the sound. 

Next thing you see, the navigator is pushing the knife he had threatened you with into the captain's abdomen. His maniacal laughter following the attack.

Jason turned his attention back at him, looking between the crewmate and the knife, eyes hardening. 

Without saying a word, he lifts his sword up and cuts the navigator's neck open.

You stared in shock as he stopped laughing, taking several steps back, a hand raising to hold his neck.

Flynt chokes as blood splutters from his mouth. He is looking at the captain, his captain, as the younger man swings his sword, slicing through his abdomen, whilst holding his own wound. 

They both fall on their knees, blood pooling around them. Only one of them is groaning and the other one falls to the front and soon enough stops moving.

You watch in horror, nauseated by the scene you lean over emptying your stomach's contents on the deck.

You cough at the acidic taste as you raise your head, eyes immediately landing on the captain, who is breathing heavily looking at the night sky.

And then it hit you. He saved you. He saved you. And now he looks like he’s on death's door.

“Why would you do this!” you scramble over him, fully disregarding the newly dead body laying between you two.

“Dont ‘ya remember lass? I need you.” he says as your eyes searched frantically over him, trying to assess the damage done. 

“And that's more important than your life?” you ask as he lifts his torso, trying to get up, “Don’t move!” you say but he pays you no mind. You huff as you push your hair out of your face, and bring your arms around him, trying to lift him. Soon enough you realise that you’ve overestimated your strength. He doesn’t seem to mind however, using you as a crutch as the two of you walk into a nearby room.

“Have you no fear of death?” you ask, sweat trickling down your temple as you help him sit on a chair.

“I woulda if I could die.” he laughs, followed by a pained cough. 

You inhale in annoyance as you throw cabinets open looking for a bowl and water. “Would you stop speaking in riddles?” you ball your hands up, eyes lighting up when you find what you’ve been looking for.

“Am not.” he groans and you tread towards him, falling on your knees, “Let's be honest, no human could survive that.” Your head snaps up at him, eyebrows furrowing.

Silence falls upon you at his words. He’s right of course. Not that you’d ever tell him that. He just got stabbed. He had an open hole in his abdomen, one that was slowly closing before your eyes. He should be dead by any means.

Instead he is laughing and antagonizing you. 

You give him a strained nod as you empty the water into the bowl. You don't dare speak, your mind running a million thoughts per minute.

He was telling the truth. About his… condition. Strange as it was, you’ve seen it in action twice now. It’s the unmistakable truth.

You look down at your lap as you rip a piece of your dress off, immediately dipping it in water. 

“You were telling the truth.”

“Told ya.” you raised your head again. You see the captain looking down at you, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. You looked away, focusing instead on dapping the blood that stained his skin clean. 

“That shouldn’t be possible.”

 “Aye,” he hissed at the contact and your hand trembled at the sound. But you were quick to regain composure and continue as you were. 

“Thank you.” you mumble, not baring to hear the sound of his flesh getting stitched back together.

“For what?” he asks, looking at you still.

“For saving me.” you mumble ignoring his stare. You don’t want to know what human expression he might have right now, preferring to visualise him as the angry pirate that abducted you.

He laughs at your words, “I was saving myself lassie, don’t take it personally.” he moves around, throwing his head back. You hear him inhale as he does so. You look at the blackened tissue that paints his abdomen. You don’t want to imagine how painful this must be for him.

“Well, you still did,” you swallow, “I’ll repay you.”

“I don’t need no gold.”

“I know.” you raise your head, lips furrowed, “I’ll help you break this curse of yours.” you’re met with an expression that you could only describe as shock.

For a heartbeat, he simply stared. The smirk returned a second later, but it didn't quite reach his eyes, “You’ll regret that,”

You exhale, keeping your eyes on the blood stained cloth, “I know.”

After a very long wait, it's here! Unfortunately is was getting waaaay too long so i broke it in half

He came in on the first really hot day of the summer, the day that the air conditioner in your bookstore finally died. It didn't go quickly or quietly either. It died loud and dramatic, with a clunk that sounded haunted, and a rattling that reminded you of when you put buttons in metal cans to shake around as a kid.

There was one final gust of lukewarm air and dust before it went quiet. And then it got hot. By noon the whole bookstore felt like a cramped oven. You had propped the door open with a box of clearance cookbooks, but the air outside wasn't much better either.

Today had been a busier one, you'd sold three romance novels, two mysteries, a whole box of children's books, and a used copy of Jane Eyre that had three coffee stains on the first page. You had also made a call to your manager, who half heartedly promised she would call the repair guy. Which meant she might call the repair guy.

Until then, you were on your own. Hair pushed away from your forehead because you couldn't stand the feeling of it sticking to the sweat gathering on your temples, and the pathetic fan that sat on the front desk pointed directly at you as you stuck price stickers to the backs of new books.

That was when he came in.

He stopped just inside the door, one hand still on the handle, and stared at the narrow aisle of tall shelves like they'd been arranged specifically with his inconvenience in mind.

He cleared his throat, "Hotter in here than it is outside." His voice was kinder than you expected it to be.

It took you far too long to say something, and when you finally did ask "Do you need help ?" Your voice sounded embarrassingly small.

His eyes snapped towards you, green and sharp and startling.

And for a very stupid second all your brain could come up with was: Large man.

Followed by an equally unhelpful: Very large man

He stepped further inside, looking around the shop, at the shelves bending under the weight of the books on them, at the sun-faded paperbacks in a wooden crate near the door, and the handwritten sign taped to the desk that read :: WE ACCEPT TRADES !! BUY BOOKS WITH BOOKS

"I'm just killing time." He answered, "Waiting for a friend."

“Is your friend late ?” You asked, unable to resist the urge to be a bit nosey as you pressed another sticker to the back of another book.

“Friend’s always late”

You replied with a hum, and another sticker pressed to a new book as the man wandered closer to the front display, pretending to inspect it. You could tell he was pretending because his eyes moved over the books too quickly to properly read the titles, even for someone who might read fast.

It was the type of browsing you’d seen plenty of times before, people who came in for reasons that weren’t shopping but were trying to avoid looking awkward. You wondered when people would realize they weren’t required to make a purchase to be here. Maybe you should make a sign for that too.

People came in for all sorts of reasons that had nothing to do with the books. They came in to cool off, hide from rain, wait out bad dates, use the restroom, pretend to look thoughtful to impress someone, ask if you bought old encyclopedias ( which you did ).

This man looked like he had meant to stay near the door and suddenly thought he was expected to do something. He moved through the shops with careful steps, one hand trailing alongside him near the shelves, but not quite touching them. He scanned the spines with more attention than he did the font display, lingering over titles and authors now. 

Dickens. Shelley. The Brontë Sisters.

You let out a thoughtful little hum as you watched him wander. So he wasn’t just pretending then.

You watched him stop, tip his head, and slide out a half fallen apart paperback copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. You really did try your best to not grin, but it was always so satisfying to see which books betrayed people.

He flipped it over to read the back, and fanned through the pages with his thumb. The spine was broken, the cover was creased with the corners torn off, and a note written in pencil along the inside of the cover spoiled the ending. But in a way that would only be a spoiler if you had already read the book.

The man stared at it for a moment. Then he laughed so hard he snorted.

You looked back down at the front desk before he could catch you watching.

The afternoon moved on too slow and too hot. The visitor had settled himself in the reading nook tucked between the poetry and the classics, in one of the mismatched chairs under the crooked floor lamp. He had chosen the chair upholstered in green, with a single patch of floral fabric sewn into the left arm.

You couldn’t help but watch him again. The first thing you noticed this time was that he did not read like somebody who was just passing time. He did not flip aimlessly through the pages, or check his phone every other minute. He sat with his elbows on his knees, book held carefully, brow furrowed as his thumb moved along the margins.

The second thing you noticed was how inconvenient it was that you kept noticing him. You had work to do. But you didn’t want to work when it was so hot. And it wasn’t like the work would be passed on to someone else, so leaving it unfinished would only be a problem. A future-you problem. Present-you was currently far too interested in a complete stranger.

There was a moment where his phone buzzed, and he looked away from the book to check it. That’s when you took your chance to start a conversation again.

“Most people who read to pass the time would pick something shorter.” You said

He glanced up at you, before glancing back at the book. “I’ve read it before.”

“Really ? Recently ?” You asked, trying not to sound too surprised

“A couple years ago.”

“And you chose it again ?”

He turned his attention back to the page, “It was there”

The answer seemed too simple, you wanted to question it. But I didn't.

“That copy came in yesterday,” You said instead “Someone wrote in it”

“I saw that”

“People either really hate the notes in books, or love them.”

“Yeah ? What about you ?”

You paused, the fan on the desk hummed between you like an angry swarm of bees.

“I like them,” You answered, “Usually. Not when they’re distracting. Someone people want to annotate but don’t actually know how — which makes sense, I don’t think I was ever actually taught how to annotate. I just sorta learned it on my own. But I like the little notes people leave, or when they write their name and the date they finished the book on the cover. Or when they leave receipts, or flowers, or bookmarks in the pages. I like that —”

He was listening like he was actually interested, which made you uncomfortably aware of your own voice. You shrugged, then your shoulders pulled in a half failed attempt to make yourself a little smaller. “That’s kinda the point of used books though. They come with that stuff.”

He only answered with a nod, but didn’t turn back to his book. The silence was starting to make you feel uneasy.

“So, your friend. What are you waiting for ?” You asked

“He’s bringin’ me a part for a truck” He answered, leaning back in the green chair.

“Oh. Do you work at the shop down the street ?” You asked

“Own it.”

Before you could say anything else, the bell above the door rang again. A woman came in and asked if you had any self help books that didn’t feel condescending. You brought her to the proper section, where she explored the shelves for a bit before buying a slim book on meditation, and a murder mystery.

By the time she left again, the man was gone from the chair. For one sinking second you thought maybe he had slipped out while you were helping the other customer. Then you heard movement in the classics aisle.

You turned the corner and found him crouched in front of the lower shelves, The Count of Monte Cristo balanced on one knee as he looked across the shelves. Even in this position he still felt enormous, though not as intimidating as he did when he first walked in.

“Need help ?” You asked

He looked up. From this angle, with the light from the front windows spilling in in dusty stripes you could see just how green his eyes were. It made your stomach twist in a way that your brain briefly registered as being sick before going uselessly blank.

“Dostoevsky ?” He asked, “Been lookin’ but you don’t have these in … any order”

You let out a nervous chuckle, wringing your hands. “Yeahhh … We sorta have a free-for-all system. It makes it more fun ?” You weren’t sure why you said it like you were asking him a question. You quickly shook your head, forcing your brain to return from wherever it had fled to. “But uh, Dostoevsky should be on the top shelf actually.”

“Of course it is.”

“Do you want me to grab something ?”

He stood before you could finish the sentence. And there it was again. The size of him. The way he carefully held himself back from crowding you despite the two of you standing in the same, painfully narrow space.

“I’ve got it.” He said, reaching up and scanning the spines. His shirt pulled across his back and you found yourself suddenly very interested in the cart of books beside you.

“Looking for a specific one ?” You asked.

“The Brothers Karamazov ?” 

“We have two copies of that one. The nice one, and the ugly one.”

“Yeah ?” He asked, hand pausing over the shelf “What makes the ugly one ugly ?”

“Someone spilled tea on it.”

“And you know for sure that it’s tea ?”

You nodded. You did know for sure it was tea, because it was you who had spilled your tea on it. Months ago ! And you used the electric hand dryer in the bathroom to dry the pages, but it still left them stained and warped. But that gave it character !

He pulled the ‘ugly’ copy down first, turning it over in his hands a few times.

“There’s a nice one —” You said, for some reason worried the state of the book would disappoint him.

But he just shrugged, “Poor bastard,”

“The book ? Or Dostoevsky ?”

“The book.” He answered, tucking the messed up copy into his arm next to the other.

You decided right then and there that the books on the lowest shelf needed to be straightened, and crouched down to fix the books that were already neat. Before it could become clear you were only trying to distract yourself from staring at him you stood up again. A little too fast, nearly clipping your shoulder on the shelf.

His free hand came out, not touching, just hovering there between you and the shelf.

“You okay ?”

You nodded, too quick, “Fine.”

His hand lowered, and you did your best to pretend not to notice now gentle and instinctive the almost touch had been.

He looked back to the books in his hands, “How much for the ugly copy ?”

“Three dollars."

“And the nice one ?”

“Five”

He considered your answer.

“Have you read that one before too ?” You asked

His eyes flicked towards you, “Yeah.”

“So you don’t need it either ?”

“Didn’t say I needed it.”

“That’s not usually how shopping works.”

“It’s not ?” He asked, rhetorical but you didn’t process that in time.

“No. Not most of the time.”

He looked down at the stained copy again, and the corner of his mouth lifted. “I’ll take the ugly one.”

You stared at him. He stared back. Then you laughed. “Alright.”

He adjusted the books under his arm and followed you back to the front counter. He set the copies of The Brothers Karamazov and The Count of Monte Cristo next to the register.

“You getting Monte Cristo too ?” you asked

He looked down, and for a moment you expected him to put it back. It would make sense, he had only come in to kill time, escape the heat, and wait for his friend to bring a part for a truck. He was probably busy, probably only meant to sit in the store for a few minutes and leave once his friend showed up with what he needed.

Instead, he tapped the cover with one finger. “This one too.”

“But you’ve read that one already.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t read it again.”

You couldn’t argue with that, so you rang him up. The register made its familiar clicking noises as you slid the books carefully into a brown paper bag. He paid in cash, which for no real reason surprised you. A twenty from a worn leather wallet. When you handed him his change, your fingertips brushed against his palm. Barely, and for less than a second. Still, it was enough that you noticed the warmth of him, enough that his gaze dropped to your hand.

Then his phone buzzed again. He pulled it from his pocket, and a few swipes later his shoulders dropped with relief. “Friend’s back at the shop, he’s got my part.”

You gave him a little nod, “Your total was eight ten, by the way. Your receipt’s in the bag.”

“Thanks,” It came out quieter than the rest of him.

He didn’t make a move to leave yet, and for a second the noise of the street seemed to quiet down, the shop felt like it was holding its breath, or maybe it was just you that was. And he stood there, bag in his hand. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but couldn't figure out what it was, or at least couldn’t figure out how to say it.

“Good luck with the part,” You finally said, breaking the silence

His brows drew together, “What ?”

“The part …” You repeated “That your friend brought for you.”

“Oh. Oh yeah.” He shifted the bag in his hand, “Thanks.”

He lingered again.

“Name’s Jason, by the way.”

It took you a moment too long to process that, but once you gave him your name he nodded with a small promise to not forget it before finally leaving the store. The door shut behind him, and the bell settled leaving you in almost silence. You watched through the front window until he was far enough down the street you couldn’t see him anymore. But still, you stayed staring at the door.

You didn’t really expect him to come back. People came in all the time. Strangers, regulars, tourists who read the wrong map and though the store was still the business it had been before it became a bookstore, college students trying to snag textbooks for a lower price. Sometimes someone interesting would come in, sometimes people would wander and leave with nothing. That was how it was, the store was a place of brief intersections.

People came in. And then they left.

The next day the repair man had not shown up, and the aircon had still not been fixed. By the afternoon you had given up hope on maintenance ever showing up, and taped a handwritten sign to the front window.

AIRCON BROKEN. THIS IS NOT THE PLACE TO TAKE SHELTER. THE BOOKS ARE SUFFERING AND SO AM I.

It was more to entertain yourself than anything, and assumed nobody would actually pay much attention to it at all. You were halfway through rearranging the horror shelf when the bell jingled.

“Sign’s good,” a familiar voice said

You looked up from your spot on the floor.

Jason stood in the doorway, one hand braced on the frame. Your heart did a very stupid thing before trying to pretend that it had not.

“You came back.” You said, sounding a little too happy “I mean — Most people don’t come back the next day”

“Air conditioning at the shop’s busted too. Figured I’d stop by to compare tragedies”

“And ?” You asked

Jason looked around the bookstore before turning back to you, “You’re definitely winning. We’ve got better fans. More of ‘em too”

“Do I get a prize ?”

He reached into the back of his jeans and pulled up the battered copy of The Count of Monte Cristo.

For a second your heart dropped. “Did you not like it ?” You asked

“Loved it.” He answered, “But the binding is loose.”

Your eyes narrowed a bit, “The binding was loose when you bought it,” You said. You knew because you had sold it to him for a dollar less than what the sticker on the back said because of it.

“Yeah. I know.”

“And you bought it anyway.” You reminded him

“Yeah. I know," he repeated.

Your head tilted to the side, “You came back to report preexisting damage ? That you already knew about ? When you bought it ?”

“Thought you should know” He answered with a grin

There was a distant clang of metal from his shop down the street, followed by a much louder curse. Maybe a customer, maybe Jason’s friend. Either way, Jason didn’t even flinch.

You rested your hands on your knees, “Soo, did ya wanna exchange it ?”

“No.”

“Return it ?” You didn’t usually do those, but you were more than willing to make an exception for him.

“No.”

“Complain ?”

“Well if I’m allowed” He answered

You smiled “You’ll have to take a number and wait your turn. Aircons first, and she’s got a lot to say.”

“Yeah ? I might know a guy”

“A guy”

“I fix cars, not air conditioners.”

“Do you know a professional guy ?”

“I know a guy with a whole lotta tools.”

“Those things are not the same.”

Jason considered that for a moment. “True. But he also owes me a whole lotta favors. Fixed his car for next to nothin’ last week”

You looked at the paperback in his hand, the one he had brought back for no apparent reason. Then you looked back at him. He seemed very interested in the single shelf of staff picks, the one that you switched out every week or so with whatever recent reads had been your favorites.

A stupid amount of warmth bloomed under your ribs, more than you could blame on the heat and poor ventilation.

“Well,” You said, turning back towards the shelf. “You may as well browse. Since you came all this way to make your binding complaint.”

“May as well” He agreed, walking towards the aisle of classics again, slow enough that it did not initially seem like he had been planning that all along.

Over the next twenty minutes he kept finding reasons to ask you questions.

First about whether you had any Raymond Chandler. You told him you did, but he would have to find him on his own.

Then if the old ladder in the back was safe. You said absolutely not.

Then he asked why the store smelled like custard and vanilla. You told him it was the candles and the ghost. To which he nodded, as if that was a perfectly reasonable explanation.

Before leaving he bought a hardcover copy of The Big Sleep with all the Administrative pages torn out and a tulip shaped bookmark from the ceramic cup by the register.

He did not need either of them. You both knew that. Neither of you said a word about it.

Dick notices you and Jason first because of course he would. Hes known you and Jason the longest. Unfortunately. It starts when he catches Jason laughing at something you said. A real laugh not a smirk or a huff. Dick freezes in the hallway.

Jason notices him "What?” he snaps immediately.

“You just—” Dick gestures vaguely. “You laughed.”

“So?” Jason squints “I have laughed before.”

“Not like that.”

Jason walks away and Dick stands there, deeply convinced he has witnessed the beginning of a romance arc. After that, it escalates in his head. Jason waiting for you after patrol? Romantic. Jason sharing food with you? Devotion. Jason silently adjusting your jacket when it slips off your shoulder? Marriage.

By the time Dick tells anyone, he is already planning the wedding seating chart.

Tim doesn’t “assume” so much as “calculate.”

He compiles the data.

You and Jason:

Appear in the same room within 0.8 seconds of each other. Show mutual emotional regulation only when together. Have engaged in at least 14 known acts of “protective standing-too-close-to-each-other-in-a-fight.”

Tim closes his laptop slowly “…they’re dating.”

Steph looks over his shoulder “They said they aren’t.”

“That’s what people who are dating but haven’t defined it say.”

Steph raises an eyebrow “Or people who are not dating.”

Tim doesn’t respond. He’s already lost interest in her incorrect opinion.

Damian reaches his conclusion within 48 hours of observing you. He watches Jason give you his jacket after you shiver. He watches you clean blood off Jason’s knuckles without hesitation. He watches Jason allow you to do it without threatening anyone.

Damian is disgusted “This is courtship,” he declares.

Jason nearly drops a blade “What did you just say?”

“You are engaging in a relationship.”

“We are NOT—”

Damian continues “You hover near each other in combat. You guard one another’s blind spots. You share food. You tolerate physical proximity. Even Grayson has noticed.”

Jason turns slowly toward Dick “You said something?”

Dick, from across the room, immediately says “Nope!”

Damian, smug: “You are partners.”

Jason storms out of the room. Damian considers this confirmation.

Bruce arrives at the conclusion gradually, which is unusual for him, because he is usually wrong about emotional things for at least a year.

He notices Jason texting more often, and acting less explosively, Jason checking exits when you enter rooms. And worst of all, Jason soften when you speak to him.

Bruce has seen many versions of Jason Todd and that one is not casual.

One night in the kitchen, Bruce says carefully mentions it to him “You care about Reader.”

Jason freezes mid-step “No.”

Bruce waits. Then, Jason sighs like he’s been personally victimized. “…fine. Yeah.”

Bruce nods once “Understood.”

Jason squints “Understood what?”

Bruce simply says “Nothing.”

Jason leaves very confused and slightly annoyed.

Steph usually talks and Cass usually observes, and somehow together they are always right. Cass is the first to notice Jason softening around you.

“You know he does the thing,” she says

You look up. “What thing?”

Cass mimics Jason slightly tilting his head toward you when you walk into a room.

Steph points “That thing. That’s boyfriend behavior.”

Cass nods.

Steph grins “Also he shares food.”

Cass adds “He watches you leave.”

Steph says “Protective.”

“Attached,” Cass adds.

“Emotionally compromised.” Steph passes back.

“Yes.”

They don’t argue after that. They just agree silently that it’s inevitable. When Jason and you both deny it later, Steph just says “Sure.”

Cass just looks at him like she already knows.

Duke is newer to the chaos, but even he picks it up fast. He walks into the manor kitchen and sees you sitting on the counter while Jason stand between your knees as he fixes somethingfor you.

Jason is focused. You’re watching him. Neither of you notice Duke enter. He slowly closes the fridge and makes his way into the living room.

“…are they dating?” he asks.

From the couch, Tim without looking up “Not officially.”

Duke stares “They look like they’ve been dating for a year.”

Steph calls our as she walks by the doorway “We know.”

Cass nods once.

Duke just shrugs “Cool. Makes sense.”

After that, he just refers to you as Jason’s partner without hesitation.

Jason hears it once and says, “We are NOT—”

“Okay.”

Duke continues anyway and Jason quickly gives up.

It happens in the living room. Jason looks like he’s bracing for impact. You’re leaning against the counter. The entire family is present in various states of awareness.

Jason exhales.

“We’re dating.”

Silence. Then;

Dick: “Yeah, obviously.”

Tim: “Already logged.”

Steph: “Called it.”

Cass just smiles faintly.

Duke: “Wait, you weren’t already?”

Jason turns slowly “What do you mean ‘weren’t already’?”

Duke shrugs “You act like you are.”

Jason groans.

Bruce calmly sets his mug down “We all already knew.”

Jason points at him “Not helping.”

Steph leans toward Cass “He looks offended.”

Cass nods “He is.”

Jason turns to you with an exasperated look and you let out a small laugh. He then stares at the ceiling like he’s considering retirement from the entire family. “…I hate all of you.”

Dick beams “You love us!”

Jason, immediatel says “No.”

You’re-mid sentence when Jason throws something. Pausing, you listen to the echoing thud followed by a quiet slap as whatever it is hits the floor.

“Casualty or friendly fire?” you inquire, pulling dinner from the oven.

“This book has a movie cover,” Jason answers. He steps into view, pinching the book between his fingers as he moves toward the garbage can. “That’s sacrilegious.”

Nodding, you set your oven mitts aside and take the offending material from him.

“It’s Pride and Prejudice,” you realize. “With the 2005 poster. Aren’t you the same guy who told me Kiera Knightley and Matthew McFadyen were hot enough to inspire a generation of readers to lean into their Austen-ian desires?”

“I said something along those lines,” Jason admits softly, “only as endorsement for the movie. If they’re going to put people on the covers, they could just as easily put me and you on it. A movie poster is nothing more than a cheap scheme to make people buy both the book and the movie.”

“Me and you?” you repeat with a smile. “Think we’re as hot as Kiera and Matthew?”

“Hotter,” he corrects decidedly. “One of us at least.”

“Then pose with Kiera,” you scoff playfully. “What are we doing with the book? You’ve been wanting to learn bookbinding.”

“Uh, no. You have been wanting to learn bookbinding. Or wanting me to learn it for you.” He raises a hand when you open your mouth and adds, “I have approximately seventy reels from you in my DMs that support my case.”

“Point stands.”

Jason exhales, taking the book from you as he nods. He tosses it over his shoulder and pulls you against his chest when you utter a disappointed noise.

“We can order the stuff to try tomorrow,” he offers, hugging you tightly. “But the cover is going in the trash tonight.”

“Deal. Now wash your hands; dinner’s ready.”

Jason pulls away from you slowly, letting his hands drag across your waist until he’s at the sink. He watches you move in his periphery, smiling to himself when your tongue peeks past your lips as you gather the necessary silverware.

Jason grunts when he bends to retrieve the book from the floor. He rips the cover off cleanly, scowling at it as he opens the trash can. Before he can drop it in, his attention is stolen by something already in the trash.

“Jay?” you call, noticing his stiff posture and focus in the trash can. “You alright? Planning a speech on the capitalistic driver behind movie covers?”

“There’s blood,” Jason whispers. The cover creases in his hand as his hands curl into fists.

“Oh. Yeah. I cut myself earlier, but I’m all good now,” you assure him.

But Jason doesn’t look away from the reddened towel. He blinks quickly, like he’s willing it to disappear.

“I’ll take the bag out,” you offer, closer to him now. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have left it visible like that.”

“‘M not scared of blood,” Jason grumbles.

“I know. But you’ve been through so much, seen so much. I should be sensitive to-”

Jason drops the cover and captures your wrist when you reach for the trash bag. He finally lifts his eyes to look at you.

“Where?” he asks.

Tapping your forearm, you point to the bandage. “It’s just a scratch,” you murmur. “I’m fine.”

“Was I here?” he checks, brushing a calloused finger over your arm and smiling when you shiver.

“Yes,” you admit.

“You should have told me.”

“Jay,” you sigh.

“I don’t care if it was just a scratch. If you so much as stub your toe, I want to know.”

“And if I’m clumsy and run into something every five minutes?”

Jason lifts his other hand to your face, holding you carefully. “Then tell me.”

“Why?”

“Because I care,” he confesses. “And I need to know you’re safe. Maybe… Maybe I need to know that you know I’m here for you, too.”

Smiling, you nod against his hand. “I promise I’ll try to remember to tell you.”

“My independent girl,” he mumbles before kissing you.

“Dinner,” you remind him when he pushes you against the counter.

Jason steps back with a sigh, then moves to the stove to put the food on plates.

“Does it hurt?” he checks.

“Only if you want to kiss it better,” you joke. “The movie cover hurt worse.”

“Want to watch that binding tutorial you found?”

“Yes!” you agree excitedly. “And maybe when we order everything, we can get fabric samples too!”

Jason sets his plate aside, turns, and grasps your shoulders. “Baby,” he sighs, shaking his head. “We’re not doing a… what’s it called? A color analysis?”

“But Steph got one and she said it was so fun,” you argue. “You don’t want me to have fun?”

“Steph got hers done by a professional on her trip to South Korea. We’re not paying for fabric samples so I can tell you that you look good in everything. If you actually want one, just ask Bruce to get you one. He will.”

“What if I want your input?”

“I just told you. You look good in everything. Better if the clothes are mine.” He smiles and leans closer to whisper, “Or when you aren’t wearing any-”

“Dinner!” you remember, ducking your chin. “And that tutorial. Maybe Fellowship of the Ring after?”

“I don’t know,” Jason muses, carrying your plates to the couch. “I think you sold me on the fabric thing.”

Groaning, you fall against his shoulder. He pinches the sweatshirt you’re wearing but chooses to kiss your head rather than comment on the fact that it’s his.

“Fellowship of the Ring sounds good,” he agrees. “As does using Bruce’s credit card for the craft supplies.”

“You’re too good to me,” you sigh.

“And you’re hotter than Kiera Knightley.”

You smile, then remember, “I fell down the stairs at the manor this morning. Since you wanted to know.”

“Maybe we should try a hobby that doesn’t involve so many tools then,” Jason suggests.

You kiss his cheek and point out, “Or maybe you could help me.”