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agustdef · 5 years

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Here & Now - Chapter 9

Pairing: Yoongi x OC

Genre: Fluff; Chill romance

Word Count: 2,436

Warning: None.

Banner Marker: @dee-ehn

I’d washed my hair a day earlier than I planned to and I had so many regrets. I was rocking a wash n’ go and the hair in front of my face hadn’t been trimmed enough when I got it done; not having cut it in its natural state was a mistake. So when my curls blocked my eye one too many times I ended up groaning and forcing all of it into a ponytail holder.

“I swear I’m just going to shave it all off,” I muttered to myself.

A scoff drew my attention to Namjoon, who was sitting beside Yoongi at his computer. “You’ve been threatening that for two years. Not happening.”

Glaring at him I faked like I was going to throw a pillow at him, which caused him to dodge and hit his leg on the table - hard.

I laughed so hard that it became hard to breathe, his groan of pain and curses making it worse.

“That’s what you get for not letting me lie to myself in peace,” I choked out between wheezing.

When I finally reined myself in Joon was still rubbing his thigh and muttering under his breath. Yoongi seemed to be back with us and not absorbed in his work with headphones on. He was shaking his head and looking between us.

Over the hours we’d been in his studio he’d been forced to endure my antics and then when Joon appeared it gotten worse. We tended to bicker like siblings and though we knew when to stop, we also knew how far we could go and get away with it.

He’d only threatened to kick us both out once. Joon had received the warning about three times and had been forcibly removed once.

Even though Joon hitting his thigh again almost sent me into another fit I refrained, Yoongi’s screen drawing my attention.

“So, can we hear it now?” I asked.

“You can’t,” Namjoon muttered.

That time I actually threw the pillow at him, but he caught it. It left both of us surprised and him, looking a little more smug than he had been before.

Rolling my eyes I turned my attention back to Yoongi. He shook his head and pointed to Joon. “What he said.”

“Why is this the only song that I’m not allowed to hear? I’ve heard and worked on all the others.”

Both of the jerks looked at each other, having some silent conversation before turning back to me.

“Because it wasn’t going to be there before and it’s almost perfect how it is. Plus I want it to be a surprise. I don’t know why you keep asking me when I’ll say no.”

I yawned halfway through his little speech.

“See, you don’t even have the energy to argue with me. Just let it go,” he said, wearing a smirk I’d started to hate.

I wanted to wipe the smugness of both of their faces, but then I released another yawn. Tired was setting in and when I glanced at the clock on the wall I knew why. It was almost 1:30 am. We’d been in the studio since 5 pm.

Getting up sounded horrible, but I knew I had things to do tomorrow. I’d be running around a lot for work and for things with friends I had in South Korea. Some sleep was a must.

Joon followed my eyes to the clock and cursed, getting up.

“We have schedules tomorrow and recording to do. We need to sleep,” he said.

Yoongi looked like he was going to argue, but his mouth closed as quickly as he opened. Turning back to the screen he continued to fiddle with whatever he was doing, which just made Joon roll his eyes.

Another yawn pushed through and I knew that I’d have to leave or I’d end up asleep on his studio. Carefully I rose up, giving my legs the time to adjust after being under me for so long. My stretching produced many cracking sounds, which made Joon cringe and brought Yoongi’s attention back to us.

As I gathered my things he looked at me with a raised brow.

“I have too much to do tomorrow to pull an all-nighter. So I’m going to go,” I said.

For a moment he continues to stare, but then suddenly turns back to his computer. Joon was already halfway out the door, waving to me as he took his leave.

With my bookbag on I turn towards Yoongi, who is staring me down.

“Are you staying here?” I asked.

His lips purse for a moment and then he yet again turns to his computer without a word. Instead of working though I watch him save his work - to several things - and then shut everything down.

A few minutes later we both have all of our stuff and are heading to the entrance. Whipping out my phone I go to request a taxi, but before I can get far he takes the phone from my hand and exits the app.

Brow raised I let him lead me out front to the one van left for the evening. Then before I could ask anything he was helping me inside and getting in behind me.

When a minute had passed with just staring at him he stared back and gestured towards the driver. Snapping out of my trance I relayed the address of my apartment and buckled in just as we started moving.

“A taxi would have sufficed.”

“You’re going the same way as me, it wasn’t a problem,” he responded nonchalantly.

There was no reason to argue with him, plus it saved me having to wait and endure and an awkward taxi ride. I wasn’t in the mood to possibly deal with someone who was talkative.

The entire twenty-minute ride we stayed in silence, both messing with our phones. As we got closer I went to put my phone down and noticed Yoongi angle his away from me. Turning my head I narrowed my eyes on him, but he didn’t glance my way and tilted the screen so I couldn’t see it.

“Did you just take a picture of me?”

“No.”

Rolling my eyes I drop it and unbuckle, we’d pulled upfront. I slide my bag back on and hop out of the car. Waving to him as I go.

“Bye dork.”

Once inside I stripped down and jumped into the shower. I didn’t feel like wasting time, just wanted to get into my bed. Once dried and dressed with a bonnet atop my freshly twisted hair I threw myself on the bed.

My eyes fluttered closed and I felt like I was going under, but thirty minutes later they were upon and I was very awake. The tiredness from earlier was gone, but also still lingered; teasing me about the sleep I wasn’t getting.

Again I tried to sleep, but another half an hour and I gave up. Grabbing my phone from where it sat on my dresser I unlocked it and went to Twitter. My “business” one was lacking, even though most people I knew were very awake and posting. Switching to my stan account I was bombarded with a flurry of comeback announcements and photos of groups I stanned or at least liked.

I scrolled through the feed, liking things, retweeting a few and removing all the posts arguing against someone trying to start another dumb fan war. They were always stupid, because they were between the fans and trying to bring down artists or pit them against their own friends and/or fellow artists who had no ill will towards each other.

The night was riddled with claims of copying and I was having none of it.

Not wanting to feed into it I stumbled upon a comeback announcement for 1Team that I’d been waiting for and quote tweeted it with an all caps caption about my excitement.

Two minutes after the post my phone dinged and a text from Yoongi came through.

Thought you had too much to do?

For a moment I was confused, but then I remembered that he had a secret Twitter account. I’d only found out about it when he’d brought something up in conversation that I’d only posted on my stan Twitter account.

Why are you lurking on my account?

A few seconds passed and then in came a response. I’m not. I just got the notification.

Oh… you have my notifs on? I sent, actually shocked.

Minutes pass and nothing, so I assume he’s fallen asleep or refusing to deal with me. The second I went to sit my phone down a call came through, a glance at the screen told me it was Yoongi and that it was a video call.

Answering it I roll onto my stomach and use the ring on the back to prop it up on my phone. It being overtly firm working to keep it stable.

“Yes, I have them on.” They’re the first words he says before he comes into view. His hair slightly wet, probably from a shower and his face bare.

“Aw, that’s so cute. Trying to make sure you’re the only one I’m gushing about online?” I teased.

He rolled his eyes, using his free hand to push his hair out of his face. There was some shuffling and then he was lying back on a pillow, free arm behind his head.

“Why are you up?” he asked.

A yawn escaped the moment I tried to talk, which made him look at me weird.

“Contrary to the sound I just made, I can’t sleep. I’ve been laying here for over an hour trying.” Sighing, I ran a hand over my face in frustration. “Why are you up?”

“Had an idea before I got to bed,” he admitted.

Without a thought, I felt my face shift and a look of disapproval form. Before I could say anything though he cut me off.

“I know. I should have gone straight to sleep. I couldn’t risk forgetting though. You know that feeling?”

He made a valid point, and since I knew all too well that I spent three hours writing two nights ago I let him have that one.

Another sigh and I laid on my back, staring at the ceiling and hoping to sleep. Sleep felt so close, but every time I felt I’d finally slip away it left me. I wanted to scream.

“Why Sailor V?” Yoongi asked.

“Hm?” I asked, feeling momentarily dazed. Shaking my head I collected myself and recalled the question. “Oh. Sailor Moon was the first anime I saw as a kid and my favorite TV show. And most think the V is because Sailor Venus is my favorite, which is completely false. Mercury owns my heart.”

“So what is the V for?”

“My mother almost named me Vanessa.”

Yoongi laughed and I turned my head so I could see him.

“Vanessa,” he said carefully as if testing it out. “What changed?”

Pursing my lips I abruptly shifted positions again, turning on my side and propping my head up with my hand. “Hmm… she held me and as my grandpa was about to tell the nurse my predetermined name she called me Kendall instead. Said it felt right.”

Yoongi’s face didn’t change much, but I could see the usual look of curiosity that peaked in people. I knew what question he was going to ask next.

“You’re other parent just accepted that?”

That phrasing made me pause. No one usually asked it like that, they always implied the father role. It was interesting to hear the acknowledgment of possibly having not a father. He was still wrong though.

“I’m the sole daughter of a woman who didn’t want a relationship. She didn’t want to be with anyone, she dated but didn’t truly care for it. But she wanted a kid and could afford to go to a clinic to make it happen. It’s the kind of life that made her happy.”

Again Yoongi’s face didn’t change much, he just nodded his head and pursed his lips. After a second or two he spoke up again.

“What’s that like? I assume you still had a normal childhood,” he said.

“Yup. Pretty much. Mom, my three uncles and then her two best friends who were also basically family. They all alternated the father-daughter events or my mom would come. It felt normal. Even though others would swear not having an actual dad must have made it such a lacking childhood.” Sarcasm dripped from my every word as I got to the last bit.

“They’re idiots.”

“Agreed.”

We just stared at each other, neither breaking eye contact. And for once I didn’t feel like panicking and looking away quickly as I usually did with prolonged staring; it made me uncomfortable most of the time.

“Favorite color?” he asked.

“Dark gray and cyan.”

“Cyan?”

“It’s a shade of blue.”

“Ah. Food?”

“Steak, something you know already.”

“Movie?”

“Between Sailor Moon SuperS and Fast Five.”

“Anime.”

“Sailor Moon… and Hellsing Ultimate.”

“Cartoon?”

“Scooby-Doo.”

“TV show?”

“Veronica Mars.”

He paused for a second, brow raised. “What is that?”

The offense that overtook my body was strong even though I knew it wasn’t a show that he would have seen growing up.

“Alexa,” I called out, waiting for the little noise to happen. “Add Veronica Mars to the ‘Yoongi needs to watch’ list.”

“Adding Veronica Mars to ‘Yoongi need to watch’ list,” she parroted back.

When I glanced back and Yoongi he looked shocked, but the smirk he wore told me he was amused. “A list?”

“Yes, there are many things that need to be rectified with you movie and television wise.” I shrugged, a smile threatening the corners of my lips.

The longer we just looked at each other, the harder it was not to smile. Eventually, we both gave in and it was nice a calm and comfortable silence.

“Okay. I get to ask the questions now,” I said after a few minutes passed.

Yoongi groaned and rolled his eyes.

“Hey! Don’t be rude, you just bombarded me with questions.”

He took one look at my face and sighed. “Okay, okay. Stop pouting and ask.”

“Good. So, I’d like to discuss seventeen-year-old audition tape Yoongi’s sense of style and hairstyling choices.”

He groaned, throwing his head back and I hold in my laughter.

After he finally justified his life choices we spent way too much time just asking random questions. When we woke up in the morning, I couldn’t recall when exactly we’d fallen asleep.

#min yoongi #yoongi #suga #original character #oc #sugaxoc #yoongixoc #producer!oc #writer!oc #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #yoongi fanfic #suga fanfic #kpop fanfic #kpop fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic

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wannawrite · 6 years

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Min Yoongi Flower Boy AU ! Part 3

Water from above travels from a algae blanketed, cobble stairwell onto the the school river, in the form of slivers of light blazing and twitching in front of Yoongi's eyes, so much that it nearly looks unnatural. It falls heavily to the bottom of the river, blossoming into foamy, snowy flowers. They quickly take the shape of a round, bubble-shaped jellyfish next, before seeping onto the surface of the water as thick squiggles of white and dissolving into the water as bubbles, joining the collection. Lotuses sprout from the bottom of the river, firmly anchored to the solid mud despite its flimsy, unstable looking stem that spiral to the top. On the left, a tree that Yoongi doesn't know of elongates rather crooked branches, its pointy leaves sticking its edges into a little spiny circle. It's practically dotted with green dandelions that hang from twigs, and whatever it was, Yoongi had took a liking to it ever since he came to this place to write songs-it was so, uniquely beautiful, harmful but harmless all at the same time.

"This is a nice spot, Yoongi-ya."

The boy turns his glassy, demure eyes, which quickly lock with his senior's beautifully angled ones in less than a second. Upon seeing his friend here, Yoongi pats the side of the wooden platform lightly, gesturing for him to have a seat. The floor screeches in pain as the older boy takes a seat-yeah, maybe there were a few tiny black holes littered on the surface of the dull, dark-chocolate coloured planks, but hey, the picturesque however simple view more than made up for the quality of some umpteenth year old area. At least, that was what Yoongi thought.

"Namjoon-hyung. Where's Taehyungie? Isn't he normally here to ask questions for his maths homework, or may I say, isn't he normally in school? He would've dropped me a text if he was sick." Yoongi asks.

Namjoon shakes his head. "Taehyung is off having tuition with Jimin's top-of-the-level younger brother, which is good because Taehyung and Jimin are great friends. I just hope he won't get too uncomfortable with Jungkook, a dongsaeng teaching him-"

"Ha, probably not. Taehyung's such a social butterfly, and I've talked with Jungkook before-he's a lot like his student, if I'm honest. Tae doesn't get embarrassed easily, I'm sure he'll be fine." Yoongi ruffles Namjoon's back lightly, before adding, "-Also, I heard from Seokjin-hyung that you tried auditioning for Cube Entertainment? How did it go?"

Namjoon winces slightly, squeezing his pupils in what looks like iron fillings attracted to the center of a magnetic field. Oh, elementary school science-Yoongi suddenly feels a long yearning to go back to when everything was so easy to comprehend. "Ah!!!!!! It was terrible...I felt like digging a hole for myself after the performance. As if there isn't enough pressure from my parents wanting me to choose some law course instead of being a rapper-I've already gone for 5 auditions, tried my luck with the Big 3 and I'm flopping at all of them." He clutches his forehead, both index fingers tracing tiny circles on his skin in an attempt to regain his composure. The very mention of how awkward he had been in front of the Cube judges, twiddling his thumbs and not daring to meet their dagger-like, threatening eyes was nothing but his soul journeying back to hell. Yoongi feels cool tingles rocket up his back. The impression of Namjoon to many was the portrayal of a pretty calm, reserved, and responsible person, so this sight beholding Yoongi's eyes was definitely uncommon.

"Hyung...I know it's difficult for you. I mean, I have two friends which are trainees from there-Lai Guanlin and Yoo Seonho. They thought they did rubbish like you did, but they still went in, didn't they? You're always setting high expectations for yourself Namjoon, even if you're not guaranteed a position there-aish, try not to think about it too much." Yoongi consoles, more tingles springing quicker and quicker up his spine like shooting stars. That is, when he sees his hyung's chin quaking at the speed of a building in an 5th degree earthquake.

"I-Yoongi, I just-It's so hard to be strong." Namjoon's voice surrenders to his feelings at the last part, pitch raising a little at the words 'hard' and 'strong'. He ends up sobbing into Yoongi's school uniform, splashing big blobs of salty liquid close to the collars of the younger's shirt. Yoongi flinches a little at the sudden skinship, but his heart seems to compress into a tight lidded jar when his eyes dart to the leaky faucet in Namjoon's. He gingerly places his pen and paper on waterproof ground, at least a good 10+ cm away from the river, and hastily pulls his hyung closer, nudging Namjoon's head towards the nape of his neck.

"You don't have to be strong. You don't always have to be. I'm not the best with words, but the only advice I can give? Cry now, please do." Yoongi whispers quietly, his nonchalant attitude softening, however only ever so slightly. And so, Namjoon's screams pierce the air, the yelps of pain, of his hard work going up in flames, of the pleas and ambitions that his parents were, and had been always blinded from. Yoongi wins the battle against his own tears as he feels a slightly stinging sensation seeping into his shoulders; from Namjoon's fingers digging into his skin and pinching the soft, white fabric with his sweatcapped, clammy hands.

"I'm so sorry you had to see me like this, Yoongi-ah." Namjoon's cheeks flush hotly once his sobs and yelps die down like flames to embers, "-I'm always trying to set a good example for you, but I was just a train wreck today." That line earns a hard slap from Yoongi on the wrist.

"Let's hope this hit wakes you up, you stupid. You don't apologise for these kind of things; you're not superhuman, hyung." he grunts, letting loose a few sighs. "Take care of yourself, I swear you're so bloody annoying, making people worried about you like this. Also, go drink some water, your voice is incredibly hoarse."

Namjoon can't help but lift the corners of his chapped pink lips, the brightest, most dimply grin gracing his face as he hugs Yoongi again, just breaking away a little faster this time. "Thanks, Yoongi. I really don't know what I'd do without you."

Yoongi, having wore his perennial, hardened features of pure boredom and nonchalance yet again, rolls his eyes. "Yeah, you better thank me, you punk, after treating your mental health like trash and taking up our time to finish our song lyrics."

"You're really unforgiving with your words, aren't you Yoongi?" A joking sigh escapes Namjoon's lips, still lifting his attractive cheekbones higher than it had ever been, "Tsk, tsk tsk."

"Am I not allowed to state the truth?" Yoongi retaliates defiantly with an eyebrow raise. However, Namjoon knows better than to argue with his dongsaeng, and throws his hands up in surrender. "Okay, okay. Yeah, you are, that's the boy I know and love."

"Ew, don't give me that soppy crap, please. Let's get to work now, I still want to visit Jimin and Tae and Kook after this." Yoongi, still showing his childish side, does a retching motion as he says so.

Namjoon's eyes light up, and Yoongi can't help but smile a little, knowing that the visit would take things of the older's mind. "Good idea. I can help them if they need it too."

"Yeah, I always have good ideas."

"Well, at least they're better than your old grandpa jokes." Namjoon joshes, poor boy getting slapped for the second time today.

"Oh, shut the hell up."

"I swear, Daehwi, you are going to stop, or I am going to kick you again." Your teeth smash together with an obnoxious click as you feel the pressure of your best friend's fingers tugging at your tiny ponytail again, tendrils of lethargy and boredom preventing him from succumbing to slumber, no matter how hard he tried. Really, he acted like a little kid sometimes-it hit a nerve, something you'd have to put up with before getting to your cousin's house. You can feel your adrenaline soar and your legs pushing on the pedals faster, determined to hasten the minutes to the way there.

Daehwi pouts from the back of the bicycle, jutted out lips probably cute and plump, "But Y/N, I'm booooored." He drags his little kid tone mischievously, yet you smirk, coming up with a witty response.

"You won't be very bored if I get Jungkook to tutor you, right?" You say with a wink.

At the mention of tuition, Daehwi scrunches up his face, numerous wrinkles digging themselves into the gap between his small, rosy nose and forehead. Eyebrows arched and eyes narrrowed, he protests whilst dragging his words again, "Y/N, shut uuuuuup !!!!"

"Jeez, you're such a kid. I was only getting my own back," your lips stretch into a large grin as you whirl around briefly to face the boy, itches tiptoeing up your fingers from the urge to caress Daehwi's high, rosy cheekbones. Those cheekbones raise even higher, just as his eyes widen in shock.

"HEY! Y/N, LOOK AT THE BLOODY ROAD-"

All you hear is the painful, deafening screech echoing from the floor before you ascend, leaving the comfortable, warm offering leather bicycle seat. Gravity plummets you to the charcoal coloured road quickly, little pebbles and bits zooming into vision at lighting speed before your skin brushes against the hard surface and eventually careering forward, friction cutting through your skin. It triggers a few squeals that escape your lips as you feel stings course up your right thigh and shoulder like needles lunging at your flesh. Instinctively, you shift the painful bit into your line of vision to find out that it's sprayed with chalk like friction marks, patches of angry, red blood in the shape of bits of land littering the Earth's surface. You can't help but feel an urge to retch at the sight-yuck, it looked nasty. Not wishing to see the monstrosity that your shoulder part probably looked like, you prop up a leg, the stings gradually sinking in and becoming more of a habit as it throbs in your body uncontrollably.

"Y/N...I-It's painful..."

Your pulse rate speeds up, and even more so when you whirl around to see a crying Daehwi, face scrunched up and eyebrows raised into ramps. He squeezes his eyes shut as tightly as he can, lips parting and revealing his teeth, gritted together in pain. Spots of red litter a few of the ridges in his palm before trailing into a red, burgundy blanket creeping under his fingers and dripping onto the floor incessantly. The sight absolutely terrifies you and you scoot over to comfort him, gently rubbing a finger over the wound in the tear of his jeans, spilling thick, red blood. His hands was the worst case-probably from the attempt of stopping himself from falling. You knew Daehwi didn't tolerate pain well, contrasting to you, and he had a way more serious injury. Which, in fact made you all the more flustered.

"Daehwi! I'm so so sorry. I’ll get help, wait." you say worriedly, cheeks tinted a shade almost as red as Daehwi's blood. A pang of guilt hits you as you see his tears add to the growing puddle of red surrounding him, unleashing rings of ripples that increase in size, and slowly, fade away. You reach towards your back, slipping your hand in your pocket and fumbling around for your phone, gaining access to it through your fingerprint before pressing the numbers 1777, the line you called for a non emergency ambulance.

“Ah! Are you alright?” a deep, manly voice, laced with slight worry seems to cut through the draggy, boisterous beep from the phone, which in fact had been going on and off for a good 1 minute. You tilt your head up to see a man who resembles your fellow class monitor, Seungcheol-intimidating features, as you could see from his sharply yet beautifully angled eyes, and if they bore an angry glare one fine day those looks would probably pierce right through your soul and kill. However, the gaze in his eyes was practically the bane of all hatred and violence. It’s soft, caring-maybe even a little demure, when his eyebrows raise into little ramps concernedly. Probably the aftermath of you not replying to his question after a whole 5 minutes.

“Uh...Are you okay?” he asks again, this time a little more tentatively.

“A-Ah, yeah, I’m okay.” You blush, praying that you didn’t look starry eyed or anything earlier on upon scanning his features-it was quite an annoying habit of yours. “But um-I’m not the best at treating injuries, and my friend’s just about dying with the throbbing pain in his knees-so your help would be nice?”

The guy laughs before saying, “I’ll see what I can do.”

A thankful grin runs across your face as a sigh of relief escapes you the weight on your shoulders suddenly growing wings and chasing away the pressure from your aching bones. He notices the grin and returns it, perhaps a little amusedly. On the other hand, relief is the only that his torture was going to be over soon. He kicks back his legs, only to have it lifted back up again by the guy, whose eyes narrow as he examines Daehwi’s injury, face contorted with concentration. He seems to know what he’s doing, and your mouth can’t help but part in wonder-ah, all the medical crap you’d never understand.

“Y/N, I see your classmate over there!” Daehwi suddenly yells, flicking a finger in the direction of the path you were previously travelling on, just before the big misfortune had came to befall both of you.

You turn your head to see the ‘classmate’ waving a hand at the guy fixing Daehwi’s injury, and panic rises up to your chest quickly.

It’s Yoongi.

#admin N #min yoongi #flower boy bts #admin n isn't dead

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qqueenofhades · 7 years

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The Rose and Thorn: Chapter VII

summary: Sequel to The Dark Horizon. The New World, 1740: Killian and Emma Jones have lived in peace with their family for many years, their pirate past long behind them. But with English wars, Spanish plots, rumors of a second Jacobite rising, and the secret of the lost treasure of Skeleton Island, they and their son and daughter are in for a dangerous new adventure. OUAT/Black Sails. rating: M status: WIP available: FF.net and AO3 previous: chapter VI

“Well,” Jack said, after a long moment. “Someone else bought the collection, so if there was the map you needed in there, we don’t know. Splendid. Who the devil is B. Bones, anyway?”

“He’s dead.” Sam frowned. “So far as I know, at least. He and Grandpa didn’t, uh, didn’t like each other.”

“A number of people don’t seem to like your grandfather. Can’t reckon why.”

Sam decided to ignore that. “It could be another bloke with the same name, which I admit doesn’t help us very much, but it could at least mean that the other one is still dead. It is strange, though, and since we’ve established that Hamilton probably isn’t going to help us, we, er, we could. . . we could. . .”

Jack turned to look at him with an utterly exasperated expression. “You have absolutely no idea what to do next, do you?”

“That’s not true, I do too.” Sam straightened up to his full height, which wasn’t bad – almost six feet, if not matching Jack, who had that and then some. It was irksome, really, going head to head with someone who could always effortlessly out-loom you. “We. . . just have to find the inventory registers. There was probably a more detailed listing of the collection. So if we know the map was here, we can decide if it’s worth chasing up wherever Bones footled off with it, which may be a long way, yes, but – ”

“Let me ask you something.” Jack folded his arms and regarded Sam still more narrowly. “If you know approximately where the island is, why do we need a map at all?”

“I, ah.” Sam leaned on the alley wall, trying to look calm and collected, but one of the stones slid loose and made him whack his elbow. Naturally. “Everyone needs a refresher now and then, don’t they?”

Jack’s expression turned, if possible, still more dubious.

“I do, all right? I do know where it is. About. I just don’t know the exact coordinates, I don’t think anyone does. Not even Grandpa or Mum or any of them. It’s a tiny island, we could be sailing in circles forever trying to find it, and as you may recall, we don’t have that long. I’m asking for help instead of trying to be an arrogant prick who thinks he can do it entirely by himself, because as is probably bloody obvious, I can’t. So yes, I wanted to see if by some mad fluke of luck, the man here had a chart. Bite me.”

Jack, in that irritating habit of his, arched a dark eyebrow to nearly the full potential of his forehead. Almost pityingly, he said, “This is a disaster.”

“Fine then, Isaac Newton, let’s hear your ideas!”

“Not my responsibility, remember? I wasn’t the one strolling in and claiming to the Governor of Cuba that I could find the biggest pile of riches in the – ”

“No, you were just the one handing over the intelligence about Cartagena like a no-good sneak – what, torture it out of the English prisoners yourself – ”

“I had nothing to do with that. But yes, I took it because you’re not the only bloody person in the world who has someone they want to protect, and your spectacular incompetence is making that more difficult than I can – ”

“Yes, I know I’m the disappointment, for my family too, so it’s sad that you – ”

They were raising their voices, stalking toward each other with heated expressions and fists at the ready, but then – since it was still early, and likely in the name of doing their civic duty in breaking up a brawl between two blackguards in the alley, a wooden shutter banged open above them and a servant poured a bucket of used washwater directly on their heads (at least it was not a chamber pot, or that would have been simply unspeakable). Both young men snorted and spluttered, whirled around and glared evilly up at the servant, who yelled something uncouth-sounding and slammed the shutter, then back on each other, endeavoring valiantly to proceed as if there had been no affront to their dignity. Finally Jack muttered a curse of his own under his breath, scraped his long black hair out of his eyes, and redid the thong holding it back. Sam had been about to do the same thing, but instead he stood there mulishly dripping so it didn’t look as if he was copying. He still did want to have a go at punching Jack, but he also knew that Jack would wax the floor with him, and it would be counterproductive to inflame the closest thing to an ally (not that that was very close at all) further against him. Da Souza would definitely kill him if they could get to Skeleton Island without him. Jack only might.

After a moment, Jack glanced back at him, as Sam was surreptitiously trying to fix his own ponytail. “Why are you out here alone, anyway? What are you, fifteen?”

“I’m nineteen, you git.”

Jack raised the other eyebrow, but thankfully forbore to comment. “Well,” he said. “You said you knew roughly where Skeleton Island is. So, where?”

“Why do I have to tell you?”

“Maybe so I think I have any reason to stick around with you, rather than going off and finding it myself. I’m starting to think that would be faster.”

Sam hesitated. As he had already noted, there was no way he could do this himself, and he needed Jack to stay – if nothing else, to vouch for him to the Spaniards, though that was looking like an increasingly fool idea. “It’s east of Nassau,” he said. “In the Atlantic. No more than about two days’ hard sail, since Grandpa and Mum were able to reach it in about that amount of time. So I suppose we could just wander around in the general vicinity, but even if we stumbled on it, we’d still need to recover the treasure, and I don’t think we can do that with just the S.”

“The what?”

“The S. Da Souza’s ship.”

“The Senaita?”

“Yes, that.”

“Did you forget that too?”

“I did not. I just won’t say it if it’s a crude word for lady parts. I don’t believe in disrespecting women like that.”

Caught off guard, Jack stared at him – then broke out into the first actual smile that Sam had ever seen from him. It completely transformed his face, usually so wary and dark and guarded, into something that shone like a tower beacon, bright and beautiful. He shut it off at once, though not before it had time to do something peculiar to Sam’s insides, and shook his head. “At least you’ll have good manners while you’re making a dog’s breakfast of this. I’m sure your mum’s very proud.”

“Mum, and Granny, and my sister. Dad and Grandpa too. I’d have my hide tanned if I was ever that foul, and I’d deserve it.”

“Charlotte would like you.” Jack looked as if he wanted to bite his tongue for having said it. “We should go.”

“Go where? Who’s Charlotte?”

“She’s my – never mind. It’s complicated.”

“I think I can handle complicated.”

“Never mind, I said. If we’re not standing here arguing in an alley, and if you don’t have the chart, either you have somewhere else we should look or we should be on our way. If Da Souza is back yet, that is. Either way, if you don’t have anything else useful to offer – ”

“I suppose we can go, yes.” Sam strove to sound offhand. As they started to walk, he added, “Is Charlotte your sister?”

“No.”

“Why would she like me?”

“Why on bloody earth is that any of your business?”

“Maybe I’m just curious about you. You know an unavoidable lot about me and my family, but I don’t know anything about you or yours. You said you are protecting someone too. Who’s Charlotte then, your gerbil?”

“You’re very obnoxious.”

“Why’s it obnoxious to make friendly conversation?”

“We’re not friends, and you’re an idiot. Just because you toddle around telling your life story to all and sundry doesn’t mean that I’m obliged to do the same, especially when it’s what has you presently bent over a barrel. You want some advice, stop expecting the world to be some kind and happy place where everyone secretly just longs to hold hands and drink tea. It will fuck you squarely up the arse if you do.”

Sam opened and shut his mouth, feeling slapped, as seemed to be his general state of being when conversing, or rather attempting to, with Jack Bellamy. Finally he said, “I’m not so naïve as you think I am. I know I’m in trouble and that bloody nobody means me well. But there’s a difference between that and – whatever you imagine I am, I’m not sure.”

“I have my reasons.” Jack did not break stride. “You just – need a few more walls. You give too much of yourself away to everyone, no matter what. You let them see straight into you, everything you want, and let them tell you what to do to get it. You’ll never survive this unless you learn how to tell a decent lie.”

“And I suppose you think you could teach me?”

“I don’t intend to teach you anything. As I said. This isn’t my responsibility, and neither are you.”

“So who is? Charlotte?”

“Yes,” Jack said, very shortly. “Her and the girls.”

Sam was conscious of a faint, uncomfortable prickling sensation in his chest. “Your daughters?”

“No.”

“Stepdaughters?”

“No. No more questions.”

“Right. Walls. Be mysterious and also a total knob, suit yourself. For the record, I’m not asking in the service of some nefarious scheme. We both also know that between us, you’re – well, you’re you, and I’m me. I want to help my family, you want to help yours. Don’t you think that we should at least – ”

“I don’t want to know about your family.” Jack’s voice was quiet and very fierce. “So don’t expect me to tell you about mine.”

“Why not?” Sam exploded, coming to a smart halt in the middle of the street. “Because it’s easier to hold a grudge against us, for whatever wrong you think we’ve done you, if you don’t know us as people, but whatever abstractions you can craft to suit yourself? Your uncle was my godfather, I know you probably think he was a filthy pirate, but maybe it’s more than just that. I never knew him, but I wish I did – it’s his name I have to carry on every day, and at least if I had some of my own memories, I wouldn’t have to see everything through old stories told by other people! I’d give everything to know the truth of a man, this man, so if you aren’t willing to do the same, you can call me the incompetent one all you like, but you’re the real coward.”

Jack stared at him again, completely floored. He raised a hand to his face, then dropped it. “Bloody hell,” he said at last. “You are nineteen, aye.”

“Don’t patronize me, you twit.” Sam was not mollified. “You’re the same age as my sister – twenty-three, twenty-four? And frankly, no matter what you think of yourself, she’d kick your arse. So don’t act as if you have the secrets of the world figured out, because I’m guessing that deep down, you’re just as scared as I am. I never said I was a perfect person, I’ve never pretended to be anything I’m not. I know too well what a lie that is.”

“Sam.” It was the first time he could recall that Jack had used his name, and it caught him short. “Just take a breath, why don’t you?”

Sam snapped his mouth shut with a click. As it was, he really had not meant to be quite that forthcoming, but he had finally put his finger on what bothered him so much about his apparent complete inability to make any headway with Jack. Sam was the name of a ghost that his entire family had loved, and Sam himself was just. . . him. Not nearly, in his mind, whatever they thought he would be, perpetually falling short of the honor. Jack Bellamy was the incarnation of what Sam had always feared his elder namesake would be, if he ever actually met him: more than free with his opinion that Sam was an incurable numbskull far more suited for a career selling flowers or heckling men on soapboxes than anything resembling what the rest of his family did. It was stupid, it was irrational, but Sam had found that such things rarely made a difference when your head was busily convincing you that you were the worst human alive. He compensated for this insecurity by getting people to like him, to have tangible proof to the contrary, and that was exactly why his hereunto failure to do so with Jack was throwing him so much. If he could not get this person of all people to like him, perhaps all the whispering doubts were right. He did not deserve to be Sam, and never had.

They continued to stare at each other for a moment more. Sam almost wished that Jack would go ahead and actually punch him, just to get it over with, and that at least was no more than he either expected or merited. He tried to brace himself, though he was shamefully afraid that he would cry if Jack did, and that would surely destroy whatever tattered bit of tolerance the other young man could ever be persuaded to hold for him. But instead Jack sighed. “Come on,” he said. “I’d rather not draw too much attention.”

As clocking him in the nose on a public thoroughfare would certainly count under that heading, Sam supposed that the punching had, at least for now, been postponed. After a pause, he started to trot after Jack again, unable to repress a demented vision of what might happen if he turned up at home at some point in his theoretically still-alive future and announced that he had Sam Bellamy’s nephew in tow. His sister had brought a few gentleman friends home before, which generally turned excruciating as Grandpa and Dad interrogated them over supper, and which then resulted in the gentlemen friends never being heard from again, much to Geneva’s irritation. This was different, as Jack was obviously not a gentleman friend (and possibly neither a gentleman nor a friend), and the fact of his kinship to Captain Bellamy might throw even Grandpa for a loop, but Sam supposed it would go terribly anyway. Though Jack and Geneva would probably like each other. They had a lot in common. It would bloody figure.

They descended the city streets back toward their boat in what Sam would very much hesitate to term an amiable silence, as it wasn’t amiable so much as it was a brief lull in their thus far ever-present need to get the last word on each other. At the quay, they climbed in, slid the oars into the locks, and started to row. They would likely have a while to wait on the ship, as Da Souza was off accomplishing villainy somewhere, and Sam felt another prickle in his chest, this one of something close to anger, at the thought of just sitting on their hands and letting him do it. Whatever could happen to these people, it was because he had brought the wolf here. Maybe we can steal the S, and give it a better name while we’re at it.

It was going on midday by the time they made it back to the Narrows and the Portuguese vessel’s concealed position among the wooded bluffs of St. Kitts. It was clear and hot and blue, the distant green mountains of Nevis ringed in puffy white clouds; one of them, the tallest, was rumored to be a volcano, though it had never erupted any time in living memory. Since it was the only place on the island impossible to farm, it was where any Maroons hiding from the inexorable maw of the sugarcane plantations would have fled, and Sam felt another stab of anger over all the slave ships in the harbor, not that he thought two men could do anything about those. Maybe the people deserved whatever Da Souza might do to them after all. Maybe they didn’t. It was all so bloody confusing.

They had the ship all to themselves except for a few crewmen who had been left behind (in theory to keep watch, in reality to snore in their hammocks) and Sam sat in the prow, squinting against the glare off the water and trying to think what to say to Da Souza when the bastard asked for a progress report. They had, after all, acquired no chart as a result of their detour here, and he had a feeling that the captain would take less than kindly to a vague directive to set sail in a thataway direction. Sam could possibly spin this trip as an accomplishment somehow, but he would need Jack’s collaboration to do it. Otherwise, Jack could just pipe up and blow a hole in the entire flimsy fable, and then, well. . .

Having failed to think of anything else over several hours of cogitation, Sam finally sighed deeply, got up, and went to find Jack, who had taken up a spot in the stern and appeared to likewise be in deep thought – it was better not to ask over what. “Hey,” he said, low-voiced. “So before Da Souza gets back, the hell are we going to tell him?”

“The truth, I thought.” Jack’s eyes were mostly brown, but they had a lighter hazel-gold rim around the edge that gave Sam the unpleasant sensation of staring down a jungle cat. “As you assured me earlier, you know about where the place is. Don’t you.”

“I. . .” Sam chewed his lip. “I just think it’s better if he’s under as many impressions as possible about how valuable I am.”

This was as close as even he dared to come to admitting that he wasn’t, and by the way Jack’s lip twisted, Sam had a furtherly unpleasant feeling that he had already guessed. Jack leaned back, hands clasped over a knee. Then he said, “We did find out that someone named B. Bones bought the charts. Could see if that rings any bells. Does sound familiar, outside of whatever feud you said he had with your grandfather, but I can’t think why.”

“That could have been because he – ” Sam stopped. “Oh, shit.”

“What?”

“I just thought. Billy Bones – he was my mother’s friend, he served on the Walrus, but he and Grandpa ended up increasingly at odds, as I said. Billy was the one who sold them out to the Navy, in exchange for a chance at revenge. Woodes Rogers followed them to Skeleton Island on Billy’s information, and Billy and Grandpa fought there. Everyone thought he’d died there. But if he didn’t, if he’s also still alive – ”

Jack’s eyes widened as he caught Sam’s drift. “Then he also knows where it is. And if he’s buying charts from the same place we wanted to, may also be presently trying to get back there. There’s no way he’s still hanging around Nevis, though. That was weeks ago, or longer.”

“Aye.” Sam considered. “There’s an outside chance that he passed through Nassau at some point, as he used to live there during the pirates’ republic, but if he was treasure hunting I doubt he’d want word getting out about it. We could go there and ask. Da Souza would probably fit right in. Though now that it’s an English colony again, he’d have to avoid tipping off who he works for. Not that he cares.”

“Nassau.” Jack’s mouth went thin. “That’s where you’d send us?”

“What, the dread pirate haunt? Whatever you’re imagining, it’s not like that, these days. My uncle Charlie works there. And besides, Skeleton Island is somewhere near it, remember? At least we’d be in the neighborhood.”

This was true enough that Jack could not mount an objection, though he still looked anything but keen on the idea. When he still didn’t answer, Sam challenged, “Scared to see where your family comes from?”

Jack gave him a searing look. “My family comes from Devonshire. Wherever my uncle gallivanted off to, it doesn’t change that.”

“You hate England, you’ve said it at least twenty times. So why does it matter?”

Jack made a convulsive movement as if to stand up, and Sam flinched, but he caught himself, offered a rather teeth-bared smile, and sat down. “You’d have more friends, and be generally better at this whole thing, if you had any idea whatsoever when to shut the fuck up.”

“We’ve already established that I don’t.” Sam was not – in this, at least – backing down. “Will you support me when I tell Da Souza to go to Nassau, or not?”

Jack kept looking at him. The afternoon sunlight turned his eyes to chips of amber, sharp and glittering. At last he said, “Very well.”

Sam held out his hand, as if expecting them to shake on it, but Jack didn’t take it. One corner of his mouth turned up again. “You’ll be in more trouble there than I will, anyway.”

This was most likely true, even if Sam bridled at it being pointed out. Half of him wanted to ask again about this mysterious Charlotte, even if he knew he’d just run into a brick wall, and the rest of him felt as if he had had more than enough of Jack Bellamy’s company just now. He returned to his observation post on the bow and waited until the afternoon ended, dusk began to fall, and Da Souza and his men returned from their felony – they looked to be in a good mood, so it had clearly gone well. “Ah, Samuel,” the captain said, spotting him. “What do you have to say for yourself, then?”

“Right.” Sam cleared his throat. “We – ” he eyed Jack pointedly, as if to reinforce that it was indeed a we – “we’ve had a few ideas, yes.”

With that, he filled Da Souza in (more or less) on their activities and conclusions for the day, making them sound considerably more promising than they actually were. “So,” he finished, as stoutly as possible. “That’s what it is. Nassau.”

“Nassau.” Da Souza considered that, tapping his grimy fingers on his arm. If it was from gunpowder, which it smelled like, Sam didn’t particularly want to know. “Old friends of your grandfather’s, then? Or old enemies?”

“Something like that. I don’t know that Bones is actually there.” Sam rather hoped not, since even if so, Billy almost certainly did not intend to peaceably ponder on pleasant days gone by. If they did cross paths, he would have to pray that Billy had some ancestral soft spot for Emma Swan’s son. “He’s our man, though. Catch up to him, and we’re there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

“I see.” Da Souza considered again, then nodded. “You’ve done quite well, young Jones. I must say, I did not think you had it in you.”

Backhanded as this compliment was, Sam nonetheless could not help taking some pride in it. Da Souza was clearly an experienced scurvy rascal and hell-raising bastard of the first order, so his endorsement, however grudging, was still rather satisfying. Indeed, the captain’s manner toward him became almost friendly as they raised anchor, checked that they were unobserved, and prepared to set sail. Clearly there was no point in shilly-shallying, with Bones some unknown distance ahead of them, Jack’s propensity for punching scriveners, and whatever Da Souza and his horrible friends had achieved on shore. It was a lengthy northwestern haul to Nassau from here, close to a thousand miles, and that meant at least another week in close quarters, including that of the ship’s bloody dog. Sam still had not discerned the reason for the presence of this animal on the vessel, except for the sole fact that Da Souza seemed fond of it. Even hardened, double-dealing, throat-cutting rogues had pets, apparently.

The trades carried them swiftly through the Narrows and out into the open sea west of the islands, receding into dark shadows on the horizon behind them. Sam was feeling almost, however unwarrantedly, optimistic – this was more how things usually went for him, when he succeeded through sheer persistence and dumb luck, or some combination thereof. He wondered about the fortunes of Nathaniel, back in Havana. Hopefully he was doing all right, or at least was not bored out of his mind or hung up by his thumbs or otherwise maltreated by the bloody Spaniards. In fact, Sam thought that this was the longest they had gone without seeing each other since they first met, and it still felt odd to be undertaking an adventure without his partner in crime. Especially when said partner had been replaced by one who probably wanted to –

A tap on his shoulder startled him considerably, and he turned to see Jack, hair out of its ponytail and blowing freely, which gave him a look like the brooding hero of some Novel doubtless unsuitable for consumption by impressionable young ladies (at least according to idiots, as Sam thought ladies should read whatever they pleased). Likewise, he seemed – at least for the moment – something less than in utter scorn and disbelief over Sam’s entire existence, which was a refreshing change. “Ah,” he said, and coughed. “Here, I brought you a bit of bread.”

Sam was about to say that he wasn’t hungry, but of course he was hungry, and he hadn’t gone to supper because he didn’t want Da Souza to try to pry more details out of him. So he nodded in thanks, took it, and devoured it in about one gulp, at which Jack looked arch. “Could be you won’t starve if you take a breath, you think?”

“Eh,” Sam said, through a mouthful of crumbs. “Can’tbesho.”

Jack rolled his eyes, but smiled slightly, despite himself. He started to go, then stopped. “You’re – well, you’re not quite what I expected. Even if you still have no idea what you’re doing.”

“I think that was your version of a compliment,” Sam said. “So don’t break anything rushing over here to hug me, since we’re such mates now.”

“You’re a pillock.” Jack’s tone left it unclear if this was a lighthearted bit of banter, or still his genuine opinion (though Sam guessed the latter). “But I suppose it would be a shame if you died – soon, that is, since you’re clearly going to die anyway. Good night.”

With that, he turned on his heel and vanished below, leaving Sam still hungry and wondering if it was worth hunting down the scraps in the galley, or if he should just go to bed and try to forget about it (though when he got home, if he did, he was eating the entire pantry and buttery). But before he could do either, the ladder creaked again, and Da Souza emerged into the deepening dusk. “Young Jones. You were not at supper?”

“No.” Sam shrugged. “Glad we’re on our way, though, and I was just about to turn in. So if you’ll excuse me – ”

The captain held out an arm. “Wait. Everything you discovered today, you told me?”

“Of course,” Sam said, somewhat shortly. “But even if not, I don’t see you rushing to tell me what you did today.”

Da Souza grinned, conceding the point. “It is difficult when we cannot quite trust each other, is it not? But as you and I both know, we do share the goal of reaching Skeleton Island. So if there was anything else, anything you kept back. . . I have been speaking with Jack Bell, and he says that he can confirm everything you have said thus far, but you do not trust him altogether either. So between friends, or at least men with common purpose. . . anything else?”

Sam felt a brief surprise that Jack would stand up for him – though if it was merely a matter of providing yes-or-no answers to questions about already offered information, Jack was clearly playing enough of his own game, different from the Spaniards, to be savvy enough to venture that but no more. “I’ve told you everything useful. No good to prevent us from getting to Skeleton Island when I have more than enough to lose if we don’t, aye?”

“Indeed,” Da Souza acknowledged, putting a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “And for which I must say, young Jones, I am truly sorry.”

“Sorry?” Sam was startled. “What the devil for?”

“Well,” Da Souza said. “This.” And with one quick, strong, headlong heave, threw him overboard.

------------------

It was still early, but clearly nobody was going back to sleep. Someone went to wake David and Mary Margaret and inform them of the situation, servants were dispatched with lanterns and truncheons to search the house and grounds for any sign of forced entry or site of a struggle, and Flint and Emma went to hitch up the Nolans’ cabriolet and drive it at high speed through the just-stirring streets to the docks. Neither of them could quite say why they went there, other than following an instinct that if Killian had been abducted, his captors might have wanted to transport him out of town as quickly as possible. There was theoretically a chance that they had traveled overland, but as Charlestown was a port city and the roads both south and north were muddy, marshy, and wild, a boat, rather than a wagon, would have been the best option for any quick getaway. Flint and Emma jumped down and ran from quay to quay, but if there had been mischief here earlier in the night, there was no sign of it now. I shouldn’t have waited so long. I should have gone to look as soon as he wasn’t back in an hour, not tried to sleep and forget about it. I lost time, and now I’ve lost him.

Emma was unable to ignore the thought that of course this was what she would get, returning to such a transparently hexed a place as Charlestown, that it would not count itself content in its damages until it had also taken her husband from her. She did her best to ignore the gnawing terror in her insides until they had finished the search, with no trace of him, and she stood motionless in the dawn wind, still in her nightgown tucked into a pair of breeches and boots, hair whipping in her face. “He isn’t here. He’s gone.”

“He has to be somewhere.” Flint’s mouth was grim as granite. “Anyone you can think of, who knows what goes on around here?”

“I – yes.” Not that there was any guarantee that a blind woman would have anything useful to report, since it wasn’t as if she could have seen the perpetrators, but that one was uncanny anyway. “This way.”

Within a quarter-hour, they were standing in front of the shuttered-up pot shop as Flint banged mercilessly on the door, until there was finally the sound of several curses of a considerably potent nature, the bolt slid open, and the witch demanded, “What has your britches in a bunch, laddie-me-lad? Decent folk are abed at this hour, you know.”

“I very much doubt you’re any sort of decent folk. You s – hear anything on the docks earlier? Round about midnight, most likely.”

“Answers cost, you know.”

“Your reward is that I won’t kill you.”

“Och. No manners at all.” The witch tutted. “Well, if that’s all you can offer, you can be on your way directly, unless – ”

“Wait,” Emma interrupted. “It’s me. From earlier. I was asking about – ”

“You?” The witch’s voice swiveled in her direction. “What’s such a nice lassie as you doing with a frightful grump like him?”

“Never mind. Do you know about anything? We can pay.”

The witch’s hand shot out through the door, and Flint – with a look of deep disapproval – put a silver penny into it, which vanished in a twinkling. Then she said, “Did hear a to-do in the wee hours. Sounded like those scalawags that Lord Murray keeps about to do some of his errands of a. . . less than savory nature. Them boys and their prancing peacock of a leader, Rufio. Had someone with them, by the sound, someone unconscious. They were hauling him, they were, down to a ship. Suppose it was Rufio’s. I’m a poor helpless old woman, ‘tis all I know.”

Flint and Emma exchanged a very sharp look. “Lord Murray’s scalawags?”

“Aye. A gang of them. The Lost Boys, they’re called, and I’d not fancy getting on the wrong side of them. That’s all. All, I said.”

Flint looked as if he was about to throttle the witch into more answers, but Emma put a hand on his arm. They had something more important to follow up now, and while it would be quite delicate to burst uninvited and with unfriendly intentions into the governor’s mansion at the crack of dawn, it was nonetheless what Emma was perfectly willing to do if necessary. Nobody was in any haste to replay their family’s last confrontation in that building, but she was not about to let any potential lead on Killian’s whereabouts slip through their fingers. Still, knowing that it would be exceptionally unwise to bring Flint along, especially if Lord Murray meant to do them ill, she said, “You should go back to the Nolans. I’ll go to the governor and – ”

“And what, demand answers? By yourself?”

“You can’t come with me, and if Murray did order Killian kidnapped, I need to know. He’s not going to get away with this, he – ”

“You go in there alone, you’re more than likely never coming out! Fucking hell, Emma, you can’t – ”

At that moment, distracting them from their argument, they heard the sound of clopping hooves, and when they looked up, they saw David Nolan riding toward them, old Navy captain’s jacket thrown over his nightshirt, saber buckled on, and lantern in hand. “Any sign of him?” he called, as he came nearer. “Killian?”

“We think he might have been snatched,” Emma said. “By some local gang of ne’er-do-wells, apparently in the pay of Lord Murray. The Lost Boys.”

David got a dark look, as this was evidently a familiar species of Charlestown riffraff, but he also appeared somewhat baffled. “They’re a bit of a problem around here, aye, but as far as I know, they’re not being paid by Murray. He promised to eradicate such undesirable – ”

“Well,” Flint said. “That old hag says they are. And on this accord, I am more inclined to believe her than you. It seems Lord Murray is lying about nearly everything, doesn’t it?”

“I’m going,” Emma said tightly. “I need to know what he did to Killian.”

“You still can’t – ”

“I’ll go,” David interrupted. “With her. As before. Captain, you take my horse and go back to the house.”

Flint eyed David with deep suspicion. At last he said, “I’m her father, not you.”

“Aye, but we all know that you can’t walk into the governor’s mansion, in Charlestown, demanding vengeance yet again. Besides, if he takes you prisoner, Murray can demand whatever he wants, whether from your family or the English authorities alike. I swear, I will look after her. But either way, we are wasting time.”

“I trust him,” Emma said to Flint, low-voiced. “Go back and tell the others.”

Flint still did not look happy with this arrangement, but at last he inclined his head a grudging half-inch, waited until David dismounted, then took the reins and swung up onto the horse. He spun it around, set his heels to its sides, and with half a glance back, cantered off up the street.

David and Emma started to walk, neither of them having expected to make a return visit to the governor’s mansion so soon, but needs must. It was full light by the time they strode up the lawn, passed under the handsome portico, and knocked insistently on the door until finally a servant answered, aghast at their dishabille and flagrant disregard of protocol. “You simply cannot expect to call on the governor at this hour, in such estate and without an appearance, so please be off before we have to – ”

Emma stepped up and pushed past him, clearing the way for David to follow, as – completely ignoring the servant’s continued strident protestations – they crossed the hall, shoved open the dining-room doors, and marched in to where Lord Gideon Murray, in an embroidered silk dressing gown, was taking his breakfast. He had just been scooping an egg into an eggcup and flipping through a pile of official dispatches, but he looked up, caught sight of them, and started to his feet, rocking the table. “Captain Nolan, Mrs. Jones. What is the reason for this most unexpected visit at such an – ”

“Where’s my husband?”

Murray blinked. “Mrs. Jones?”

“Where is my husband? Killian. What did you and your little gang of miscreants do to him?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have the remotest notion what you’re talking about.”

Murray was a good liar – one of the best Emma had met, in fact – but she usually had a sense for these things, and she was now convinced beyond all doubt that he was, in fact, lying. She took a step closer, fists clenched, fighting the urge to hit him in the face. “Bring him back. Whatever you did. You took Killian away from me.”

“If your husband has come to grief, that is very sad, but I cannot be held responsible for – ”

“NOW!”

If Murray flinched, it was difficult to tell. But when he glanced up at her, his eyes had changed, flat and shrewd. He considered her a moment longer, then said abruptly, “Very well. Let us drop the courtesies. If I was to remark that I might indeed know something about the whereabouts of your husband, and that by cooperating with me, you might acquire them, what would your answer to that be?”

“Wh – so yesterday, everything you said – ”

“I said I did not intend to persecute you for your past, and indeed I do not. I said nothing about not profiting from you in the future.”

“Jesus,” Emma said. “You’re just like your uncle.”

At that, Murray did actually flinch. “I beg your pardon? My uncle?”

“Aye. Yesterday – I asked around, I found out who you are. Lord Robert Gold’s nephew.”

“His nephew? That’s who you think I am?”

“Well – ” Emma faltered. “Aren’t you?”

“No.” Murray laughed, without humor. “I’m his son.”

“His s – ”

“You were just remarking on the family resemblance you thought you glimpsed, weren’t you? My mother was his second wife, and I was born late in his life. I was only a very small child when he met his downfall in Nassau. After which, I was taken in by my aunt, Lady Fiona, and my origins concealed from society.” Murray continued to stare at Emma, with that hard, cold, calculating look so ill-fitting on his boyishly handsome face. “Does that surprise you, madam?”

Emma had to admit that it did, though she wasn’t sure why. During the pirates’ war against Gold, and considering Killian’s experiences with him, she had almost thought of him as some shadowy, faceless entity, with no origin and no end and no human life, rather than a mortal man who might have had any such mundane thing as a wife and young child back in England. Not that it made her care for him any more, but still. “What happened to your mother?”

Something flickered in Gideon Murray’s eyes long enough for her to tell that this was perilous ground to tread. After a pause, he said, “Not that it is your business, but in any event, I don’t know. Didn’t care enough to keep me, I suppose, or simply wanted to be rid of the scandal now attaching to the Gold name, run off and see the world without the burden of my existence. Are you interested in what I have to tell you, Mrs. Jones, or not?”

Emma thought it was a mark of just how much he did not care for the subject that he was willing to steer the conversation back to Killian. Despite herself, she felt a brief, poignant sympathy for him. Wanted to tell him that a mother did not always part from her children for not loving them, that she had sent Henry and Geneva away to Paris many years ago to protect them and it remained the most painful thing she had ever done, but given as Gideon had likewise abducted a member of her family, that was rather more sympathy (and information) than she felt he was presently entitled to. She didn’t know the reasoning of the presumable Mrs. Gold, but complicated as it likely was, it was still not her main concern. “Where’s Killian?”

“As I noted, that is something you can learn in due course, if you cooperate with me. First – ”

“Indeed,” Emma said. “Gold’s son. I see it.”

“I am not like him!” Gideon whirled around and hurled a salver of scrambled eggs hard enough to bounce off the sideboard. “Do you think I’m doing this for some sort of revenge on my father’s behalf? I’m not. He was a bad man, and the world is well rid of him. Now. As I said earlier. I’ll tell you what happened to your husband if you work with me. You and your father, to speak of family examples – you know where Skeleton Island is. And this time, I will not miss my chance.”

“This time – ?” Emma was momentarily baffled, until it hit. “You’re the person that Billy contacted in Charlestown. Aren’t you. Did you send the assassins after us too? Since that seems to be your style.”

“No.” Gideon’s eyes flashed. “I have no idea about those. But yes, I spoke to Billy Bones. I know where he’s going too, in fact, and why. And yet, I’d rather that his progress was not allowed to continue without interruption. So if you and Flint lead me to Skeleton Island, I’ll tell you where your husband is. Refuse, and you’ll never see him again.”

“This – so all this was to get us to help you?” Emma stared at him in patent disbelief. “You couldn’t get the information from Billy?”

“No,” Gideon said coolly. “I did try. But he would only reveal it to Mother.”

“Meaning Lady Fiona? So the two of you are in this together?”

Gideon snorted. His opinion of his adoptive mother did not seem particularly high either, until Emma supposed that if he wanted Fiona and Billy to achieve their aims in peace, he would not presently be conspiring to thwart them with her and Flint. It made her head hurt to contemplate how many different aims and games were swirling in a maelstrom of intrigue, how many angles that absolutely everyone was playing for their own benefit, and it summoned a grim smile to her lips, as it reminded her of the good old days on Nassau. She didn’t think that Gideon was lying about not sending the assassins, which raised the unhappy possibility that there was yet another enemy out there, lurking in the shadows and waiting another chance to strike. Emma wasn’t even sure whose side Gideon was on – certainly not theirs, not clearly Billy’s either, seemingly eager to separate himself from the shadow of his father, plotting against his aunt who had raised him, until it wound more and more of an inextricably tangled skein. Emma could guess that he wanted to find Skeleton Island for the same reason everyone did – vast hordes of lost riches – but less sure for what. As calmly as she could, she said, “And if we don’t help you?”

“As I said. Then you can search for your husband as long as you like, but I won’t say where. As well, I suspect that all of Charlestown might be bloody pleased to finally get their hands on the authentic Captain Flint, wouldn’t they?”

“You bastard.”

“You were the one to bring him back here. Not me.” Gideon looked at her flatly. “Do you somehow require time to think it over, or have I made myself clear?”

“You’ve made yourself clear, all right.” David Nolan spoke up for the first time, eyeing the younger man just as coolly. “I had high hopes when you were appointed governor, you know. But I also knew your father. No matter what you want to say, you’re much more like him than you ever want to admit.”

“Nobody asked you, Captain.”

“Indeed,” David agreed. “They did not. But so you know, I will be siding with Mrs. Jones and her family in this affair, Governor. Whatever assistance I can offer to her, I will – and I don’t think that you control the courts and the magistrates quite enough to push through a show trial and conviction for Captain Flint without any challenge at all, no matter what happened twenty-five years ago. And since you may not know, having only held this post for a few months, I was appointed lord sheriff of the city last year. I would, I assure you, have more than a thing or two to say if you tried.”

Gideon glared at him, while Emma put a quiet, grateful hand on David’s shoulder. Then the young governor wheeled back to her. “Well?”

Emma hesitated. She didn’t want to help Gideon, she didn’t want to drag the world back to Skeleton Island (though it seemed that the world was more than on its way already), and she did not want anything about this situation in general – but however twisted his methods and rationale in abducting Killian, they were undoubtedly and regretfully effective. She could not run the risk of permanently losing him, she simply could not. She knew that he would be fighting like the devil to get back to her, but she could not do any less, could not sit back and think that his efforts alone would be enough, or live with herself if she did. Cooperate with Gideon, at least for the time being. Keep her family safe. Find the love of her life. That was all that mattered.

“Fine,” she said, very quietly and very coldly. “What do you want me to do?”

It was almost an hour later when they finally left the governor’s mansion. They walked back to the Nolan estate, where they received an anxious and relieved welcome – for obvious reasons, the rest of the family had been more than half convinced that their next call would be from Lord Murray’s henchmen arriving to chuck them into the same dungeon. Upon hearing of the turn of events, Flint reamed Gideon up one side and down the other (which was enjoyable even if ultimately ineffective in terms of changing anything) but he did not tell Emma that she should have chosen differently, that she should have valued Killian’s life less than she had – Flint of all people knew something about doing drastic things for lost loved ones. “So what does the little shitstain think we’re going to do?” he growled at last. “Sail straight to Skeleton Island and stuff gold coins into his greedy paws?”

“No,” Emma said. “At least not at once. He wants us to go to Philadelphia. There’s something there we’re supposed to pick up for him.”

“What, the black magic rod of Beelzebub?” Flint continued to look thunderous. “As soon as we get Killian back, I am tearing that bastard into tiny little – ”

“Listen,” Emma interrupted, appreciating his bloodlust but feeling the need to keep them focused. “Philadelphia. Henry was planning to move there, remember? He and Violet and their children could be there already. He was going to work for Mr. Franklin, the printer and publisher. Everyone in the Colonies, more or less, reads one of his newspapers or almanacs. So if we could get him to put a notice in one of them – ”

“We wouldn’t have to rely solely on Gideon fucking Murray’s word to find Killian.” As usual, Flint was two steps ahead of her. “Get all of the Americas on the lookout for him. Be better in that case that they didn’t know he was Hook, or they’ll lynch him themselves and spare Murray’s gang of pustulant guttersnipes the trouble.”

“Of course not. But if they know to look for a Mr. Jones of his description, we can tell them to report here.” Emma looked at David. “If that’s all right?”

“Aye,” David said. “Though I also thought, if you allow, that I’d come with you. I do not doubt your ability to handle whatever you must, but it is also true that Captain Flint and Captain Swan do not have, shall we say, much protection from the world. I retired from the Royal Navy with full honors, I am a wealthy and respected member of the community, owner of business interests on Nassau, and the lord sheriff of Charlestown. They can’t treat me the same way they might feel justified in treating you.”

Surprised and deeply touched, even if only one of them was liable to admit it, Emma and Flint blinked in unison, then nodded. After a pause, Mary Margaret said, “Would Mrs. McGraw be staying here, then? I’d be happy to host her, of course.”

“You are very kind,” Miranda said. “It is true that I am not in much condition to be running hither and yon across the Americas, and your home is lovely. But I – I could not endure to be in Charlestown for long, especially by myself. I will accompany James and Emma to Philadelphia, and if Henry and Violet are there and amenable, I will stay with them. Safer, I think, than returning to Savannah alone.”

Flint did not look pleased at the prospect of leaving her at all, especially with Thomas already gone on a risky and unplanned adventure, and he and his wife had not spent a single night apart since their reunion almost twenty years ago. But he knew it would be cruel to expect Miranda to face the same physical exigencies when she was already fragile, and he likewise could not risk that. Finally he said, “Add that to Murray’s butcher’s bill, then. I suppose, objectively speaking, that it’s the best course of action. But if anything happens to you or Thomas, so help me God – ”

“James.” Miranda slid her fingers through his, squeezing hard, as Emma was left to consider that indeed, God help the individual who still thought it was a wise idea to come between James Flint and the Hamiltons. “We’ve been through worse.”

Flint clearly did not find that particularly reassuring, but nodded nonetheless, extremely shortly. They sat in silence a few moments more, all of them doubtless wondering how their happy, settled lives had gone in the span of barely a month into such a dangerous mess and muddle, so many balls in the air and so many wagers raised. Emma had no idea where either Geneva or Sam were, felt serious reservations at the idea of drawing Henry and his family into this as well, and there was of course the fact that her heart would not be whole again until they found Killian. They would, one way or another, she had no doubt of that. But that did not mean that she would not count every week, every day, every hour, every minute until they were together again. Flint was not the only one who could not bear the idea of being parted from a spouse (or in his case, spouses) an instant longer than terribly necessary. We will do this. We have to.

“Fine,” Emma said again, at last. “It’s time to get ready.”

As everyone was getting up and preparing to pack and dress, David promising that he could find them a ship, Emma stepped up and quietly caught at Flint’s sleeve. He turned with a brusque expression, but managed to answer her politely. “Aye?”

“Do you remember our first Christmas together in Savannah? After Killian and I moved from Boston with the children?”

One of Flint’s gingery eyebrows flicked in surprise, as neither of them were ordinarily given to sentimental reminisce, but he nodded. “Aye. Of course.”

“It was then that. . .” Emma tried to find the right words. How Flint, Miranda, and Thomas had bought rather too many presents for Geneva and Sam and then denied all culpability, how the thoroughly overexcited children had dragged the adults out of bed at some ungodly hour, how – after all the years apart, the darkness, the separation, the pain and fear, the struggle and war – it had been as simple as being together for Christmas, and being so happy that they were. How they could not help but recall the Christmas spent together on Nassau with Sam Bellamy, many years ago, before it had gone sour that afternoon. Emma lifted her eyes to Flint, who was still watching her curiously, and said only, “I think it was then that I knew we all would work. As a family.”

“Aye.” For once, Flint did not bother to deny it or deflect it, the hint of the softer side that, after years living as James McGraw with his husband and wife, away from the madness and the sea, he was finally more able to express. “What you and Killian have given us, with Jenny and Sam – it’s a gift I bloody well don’t take for granted, you can have my word on that. And we’ll put that family back together, Emma. Whatever it takes.”

Emma nodded wordlessly. It occurred to her that while she at least had a rough idea of Geneva’s whereabouts, trapped into this delicate voyage to England with John Silver, she still had none whatsoever of Sam’s, and she was now forced into the very situation she had been so relieved to avoid, of worrying about him and Killian both. Sam was too good, too sweet, too open, too selfless – too much like the elder namesake he resembled in haunting ways, and Emma’s heart was worn raw with running over all the possible trouble he could have gotten himself into. She knew that he struggled with the idea of whether he was good enough as a pirate, if he had not faced the same things as his parents and grandparents and even his elder sister, and with her and Killian for a mother and father, the lad was unfortunately bound to struggle with his self-esteem. But they had fought and bled and sacrificed precisely so Henry, Geneva, and Sam did not have to do the same, so they could have that happy childhood and that bountiful Christmas without the shadow of death and destruction looming over their heads, and she did not want Sam to have to live the way she and Killian had, more than anything. Yet she feared that for a young man of nineteen, he saw only the adventure he had not had, and the shame he felt for it. “I want Sam home,” she said convulsively. “I want my baby home. Him and Killian. I need them home.”

“We’ll find them,” Flint said again. “And then I’ll dismantle Gideon Murray, mark my words. Come on, Emma. The tide’s going out soon, and I intend to be on it.”

“Aye.” Emma allowed herself one more moment of weakness, of grief, of fear, and then shut it away, squaring her shoulders, preparing to face up to the fight. “So do I.”

#captain swan #cs ff #cs au #the rose and thorn #treasure island #black sails #cs next gen

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