"Captain."
The quill scratches roughly along the page, too aggressive for the paper softened and hardened over time by wear and tear and seawater air. Ink spills, making a mess of the log's entry, splotching over fingers and staining them almost black in the cabin's dim light, a flame flickering in its hold to the right, unaware of the tension in the air. Unaware of the captain's rapidly beating heart and his hands clenching around the quill until he fears it might break.
Although the fear he feels is not on behalf of the quill in his hand.
"Captain."
His first mate is insistent on gaining his attention, but he refuses to acknowledge that she already has it. He knows it can only mean one thing if she comes to him at this hour, if she seeks him out despite clear orders – or, rather, because of them.
"Steve."
He looks up, his jaw clenched, and the quill breaks, spilling ink all over his palm where the sharp tip is cutting into his skin with a spark of pain that pales in comparison to what he can find in her features.
Robin nods, imperceptible to every other soul in this universe. Every soul that is not him, attuned to her every move, every twitch of a brow, every hint of a frown, and every gesture that she dares him to overlook if only to have an excuse later on.
But she nods. And Steve swallows.
"It's him. He's back."
It's the captain who nods now, incapable of doing anything else, and feeling as his sanity slips away from him, through the cracks in the floorboards and sinking down to the bottom of the ocean to join his heart and his conscience. All have long been lost at the cause of one man.
"Thank you," he says, though his voice does not feel like his own, and the candle beside him flickers once more as if to signal that, really, he shouldn't be sounding like that. He blinks, deliberately, because he has been staring for too long and she doesn't need to know that he has been losing himself since the second she appeared at the door.
"Steve–"
"That's Captain to you."
She swallows, defiant, but choosing her battles wisely. He is grateful, for he hasn't the strength to argue any more than he has the strength to stand upright in this moment.
"Captain," she says, deliberate but gentle, because she knows and she forgives. "Are you alright?"
"No," Steve says, and his voice remains remarkably steady in this confession. "I'll be out in a second. Make sure they do not to say a word to him. Shoot everyone who does, or throw them overboard. Nobody talks to The– to Munson but me. Understood?"
"Understood," she says, straightening her posture, though her eyes remain worried and wary. There is more she wants to say, but Steve dismisses her before leaning his fists on the table and breathing deeply. The tip of the quill buries deeper into his palm and he closes his fingers around it, hard, to keep himself anchored and distract from one pain with another.
Theo is back. Theodore Munson. Though he will have a new name, Steve knows. But those eyes... Those eyes never changed, not once in all this time, and Steve fears that he will break apart if he has to look at them again and find no ounce of recognition. No memory of words whispered in the dark, of gentle touches to roughest scars, of time spent together in different lifetimes.
Steve plucks the tip soiled in ink and blood from his palm and reaches for a book hidden underneath a false bottom in the first drawer of the desk. A book with the initials T M pressed into fine, deep red leather.
He writes, with blood and ink in unsteady hold,
27th March
He came is back. I wish he weren't.
@vampeddie remember me talking about this before i disappeared? remember how you went insane? remember that you like me?
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