She took the book from his hand and turned it over, feeling the weight of it in her palm and drawing comfort from it. She knew which one he’d chosen before she’d even read the spine, which she did aloud anyway.

“Gulliver’s Travels.” She said into the soft dimness of her cabin.

She knew all her books, having read and adored them all too some degree else they would have been stashed in her larger collection which was held by her representative. The one’s she kept with her were the ones she couldn’t live without, or hadn’t moved to her library yet. She wondered if he’d already read it or was simply curious about it but she didn’t feel compelled to ask. The silence between them was fine. The warmth of the liquor in her belly helped ease her, rounding off the broken bits of her and helping her to forget what shattered her this evening. That didn’t mean she was good at chattering or that it would take much for it all to come screaming to the forefront of her mind. No words but those of someone else’s design, that was just fine with her.

She shifted on her bed, just a platform that could be folded up to provide more room, with a mattress and blankets and pillow. It was enough for a person and not much more, though with creativity more might have worked. But the familiar comfort of that mattress under her, coupled with the sway of the ship she loved, further eased her. She kicked off her boots, making him wait eager like a kid on Christmas morn before she settled back, heels to bottom, book perched on her knees, bottle right beside her for easy access. She began.

“My father had a small estate in Nottinghamshire: I was the third of five sons. He sent me to Emanuel College in Cambridge at fourteen years old, where I resided three years, and applied myself close to my studies; but the charge of maintaining me, although I had a very scanty allowance, being too great for a narrow fortune, I was bound apprentice to Mr. James Bates, an eminent surgeon in London, with whom I continued four years.”

Her honeyed voice was made for reading, low and sweet, the accent making even the simplest of words exotic and exciting. It gave hints and secrets where there were none and made one think there ought to be a few. She did not do voices, but she didn’t need to, not with that voice and not with the passion and inflection with which she read. She read as if she’d lived it and were simply telling the tale and soon she too was lost in the story, pausing every now and then to drink.

She made it through the first chapter and felt pleasantly soft and warm. She looked up and with an eyebrow raised, held up the book.

“Shall I continue or do you wish a turn?”

Jax listened. He watched her most of the time, but he did close his eyes during a few parts too loving the feeling of getting lost in the sound, the words, and the story. She was beyond good at reading out loud. She was spectacular. He could listen to her for hours.

He had never read the story Gulliver’s Travels but he knew he would beg, burrow, and steal now to finish it. It was a dream. It was a paradise. This collection and her.

Jax didn’t own any books. He traveled light bought a few, then left them for someone else. As a young boy he was lucky to attached himself to navigators who knew the value of reading maps, so from that reading in general. They had fed his hunger for words and he now tried to do the same. But he was sure he was not as gifted as the First Mate was.

First Mate, he thought as he looked to her when she paused. He smiled in a dreamy way and rooted through the bottle to find what they had admitted hours ago one of their favorites. He uncorked it and handed it to her.

“You read splendidly.” He smiled to her. “And I might not do it the justice you do, but I am willing to take a turn and let you sit back and close your eyes and listen. But first, I need to ask you something. A huge favor I am sure. Might I call you by your name? “ He had scooted closer to give her the bottle and now he felt the need to stand up, closer to her bed and ask her, with more than just his words but with his eyes. Jax had asked her more times than he remember and still she had not given him permission.

He began to ramble, “I know there must be a risk, you thinking I will misuse the trust you give and tease you in front of other or call your name when not appropriate. I am guessing you know I think there is power in words, in names, in meanings.” He should shut up. He should take the book and read. Even though his mind told him that he didn’t stop. “I find myself wanting to be privileged to call you something more than First Mate.”

He took a breath and shook the bottle for her with one hand and offered to take the book with the other. “I shouldn’t pressure you. That is not like me. I’ll read. “

Jax did not wait for her answer sure he might have misstepped again and he tried to cover it up quickly by taking the book. Then he flopped on the floor. “Beside how will you if I slur first if I don’t read?” He grinned and cleared his throat. He sat closer to the bed on the floor leaning against it and he started.

His voice was rich and yet not as smooth or polished as hers. Where the sound of her words held mystery and promises of things, his was more direct at frist. He added pauses and changes in his volume and tone at different parts but they were subtle at first. He accented words that might not have normally been highlighted because, just like in life, Jax saw thing differently. His voice said so. But he read with a rhythm that matched the roll of the ship. It matched his thrill of the story and being right where he was.

His back was too her, that was good. Because otherwise he’d have seen the same blind panic that the captain had seen earlier, only softened with exhaustion and far too much alcohol. How many times in one day could a woman flee in terror? If Nicki had been less drunk, less shattered three times might have been the answer but Jax lucked out. She had all but fled from the captain when he’d asked to earn her trust, and now there was Jax asking for permission to use her name. Only it wasn’t just that, it was more than that. It had to be for the air to thrum with all the tension it did. She shook and she panicked and for the first few minutes of his reading she heard not a word. She missed out on his unique cadence and recitation because she was too lost in panic to hear it.

But she’d not fled from the captain and there had been some catharsis in holding him and stating her commitment to the ship, to him. There had been some healing in hearing his words back even if the scene had gone so awry. This ship, this was where she wanted to be, when she’d spoken earlier to the captain she had been in earnest. She’d let him in, just a little because he was the captain, he was the ship.

But then, Jax seemed just as devoted, he was as much a part of the ship as the captain. Not all the crew was, she could feel it when she worked with them, but some of the crew loved the skate nearly as much as her master, as much as Nicki. Jax was one of them.

Roots were dangerous things sometimes, they worked their way into cracks and weakened the solid core of things. But also, she reflected, her eyes falling on a mustard yellow book of botany of the eastern seaboard that sat on the shelf over her desk, roots also held things together through the storm. Hodling soil to the coast line as waves and wind pummeled it. Roots kept a tree up strong no matter the gale or the way the earth danced under it. A storm was coming, she could feel it. Maybe it was time for roots. She’d pondered kissing a pistol this day, she could ponder it or more another day if things went badly.

Besides, she thought ruefully, she couldn’t seem to keep him out. Somehow he kept worming his way in. Perhaps just letting him in would circumvent a whole lot of trouble. She thought of his smile, his inexplicable unsettling smile and thought about seeing it more often. Was that a good thing? Probably not.

Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the fact that she’d used up her daily allotment of terror, or maybe it was her ears caching onto the wonderfully unique reading of Jax but it suddenly seemed like something she could try, something she could live through. When he paused to take a drink she put down her now empty bottle and put her hand on his shoulder where it lay against her bed. When had she finished the bottle? She found herself wondering as her head swam a little.

“Jax.” She said the word and her honeyed voice did as much to those three letters as they had done to prose earlier, wrapping around it in rich-sweetness and hinting at mysteries and great depths. She said his name like a benediction.

“You may use my name.” she said and then bit her lip, uncertain if she had just made a terrible decision. But then hadn’t the captain called her by her Christian name earlier? “You may call me Nicki, but not in front of the men. Please.”

Jax got sort of lost in the story. But then suddenly his throat was dry and he stopped. That was when her voice melted into his ear like a wave of warm sweetness. He almost started at that and the touch of her hand on his shoulder. Almost. He turned his head and smiled at her. Putting the book down he took her hand. Jax kissed the tops of her hard worn worked yet still soft to his touch knuckles.

“Thank you, Nicki. I will treasure your name and will not to misuse it. No regrets, I promise.” He snickered. He let her hand go after his thumb ran over her palm. “At least not where the name is concerned. Now, in the bets we wager, there might be a few. On both ends I presume.”

He lowered his head and let his hand that had held hers run over the page of the book. “I think my chapter is longer than yours. Or my throat drier. Or my reading not as smooth and flowing as yours.” He turned his head again to look at her. “You have an amazing voice, you know that don’t you? Tell you the truth,” He grinned, “It is a surprise to me. You hide it well in those snappy commands.”

As if he might have said something wrong his eyes showed his panic at his choice of words. “That’s a good thing.” He back peddled quickly not willing to taste his own foot after that lovely skin of hers brushed his lips. “Your voice is like a musical instruments, you can crescendo to grab attention. You can command respect. And yet, “ He smiled and looked away for her. She must know what he means. She is not a school girl. She must know of the honey that drips from her lips when she wants it to. Of course she does. That’s why she can find that face and chill the air because she knows the difference.

He took a breath and handed her the book, “Anyways. Would you read some more?” He was asking to listen to her again. But he didn’t want her to see his own longings. How much was he falling apart right there in her cabin with the music of her all around him? Who was broken?

“I mean before I slur my words.” Jax was quick to cover anything he might be drunkingly showing.

((collaboration with AmongHeroes and Igraine))

A slow smile of relief and delicious satisfaction spread across Thomas’ face. The delicious sensation of Antonia’s hands sliding across his waist forced his eyes closed with wanton gravity, and a pleasant shiver thrilled up his spine with the faint butterfly kiss of her lips against his ear. When her voice lifted through the air, sounding to Thomas like a rich whipped frosting concocted from the very sugar of her sensuous Creole tongue, it was almost more than the pirate captain could take.

“Yes,” he whispered back, “where is this Antoinette? I could see the lecherous fire in her, and I would very much like to feel its heat.”

Thomas became keenly focused upon the long caramel fingers that began to undo the buttons of his vest, and a contented sigh passed his lips. His mind drifted like a ship upon gentle seas, his imagination billowing at the sails of his desire. In that long and decadent instant, Thomas could not but marvel at the woman whose very being came to envelope him.

“You are right, the jewels may indeed remain, though the clothes…” he chuckled lightly, a sound breathy and languid, “...I certainly have no use for them.”

Then Antonia’s manner shifted, and the winds of primal need that had borne up the ship of his imagination shifted with it. Thomas exhaled slowly, the canvas of his mind’s eye luffing in the changing breeze, orienting to the more pressing matters of reality.

Still wrapped in Antonia’s arms, he turned slowly. The rogue’s soft cheek came to rest against his chest, and he brought a finger up to the beautiful face, lifting her chin with a gentle tug of his finger. He met her gaze with a smile, one he intended to be comforting and confident, every bit a gentleman trying to buoy the woman he cared for most in all the world.

“I shall forgive nothing, for there is nothing to forgive. I sincerely desire to experience that ‘silliness’ a great deal more, when we at last get such a chance.”

Thomas leaned down and kissed Antonia upon the smooth skin of her forehead. He looked deeply into the grey pools of her eyes, and a pained expression squinted at the edges of his own copper gaze. All that had transpired worried him so. The fresh memory of his exchange with the Commander, and all that it meant for Antonia set his heart to aching, and the ire to begin to rise once again in his chest.

“The Commander,” Thomas said. “He knows about you, knows that you are among my crew.”

As he spoke, Thomas expression continued to sour, molding into a mask of self-reproach and loathing. “When he came to me, the Commander wanted to know why I wouldn’t grant him more time with you. He said he...Antonia he’s obsessed with you.”

“He has plans for the two of you, and I only made it worse.” Thomas looked away from Antonia, ashamed. “It was my temper, I couldn’t control it, and with it I only managed to set his hooks even deeper. I was trying to defend you, but I went about it like the hard-hearted pirate and not the tactful gentleman, as I should have done.”

Thomas let out a low growl. He was rambling, his speech wandering and unfocused, and it frustrated him. At last he simply fell silent, his head bowing in remorse.

“I am sorry, Antonia,” Thomas whispered, still not looking to the rogue. “When it comes to games such as these, I am not but a foundering novice, and I fear that I have put us all in terrible danger as a result.”

If her embrace about Thomas’ waist were any less solid, or his about her, Antonia might have fallen to the ground where she stood when he began to speak to the reality of their world, and not the sensuous fantasy of Antoinette she wove. His words crashed over her, wave after relentless wave of ill that lurched and tilted sickeningly, as if the ground beneath her was suddenly no more solid than treacherous quicksand, threatening to swallow them both.

When Thomas tilted her face tenderly to his, her hands slid upward from his waist to the lapels of his jacket, her long fingers wrapped about the silk as if he were her lifeline in storm-tossed seas.

Antonia could not begin to imagine how more completely she could have failed her lovely man. And yet he was the one who could not meet her gaze, head hung low beneath the weight of some regret. The very heart in her chest ached for his obvious distress, his self-incrimination. No, God no this simply should not be, and most certainly not when the shame was entirely hers. Antonia’s fingertips reached to cradle Thomas’ cleanshaven cheek, gently turning his troubled face to hers, her grey eyes searching, as ever, for his copper gaze.

“Please Thomas, look to me,” she whispered, brushing his chin with the back of her fingers, a gentle reassurance. “If you claim I have nothing to forgive, then you have even less. The fault for none of this lies at your feet, my dear lovely man. Were I near so sly as I arrogantly believed, you would have never had to come here in the first place.”

Antonia sighed, a small, grim smile on her lips as she shook her head decidedly, slowly. “No, I imagine we will not be returning to this ball of Commander Murray’s - the worth of that charade is spent. But what ‘greater danger’ do you believe we could possibly be in? A hard-hearted pirate, yet not a tactful gentleman? What do you mean, Thomas - and what hooks? I do not understand… I don’t… I… Merciful God, the questions Thomas… “

The rogue’s voice trailed off for a moment before she took a deep breath, a calming breath, and found her voice once more. “How in this world could Murray possibly have… ‘Plans’ was it? Plans for the ‘two of us?’ I mean of course his interest in ‘Antoinette’ was always easy to see. But if he knew who I truly was from the start of the ball or… Or… No, I cannot even guess how long...”

“Thomas, my little game with Commander Murray has been playing for years now, longer even than I have known my Silverfish! After all, the garrison commander of Fort Charles is an eminently useful man to a rogue but… Damn him. Damn me. I never imagined he could play the game so well.“

“But ‘plans?’ Short of kidnapping and imprisonment, I cannot imagine how he thought to keep me here? Such madness! Though you already said as much, did you not?”

Antonia let her eyes close for a moment, her head falling back, her face to the night sky just past the dark canopy of branches above them. A blessed breeze sent straight from the sea stole its way to this hidden grove, and a memory whispered warm comfort to her unsettled soul. A sweet remembrance of so many dark hours spent with her head resting on Thomas’ strong shoulder, huddled in the crow’s nest as they spoke of everything, and then of nothing at all, far into the night.

And even now, somewhere overhead, their Home Star still shone.

Her eyes opened, the rogue’s gaze returning to the face she had come to adore above all others. Antonia let her hands gently running down the silken lengths of his sleeves until she reached his own, twining her fingers into his. So simple a gesture, so true. In the midst of a maelstrom of dread and uncertainty, she could not help but marvel at the strength she found in Thomas’ touch, and Antonia smiled.

“And I imagine you would have far more answers to give, if I were quiet for a moment. Come, we should probably leave here - we will unravel this tangle as we walk.”

Thomas smiled as Antonia’s fingers knit together with his own. There was comfort in that gesture, and he could see it settle upon the rogue’s face, just as he knew it cascaded over him as well. They were an island for one another, a safe harbor in rough seas, meant for vital protection in a world so devoid of such security. The thought made Thomas’ heart swell, and the breath in his throat caught with pleasant surprise. He had never had a feeling so comforting and remarkable at this, as the anchor of Antonia’s mere presence granted him.

“Yes, let’s walk. I think the beach will be a welcome road for us tonight.” Thomas said.

Through the trees the two moved, following the growing sound of the breakers as they marched ever closer to the junction of the sea and land. Thomas kept silent, intent upon navigating through the forest without faltering, and also simply enjoying the quiet moment with Antonia. It was a period that stood in stark contrast to the buzz and stress of the party, and the change suited Thomas well.

Soon enough the pair exited the press of the foliage, and stepped onto the fine sand of the shoreline. Thomas automatically looked up into the deep, dark blue of the night sky, and smiled up at the shining pinpoints of the stars that were there to greet him.

Thomas looked to Antonia. “The stars have been so kind to us of late, no?” he said in French. He squeezed her hand tighter, knowing that despite the delicious stint of shared quiet and peace, that he had yet to address Antonia’s questions about Commander Murray.

He began to walk slowly across the sand, orienting himself towards Port Royal. “I fear that kidnapping is not what the Commander has in mind.” Thomas said, a pained expression erasing the pleasure from his face. “At least not your kidnapping, Antonia.”

“Your family, your friends at the Parakeet.” Thomas looked to Antonia, “If he knows about you being among my crew, who knows what all the man is privy to. Could he know of them? Could he use them as leverage against you?”

Thomas felt like he knew the answer, but he wasn’t going to speak in certainties in matters the rogue could more easily comprehend. An idea came to him as he studied the exotic woman at his arm. His expression brightened slightly as he dared to hope.

“What if you brought them with us? If they are in danger from that bastard, you know that they will have a welcome berth on the Skate. I will take them wherever you require.”

Antonia could feel the blood drain from her face when Thomas spoke of her beloved little family at the Parakeet. Oh, she was no stranger to the vileness of human nature. But even to someone like Antonia, there were people dearer than life; and some thoughts so far beyond the pale that even she could not entertain them. Silently she cursed herself, that the thought Murray might leverage her few, precious loved ones had not been foremost in her mind.

But it was now, and Antonia felt sick. Thomas was right. She could not possibly know when Murray discovered who she truly was, much less what he knew of the truth in her past.

Antonia had slipped the precious crimson velvet slippers from her feet when they came to the sandy beach, and then her stockings, tucking them into the toes of her shoes and finding their walk far easier in bare feet. Her free hand found Thomas’ again, and that same reassuring strength in his touch. But it was the sweetly hopeful expression on his face, those faithful words, that buoyed her spirit.

The stars had been kind indeed, and Antonia could not imagine what she had ever done to deserve such a blessing. The rogue let her head lay against Thomas’ shoulder as they walked the moonlit beach toward the lights of Port Royal.

And whether she would or no, Antonia remembered the first time she ever saw this sumptuously wicked, utterly decadent city as she did now. Nowhere near the poised, deadly woman she would become, she had been no more than a girl of fifteen years with ancient eyes. She had done bloody deeds to escape her prison, and done what she must to gain passage to Port Royal.

But Antonia had not arrived entirely alone, the beginning and end and all the purpose of her flight only just starting to show, swelling against the folds of her tattered dress. Sweet Madeleine had been her single touchstone, the only face she knew in this city. Her kindly giant of a husband, the red-headed John embraced this sad, lost girl as well, as if she were his own little sister come home. Without a thought for payment, they had given her food and clean clothes, a warm, safe place to sleep and all their unquestioning love.

And in return, Antonia had given this beautiful couple the very best part of her, the only worth she had.

’How long has Robert Murray been stationed at Fort Charles?’ It was an ugly little whisper that slithered through her thoughts, a nasty hiss of a query for which she had no answer.

“Thank you Thomas, truly. You are the very best of men. But John Williams owns the Parakeet. I doubt either he or Madeleine would willingly leave Port Royal and all they have built here. There is precious little even the Commander of Fort Charles could do to a prominent local businessman - well, without causing far more trouble for himself than it might be worth.”

’But that does not mean he could not lay hands on a wild, willful and adventurous young boy, come tragically missing during his childish exploits through the streets of Port Royal… ‘

Antonia winced, as if in pain. “But if Robert Murray knows a single thing… “

The rogue’s voice trailed off, her expression truly anguished as the consequences of what she was just beginning to contemplate tore at her. Madeleine… Oh God, Madeleine would be frantic - no furious to have her precious boy sent away, even for his safety. Antonia was not entirely sure she would be forgiven. And John? That good-hearted giant of a man would be heartbroken, inconsolable without Luc by his side, as he had been from the day he was born. And all for the cost of her secrets.

More secrets she had yet to share with her dearest lovely man. But God above knew if she could not lay them all at his feet, there would never be another man more worthy. Antonia stopped, her grasp of Thomas’ hand begging him to do the same as her grey eyes searched his handsome face, praying to see that spark of understanding - and perhaps even forgiveness.

“John and Madeleine, they are the family I chose, who chose me in return, and we are bound by love. But Luc? He is my blood, Thomas.”

The rogue waited the space of a very long heartbeat, to let the import of her words fully sink in. “He does not know, nor will he ever. There are some things a child should never… “ Antonia bit back her words, shaking her head swiftly as if to banish any further thought on that matter at least. What was past, was past, and could not be undone. The dangers of this moment were enough.

“His Maman and Papa - they have given him a life, a name, I never could. But do you think he knows about Luc? The Commander, do you think he… “ Antonia’s eyes fell to the ground, her head bowed as she took a long, steadying breath.

“No. No, do not answer that,” she said with a grim resignation, lifting her gaze once more to Thomas'. “I imagine I already know the truth of the matter. John and Madeleine will not leave Port Royal, but the berth you offer? Perhaps the Skate might yet find room for a cabin boy with a burgeoning love for the sea and stars - at least for a time, until this storm passes over?”

She hadn’t expected the kiss so she wasn’t prepared for the electric surge up her arm and right to her center. Dammit, she hadn’t expected it, wasn’t prepared for it and certainly never would have permitted it. She flushed reached for another bottle, not certain she had it in her to reprimand him for the liberty and not sure she wanted to. The latter was so much worse somehow.

He was speaking to her, talking about regrets and voices and bets and so much that was unspoken that the air was thick enough to choke anyone breathing it. That wouldn’t do. They were supposed to be getting drunk, they were supposed to be reading. For certain she was well distracted from her shameful performance earlier but this was not necessarily better. It might even be more dangerous.

She took the book and looked up at him, leaned over to the small table and slipped a scrap of paper into the book to mark its place.

“It is too long for a fair bet, we should read shorter selections now that we have more in us. She stood, walking around him, careful not to brush him with her rose-clad thighs as she moved the small distance to a shelf over her work table. She pulled down two books, one moss green with gold lettering on the side and the other pale blue with black characters of a foreign hand on the binding. She handed him the green one and sat on the floor opposite him, facing him with the blue book. He had recited a poem, that had sparked in her a great curiosity and now having heard his reading voice she wanted to hear him speak more poetry and hear the way his mind framed the words.

She flipped through the book and held it up showing him columns of black characters on one page and a small painting on the other with more of the characters worked into the painting.

“Poetry.” She said. “It will level things out. Much easier to break up into turns. Or we can try mathematical theory if you prefer?” there was a hint of humor in her voice, just a hint and the softness in her eyes hid any clues on the matter.

She didn’t wait for an answer but looked back to the book and began to read, her honeyed voice soft and careful as if she were holding in the sweetness, worried it might have been too much. Or perhaps it was the simultaneous translation that slowed the honey but even so it was still there, as unstoppable as the tides.

“I will ride the winds and
Surmount endless waves.
Setting sail on the vast ocean,
I will one day reach
The distant shores.”*

She looked up at him after reading, nodded to encourage him and then took a long pull from the bottle at her side.

*Li Bai -"The Difficult Path”

Thomas regarded Antonia with a look of empathy. He hadn’t known that Luc was of Antonia’s blood. It made sense, her love and affection for the boy, her desire for him to have a better life, and one not among the cutthroats of the New World. There was cruel irony to be seen, the fact that the safest place for the boy would be the very place Antonia didn’t want him to be.

“Antonia,” Thomas said, “I am sorry. I know that there were much higher ambitions for Luc than to be sailing among the scoundrels of this world.”

He scoffed. “Both of us know that fate does not always allow us to walk the path we were intended, no?”

Thomas ended his comparison to Antonia’s circumstances there. Even considering the loss of his parents, there was in no way that the scales of cruel luck balanced between the two of them. The particulars of Antonia’s past were still mostly a mystery to him, but he knew enough to recognize that life had dealt the rogue a hand far worse than his own. Truth be told, in Thomas’ summation she was playing it better.

He fell silent, his eyes drifting upward towards the stars. The sound of the waves crashing lazily against the sand was like a slow rhythm that gave cadence to his steps. So much had changed since the Dusk Skate had last reached port, and Thomas realized just how heavy it all seemed. With his shoes filled with sand, and the constant sound of the surf in his ears, a pleasant notion supplanted the grim screen that the night had spread across his spirit.

With a smile to Antonia, he slipped from her grasp. He began walking slowly to the waterline, tossing layers of clothing from his body as he moved. By the time his toes settled into the wet sand, and the warm Jamaican waters cascaded over his feet, Thomas stood in only his skin and a broad smile. His hands were on his hips, and he looked up into the night sky once more, feeling wholly liberated somehow from the burden of all that had transpired.

A slight chuckle passed his lips, and he walked into the waves. When his waist was submerged he turned back to the beach, giving Antonia a beckoning wave. He said nothing to accompany his gesture. There wasn’t any need to.

She was right of course. Nicki was right, and Jax smiled at the thought of her name and the fact she judged things better than he. Still the smart doctor, the in charge first mate, but now also Nicki. He would have to return to the travels of the giant some other time. It did not work for a contest.

She had to tug on his soul even more this Nicki. She wanted poetry. If only he could give her some. Instead he would read and drink and let all of this wash over them in a night of booze, books, and balls.

Jax took a swig. He gulped it down and held the bottle up for her to see what a generous amount he had taken. He took a breath and read.

“I stood upon our western shore
And heard the ocean's billows roar,
And saw them toss and tumble o'er
Each other in their glee;
And fret and foam and froth and dash,
Right on, and on, as if they'd smash
The rugged rocks, and play and splash--
These children of the sea!”*

He closed his eyes leaned his head back and repeated the last line. “These children of the sea.”

He licked his lips and chuckled at that. Keeping his eyes closed he waved his hand making sure she knew it was her turn. He had looked at her enough to see her with his eyes shut and the warmth of her voice, the drink, the way her name Nicki wander through his mind, let him begin to drift. Slower breaths, heavier eyes, roll of the waves cradled in a ship he loved let Jax begin to feel sleep overcoming him. He had not slurred yet and if she managed another maybe he would too. But he if got a few peaceful winks inside Nicki’s, oh how he would repeat her name in his mind, cabin, he knew he won. He won, this child of the sea.

*Old Ocean by William Wendell Riley

She was reading poetry, or rather she had been. A few more turns had been taken and more poems had been shared. Jax’s voice had not slurred but his eyes were half lidded and her own voice had not slurred through sheer force of will. She was reading poetry from the book Yàn had given her and then, suddenly she wasn’t. She had slipped into a story without realizing it or even noting that the book lay closed in her lap. The words of the story slipped from her honeyed mouth and she couldn’t seem to stop them. Sweetly they fell, pleasant to the ears and of her making, but not. As they fell into the silence of the room she listened to them as if she were not the teller but the audience. She closed her eyes and let the tale unfold, aching for what she knew was coming.

“There once was a kitten, pampered, lazy and fat who lounged among her fellow kittens and was content to lap her cream and doze in the sun. But the Papa cat was curious, even among cats and he brought home stories and tales of places far away, of creatures the kittens had never seen. This fat little kitten had some of her father’s curiosity and she listened to his tales with great attention and felt a great hunger growing inside her. Her Papa cat took her with him on a journey or two, indulgent little excursions meant to pamper and spoil. But it did more than that, it only made the hunger inside her grow even more. Her Papa thought she was silly and indulged and he purred at her, telling her sweet things as he brought her back home. He told her the world was hers thinking she’d be content to watch it just like the other kittens. But she’d seen things when she walked beside her Papa and the little bits of tale got stuck inside her until she was half mad with curiosity.

So she left home, wanting to bring her Papa a tale just as he’d brought her so many. She walked and walked until she came to the shore. Mesmerized by the sight she sat watching as the waves lapped at the shore, enchanted by the play of light across the surface. She’d been told that kittens didn’t like water and so she was afraid and stayed away, watching only, just as she had back home. But she saw something then, something that caught her eye and filled that place inside her what was ravenous and empty. A bird, an albatross setting out over the dancing sea, its wings spread wide, not even flapping as it danced above the water. Oh how she wanted that, oh how she yearned. So she moved to the edge of the water and called to the dancing albatross with its effortless freedom. It did not hear her, she was too far away and kittens did not talk to albatrosses.

But that wasn’t going to stop her, she waited and watched and gathered each feather that drifted in on the waves until she had a full set. She pushed them into her fur, into her flesh transforming herself into an albatross. She moved to the edge of the cliff from which the albatross flew, the pain of her disguise not stopping her at all. When she’d reached the top she called to the Albatross again. This time she was heard and with great joy she joined them, learning all there was to know about being a bird, so much so that she began to forget she had ever been a cat.

She was so happy, but all things must come to an end. One day, a feather fell. A single feather. That was all it took for the birds to understand just what it was that had flown among them all that time. They turned on her, plucking from her all her remaining feathers and pulling a good deal of fur with it until she was exposed and bleeding. Broken, she was cast out and in her fear, shame and pain she went to the one place she was certain she would be welcome, she went home. She arrived in a sorry state and wondered as she neared that she’d ever left at all. Life had been sweet there, she was certain she would heal there. She had been loved and indulged and would be so again.

Her Papa came to the door, he heard her plaintive mews but he would not let her in. She was not a cat, he told her. She had behaved as no cat would have. If she wanted to be a bird she had best be a bird elsewhere. And then her Papa, who had once told her that the world was her own, shut the door in her face and left her.”

Nicki paused, licked her dry lips and blindly reached for a bottle, her fingers closing clumsily around the neck of the bottle. She lifted it to her mouth, and took a long, long pull before letting it thunk back to the ground. She nodded, not even certain she had a wakeful audience, ready to end the tale.

“But the kitten did not die, as much as she wanted too and she wanders still. She still flies but she doesn’t bother with the feathers, she isn’t a bird after all. But a cat who can fly…”

Her ruined cheek plumped up in a rueful smile, her dimple deepening and nearly as sweet as her voice as she finished,
“that ith a sight to shee….”

Antonia returned Thomas' smile, though with a curious, eminently amused furrowing of her brow as he pulled away, and began his leisurely march to the sea. Words were not needful - even had he offered them - to explain what Thomas shed as he walked to the shore. He unburdened himself of far more than clothing and, sweetening this moment further still? The rogue knew what he did right now was every bit as much for her, as for him.

And were such a thing possible, Antonia loved him all the more for this.

"You are mad" the rogue said just under her breath as Thomas’ impromptu striptease began, the bright beginnings of laughter wriggling and bubbling up past her lips. Clear and sparkling, her child-like giggles began to wash away the filth and despair and worry like a swift summer stream. Antonia blinked with surprise, wondering too when his shirt fell to the sandy wayside at the serpentine shapes illuminated over near the entirety of his back. The purposeful lines and the exact nature of the design remained a mystery for the moment, too far in the darkness for her to make out exactly - but this wasn't a mystery she intended to let sit long.

But she could, certainly, stand to wait yet another moment or two. Antonia’s head tilted just a little, appreciatively even, drinking in that rather stunning view while Thomas stood there on the shoreline, hands on hips, her lovely man living up to every last promise of the nickname she bestowed. “You are mad, Thomas!” she called to him, though she doubted he heard her over the surf, or if he did? He gave no indication and continued his seaward march.

By the time he turned to entice her to join him in the warm Jamaican waters, the rogue was already glancing up and down this stretch of nighttime beach. Though she knew very well they were completely alone, she still had to be satisfied that for all intents and purposes, they may as well have been the only two people in the world – a notion that suited Antonia fine.

Shedding her own garb was, as might be expected, perhaps a touch more difficult than Thomas’ disrobing – and a bit noisier as well, though the sound of the surf masked most of the occasional clinking of metal on metal. Silken skirt and underskirt, petticoats and the dual garters with sheathed stilettos left a colorful, glinting pathway all of the rogue’s very own on the sandy shore. And though the corset gave a bit more trouble, the thin throwing knives stowed in its stays jangled merrily when the corset strings gave way, and joined the silver and ebony trail already blazed by Thomas.

Dressed only in her long, lace-edged ivory chemise, Antonia waded into the waves after Thomas. Those two hothouse roses, crimson and white, that once perched over her ear now floated on the waters, marking the spot where the rogue dove silently into the sea. Disappearing beneath the tide, Antonia swam unerringly to her lovely man, rising up behind him in a spray of laughing sea foam. Thick, curling lengths of ebony hair glistened with crystal droplets of sea water in the moonlight, her hands gliding up the length of Thomas' arms to rest lightly on his wide shoulders. The soaked linen shift clung to the rogue’s svelte curves, the revealed outline of her body a strangely delicate counterpoint to the magnificent, monstrous beast that writhed across Thomas’ back. And though her eyes drank in the sight of that intricate, skillfully crafted tattoo, it was her fingertips that ran so tenderly over the great scars she could now see on his back.

“Oh Thomas,” she said tenderly, her wet, cooling cheek leaning against his shoulder before she turned to kiss it softly. One hand snaked about his waist, pulling him close as the fingers of the other gently traced the edges of one of those scars. “It would seem you have a story or two of your own lovely man – dark and light - you have not yet shared with your Antonia.”

There was a foggy haze settling warmly over Jax, sweeping into his center, making things pleasantly swirl around him as his eyes got heavy and his tongue thick. He had not slurred yet and thank the stars it was her smooth sound washing over him. She spoke better than any treat given at that fancy garden party. When she put the book down Jax tried harder to focus.

Cats? This was a story of pussy? No, no Jax pulled himself from the blurs. Kittens. She was giving him something here and he could tell it was important. He was drunk enough he wasn’t sure what she was really talking about. A story of a kitten who wished to fly. No, no, Jax felt the realization hit him. It was a story of a love once so strong the ability for those wings were given. Then when they were ripped away, when needed most, that love was tossed aside.

Jax knew something about that. Well, not kittens really. But as a boy he had more than once latched onto a man he pretended was his father. He shadowed a few. Pretended a lot. Took all he could from each, reading, navigating, and more, only to be tossed aside. They were not his father, he had heard a few times. Why couldn’t they pretend? The beginning of Jax’s love for stories.

Jax turned to Nicki as she slurred and he smiled. He lifted yet another bottle, how many had they emptied? “To cats who fly. A sight to see.” He grinned. “A true sight to see.” His blurry eyes slipped in his real appreciation of that view. He took another swing. He leaned his head toward her and licked his lips, “I have learned not to trust any man..opps.” He drunkenly chuckled, “..person, woman or man, who has not longed to fly. Small mind, “ He tapped his head with one finger, or at least attempted to. “that does not wish to leave the ground, for sea or air.” He paused. “But it takes balls to really do it.” He smiled realizing beautiful smart wondrous sounding Nicki had shown him her balls.

Stumbling Jax pushed himself up. He wanted to stand. He lifted his chin and loud and clear, no slur at all he almost sang his words.

"To booze and books and balls!
I raise my glass to all.
Through all the melodies of sweet sweet lines
Through slurs of drunken grasping rhythms
Through stories filled with painful signs
Through company so very fine
I do not remember a better time
Than the challenge of that wondrous call
Of booze and books and balls!"

As soon as he finished Jas stood tall for a second like a sail that had caught the wind. Then as in those rare cases where the sea quickly settles calm, his sail emptied and was pulled to the rail, as Jax just fell over. He hadn’t slurred. He just passed right out.

A hollow rolling sound, a soft impact. Nothing
...A hollow rolling sound, a soft impact. Nothing
.....A hollow rolling sound, a soft impact. Nothing

It took quite a few repeats of this to pull Nicki from deep in the coma she lay in and the moment something like consciousness hit her she earnestly and heartily wished she was dead. Was there ever anything like the taste of a mouth after a night of hard drinking? Lord she prayed there wasn’t, it was foul but it was nothing next to the pounding in her head.

Pain. She felt lancing pain in her head, so intense that it made her groan, the noise of which echoed through her head like a gunshot. That of course, is when the hollow rolling began as the slight sway of the ship made an empty bottle roll right into her head.

Was there anything like the sound of words that poured from the mouth after a night of hard drinking? Lord she prayed there wasn’t. Though her words were not loud, to spare her aching head, they made up for their lack of volume in vehemence. Her own foulness was too much and she sat up, gently shrugging off the heavy weight that pinned her down torso down, not having the strength or wherewithal to deal with the tree trunk that pinned down her thighs. As she righted herself and risked opening her eyes, first riding out the dagger to the eyes that was the sun hitting her beleaguered retinas, she took in her location by small degrees. Her cabin, that was good. She was dressed, mostly, that was also good. There was not the stale sick smell of vomit in her cabin, even better.

All of these were good things, lessening the impact of the pounding head she was sporting at that moment. But then she hadn’t looked behind her yet. She hadn’t braved turning around to see the warm, breathing weight behind her. Because she was a coward. Groaning softly she pressed her palms lightly into her eyes as if she could somehow hold back the pain despite feeling that maybe, just maybe she deserved this headache, that she’d earned the state of wretchedness she currently dwelled in. Hadn’t she done something like this just the night before? Hadn’t she learned her lesson then? Clearly not.

Giving herself a moment she finally forced herself to turn and look beside her, even though her whole world swam. It was as she thought, Jax, passed out with one powerful thigh thrown over hers.

Bits and flashes of the night came back to her, his deep ringing voice, the way he phrased things, the bright flash of his disconcerting smile in the dark as he lowered a bottle to begin his turn. She remembered her surprise when he’d fallen after shouting out that verse. She laughed even though it made her gorge rise. He’d toppled like a tree and she’d stared at him for a good long moment before finally crawling over to him and rolling him on his side. She had been doctor enough to listen to his heartbeat and make certain he wasn’t going to die. She seemed to recall trying to hoist him up onto her bed with some sense of seeing to his comfort but giving up after his considerable weight proved too much.

As she looked down at him just then, passed out behind her she blushed to see his shirt undone and open over his magnificent chest. Some of the buttons were missing and some of the button holes had been torn through. It seemed she owed him a shirt. She recalled with considerable shame how she’d indulged herself drunkenly, unbuttoning his shirt with the same fervor with which she’d done it up earlier though with an entirely different intent. He was beautiful, there was no denying that. The sculpting of his muscles was a work of art and proof enough for her that there was a god. She’d apparently thought so last night since just out of her reach under her table lay one of her sketch books and a small nub of charcoal. The book was open to some sketching that was better than it had any right to be considering how inebriated she’d been when she’d done them. It was worse than she thought, it wasn’t just his chest she’d drawn, but his face too, there was no mistaking who it was she’d drawn and with such careful attention to detail. She felt her eyes widen in horror as a stray thought crossed her pounding mind. Her eyes dipped to his pants and with relief she noted that they were just as they were supposed to be. Her unseemly interest in his anatomy went no further than his chest.

Quietly so as not to disturb him she began to slide out from under him. If she wasn’t there when he woke up she wouldn’t have to answer questions or suffer through any digs he threw her way. She was a coward after all.

Thomas shivered in spite of the warm water that lapped across his bare skin, responding pleasantly to Antonia’s kiss at his shoulders and the delicate caress of her fingers across his back. He looked to her, his eyes drifting across the glittering outline of her figure as the white chemise clung to caramel skin bathed in the silver face of the moon. The sight was like a siren’s call to desire for Thomas, and the intoxicating air of sensuality from the earlier exchange in the woods flooded back to his senses.

“Dieu dans le ciel…” God in heaven… Thomas said softly, managing to repress a groan that threatened to bubble up sensuously from his chest.

It was an exercise in will for Thomas to not turn and envelope Antonia with his lustful embrace, to simply succumb to every carnal need he had entertained since his eyes first fell upon the rogue, but he managed to restrain himself. He forced his eyes into the night sky and demanded his mind to focus upon only the beautiful rogue’s words, and not the proximity of her divine curves.

“Indeed, it is a grand tale,” he said at last. “Though not one that oft passes my lips. It is extraordinary enough in truth that not many believe it, and so I don’t burden people’s faith with the telling.”

Thomas shrugged and smiled, his eyes narrowing mischievously at Antonia. “Though, I imagine you have to believe me, no?”

He leaned over to kiss Antonia upon the ebony curls atop her head before turning his gaze out towards the open sea.

“When I turned fifteen,” Thomas began, his voice vaguely pleasant and airy, “Lightfoot and his crew were on a campaign in the Lesser Antilles, raiding settlements and shipping lanes all the way from Aruba down to Trinidad. It was a strange time in my life, as it was the first time that Lightfoot had ever kept me from traveling with the Skate. He gave no reason for his decision to leave me in Tortuga, save for a mention that I had yet to live upon the burden of my own will, and that it was high time I did so.”

Thomas snorted. “I was crestfallen. I took his meaning to be that I had not yet proven myself man enough to be among his company. I remember sitting in his friend’s hovel, a transplanted cutthroat from Jipangu named Goro, and holding back hot tears of shame and resentment. Never in my life had I felt so worthless and betrayed. Like every boy at that age, I looked upon my father’s hard lessons with scorn. I blamed all the world for what I saw as the ultimate injustice a man could bestow upon a boy that held him in such high esteem.”

“So I vowed to prove him wrong, to show Lightfoot that he had made a mistake in underestimating the man I was to become.” Thomas looked to Antonia once more.

“I had heard a rumor along the docks, you see? There was said to be a small privateer sloop that had sank in shoal water off the coast of Isla Tolinga. Though the nature of her prize varied with whoever was telling the tale, everyone agreed that she carried a sizable chest of silver ingots. Certainly enough to warrant diving for.”

“Of course, I was not the only person that thought as much, and several dozen attempted to dive and find the wreck. Nothing was ever discovered, and as the months passed, the consensus came to be that Neptune had claimed the silver for himself.”

A smile crept up the corners of his lips, and Thomas rolled his eyes a little. “But, I knew better. I was young, strong, and fearless. Certainly, Thomas Lightfoot, being the great pirate that he was, could look into the face of Neptune, and steal his ill-gotten silver.”

“So, one day I chartered a berth aboard a fishing boat that was to put out nets nearby where the sloop had supposedly sunk. They dropped me off along the shores of Isla Tolinga, with a promise to return in two days to collect me.”

Though the smile stayed upon Thomas’ face, his eyes grew distant, their coppery sheen fading with recollection.

“I remember just how eerily calm the water was that morning. My good fortune with the weather stoked my confidence, and I just knew that that very day I was to change my fate forever, and prove to Lightfoot that I was a boy no more.”

“I swam out some distance, looking down into waters more clear than I have ever seen again. I tell you, Antonia, it was like providence was shining down, piercing the blue of the sea.”

His face grew alight, and a soundless laugh shook him. “Looking down, I swear I saw her there, the sloop. Not more than thirty fathoms beneath me, in the deep blue, her broken outline seemed so clear and distinct. Without waiting, I dove, drunk on my own promised future. With each thrust of my arms and legs it all seemed that much more real, more definitive. Never had I been more certain of anything before in my life. I had found what no one else had. I was about to change my stars.”

Thomas narrowed his eyes as he paused. For a moment he seemed to be holding onto the glory of that very memory, as if it were some delicious morsel that had alighted upon his tongue but only for an instant. It left him quickly, that flash of glorious remembrance, before it was replaced with a grim mask.

“And never have I been more wrong. What I had seen, what I had mistaken for the sloop, was no construct of man at all. It was a creature of the deep.”

His hand snaked over his back, pointing without looking to the spot on the tattoo that depicted a great squid-like head, with a large bulbous eye, and the open maw of a beaked mouth.

“It was a kraken.”

At the sound of the beast’s name, Thomas grew silent. He found Antonia’s gaze, and after a time he smirked, almost sheepishly as if he had been caught in a lie by his mother.

“It sounds outlandish, but in truth the beast tossed me around the sea for a time. I was certain I would die in its clutches, but to my utter surprise it tossed me on shore, and to this day I have never seen another sign of the creature again. All that I have left of my encounter are the scars on my back, and the memory of a day that even now seems like a dream.”

Thomas shrugged. “The fisherman kept their promise, and returned for me. Of my story they believed not a word, though they were happy to return me to Tortuga to tell the tale of a boy who went hunting for treasure, and ended up fighting a kraken instead.”

“Only Goro believed me. No one else in Tortuga did, and even now I’m still known their by the story. It was still on the lips of the town when Lightfoot finally returned some months later. With Goro at my side, I told him of my misadventure, and the man said not a word. All I can say of his reaction is that he granted me a permanent position at his side, and never again did he question me about the kraken.”

“Before he died, after I had been voted the new captain of the Skate, he sat me down one last time. Delirious with rum and fever he told me that it had been him that had started the rumor of the sloop before he had left for the Antilles.”

Thomas smiled down into the waters that lapped about his waist. “Of course, it’s ridiculous to think that he could have had any knowledge of the kraken when he came up with the story. Still, a part of me has always dreamt that the great, infamous pirate known as Lightfoot had somehow tamed a kraken, had forced it to lay in wait, biding its time for when I would come, and at last prove that I was ready to be at his side.”

“So, that’s why I have the tattoo.” Thomas said matter-of-factly, slapping at the water. “Goro has been working on it for some time, the old dog. It was to be a memento, a constant reminder of what it took to make me into the man I am today.”

Thomas looked up into Antonia’s grey eyes. He could not keep the smile from his own face, and the glitter returned to the copper orbs of his own pupils. “Well, how is that for a tall tale my dearest rogue? Worthy og a song, is it not?”

“Oh I am not obligated to believe your tall tale Thomas,” Antonia laughed softly, “Though I do nonetheless.”

“And you are right, ‘tis truly worthy of a song indeed, and I just happen to have the very one – though I pray you enjoy my lyrical liberties… “ The rogue reached up to take that handsome face lovingly in both her hands, smiling as she searched those matchless copper eyes. And she sent up a small prayer to all the fickle gods of the seas and stars that somehow, by some strange, undeserved grace, all their misadventures still brought the roguish spider and the pirate captain together for this one precious moment.

Antonia’s warm Cajun accent voice over the balmy waters, spiced with laughter and sweet affection in equal parts, though one dark eyebrow still arched mischievously above those laughing grey eyes.

“Come all you gallant seamen bold,
All you that march to drum,
Let's go and look for Capt'ns Lightfoot
Far on the seas they roam.
They are the grandest pirates
That ever you did hear,
Father and son, such scoundrels not found
For above this hundred year.”

The rogue spun away, taking Thomas’ hand in his as she danced in the surf, lifting his arm to twirl beneath. Of course she believed his story, every last word. Nothing and no one less extraordinary could have formed the man she loved – either infamous pirate father or legendary monster of the sea.

“Ships a'sailing from the east
And going to the west,
Loaded with gold and silver
And jeweled treasures all the best;
Aye, meeting there with Elder Lightfoot,
'Twas all a bad meeting;
His tamed pet kraken robbed their wealth,
And Lightfoot bid them tell their king.”

Antonia flitted nimbly behind Thomas once more, though this time her fingertips luxuriously ran the length of his muscular back. She bit her lip softly, a small, contented moan escaping her throat. “Have you ever stopped to consider Thomas,” she purred, “how it seems your love of silver brings you both endless trouble and unexpected wonder? From Neptune’s silver to the silver in your pocket… “

The rogue chuckled warmly, shrugging her shapely shoulders. “Ah well, consider while I serenade you dearest Silverfish – my song is not quite done!”

“Years on Port Royal's Gov'nor sent a ship of ignoble fame,
She's call'd the Crimson Feather
If you would have her name;
She was as shoddily provided for
As any ship can be,
Full hundred scurvy dogs on board
To bear her company.”

Antonia waded back about Thomas, the gentle fingers of one hand tracing a warm, soft trail over his wide shoulders to his chest. God above, but he was beautiful.

“'Twas the Dusk Skate that was met in morn,
The doomed Feather dared to fight,
And so they did continue there
Till well into the night;
Fight on, fight on, says Younger Lightfoot
This sport well pleases me,
For when you know my father's kraken,
Your master I will be.”

The rogue’s arms flung wide to the open sea her pirate captain loved so dearly, her head leaning back, she belted out the last stanza to the very heavens above.

“O then the Feather, she fired
She fired in vain.
Till six and thirty of her men
All on the deck were slain;
Go home, go home, says Capt'n Lightfoot
And tell the Gov'nor for me,
Though he reigns all in scant Port Royal,
Lightfoots reign kings on the sea.”

Antonia whirled about and launched herself at Thomas, wrapping both her arms around those powerful shoulders, her fingers clasped behind his neck. “A proper tribute I pray, a song of sorts fit for father, son and kraken. But I am afraid there is precious little in my poor song, to laud the fishermen who fetched the intrepid young Thomas; or Goro who secured the monster in ink for you, all the rest of your days. So here beneath our fortunate stars, I will make a promise to honor them all.”

She let the water buoy her upward, easily pulling her body to rest the length of her lovely man, only the meager, soaked linen of her chemise between them. Her full lips rested against the delicate skin of the curve his ear to whisper. ”Tonight, you keep what you catch.”

Antonia’s wide grin flashed bright enough to rival the silver moon above as the agile rogue twisted away from Thomas, diving into that warm Jamaican surf to disappear beneath the whispering waves.

((Antonia’s song is shamelessly borrowed and twisted all about from “Ward the Pirate” http://www.contemplator.com/sea/ward.html ))

Jax felt cotton in his mouth and dryness through his whole body. He could be awake. But why suffer that. He kept his eyes closed and his head immobile. That was the best way to face the not waking up, waking up. No one was kicking him or yelling so, wind spit, he wasn’t going to even open his eyes. Nope. He could lay here longer.

He let the scent fill his memory; booze, books, and oh the so wonderful smell of Nicki’s cabin. Now he was sure he wouldn’t open his eyes until someone made him. He would just smell the glorious place and think …. Nicki, Nicki, Nicki, Nicki, Nicki. She gave him her name, read to him, and let him sleep in her cabin.

This was the best goddamn hangover ever! He let his lips smile being the only part of his head he moved.

But as still as the outside of his head was his thoughts tumbled. She could drink. That wondrous woman. She was a sexy sea fish and so much more. How deep was the hard-handed, healer? Who would she ever let know? Not him. No. He best stay away. He should think of something really stupid to say, really offensive to make it easier for her to kick him out, regret the night, keep him at arms distance. Then he would spend all day, again trying to get close. How stupid was that? Yet in some way it made sense to Jax. He shouldn’t feel this way about her. He wanted her friendship and that was like holding a gun to her head as well as his. Friends? Men and woman can not be friends. Crewmates can not be real close either, in Jax’s mind. Keep the love to the ship, not the people. Men and women, crewmates, not good friends. He could prove that to her. The next time they shared a reading he would jump her, take her down and kiss every inch of her unfairly sexy body. As he let his lips slide over her he would call her First Mate. Oh yea, that’s a way to end a friendship.

So it would be best to just be his stupid self and make sure he hurt her quick . Like pulling the bandage off or spinning a hangover all around. He would wish for her, repeat her name inside himself, but let her go before they both were just plain stupid. Sure Jax, his mind swirled. As if you can let go what you never had.

Still, he knew he was on this string that winds up wanting to spend time with her and then yanks and spins away thinking it best only to be pulled back. He was already caught. Already spinning.

Well, not really. Right now he was going to just lie still. Right here. In her cabin. Smelling her books and their booze. Thinking her name. Thinking what he could do or say to spin her away from him again.

Slowly, so slowly so as not to disturb him she slipped her limbs out from under his. He was heavy, solidly built and there was something so unsettlingly pleasant about feeling that weight on her. It shouldn’t be pleasant, it should feel confining and intrusive, but it didn’t and she was troubled by that. That her head pounded with a dull throbbing ache only made her peevish about the whole thing. Her pounding head and slight nausea that promised a need for the rail if she didn’t do something about it chased away the shreds of guilt she’d felt about her drunken sketches of the unconscious man’s torso. It would have been a simple thing to elbow him and demand he get off of her, but she wasn’t ready to face him, or his smile. So she screwed up her determination and did it herself.

She had to shift and reach down to his well-muscled thigh and lift it off of her to get enough room to slide her own thigh out from under his. She did her best not to note how firm and taut his thigh was under her hands, even asleep Monsieur Jax was a lovely specimen. That was his danger, was it not? She extracted herself, shifting and wriggling in a manner that wasn’t seemly but was effective for the purpose. Free, she stood and swayed, biting back a groan as the world spun and her gorge rose. But she hadn’t drank so much that she’d succumb like some green sailor and she bit it back and stared blearily down at Jax as she let things settle. Her eyes traveled again to his bare chest, his shirt torn in places and then up to his face where she spotted a smile.

A smile?

That rat bastard was smiling? Was he even asleep? Did he sit there and let her handle him, struggling out from under his weight and all the while was awake? So like him, eyes close, not a word and she was already irritated. She ground her teeth and scowled at him, the expression as appealing as it ever was. She would have stomped her feet or cursed or slammed things about if it wouldn’t have likely made her head explode on the spot. So it was not mercy or strange tenderness for the aggravating man that made her quietly fill the bottoms of two clay mugs with herbs and then slip out of the room, it was for her own sake.

She winced when the morning light hit her eyes and closed them almost all the way shut, closing off the sight of everything but the floor right in front of her feet. She didn’t want to see the knowing smirks or the amusement of the men around her as she made her slow way to the galley for hot water. She’d treated plenty of hang-overs in her time as ship’s Doctor and the only time she ever gave them hell for it was when it interfered with their work. Otherwise she simply held her tongue and gave them the vile beverage she was about to consume which was as effective as it was unpalatable, as all good hangover cures were. Perhaps that was why almost all of them held their tongues as she made her way almost unseeing to the galley. A few called cheerful good mornings which she would have returned with a one finger salute were she not carrying two mugs. It was probably just as well. They would have been amused by her ire and it would hardly have been befitting an officer, pirate or not.

She made it to the galley by memory alone and while the blessed dimness of below decks was a relief the hammering of the cook’s cleaver into some bit of pig was not. She winced and whimpered and had to raise her voice to be heard over the din. The cook, a ruddy-faced man named Breg, had diced with the late Cooper and while he wasn’t a loyal friend of the mutinous Cooper he clearly took pleasure in the pain of Cooper’s executor when he slammed his cleaver down and loudly asked what it was she wanted.

The exchange wasn’t pleasant, but it was brief and she was in no state to assert her position and he knew it. She would pay for this lack at some later point but just then all she wanted was hot water for the tea and to get a certain grinning helmsman out of her cabin. Hot water she got. As she left the cabin, certain that death might be more pleasant than her head and belly at that moment she wondered how the hell Breg had made pouring hot water into two mugs, loud?

She made it back though the gauntlet of grinning, knowing eyed Sailors with no further incident and then paused before her cabin realizing that with two mugs of hot tea and her throbbing head there was simply no way to open the door given her currently handicapped state. Of course, perfect, just what she needed. She wasn’t even certain Jax hadn’t fled the moment she’d left. She rather hoped he had, she was in no mood to see his grin or pay up to that absurd bet she’d made and lost. What had the payment even been?

Cursing under her breath and longing for the dimness of her cabin with a need so great she was breathless with it she used her toe to knock at the door, three soft little raps that made a fireworks display against the inside of her head. Pain had such a pretty color.

“Jax.” She hissed, using his name without really thinking about it. “Please open the door. Quickly.”

He liked the feel of her trying to squeeze out. Truth is Jax made it as hard as possible without letting on he was awake. At least he didn’t grab Nicki. There was that. He played dead with a broad grin on his face. But that was better than putting his hands where they really wanted to go. She would never understand his gentleman restraints.

Then she was gone. Jax laid still for a while. Slowly like the crawl of a starfish he opened his eyes. He glanced ahead and saw an empty bottle and some book opened right by it. Fitting. When his eyes cleared more he realized it was a sketch book more than a book. Mother of warms water it was a drawing of him! How the hell could she manage a straight line when he fell the fuck over, was his first thought. He looked at it blinking the hangover haze away some. It did him favors that picture. He rather liked it. He almost reached for it to take a better look but somehow the idea that if he touched it would fade ran through him. No, he should keep a distance. Still, he liked the picture and the idea.

Nicki had put his image down. What does that mean? First it means the gorgeous gal has too many talents. What can’t she do? Damn her! Jax almost wanted her to fuck up something big time like….like….oh he was too fuzzy to even think of anything. She was a hot mess with too many damn fine pieces.

That’s it. She was a nut case. One he had to admit he was dreaming about cracking. Well, not as in going crazy but more in shedding that hard shell and letting him inside. Damn Jax felt his body swirl at the idea of inside Nicki. He must still be drunk. No way Ms First Mate, Smart Doctor, Book Saver, Smooth Voice, Grand Drinker, Sexy Body, Talented Drawer would let him anywhere close.

But she did draw him.

And she called his name.

Did he hear right? Was that her? He pushed himself off the bed sure he left his brain behind and went to the door. It was her. He could almost feel her on the other side. He smiled and in a tease answered back softly, “Who’s there?” He cuckled at his own joke but paid the price with a rush of heavy pounding between his ears.

Jax cracked the door almost ready to tell her he wasn’t accepting visitors when he saw two cups in her hand. One for him? He opened the door and took a step back. He should slip out maybe. As she went in he could slid out. He could stretch right outside her door and let them all think what they wanted. Could be good for him. Well, that would depend what he really wanted, the fleeting adiration of sailors or another chance to spend time with Nicki.

He stood by the slightly opened door to let her in and managed to stay on his feet even though his body wanted to fall down. “For me?” He reached for one. “You are beginning to like me, admit it.” He teased. “I can wear on you.”

“I would slip out a window and down the ivy wall but.” He shrugged and looked out the door. “Should I just walk out?” He glanced out to the sunshine and winced sure he would turn to ashes if he had to step out there. He looked back to her and for the first time saw some evidence that the morning after was not so easy for her either. Still, that Nicki was a nice thing to look at.

He tried to shake his head and pull his eyes away but everything sort of squished around including a bit of the tea slipping over the cup in his hands.

“I better go.” Jax sort of stumbled toward the door but hit the wall. “I might be……”

With that oh so familiar sound of a leftover party, a night overdone, one hundred drinks too many Jax turned to the corner and left loose that digested disgusting smelling rot of vomit in the corner of Nicki’s cabin.

He didn’t even try to cover his mouth. He let it all out in one big hurl and then stood and took a drink of the tea.

Jax felt so much better.

She was unamused, he had called out who is there like he hadn’t known it was her. She would have rolled her eyes if it wouldn’t have hurt so bad. She scowled, that hurt, but not nearly so bad and she wasn’t certain she could stop herself. She let him take the mug as she passed him but she couldn’t bring herself to look at him though she did reply to his assertion that she was growing to like him with a derisive snort.

Underlying the snort was something very akin to panic, because he was wearing her down. He was aggravating, annoying, boorish and still he’d been present for her recent chains of breaking and had somehow gotten more out of her than she was comfortable with. He’d winkled it out of her and she didn’t know how. Did he just aggravate her to the point of indiscretion? Or was it some part of his boyish, irritating charm. It was the smile, dammit, she blamed that cursed, bright smile and the way it made the corners of his eyes crinkle. Curse him. Thinking hurt and he was making her speculate when she should be drinking.

But then he was moving, talking of going and she turned almost on instinct to tell him to stay, to drink the damn tea and let her come up with some plan to extract him without risking her reputation or cutting into her cold, carefully gained authority. She didn’t get the chance, as her bleary eyes fixed on him she watched as he pivoted and vomited forth all that he’d drank the night before. It poured forth in a great font, an unnatural cocktail spiked with bile and it filled the small cabin with an unmistakable scent.

She was no shrinking flower, not any longer. To be a surgeon one needed a certain intestinal fortitude. To be a sailor one needed a certain earthiness. To be a pirate one needed a lack of squeamishness. She had learned much that was not academic in the navy and even more as a pirate and any shred of delicate nature she’d once possessed had been peeled away by the reality of what she’d needed to face along the way. But there is something so primal, so instinctive about such a level of sick that she felt her stomach churn, indicating that it would like, very much to join Jax who was just then sipping at his tea.

She would not. She was not some hack who couldn’t hold her liquor, she had slurred first, she’d give him that, but he’d passed out first and now he’d puked, she was not going to give him any further concessions. She stared at the mess he’d made, her eyes wide, hard and surveyed the pattern of spatter with an obstinate thoroughness. He’d hit no books, that was his saving grace.

She looked up to him as the ship pitched lightly, some of the sick rolling towards her across the floor to lap at the toe of her boot. She raised a golden eyebrow, her mouth forming a tight smirk.

“Pussy.” She said, a strange, dark gleam of humor in her eyes, her honeyed voice doing something unintentionally suggestive with the word. “I did not know this was your first time drinking, Jax, or I would not have pushed you so. I will water your rum next time.”

Next time? What the hell was she talking about? There was not going to be a next time. This time she violates his privacy with her sketches, what indiscretion would be next time? To cover her confusion she forced herself to saunter, as if her head wasn’t ready to spilt open, over to her table where she pulled out a basket of clean linen bandages, nice and absorbent and tossed him a wad. It would do until he got a mop in there.

“You made the mess, you clean it up. That is always how it is. But first you must drink your tea.”

She sat then, propping her feet on the table and watching him as the puddle of vomit slid towards her sketchbook where it lay on the floor.

Did she just call him pussy? Irritated shock rolled over his eyes for a minute. But it was followed quickly by a the realization of humor and Jax found himself smiling again. He threw his head back and managed a laugh that would have hurt his head before.

He put his tea down, lowered his head back to look at her, and with both hands ripped open his shirt. “Oh you have so exposed me beautiful ball busting Nicki.” He puffed out his chest. “My faults and weaknesses seem to drip at your feet.” He slipped his arms out and crumpled his shirt into one hand. He pushed his hand with the shirt inside over his heart in a Jax dramatic moment. Then he spun around and gathered what he had so inartfully dumped on her floor in the folds of the nice worn shirt.

It wasn’t until her floor was pretty clean and the shirt was not that he looked at the no longer nice blue color and realized something. This was not his shirt. He just smeared vomit all over the Captains nice blue dress shirt. Damn. He sat back on his heels and thought for a minute. Well, some story would have to be embellished. And a shirt was owed.

He managed to keep the spilled late night drunkenness inside the blue as he quickly opened that small hatch of her tiny window and tossed it out with force that carried it over the deck and into the sea. Maybe no one saw.

He sat on the floor, almost right where he just cleaned up and took hold of the tea again. After another sip he tasted the stuff really for the first time and made a face that showed his hangover still hanging on and the drinks bitter flavor.

“Now, don't you go gloating over your victories just yet, iron stomach. I plan to prove my worth,” He looked up and grinned at her “somehow.” He took another sip and shook his head to chase the sour taste down.

“If nothing else I can prove to be tenacious.” He looked up to the small round window he had just thrown something that was not his threw. And he figured he might as well share more. "Shit," He added not looking at Nicki, "That was the Captain's shirt."

She flinched when he said she’d exposed him but before her shame or her explanation could find their place in the small cabin he was taking off the ruined shirt and she found her thoughts frozen in place. Bare chested he was even more magnificent, more distracting than just with his shirt parted. She was finding it impossible to think in the face of such taut skin, broad shoulders and clearly defined muscles. What was she to do?

Ogle, she could do nothing but ogle, damn him.

Despite her pounding head she followed him with her eyes as he moved to clean the mess he’d made with the ruined shirt. It was the act of cleaning up vomit that pulled her back from her perusal of his very fine bottom and into the moment. She pulled her eyes away from his backside where they fell on the open sketch book not far from where he stooped, a runner of vomit about to reach it where it lay, open to the drawings she’d done of his helpless form.

Merde, she thought and put down her forgotten mug with a thud that made her wince. She stood fast enough to make her head spin and stooped to pick up the book before it was ruined. She pressed it to her chest just as he straightened and tossed the ruined shirt and bandages out the window.

“I am not gloating.” She said sullenly, and she wasn’t, mostly because she was so focused on not looking at him. Had he been custom made to drive her to distraction? It certainly felt that way, as if god had plucked all that she could not resist from her mind and formed it into the most aggravating man she’d ever encountered. She was just about to point out that she had slurred first, a concession of sorts when he spoke and one little detail she’d forgotten surged to the forefront.

It was not his shirt that she’d torn off of him in a drunken bit of indulgence, it was the Captain’s.

“Merde,” she said aloud and slid to the floor in front of him, not even the sight of his luscious chest was enough to distract her from the quandary she faced. She couldn’t just discreetly buy Jax a new shirt avoiding the reason why she had done so. Her pride and her sense of honor were too great for all that she was a disgrace and a pirate to allow her to let him continue to think he was responsible for the shirt, even if it was easier. It seemed her self-indulgence wasn’t something she was going to be able to keep to herself after all. Served her right.

“Do not worry about it,” she assured him. Wishing she could hold back many of the details of what had transpired. Perhaps he’d just go along with it and not question too far?

It was Jax, he would ask simply because she wanted him not too. I ruined the shirt.” She confessed, her sweetly grumpy voice murmured softly as she clutched the sketch book to her chest.

“That was my doing, well not the vomit, but the rest was my doing. I will settle up with the captain.” She added. Thinking to herself, I’ll settle up when I can bear to face him again.