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Jem-who-wasn’t was antsily eager to leave—to go back to his family—and kept trying to pick a fight with Kite over it. Kite desperately wanted him to stay, so much that it would hurt very badly if he let himself think about it. Kite deliberately called him Tournier, to make himself remember that this wasn’t Jem; this was a different person altogether, who had never—Kite pushed down the memories by force of will. It was no good thinking about it. But it didn’t stop Kite from aching to touch him every time they were near each other. He traced the lines of his tattoo instead, remembering Jem’s deft hands on his skin.
To each of Tournier’s demands, Kite explained calmly that it couldn’t be done. Even if Kite silenced the dark greedy part of him that howled for Joe to stay with him, even if Tournier was right about his French skills and very lucky, it didn’t matter. Lawrence would never let Tournier slip out of his grasp. Kite had threatened to shoot Tournier in the knee, knowing he would sooner shoot himself than pull the trigger. Lawrence would actually do it (or order someone else to do it, and his smooth uncalloused hands would stay clean). If Tournier was near him, under his eye, at least Kite could keep him safe.
But then Tournier turned to him and spat, “You wish I was just as lonely as you, because then I might stay.” That was too close to the truth already; but this version of Jem had nothing to keep him here. And then Tournier added with obvious disgust, “I remind you of Jem and you were in love with him.” Kite froze; the words seem to hit him on a delay, like separate barrages of fire, so that “I’m not Jem” and “you’re a nasty creep” and “disgusting little crush” all pierced between his ribs one by one, followed by the coup de grace “Grow the fuck up.”
Kite felt himself go cold and distant, the way he did in battle. His voice was very level as he sent Tournier away with two marines to look after him, because he didn’t trust himself if Tournier stayed any longer. He might yank Tournier in for a kiss to have the desperate pretense just for an instant, or throw himself at his feet and beg him to stay, or start crying right there on the docks and not be able to stop. Or worst of all, promise to do anything, betray all his duties to his crew and the navy and England, if only the man with Jem’s face wouldn’t hate him.
When the two marines came back and sullenly told Kite they’d lost Tournier, Kite felt a mixture of fear and fury. He sent the rest of the marines out to look for him and chewed them out thoroughly. They were still trying to justify themselves, unconvincingly, when Tournier walked back in through the door like a magician’s trick.
Kite felt a rush of relief so great it almost knocked him over. Joe was here, he was safe—And the part of him that thought and planned promptly asked, If he didn’t escape, where did he go? And why? To Lawrence, of course. To report Kite for any number of infractions. It was a pity Tournier insisted on lying to him, but it wouldn’t matter soon enough. And Kite was tired, tired to death. He should have gone when Agatha did. But no, he had still needed to get his ship and crew safe to harbor.
With no more to be said, Kite took Tournier downstairs to eat. He sat in the booth, Tournier across from him, and felt the weariness catching up with him. He found his hand was wrapped around the lighthouse tattoo. What did he have left? A few hours on a train that no one remembered except him. And soon no one would, that time of unexpected respite and joy gone as if it had never been. Tournier might look like Jem outwardly, but that was all; he hated Kite’s guts. Despised him, for the way Kite couldn’t help being in love with him. Fitting, that Tournier should be the one to do it. Kite owed him that much satisfaction, for taking him away from his own time and the family he loved.
The door slammed open, and there was the arrest party. Good; Kite had been beginning to wonder if they’d gotten lost. He let himself relax, let the weight of his responsibilities slide off him. The blockade, Agamemnon, the French; all someone else’s problem now.
A moment later, they were at Kite’s table. Kite tensed a little; most likely they’d leave Tournier alone and just take him, but he’d have to make sure of it.
“Missouri Kite,” the officer began. “You are under arrest . . .” He didn’t even get through his full speech before Tournier shot to his feet and punched the officer in the face. The officer staggered backward, but he wasn’t down; he came back, pulling out his pistol.
Jem, Kite almost said. Something about the set of his shoulders, the way he was still standing between Kite and a bullet like a damn fool. From behind Joe, Kite carefully aimed and shot the officer in the shoulder.
Joe clapped his hand over his ear. When he looked back at Kite, his face was dazed. And he was Joe now, the man who’d never fired a gun or been through a war. Kite instantly lowered his pistol; bad enough he’d used Joe as a gun-mount, he didn’t need to be frightening Joe any more. The reaction would hit in a few moments.
“Disarm those men,” Kite said aloud. He found a signal lieutenant in the crowd and sent him to Agamemnon, and watched long enough to make sure that people had the arresting officer and his party under control. Then he could turn his attention to Joe, who was beginning to shake.
“Joe?” he said quietly, too low for the crowd to hear. “Are you all right?” Joe hadn’t wanted to be between Kite and a pistol, he told himself; most likely he simply froze. Kite felt absurdly fond of him anyway.
Joe was looking at his shaking hands as if they surprised him. Kite took his shoulders, leaned in and whispered nonsense until he made Joe laugh, until Joe stopped shaking and was all right again. He found himself smiling. The flash of Jem was gone; perhaps he had imagined it. But Joe wasn’t—he wasn’t like Lawrence, someone who would watch with cold disdain as Kite was taken off to be shot. And if Kite was going to be shot, he might as well do it fighting the French.
“Why did you do that?” he couldn’t help demanding. “You could have been killed.” Joe Tournier didn’t need to die here, especially not for Kite; he needed to live and escape and get safely back home to his family, the one he remembered.
Joe only shook his head, giving no answer. That was all right. The attack on the French blockade would be one hell of a distraction for Lawrence and the Admiralty. Kite had a French uniform and a map hidden in his cabin on Agamemnon, in preparation for the time when it was safe for Joe to leave, and he would send Joe off with them before Agamemnon went into battle. No one would think to look for Joe for hours, or even days; after the battle, the Admiralty would be busy dealing with the disobedient captains and officers of the fleet. By the time they remembered, Joe would be in Scotland and beyond their reach.
Kite took Joe with him back to the Agamemnon and even onto the quarterdeck, because he couldn’t bear to waste a moment of the time Joe was still with him. He didn’t know why Joe had hit the arresting officer, but it was a gift and he wouldn’t waste it. This was the last thing he could do—for Joe, for his crew and the people who trusted him. He was going to break that damn blockade, or die in the attempt. But Joe Tournier, and with him the last remnants of Jem—he would live.