Chapter Text
Luke wakes to a low preamble of creaking on the other end of the crews' quarters.
He snaps upright, his open book falling from his chest to his lap. He's only a second to realize that he must have drifted off to sleep while reading to Wren when a trail of footsteps draws louder, closer, approaching him—
Luke twists around in his bedding, snatching up the knife he keeps below the hammock and brandishing it at—
He drops it, gasping.
Before he can breathe his name, Crow's gently planted a finger across his lips.
“Hush,” he whispers, and Luke needs to sit immobile for a little while before he remembers to inhale.
Crow recedes, once he has ensured Luke will be quiet. Luke cannot determine the time of day, but he sees the dark above them, and the world feels eased and tucked away as it does on a calm night.
Crow's different, though. Different, even, from earlier today.
He's stiffer, paler. His hair's untamed about his head, his eyes—Luke can only describe them as hollow. He wears merely an overly large shirt that rests around his knees and a hastily-thrown-on wine colored chemise that covers only some of it.
“What's wrong?” Luke whispers.
Crow hesitates. Then he presses his hands into fists, counts quietly to himself, and unravels one of the fists, bestowing his hand to Luke. “Come with me, please?” is all he asks.
It's the way his voice catches meaningfully on the last word—please—that gives Luke ample cause to slip out of bed and take his hand.
In his haste, the book tumbles out of his hammock and lands in a thud on the floorboards. Luke winces; Crow silently steals past him to push the book beneath his hammock with a foot. Then they stand in silence as the crew murmurs to themselves in their sleep, the wood shifting beneath their movements.
In another moment, they've strode out of the cabin and climbed up the ladder, Crow a step behind Luke, ready to steady him when he falters. After some amount of sleep, Luke's body has stiffened, reluctant to exert itself and frankly cross that Luke has decided to get up already. But soon, they've padded across the main deck—watched only by Badger on this calm night—and entered Crow's room. A single lantern on an overstuffed drawer casts the room in a warm, comforting glow.
Crow gestures for Luke to sit at his hammock. Luke does, sinking into the blankets. They're still warm from Crow's body.
With a deep breath, Crow seats himself beside Luke. He busies with his hair, drawing his fingers through it, smoothing the strands and forming another of those little braids he is privy to, so that it frames the side of his face. Then he bundles up all his hair and ties it with a cord, securing it in one distressed mass at the top of his head. With his hair removed from his reach, his hands lie still in his lap.
He stares at the opposite end of his room for a time. Luke doesn't know how long it takes him to realize that Crow is not looking outward but inward, at something Luke cannot see.
Crow breathes in curtly, in a way that feels like drawing a knife.
His voice is low, stripped of feeling.
“I dreamed of it, again.”
Luke gazes at him, unable to understand but unwilling to interrupt him.
“It's been so long,” Crow continues, his voice dreamlike, with all the meandering of a sleepwalker. “I'd thought... The men who captured me are all dead. They've been dead longer than I was alive before they took me. I know they're dead. I helped kill them. I watched them drown.”
His eyes touch Luke's. Luke feels as if he's been kissed. His ears blush.
Crow says, softer, trance-like, “I suppose it was that castle. Too... Too familiar. It stirred up parts of me I haven't felt since...” He hesitates, and the small catch in his breath breaks the spell of his tone. “I don't know. I forgot the feeling, and—and then it...”
He gazes at Luke, his eyes full of him, wide and wholly overwhelmed.
Luke holds out his arms. “May I—”
“Please, Luke.”
He grips Luke fiercely, like somewhere, Luke's scruff is still snatched up in Anton Herzen's fist, like something as paltry as a ghost would dare take Luke away from him. Luke folds his arms around Crow and rests his temple on his shoulder.
Crow gasps and wheezes his breaths in a sudden panic, quickening with his pulse. His hands wrest the fabric of Luke's sleepshirt and pull at him until Crow winces, buckling in pain, and his right hand—the hurt one—relaxes. The other holds all the tighter, so much so that Luke actually feels the start of a bruise prickle his skin.
He almost tells Crow; then he rethinks his words. Gently, he draws his fingers up and down Crow's back, his touch light and slow. He whispers, “You're safe, Crow, we're safe, here, together,” and Crow loosens his hold somewhat. With some reassurance, he brings his palms to rest flat against Luke's back.
They don't say anything for a little while. They're sitting how Crow prefers, with space between their fronts, but Luke can feel the staccato vibrations of Crow's pulse in his palms. Luke continues stroking him, his words low and soothing. He repeats himself—it's alright, you're safe—and he loses track of how many times he says it, but his throat is hoarse once Crow's breathing has begun to ease.
He rests his cheek against Luke's. He smells of old soap and clothes left forgotten in a wood chest for a long time. He smells of nostalgia.
“You don't know,” Crow begins, “how it feels, do you?”
Luke blinks. “No..?”
“I could tell you.”
“Y-You don't have to. I don't want you to relive your pain. Please don't suffer for me.”
“I've never told anyone before,” he says.
Luke pulls back just enough to peer at Crow, surprised.
Crow holds his eyes. His hands link around Luke's back. “Didn't have anyone to tell,” he continues. “Everyone knows. There's not much to say.” He hesitates, pursing his lips. Luke viscerally feels a tremble pass down from Crow's shoulders and into the rest of him. Luke embraces him in response, and Crow lets out an involuntary sigh, leaning into the circle of Luke's arms. “Perhaps I need someone to tell these things to.”
Need someone...
Luke whispers, “I don't want you to be hurt.”
“Oh, Luke,” Crow breathes, “I'm already beyond hurt. Surely, you can't make me any worse.”
He pauses for a time, his gaze pinched with thought. When Luke tightens his grip, resting his chin on Crow's shoulder, Crow pulls him close and breathes him in. Luke's heart aches with a depth he didn't know he contained.
He closes his eyes and nuzzles into Crow, listening to the rasp of his breathing. He feels almost guilty to be so—so—so adored in this moment, as Crow struggles to unravel some of the tremendous grief he has been forced to live with. But Crow holds him with such warmth, so perfectly surrounding him that Luke couldn't bear to part from him.
Crow seems... reluctant to let go as well. His hands pull Luke just a little closer in the moment before his lips part.
“There was a time when I did not remember how it felt to walk on land. The pure sturdiness of the ground, the smell of soil. I could only imagine how something fresh might taste on my tongue. There was... There was no leaving the ship.
“Once, a—companion of ours attempted to escape, after the Vengeance reached land. He couldn't get very far. Too weak, too outnumbered. So they brought him back and they beat him. With sticks, with stones, with fists. They beat him until his bones shattered underneath them. Then they waited to see if he might recover. If they might still get their money's worth out of him.”
Luke's breath is stuck in his throat. He feels Crow pull away, not to let go of Luke but to look somewhere else. Perhaps to give Luke space to attempt the truly impossible task of processing what Crow just told him.
When Luke does find the strength to push his voice out, it's mangled: “Did he recover?”
“Eventually, though he walked with a limp from then on. Then he would never be fast enough to outrun them again... And I don't know where he is now.”
Luke attempts to swallow down the knot forming in his throat.
The words come out before he can stop them, his eyes reaching for Crow's:
“Were you ever beaten?”
Something fraught and pale touches Crow's gaze. He holds Luke's eyes, his breath tightening just so. All he says is, “Yes. I was.”
Luke cannot describe the emotion that overcomes him.
His arms fall around Crow's neck, and he drags him into Luke, and he holds Crow as tightly as he dares. He feels his own breaths surging and crashing down around him, his lungs like overly-stretched sails. His vision blurs over, and there is pain, yes, but there is something else, too, something blotted and thick underneath his fingernails, something that aches to rip flesh into pulp.
But never to Crow. He holds Crow with all the gentleness he can muster.
Crow lets out a startled breath. “It's alright,” he murmurs. “They're all dead now, Luke.”
Luke shakes his head. “Don't comfort me,” he says. “I—”
He doesn't know what else to say. What else can he say?
Just the thought of what's happened to Crow—of Crow e-experiencing those things—it makes Luke—he's so—
Crow exhales the start of a laugh. “Good Lord, Luke. It's not like I'm the only person in the entire world who's faced what I have. Wren was with me, of course. Captain, too.” The old captain. “And we're lucky that—well—Wren and I, at least, are lucky we'll never live that way again.”
“So, your old Captain...”
Crow lets out a tremendous breath. “I don't want to talk about him, Luke. If he's alive... I don't know where he is.”
Luke swallows sharply. He lets go of that sentiment and clings to a different one. “You'll never live that way again,” he echoes.
Crow shakes his head. He presses his cheek to Luke's before he whispers, “If it comes to that, we won't let them take us alive.”
...Luke tightly grips Crow.
“I won't let them take you in the first instance,” he swears.
To his surprise, Crow laughs again, freely. He pulls back enough to gaze into Luke. Luke's heart skips. Crow is smiling. Luke doesn't understand how, but he is.
Softly, Crow says, “I wish I'd found you sooner.”
Luke blushes, all over. “C-Crow.”
His smile widens, warming further. “I think... I think I've been searching for you for a long time.”
Luke blushes a storm. He averts his eyes.
Crow's laughing, harder. “What?”
“My book,” he mumbles.
“Luke, you're going to have to explain yourself a little more than that.”
“I've—In my book—There's a pirate, and he—I thought he was searching for me—but he's not, he can't—It's you—and—I don't—I mean, I've been looking, too, a-and—”
Crow kisses him.
Luke freezes before he instantly softens. A sigh escapes him as Crow kisses him deeper, slower, and his hands gently trace a path up and down Luke's spine.
Carefully, eyes closed, Luke finds Crow's face and cups it in his hands. His thumbs rub Crow's cheeks. Crow leans in and moans something like oh, Luke into his mouth. A delightful shiver floods up and throughout Luke's body.
Crow's lips lower. Gently, he secures Luke's bottom lip between both of his own, and he sucks. Luke gasps, a shock of heat blooming within his chest. When Crow kisses him again, pressure and fire, Luke feels wrung out from between Crow's hands. His exhales are sharper, raw.
Crow must hear them. He shifts, pushing lightly on Luke, pushing until Luke's back eases into the hammock, until Crow's body shadows over his. His kisses are harder now, bruises. Luke whimpers into him, heat trapped and rising in his body. The hammock creaks as they resettle. Luke allows himself to be overtaken.
Memories freckle his mind, previous instances he let Crow this close, previous instances they were interrupted. They haven't been alone, fully alone, like this, in more than a week, before they visited Elmina Castle.
The heat caged in Luke's ribcage filters lower, funneling somewhere between his pelvis and hips. The sensation is wholly unfamiliar, yet oddly comforting.
Crow breaks to gaze down at him. Stray strands of his hair have fallen around and framed his oval face. Luke reaches up to tuck one of them behind Crow's ear. His breath catches, and he leans in close to Luke, close enough for Luke to taste his breath. “God,” he grunts, reverence and sacrilege, “you're beautiful.”
Luke stares up at him. His face is all hot pudding, growing ever warmer and pinker under Crow's hands. Crow looks into him for a long time, long enough that Luke begins to wonder just how far Crow sees through the windows to Luke's spirit.
He kisses Luke again, gentler, and Luke breathes out, pleased. Then the hammock undulates beneath them, and Crow shifts, planting his knees on the outer sides of Luke's hips. Even as they attempt to keep still, the hammock rocks unsteadily.
There's too much space between them. Whenever Crow moves, even a little, he takes the whole hammock with him, threatening to send them both to the hard floor.
Slowly, Luke extricates one of his legs from under Crow's and starts to curl it around his waist, prompting him to lower himself. To Luke's intrigue, Crow flinches, and a flash of—fear?—grays his complexion. But then he meets Luke's eyes—and he acts, gently wrapping Luke's other leg around him and lowering himself. They still aren't quite fit in a way that feels intuitive—Crow's crouched, his knees buckled beneath him, leaving an odd gap between them—but Luke is more comfortable, and the hammock isn't rocking so terribly.
Luke realizes in that moment that what he wants is to feel Crow—to feel him on Luke, without openings, without barriers, just them and their bodies and the pulse of their hearts and—and... close. In unity. Entwined.
Luke doesn't know how to say any of that aloud. He's never felt that way about another person before.
He gazes at Crow, struggling to determine whether he may feel similar. But Crow averts his gaze.
Then he crawls over Luke, careful to trap a bubble of air between their bodies, and kisses Luke again. Luke shudders, wrapping his arms around Crow's neck. Crow starts to move closer—then turns himself rigid, his lips warm and inviting but the rest of him sturdy, uncompromising. Luke searches for purchase with his legs, to hook them around Crow, to cinch them—a little closer—to feel Crow—to feel Crow—
He intakes a sharp gasp when Crow accepts Luke's prompting, beginning to move, to unfold enough that Luke can weave himself with Crow—his legs drawing closed, Crow between them—Crow lowering himself, closer—god, closer—so close Luke can feel his warmth trembling on Luke's skin, close enough to very nearly press himself up against Crow, so that they—
Crow pulls back with all the force of a slamming door. Luke hesitates, then extricates as Crow curls into himself, his head crashing against the palms of his hands. Luke awkwardly sits beside him, trying to decide whether or not to touch him, when Crow lets out a muffled yell. “FUCK.”
Luke stares at him, bewildered. “Crow?”
Crow stiffens, then stands, then storms out of the room, leaving the door hanging askew behind him. Yelping, Luke splinters after him, but he's already lost sight of Crow in the darkness of the ship after he's reached the ajar door.
Then Luke doesn't know what to do. He thinks about going outside, but it's cold and windy, and his legs are icy just from standing so close to the outdoors.
And he doesn't want to go back to his own bed...
But is that what Crow wants? Did Crow leave so Luke would return to the crew's quarters? But... But why wouldn't he just ask Luke to leave, then? Why would he disappear..?!
Luke groans to himself.
Then a very distinctive pair of boots stamp on the ground before him.
Luke's heart misses a beat in the time it takes him to recognize Badger's face (still bandaged) in the semidarkness. Luke nearly offers to let Badger come in, recalling in time that this is technically Crow's room.
Badger doesn't care. He walks past Luke, opening the door all the way for himself. Luke, snorting, turns to face him in the golden glow of the lantern as he folds his arms around himself and asks, “The hell was that? Crow sounded pissed.”
Luke blinks. Slowly, he says, “I don't know.”
“Did you upset him?”
“I don't—M-Maybe?”
“What did you do?”
Luke's mind frantically draws back over the interaction. “I-I don't know!”
Then he catches on something. On Crow's face. Just for a moment, but a moment still.
Swallowing, Luke says, “I don't think he's upset... Maybe he was scared.”
Badger chuckles. “Crow doesn't get scared, Bluebird.” He brushes a pile of jewelry off of a chair and sits on it, rocking it back so it dangerously wobbles, ready in nary a moment's notice to snap against the floor with Badger in it.
“Everyone gets scared,” Luke tries.
“You're looking right at your proof that no, everyone doesn't.” Badger jabs a thumb at himself.
“Wren thinks,” Luke starts, immediately regretting it before he's even finished, “that you get angry when you're scared.”
Badger blinks. “Wren should keep her stupid fucking thoughts to herself.”
Luke holds back a laugh. Then he pauses, drawing over his fresh memories of Crow yet again.
Crow's... done that before. He did it after they trained together, when he was embarrassed that Luke was staring at his mouth. He disappeared and avoided Luke for days afterward.
He did it earlier today, too, Luke realizes. When he asked Luke not to follow him.
This isn't entirely without precedence. It's a pattern. Luke doesn't know what it means, no, but he can tell it means something for Crow.
His only fear is that he'll ask Crow and Crow will run off again.
Then again, if Luke tells Wren, maybe Wren will kick Crow for him...
Luke puffs out his cheeks, considering his options.
Badger nearly falls out of his hostage chair when the door swings open again. He leaps to his feet, looks Crow in the eyes, says, “Sorry, but you left Luke mighty lonely,” then pats Luke on his head on his way out of the room, sidestepping Crow.
Crow blinks after him, unresponsive.
Then he shuts the door behind himself, faces Luke, and says, “I'm sorry.”
Luke blushes. “It—Um.”
“I know.” Crow strides past him, returning to his hammock. He folds his legs to his chest, wraps his arms around himself, and breathes in slowly. “I know, I do this. I... I just get... fuck...” He shuts his eyes, shaking his head. “You cry. I run.”
“What?”
“When you're upset. You start to cry. I don't cry, though. I just... I need to—to move.”
Crow looks up, unwrapping one arm from his legs and holding it out to Luke.
Luke's heart flutters. He whispers, “Are you going to run away again?”
“Lord, I pray I don't,” Crow says, and Luke cannot tell whether he's being sincere or sarcastic, or perhaps both. He takes Crow's word, though, clasping his hand. Crow pulls him close, and Luke situates beside him, laying his head on Crow's shoulder. Crow's arm settles around Luke's waist, holding on.
“What happened?” Luke asks softly.
Crow does hesitate, before he says it: “I can't tell you.”
“Oh.”
“I'm—sorry.”
Crow twitches, fingers lifting up from Luke's side, like he would love to get up and run away right now.
Frowning, Luke wraps his arms around Crow's waist, pulling him closer. Crow gasps quietly, and he lays his hands over Luke's. Then he leans in, and says, again, “I'm sorry.”
“Okay,” Luke says. “I forgive you.”
Crow lets out a bitter snort. “Gorblimey, Luke... I didn't give you any reason to forgive me. You hand out your over-kindness like sweets.”
“I like sharing,” Luke says.
“You're better than me,” Crow says, his voice bare and strange.
Luke blinks. “I don't think so.”
“Well. I do.”
Luke pouts. “I wasn't... a-a slave, ever, so maybe these things are easier for me.”
Crow sighs. “Maybe.”
They're quiet for a little while, leaning toward each other like two starved plants. Luke settles with the knowledge, pooling stone-like in the pit of his stomach, that he's not going to learn why Crow left.
But... Crow came back. Quickly, too.
Luke swallows. Whispers, “I want to stay with you tonight.”
Crow doesn't hesitate this time. “Then stay.”
He leans down and kisses just below Luke's collarbone, leaving an imprint that sears.