Chapter Text
Be it a boy setting foot on a ship for the first time, or a seasoned sailor returning to sea for his last breath, every pirate has heard the tales.
The stories are never consistent—a whispered mess of uncertainties, talk of bird-type creatures and merfolk alike. Myths are shared from coast to coast, muttered warnings of beautiful beasts whose songs are as deadly as they are enticing. Those who have heard the songs can barely recall without breaking down in terror, and those unfortunate enough to have caught a glimpse have never lived to tell the tale. Whether they believe the legend or not, every man shudders in fear when they hear the name.
Sirens.
Husk doesn't see them. Between the brutal crashing of waves and the stampeding panic of his crew, there's little he can do to catch a glance of the horrors waiting for them in the water. He's overwhelmed with a blur of chaos the moment he steps out of his quarters, and he can't waste time searching for the source of their terror.
His focus is getting his men to safety. He wades through hysterical bodies that slam into him at every turn in a desperate attempt to make it to the helm, though it's difficult not to get distracted by the frenzy. Men grapple with one another to keep themselves aboard, while those already taken by the seductive serenade hurl themselves over the edge of the ship, plummeting into the depths.
The closer Husk makes it to the helm, the harder it becomes to control his movements. With each step, the melody grows louder, its vibrations twisting through his torso and jerking him back with force. He tries to resist it, but it's no good. His mind fills with alluring imagery—beautiful men and women who reach out delicate hands to him, beckoning him towards the sea.
Husk finds himself walking towards the edge of the ship. He's no longer trying to fight the urge, his body floating with ease as he hoists himself up onto the side. Beneath him, crimson blooms across the waters surface. Seafoam fills the mouths of his men as they writhe to survive, silencing any tortured shrieks they try to make. It's an ocean of limbs, violently thrashing against coiling tails and jagged teeth that fight to pull them down.
It all looks so inviting.
Before Husk can take the final leap into paradise, a hand fists into the back of his shirt and heaves him back. He tries to fight against the heavy weight that pins him to the deck, his skin searing, blistering, with a desperation to be immersed in the cool waves. He can barely stand breathing; he wants the taste of sea salt on his lips as his lungs fill with gulps of water. He wants to be dragged down, down, down with the arms of a mythical beauty wrapped tightly around his ribcage.
Fuck, he wants to bleed for these creatures.
Something soft fills Husk's ears. It takes seconds for the trance to shatter around him, the songs subduing to the point they are no more than gentle hums. He stops clawing at the body above him, and his eyes widen as he realizes it's Frank pinning him down. A tilt of his head, and there's Niffty, hovering above him with balls of cotton filling her palms.
"Captain, we need to get out of here!" She's shouting, but it comes out muffled, her voice barely piercing through the fabric in his ears. "We'll help the crew, just get to the helm!" Niffty shoves cotton into Husk's hand, and just like that, she and Frank are gone.
Husk scrambles to his feet. He takes a moment to watch Niffty flitting between the crew, stuffing cotton into their ears and single-handedly saving every bastard she can. He's never been more thankful to have her as second in command.
It's easier to make it to the helm this time without the captivating tug of the sirens' calls. Their helmsman, Travis, is there, but he isn't manning the wheel. No, instead the scrawny little fuck is curled in on himself in the corner of the deck, palms fixed tightly to his ears as he rocks back and forth.
"What are you doing? We need to get out of here!" Husk shouts.
The obedience of a captain's crew is often something to take pride in. Husk only feels dread when Travis drops his hands to follow orders. The change of his features is instant—eyes previously filled with terror switch to something more dazed, pupils blowing wide. He rises to his feet like a man possessed, determination in his stride as he hurls himself towards the edge of the ship.
"Wait—No!"
Husk throws himself towards Travis. It's a wrestle the moment they collide, Husk doing all he can to hold Travis back as elbows bludgeon and blunt nails scrape. Husk pins him with one hand long enough to push cotton into the bastard's ears, and as quickly as his frenzy started, it stops.
"What…" Travis opens and closes his mouth, panicked eyes scanning his surroundings. "What happened?"
With heaving breaths, Husk points towards the helm. "Just get on that wheel and get us the fuck out of here."
At a safe enough distance, Husk decides it's time to remove the cotton from his ears.
He's the first to do so, of course—a captain should always be the first to sacrifice himself for the crew—which the others seem grateful for. Husk holds his breath in anticipation, his shoulders tense as he pulls out the fabric. His crew watch with widened eyes, awaiting him to throw himself over the side of the ship at any second in search of that enchanting call. Husk's heart drops at the sound that meets him.
Instead of sirens, Husk hears screams.
Years at sea, that's not a noise Husk should be unfamiliar with. He's bared witness to brutality and torture—from the shrieks of crew-members receiving countless lashes for a petty crime, to grown men crying for their mothers as infection rots them from the inside-out. Husk believed he was a man that had heard it all, but the wails surrounding him are not of this world.
They're bloodcurdling—bellowing screeches that bubble beneath the waters surface, the thrashing of waves encompassing Husk at every turn. Those are the screams of his men, but how is that possible? They're miles away from that cursed land. Noise can't travel this far, and yet it's as if his lost crew is beneath them, howling out desperate pleas to be saved.
Husk stumbles in a way he hasn't since he was a lad still finding his sea legs, his stomach churning with nausea that rises to the back of his throat. His crew is still staring at him, bewildered expressions on each of their faces, but he can't focus on them right now. He grips the edge of the ship to stabilize himself, and he swallows down bile before he rasps out his orders to the helmsman.
"Keep sailing." His voice is a dry scratch, barely audible over the screams.
Travis simply stares at him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Fuck, the bastard can't hear him. Husk takes a shuddering breath, lungs raw, and shouts as loud as he can.
"Keep fucking sailing!"
By the time they're too far for the screams to reach them, the chill in the night air borders on freezing. His crew have long-since returned to their quarters, huddled together beneath deck to keep the warmth in their bones. Husk couldn't bring himself to go to his cabin; he can't will his body to move from where it clings to the edge of his ship, eyes fixed on the no longer visible strip of land.
They lost twelve men. Twelve good men Husk sailed alongside for years, gone in the blink of an eye, swallowed whole by an endless void and the nightmares that reside there. He knew each of them by name—knew their hopes and fears, but what good is that now? No one but the crew will remember them, and memories don't last long within the intoxicated minds of pirates.
The sea is still. Not even the lapping of waves against the ship is present to rid the eerie silence that surrounds him, and his mind tortures him with echoing reminders of pained shrieks to fill the quiet. Without the movement of water to reflect the moon's glow, Husk feels as if he's engulfed in a dark abyss, insignificant when confronted with such stark emptiness.
Still, Husk doesn't feel as though he's alone.
There's a tingling sensation crawling along his spine, a thrum beneath skin that alerts him he's being watched. He glances over his shoulder, expecting to see a crewmate standing behind him, but he's met with a barren deck, no soul in sight.
Husk tsks at himself and turns back to the water. His breath catches in his throat.
Beneath inky waters, he sees them—those same pink orbs he witnessed the night they found the island. They're isolated within the darkness, a luminous glow drawing him in. They move slowly, floating closer and closer until Husk has to hoist himself onto the edge to keep sight of them.
They flicker—no, blink—once, twice, before growing larger as they move towards the surface. The orbs emerge from the water, and Husk finally sees the alluring siren that's been staring at him.
Skin pale as moonlight, it's as if he shimmers with the reflection of gentle waves. Fuchsia lines decorate his arms and torso, intricate patterns winding around flesh. His white hair is slicked back, drenched from the water and dripping down to the gills at the sides of his neck. He's thin—sunken cheeks and razor-sharp collarbones—and Husk finds himself stupidly wondering if this creature eats enough.
It hits Husk then that he should be scared. This is a siren he's looking at, and as breathtaking as he is, this creature and his kind feasted on his men mere hours ago. Fuck scared—Husk should be horrified.
And yet, he feels no fear. Instead, there's a strange sense of affection bubbling up in his chest. It could be he's bewitched already, but the siren isn't singing—no, those plump lips are closed, quirked slightly as he tilts his head in curiosity at Husk. Another slow blink of those glowing eyes.
Christ, he really is beautiful.
Husk opens his mouth to say something—what, he isn't sure—but he's stopped by a sudden yell. He turns to see one of his men running towards him, a harpoon in hand held above his head. Husk's heart sinks.
A spine-chilling shriek rings out as the spear pierces the creature's skin. Men clamber around Husk, shouting orders at one another to hold tight and heave. The current grows savage, as if imitating the desperate struggle of the siren, thrashing against the line that pulls him in.
When his men finally get the siren onboard, a deep crimson floods the deck and pools at Husk's feet, a stark contrast to the pale torso it spills from. The metallic stench burns Husk's nostrils, sends bile to the back of his throat as he meets the panicked expression of the creature beneath him. The siren's tail curls up. Blood seeps into pink scales, fins trembling in fear. Husk feels an urge to reach out and comfort him—he almost does, hands twitching at his side—before his quartermaster steps in front of him.
"What should we do with it, Captain?" Niffty asks.
Her expression is blank, impossible to read. Husk knows she often enjoys seeing brutality, and very rarely hides the fact; it's odd not to see her smiling. He can't help but wonder if this display is causing her as much unease as it is him.
"Captain?" she repeats.
"I—" Husk glances around, sees each of his men staring at him expectantly, awaiting their orders. He swallows thickly. "Bring it to my cabin, I'll deal with it."
Before Husk, the captain of the Guardian was a superstitious man. Any mythical tale a pirate could think of, he believed in it—the Kraken, the Leviathan, the Flying Dutchman, you name it. And he didn't just believe in these things, he prepared for them. Since Husk was elected captain, the hold has been filled with all kinds of weapons and resources targeted towards these beasts. Sharpened bones of the righteous, scythes bathed in the blood of virgins, vials of Greek fire—their late captain prepared for it all.
There's been many a day Husk has wanted to get rid of these items—be it throw them overboard, or sell them at the next port for a fair price—if only to make room for the important resources, such as more rum. Though he still curses the lack of space, Husk is glad for one item he didn't part with: a large glass box.
The siren is lying in the box now, fuchsia tail still curled in, wrapped around his shuddering form. His mouth is open, though Husk doesn't need to worry about hearing his call; the glass is too thick for sound to penetrate. Still, Husk wonders if the noises the creature is making are more agonizing than alluring.
From where he's sitting at his desk, Husk can't take his eyes off the siren. He sips his rum slowly, watching every movement. Now and then their gazes meet, pain reflected in those glowing orbs before they look away, and it shoots off a wave of guilt through Husk's chest every time. The water surrounding the creature is tinged red, the steady flow of blood from the jagged gash in his torso not easing up as Husk hoped it would. Another tortured glance.
Husk can't take this anymore.
He shoots back the rest of his drink and stands with a grunt. The siren reacts instantly to Husk walking over, backing himself up despite the minimal room in the box. As Husk's hands land on the lid, the agony in the siren's features switches to terror, and Husk thinks he might cough up and organ with how tightly his insides constrict.
"I ain't gonna hurt you," Husk says, as pointless as it is; there's no way he can hear him through the glass.
Still, there's a look of understanding when their eyes meet, the tension easing from the creature's shoulders. Husk offers a wary smile of confirmation, to which the siren nods his head.
Tentatively, Husk slides the glass lid off. His hands hover near it for a few moments, preparing to shut the box again should the siren begin to sing. Instead of an addictive call, Husk is confronted with words.
"What are you going to do?"
Husk blinks, dumbstruck. "You, uh…" He opens and closes his mouth before clearing his throat. "You can talk?"
The siren glances away from Husk, wrapping his arms around his lean torso. Another wave of blood seeps from his wound, and Husk curses himself for asking something so stupid.
"Guess that ain't important right now," Husk mutters. He gestures vaguely at the siren's injury. "Want me to help with that?"
The look Husk receives could kill a man—which isn't surprising, considering what he's dealing with here.
"Decided against letting me bleed out?" the siren grits out, venom in his tone.
"Wasn't my plan in the first place," Husk bites back. "And you're the one who attacked us. How many of my men did you let bleed out?"
The siren frowns at Husk's words. Something flashes across those pretty features—remorse?—before he looks away. Husk wets his lower lip and sighs. There's that urge to reach out and comfort again.
"Look, it don't matter right now," Husk says. Silently, he asks his late crew for forgiveness. He doesn't know why he's so ready to forgive this creature himself. "Just let me help you? You've lost a lot of blood already."
Husk is met with a reluctant glance, followed by a small nod.
Maneuvring the siren from the box proves more difficult than Husk anticipated. Getting him in there was fine with the help of two other men, but getting him out? Husk makes a fool of himself instantly.
Water and blood drenches Husk's shirt, fabric clinging to his torso as he lifts the siren into his arms. The tip of a tail wraps loosely around Husk's forearm, slipping along skin. It's difficult to get a good grip, and Husk nearly drops the creature the moment he takes a step. Thankfully, he manages to remain upright, though he receives an unamused look for it.
The siren hisses out as Husk settles him onto the edge of his desk. His blood will no doubt stain the oak, but Husk can't worry about that right now. He settles down on a stool in front of the desk and fishes around in a small box, pushing aside empty bottles and scraps of trash, before he finds the items he needs.
Husk pulls out a full bottle and generously dowses a rag in rum, his eyes fixed on the siren's. "You got a name?" he asks, an attempt at distraction.
"It's An—ah! Fuck," the siren chokes out as Husk presses the rag to his wound.
"Weird name," Husk says, biting back a smirk. He earns a small shove at his shoulder for that, and Husk can't help but notice how the siren keeps his hand there afterwards, the warmth of his palm searing through fabric.
"It's Angel, asshole," the siren—Angel—says through gritted teeth.
It's stupid, but Husk thinks the name is fitting. He knows this creature is bloodthirsty, but that doesn't take away from how ethereal he is, how easily Husk could be swayed by such beauty. If angels looked like this, then Husk would understand why so many sinners pray desperately for forgiveness with the hopes of making it to Heaven—maybe Husk himself would pray too.
Husk wipes away the last of the blood, and does what he can not to focus on the way Angel's lean muscles tense and tremble beneath the rag. Once he's finished, he drops the fabric onto the desk and sets about splashing rum over his hands and a curved needle.
"So, Angel," Husk starts, taking on the scolding tone he often uses with his crew. His eyes flick up to meet the siren’s. "Want to tell me why you followed my ship?"
The lighting in Husk's cabin is dim, only the glow of flickering lanterns present to cut through the darkness, and yet he's still able to catch the way Angel's pale skin grows rosy. A deep flush rises on Angel's chest, travels along his neck and settles on freckled cheeks, and Christ, Husk thinks he can feel the heat of it himself.
"Did you come back to finish the job?" Husk asks when he doesn't receive an answer right away.
Angel's eyes widen. Sharpened teeth chew anxiously on plush lips, and it surprises Husk to see the siren shake his head.
"It wasn't my plan to attack your ship in the first place," Angel says, voice small. There's that flash of remorse again. "I didn't want to do it."
"But you did," Husk says. He can't help the bite of anger in his tone, the pain of losing so many of his men still burning hot in his chest. "You killed my men. Brutalized them. Tortured the—"
"We do it to survive!" Angel snaps out, fury crackling in his eyes. "It's no different from men killing animals so they can eat—we do it to live."
Husk swallows down the rest of his arguments. He can't exactly fight Angel on this—how many animals has he killed so he can eat? Christ, how many men has he killed just to get his hands on something valuable? Husk is just as much a killer as Angel is.
"So why did you come back?" Husk says instead. "If it wasn't to finish the rest of us off, why bother following the ship?"
"I was drawn to you," Angel mutters.
Husk blinks. "To the crew?"
Angel shakes his head. He glances away, his arms wrapping around his torso. "No. To you. I heard you playing music—saw you holding that… that wooden thing, that—"
"Fiddle?" Husk supplies, his eyebrows raised.
"Yes, that. Fiddle," Angel says the word as if it's the first time he ever has. Hell, it probably is. "It sounded beautiful. I've never… I've never seen a man so beautiful."
This time, it's Husk's turn to blush.
Husk's been described as many things in his lifetime—a brute, rugged, husky—but never once has someone called him beautiful. It's ridiculous. Husk is a weathered man, his skin adorned with scars and blemishes, stomach soft and shoulders broad, features hardened from a life of brutality. How could a creature this stunning take one look at him and think beautiful?
Husk clears his throat and looks down at the needle in his hand. He's getting distracted, and the siren is still bleeding out over his desk. No use lingering on what Angel thinks of him when he has a job to do here.
"Let's just get you stitched up," Husk says, eager to push past any topic that has to do solely with himself.
The look Angel gives him appears disappointed, though the siren still gives a consenting nod. Husk threads the needle and gets himself situated to begin.
"It's going to hurt. If it gets too much—"
"It won't," Angel says, certainty in his tone. Husk doesn't doubt the siren has a good threshold for pain; the creature's been bleeding out without much fuss for near enough an hour, after all.
"Alright," Husk says, before finally starting the first stitch.
Husk's always been good with his hands. They were his main source of income before piracy—years of playing the fiddle on the streets and performing whatever sleight of hand trick he could to earn himself a few coins. He often relies on them in combat, gained countless scars across his knuckles and wrists, broken a few bones that fortunately healed fast enough for the next fight. He definitely relies on them in the bedroom: slowly works whatever beauty—man, woman, or otherwise—that falls into his bed with attentive fingertips and brushing palms until he has them coming undone. Fuck good, Husk is fucking phenomenal with his hands.
And yet, despite all of that, stitching Angel's wound is a complicated task.
Each time the needle penetrates flesh, Angel's skin jumps beneath Husk's fingertips. The hand on Husk's shoulder grips tight, clawed fingers fisting into the fabric of his shirt. Angel's shallow breathing fills Husk's ears, along with pained hisses and muttered curses. It would be better if the ship's surgeon, Baxter, were here doing this instead, but Husk knows calling him in will only cause more trouble.
Husk holds back his apologies. He does all he can to focus on the task at hand, not the feeling of guilt building in his gut. The sutures are, to put it simply, awful. They're uneven, hasty, and no doubt will leave a nasty scar. Husk tells Angel this fact the moment he's finished with the last stitch.
Angel gives him a puzzled look, a small tilt of his head that has no right to be as endearing as it is.
"Scar?" Angel says the word slowly, as if getting a feel for it in his mouth.
"Yeah, you know—what wounds do when they heal," Husk says, though that does nothing to help with the siren's confusion.
Husk glances around himself, but comes back short with things he could use to explain the word. It hits him then that his own body is covered with scars, namely the rugged line on his face he gained in his first year at sea. He points to it, raising his eyebrows at Angel.
"This is a scar."
A small frown tugs at Angel's lips. He reaches out his hand tentatively, and presses his palm against Husk's cheek.
Husk can't help the way he flinches. A pirate is rarely accustomed to gentle touch, and yet that's exactly what Angel does. Despite his clawed fingertips, Angel traces Husk's scar with care, mapping out the line from the center of Husk's eyebrow right down to his jaw. He brushes his thumb across Husk's stubble, sending a small shiver over Husk's spine.
"What happened?" Angel asks, voice soft. Husk swallows thickly.
"Was my first real fight," he explains simply. It's easier not to go into too much detail; better not to relive the betrayal he felt being sliced by a man he considered a friend, nor the agony that followed when he sunk a blade into the bastard's chest in return. He can barely look in a mirror to this day without seeing Alastor's twisted smile staring right back at him.
Angel's hand drops from Husk's face, causing him to blink. Husk opens his mouth to speak again, but Angel stops him by taking his hand in his. He guides Husk's palm towards his torso and presses it against a fuchsia line just beneath his ribcage. The heat of Angel's skin sears, along with Husk's face.
"These are my scars," Angel murmurs.
He brushes Husk's hand along his abdomen. Calloused fingertips sweep slowly across smooth skin, trailing each intricate mark, and Husk thinks he shouldn't be allowed this. Angel is all delicate beauty—gentle features that conceal a ferocious nature. He's the opposite to Husk in every way; pale skin a stark contrast to Husk's dark complexion, soft flowing hair so different from Husk's beaded locs, a face full of youth in comparison to the hard lines a harsh sea and scalding sun has gifted Husk. Even the siren's scars are beautiful, though Husk suspects the stories behind them tell tales as harrowing as his own.
When Husk's hand comes to rest on a scar at the base of Angel's throat, their eyes meet. Something has changed in Angel's eyes—glowing softer now with the comforting warmth of winter fire. Husk wets his lips.
"How did you get them?" Husk asks, choosing to ignore the rasp in his own voice.
A forlorn smile settles on Angel's lips.
"Men can be as cruel as sirens."
The words strike Husk in his chest. The pain in Angel's features is almost tangible, and Husk feels himself matching the way Angel draws his eyebrows together in sorrow. It's silent between them for a few moments—just their gentle breaths filling the quiet, the soft thudding of Angel's heartbeat beneath Husk's palm. A small sigh escapes Husk.
"You really didn't want to hurt my men?" Husk asks.
Angel's pulse doesn't change, and Husk has always been good at reading people. He knows Angel is being truthful before the siren even opens his mouth.
"I didn't want to hurt them," Angel says. "I enjoy it sometimes—when I know the sailors we're killing are more vicious than we are… I wasn't so sure about that tonight. At least, not until they hurt me."
Husk glances down to Angel's sutured wound, a feeling of dread settling in his gut. As Captain, Husk knows his men well. He knows they can be good, but equally, he knows they can be just as terrible. If Angel were to stay here, Husk's crew will only prove the siren's point with the torture they no doubt have planned come sunrise. If Husk can help it, he does not want to see any more bloodshed on his ship.
With a decisive grunt, Husk stands from his stool. He gestures towards Angel's wound.
"Will you be able to swim with your injury?"
Angel eyes widen with confusion. "You're letting me go?" he asks.
Husk gives a small, wistful smile. "Not all men are cruel."
Angel's features soften, and Husk feels affection bloom in his chest. He ignores it in favor of focusing on lifting Angel into his arms, the maneuver easier this time with the water dried up and the blood wiped away. Husk carries Angel towards the bay window at the back of his cabin, setting the siren onto the large windowsill so he can open the panels.
"You'll be okay?" Husk asks. He can't help but worry; even if it's better for Angel to be elsewhere, the siren is still injured.
"The sea is my home," Angel says simply, and the gentle smile he offers Husk eases some of that concern. He places his palm against Husk's face, thumb brushing across his jaw. "Thank you…"
"Husk," Husk rasps out, his eyes fixed on Angel's. "My name's Husk."
The small giggle that escapes Angel sets Husk's skin alight. Angel tugs Husk closer, and Husk isn't sure what's happening until Angel's soft lips are pressing against his cheek, right on the center of his scar. They linger for a moment, brushing down until they reach the top of Husk's jawline, before finally pulling away.
"Thank you, Husk," Angel murmurs.
Husk tries to say something more, but he can't find the words. They're stuck in his chest, whatever they may be, alongside the burning urge to reach out and kiss Angel properly. Angel gives a knowing smile, his eyes flicking down to Husk's lips for a moment, before he turns towards the window.
Without another word, Angel leaves. He dives into the ocean with grace, moonlight glistening across his fuchsia tail. He floats on the surface for a moment to give Husk a small wave of those clawed fingers, before sinking down into the depths.
Husk stays looking at the sea for longer than he cares to admit. Even with the cool air seeping in, the heat on his cheeks remains, a blazing reminder of those plush lips. He rests his head against the panels and pictures glowing orbs in the waters below.
It isn't until sunrise that Husk realizes he hasn't moved from the windowsill, his bones aching from a night of restless sleep. Niffty stands near the empty glass box, her arms cross over her chest. Husk blinks at her.
"I asked where the siren went, Husk," Niffty says. For a woman so petite, she's absolutely perfected the threatening edge in her tone.
"I let him go," Husk grunts. "Figured the rest might come lookin' for him if I didn't."
Niffty squints at Husk, but ultimately, she accepts her captain's reasoning. She gives a small sigh of defeat. "The crew won't be happy. You better hope we don't see him again."
Husk nods his head in agreement, though truthfully, he's hoping for the exact opposite.