Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chip felt stupid for still being bothered by it. It was over, after all. They had fixed it! He and Gillion were back on good terms, and it wasn’t going to happen again.

But there were tears streaming down his face anyhow. He couldn’t get the guilt settling on his chest to subside enough for him to feel anything but sinful for seeking comfort in Arlin’s last remnant, a tiny piece of tarnished metal.

It was his fault that he was upset. Only his own brain could send him fleeing from the comfort of his own hammock —spilling out his belongings while thankfully not disturbing a sleeping Jay nearby— to the empty, quiet storage room. Nightmares weren’t his forte, but when they did decide to torment him, they were awful . An amalgamation of his terrible life all laid out for his captive closed eyes.

He could still smell the alcohol. He could taste it, Price’s head hovering just over his shoulder. The acrid taste of rotten fruit, a product of the shitty wine they could get ahold of in Skullslice, reserved for celebration only. Price had always said that one day, maybe one day, they would be able to afford better stuff. They would drink wine so good it tasted like fifty different things at once. That was when they’d be rich, that was when they could afford wealthy things like pity, like mercy. 

Wealth wouldn’t make them evil, Price promised. Money was the way to make them pure . Like the fifty gold piece wine. But Price lied, and as he breathed out his deathly promises, Chip plunged the sword into Gillion’s chest.

No— That wasn’t right. It wasn’t—

Gillion’s eyes widened as the blade sank with a heavy squelch through his heart. The gang erupted into cheers, Price patted him on the back, and the group departed, dragging Chip with them. Why couldn’t they afford mercy? Was killing Gillion mercy?

It was a nightmare, Chip told himself. Just a nightmare. He wasn't with Price. There wasn't the lingering stench of moldy grapes, there wasn't the heat of his breath on his neck. Chip still found himself turning around, staring at the wooden wall behind him like it was going to transform into the black braid and scrutinizing glare of someone who was probably dead, killed in the fire.

Chip still felt bad about the duel. He blamed the fight for how he couldn't draw in a full breath. It was the racing heart, the certainty of seeing that blade against his throat, that had stolen his lung function. It couldn't be the fear, the anger—

Because he wasn't mad. He wasn't like Price. He didn't hurt people just because he was angry. He didn't hurt people just because he could.

Except he had.

Why did it hurt so much? He couldn't be like Price. It was just pranks. There wasn't anything wrong with jokes. But that didn't matter, Gillion and Jay said so, it didn't matter that it was jokes if nobody was laughing but him. It was cruelty.

Chip wasn't evil though. He was a victim! He woke up and was attacked by Gillion. He nearly died. He maybe would've killed if Gillion had just a bit less honor and Jay had just a bit less care. 

Surely Gillion deserved some blame for the whole thing.

But he didn't. Gillion was just responding to what Chip had done to him. He was fighting back against a sword sinking into his heart. He had not been beaten to a point of submission, he was still ready to fight, and he wasn't going to let Chip kill him just because he wanted to.

Chip couldn't breathe. There was a sword in his chest. As his lungs expanded, the metal was pushed by ribs, only cutting him worse. He was bleeding, surely. That was the only explanation for the dots forming around his vision. For why he felt like he couldn't move except for the twitching of his hands towards his chest, grasping towards the gaping hole.

“Oh my god, Chip?” Someone called.

He couldn’t respond. Couldn’t turn to look. He was dying. Everything was going black and the sword was so deep that every breath he took felt like chest was lurching. His face felt wet, but that didn’t make sense. He never cried.

A soft hand landed on his face, thumb quickly finding tears to wipe away. Following the hand was Jay, her red hair tangled into a mess, tied into a destroyed ponytail. Her blue eyes looked soft, pitying. Jay wasn’t supposed to be here.

Chip knew he was meant to do something to get her to go away, but he couldn’t think as his chest felt like it was blooming, ribs a flower that would blossom and reveal the heart pounding so hard it was like a drum.

“Hey, Chip,” Jay frantically shifted onto her knees, removing her hand from his face. “You need to breathe.”

He was breathing, the problem was the sword . The hole, the heart, the smell of alcohol that was starting to make him nauseated.

Jay grabbed one of Chip’s hands, stiff and continuing to clutch pointlessly at his chest. She pressed the hand against her chest, only a few inches below her clavicle. “Just try to follow me,” she ordered.

It didn't feel like it was working, but once Jay stopped speaking, and she just watched him with her sky eyes, he found himself focusing more and more on the touch beneath his hand. The way his hand shifted as her chest expanded, pulling in the air he needed so desperately.

Chip’s breathing returned, stabbing inhales soon slowing to a rhythm more like pulling the ropes to raise the sails, consistent and strong. The black spots faded. He was not bleeding out. There was no sword. It was just him, and Jay, who he’d just had a panic attack in front of. Shit—

“Are you okay?” Jay asked, hand still holding Chip’s against her chest.

Chip quickly pulled his hand away, tucking it into his lap. “Yeah, I’m fine,” He tried to say nonchalantly, but his voice was thick with tears, and it sounded more broken than he wanted.

Jay frowned and his chest tightened as he recognized the disappointment on her face. He cursed his own mind for the reaction, such a blatant emotional response rooted in his own weakness. He cursed his mind doubly for putting him in the situation in the first place. Jay bit her lip for a moment, averting her gaze as she collected her thoughts.

Her focus flicked back to him all too soon, tracing across his form. “I don't think that was fine,” she cautiously said.

Chip didn’t reply, brushing a hand across his flushed face as he tried to swipe away the lingering tears before they dried in sticky blotches on his skin.

“I know that tensions have been high. So, if it’s anything to do with Gill,” —she seemed to stare into his soul, picking apart all the ugly knots— “or anything else too, it might be better to talk about it.”

He didn’t get Jay. It was like she couldn’t decide between hating Chip’s guts and being the nicest person he’d met, ever. She flip-flopped between calling him a bastard and moments like then, offering emotional conversation. He almost wanted to cry again at the thought that he hadn’t spoken about Price to anyone —there wasn’t anyone he knew to talk about him with.

But Chip had never been good at talking about his problems. Even as a kid on a pirate ship, he spoke minimally about any injuries he received from the typical mishaps that could occur on a ship full of weapons and stolen goods, only seeking medical aid or comfort when he feared the contrary would lead to him being left for dead, or dying. Diverting and distracting from pain was always much better than the anxiety that sat in his stomach from using resources that existed in such finite quantity.

Regardless of Jay’s offer of comfort now, he couldn’t use up her good will just because of hysterics.

“It’s nothing, I just—” He couldn’t think of an excuse.

Jay’s hands settled onto her legs, back straightening as she distributed her weight on her knees. The corner of her mouth pinched up, focused. “If you don’t want to talk about it, I won’t make you. But— That was a panic attack. If there’s something going on—”

“There’s nothing going on,” Chip interrupted. Gods forgive if Chip’s problems somehow managed to weasel their way into becoming Jay’s burden. He was the captain, not her. “It was a freak incident, it won’t happen again.”

Jay’s disappointment was growing. Chip’s desperation to escape swelled along with it.

“I’ll see you around. There’s shit to do,” Chip quickly declared, pushing himself to his feet in one fluid motion.

Standing again caused the blood to rush to his head, leaving him feeling dizzy and unstable, but he walked anyway, leaving Jay behind. Her footsteps didn’t trail after. Chip tried to ignore the part of him that wanted her to follow.