Chapter Text
There are towns at the bottom of the world where the dregs of society pool. If you’re smart enough, quick enough, you’ll live to see them twice. Be better with your tongue or your hands and you might become a regular, one of those whispered names that shines golden as smuggled rum.
But not everyone can be more myth than man. Someone has to tend the bar, tie off the boats, keep the inns staffed and the gallows full. Someone is always left to peddle tales, to stand in the shallows and warn green crews away from dangerous shores and their inhabitants.
What you do with that warning is entirely up to you—the gods gave men free will, and the devil gave them idle hands and too much time on them. Life is only short if you’ve got something worth spending it on.
For the rest of the world, it drags; the endless dripping of an overturned bottle. It only takes three inches to drown.
If you’re unlucky enough to be born in one of these towns, you learn to tread water. You stay alive by staying out of sight, needed but not noticed. You hawk stolen goods, you swear your goods are genuine when the pigs come running, you give enough rum or coin or head to the right man to make them believe it.
You lie like you breathe, you tell yourself tomorrow might be different. That makes it worth sticking around to find out.
And sometimes, you’re right. A ship appears on the horizon, black flags and gilded hull, and you think: finally.
🕂
The actual best way to survive a town like Musk Reef? Get the fuck out of it.
Easier said than done, but it’s enough, the hope of something, anything better than life as it is now. Old timers will scoff at it, skeptics to the bone, but they still watch for each new ship. For something other than what they’ve known. Every tavern is full of graying souls with their eyes turned towards the horizon.
The drunks, the dreamers, and Bennett. By anyone’s estimation, he’s a little old to be behind the bar serving drinks instead of outside in the shipyard—but he’s quick on his feet and quicker with his pours, so Wagner’s had no reason to complain.
Not even a dozen broken kegs of rum are enough to refuse good help once you’ve found it. If Wagner was smarter, he’d have kept count, made Bennett work to pay back what he owes and then some, but he never has.
If he were smarter, maybe he’d never pay Bennett at all. But every night, when Bennett is stickier than the bar floor and dead on his feet, Wagner presses a coin purse into his hands.
“If you find something better, you take it.” Wagner goes hours without looking in Bennett’s direction, but now he doesn’t look anywhere else. “If I come in tomorrow and you’re not here, I’ll find a replacement.”
It isn’t a threat, it’s permission. For what, Bennett can never tell—most boys leave town with grand aspirations for a life at sea. Few make it, but they at least try, do something more than stare out at open water and hope. Maybe that way, in their old age, they can die one regret lighter.
Bennett is the sole anomaly, both feet firmly planted on dry land.
Every night is the same. He takes his earnings, smiles and says what they both know to be true; “I’m not going anywhere.”
He never does. Bennett tends bar, dodges the tenth brawl of the night—won’t be the last—then takes the long way home so he’ll lose anyone following by the fourth twist in the paths. Nothing’s happened in months, but Bennett’s not eager for a repeat. Is it a repeat by the fourth time? No—fifth, sixth? Or is it just a pattern?
It’s too late to care. Door locked, clothing barely off before he hits the bed, Bennett is asleep before he even registers he’s tired. He doesn’t dream.
🕂
Bright morning light has a way of tricking the eye. It almost makes Musk Reef look fresh, new, unsullied from the sins of last night.
The sky is uncannily clear, swallows sing to each other from rooftops, and still-drunk sailors beat each other to death. Bennett groans awake, shoving sleep into submission before he gives into the temptation to stay in bed all day.
Not that the commotion on the street will let him. He peeks out the window just in time to catch a third man hauling his friends away, cuffing their ears.
“You’re lucky I found you, not the captain. Not pretty enough for the trouble you cause—”
Ah, the smell of extra chores in the morning. Bennett ducks inside before one of them can catch him rubbernecking. Just because eavesdropping is the only free entertainment around here doesn’t mean he still won’t face the consequences of it. Satisfaction has nothing on an unbroken nose.
When he makes it to Windwail Tavern, Wagner is nursing what could generously be called coffee. Their shipments are six months apart if they’re lucky—they’re on month five, so it’s all just weak brown water. Bennett’s never cared for it regardless of strength, so he just grabs a rag from behind the bar and starts cleaning the tables.
“Devil-child,” Wagner grumbles at him, managing to look remarkably hungover for a man who doesn’t drink. “The sun’s barely up and you’re fresh as a debutante. D’you ever sleep?”
Bennett flicks cold water off the tips of his fingers into Wagner’s face, and ducks the filthy rag pelted in his direction. “You sent me home, ‘course I slept.” There’s nothing else to do here.
Wagner snorts. “Serves me right. Should’ve had you deal with the idiots who broke a keg last night.”
Bennett raises his eyebrows, turning on the spot. “A keg.” No way they’re alive, no way Wagner let them go.
“Brand new one too. First mate came to grab ‘em, I don’t envy the poor fuckers.” Sighing, Wagner pushes open the storm shutters, sunlight bursting into the tavern. “Christ. Anyway, glad you weren’t around, actually. All the merchant boys turned on account, real proud of themselves. Would’ve done a number on you.”
“I could’ve handled them, it’s not like I haven’t—” Wagner yanks on his ear as he passes like he’s scolding a puppy. Bennett yelps like one.
“You’ll do no such fuckin’ thing. Try and I’ll fire you.”
“Who’s gonna tend bar for you then?”
“Anyone with two hands, I swear to—” They both turn as the doors swing wide. “Madame Kujou.”
Kujou only nods at Bennett before she looks to Wagner. “Here to settle the tab.” Not a word or movement wasted, as if there’s a limited supply.
That’s Bennett’s cue. Behind the counter, he opens up the ledger and begins to note every expense from the Tenryou’s crew as Wagner makes small talk.
“Leaving early? Surprised you aren’t staying to bleed more money from the local traders. Break their hearts to see your pretty captain go.”
Bennett has never heard Kujou laugh; today is unremarkable as ever. “You have some guests arriving in the next few days, if our scouts aren’t wrong. Captain wants to stay out of his way.”
Guests. Bennett keeps his eyes on his writing and his ears firmly pricked. Wagner shifts his weight, floor boards creaking below. “Anyone we know?” Translation: how much should we worry?
“No.” Now, Bennett looks up. New pirates can only mean—“Not personally, at least. They don’t usually run this far south.”
South? Not that there’s really anything worth seeing this far down, but all pirates frequent the Southern Seas. En masse, it’s not a group known for their affection for cold weather or cold beds, so only truly desperate crews make for the Northern Seas. For most of them, it’s down to an inability to elbow their way into more lucrative territories, so they’re forced to look elsewhere.
But any crew that desperate shouldn’t be a problem for the Tenryou, so why are they leaving?
She catches Bennett looking, tilts her head in his direction. “They aren’t the type to raid. Expensive tastes, so you’ll make a killing.”
Wagner accepts the receipt as Bennett hands it over, doesn’t even double-check it before he lays it in Kujou’s hands. “Why the rush?”
Heavy bags of coins are set on the counter next to Wagner—more than their tab by a lot, but no one will bother making the correction. Wagner always keeps Yae’s favorites in stock, and she always brings him alcohol this shitty corner of the world doesn’t deserve. Kujou tucks the folded paper into her bag but makes no move to leave.
“A matter of clashing egos, I think. I imagine Yae is loath to break bread with the only captain who’s ever beaten her to a mark.” Both Wagner and Bennett balk, but Kujou doesn’t blink. She nods to each of them, then slips back out the door.
Silence. Bennett makes a show of turning a page in the ledger to settle the account, and watches Wagner rehome the coin purses, brow furrowed.
“She didn’t have to warn us.” Not the type to raid, but Kujou felt the need to give them a heads up anyway. Bennett picks at the wax seal of a bottle. “...Why are they down south?”
“Why does any big fish expand its territory?” Wagner watches the harbor. “They’re hungry.”
Hungry, and not even the Tenryou is enough to dissuade them. “Big fuckin’ fish.”
Wagner only hums.
🕂
It’s like watching birds scatter before a storm. All the ships with scouts worth their salt leave within the day, which makes for a slower morning shift at Windwail. But by nightfall, the tavern is stuffed to the gills with all the crews of captains too stupid or too arrogant to care about what’s coming, and locals enjoying the theatre of it all.
Stupidity has a way of making men waste money, and arrogance compels them to prove how much of it they have. Bennett makes up for an idle morning by running between tables all night. By the time Wagner waves him down, he seriously considers crawling into the storage loft and just sleeping there.
“Don’t come in tomorrow morning.” Before Bennett can argue, Wagner cuts him off, setting his wages between them. “I’m hosting the town meeting for all the guilds.”
“And none of them drink, you’re right.” Bennett rolls his eyes. A morning off sounds nice, but an impromptu meeting can only mean a few things. After Kujou’s warning; just one. Bennett wants to hear it first hand. “I’m coming.”
“I won’t pay you.”
“I’ll tell Rosaria you withheld wages from me.”
“Then don’t fuckin’ co—Archons, just take the money now—” But Bennett is already out the door before Wagner can hand him a second pouch.
The streets are quieter than normal. It stands to reason—birds flee on the wind, and mammals all hide in the underbrush. Doesn’t make it less unsettling to see the pathways gaping and empty, lanterns glowing in the shine of wet cobblestone.
Distantly, singing and shouting and sounds of the living drip from the cracked doors of bars and brothels. Bennett snakes between buildings, and stops on a hill overlooking the harbor.
From a distance, it looks magical; little starspots of fire on the water. Most of life is like that—pleasant from afar, waterlogged and molding and encrusted with barnacles up close.
Maybe Bennett could use some distance.
Too bad it’ll never happen.
🕂
The tavern is packed to the gills the next morning—it’s never empty, no matter the time, but this is impressive even for Musk Reef. Bennett slips through the back entrance and is behind the bar before Wagner catches him. By then, it’s too late; he’s already serving drinks, and it’s more than obvious Wagner needs the extra hands.
“Half wages.” Wagner leans over his head to grab a bottle and Bennett elbows out from under him.
“Fine. I work tables when the new crew comes in.”
Save money, or save his barkeep? Wagner glares at him. “Fine.”
Unfortunately, that gamble doesn’t pay off. The longer the guild meeting runs, the more obvious it is that no one really knows anything about this mystery crew, but what little they’ve cobbled together has them worried, or interested. Either way, worth sticking around for.
“Call 'im the Drowned Man up north, he’s never traveled this—”
“That’s a stupid fucking name, Drowned Man, anyone can drown—”
“I heard he’s part siren, and that’s why—”
“He’s part fucking fish?”
“So he’ll get here and die of heatstroke, why the fuck are we worrying—”
“What if it’s just rumors? A fake reputation built along the grapevine?”
Wagner clears his throat. “Tenryou left as soon as they heard he was headed this way—doesn’t seem to be fake.”
Eula crosses her arms over her chest, eyes narrowed. “And what else did the venerable Madame Kujou tell you? Since you seem to know more than the rest of us, Wagner, why don’t you fill us in?”
More accusatory than anyone would normally dare to be with the town’s best barkeep, but Wagner doesn’t even blink. “Yae wants to avoid him—he beat her to a mark. Egos, Kujou said.”
“Kujou settled their tab as soon as the scouts returned. Paid extra.” Every eye in the room turns on Bennett, a feeling he has never liked in small doses and definitely dislikes now.
Before Wagner can scold him—Bennett is neither a guild leader or any kind of leader, so there’s no reason for him to talk—Eula motions for him to continue.
“She…there isn’t much else. They won’t raid us, and they have a lot of money to throw around. Told us we’d make a killing.” Windwail hums with low conversation.
Carefully, Bennett avoids Wagner’s eye. Easy to, when Eula is still watching him. Like there’s still something he hasn’t said. She’s the first to stand from her chair, and Amber is only a second slower.
“Then we proceed as usual. They’re too rich to consider pillaging the town, and the Tenryou relies on this port too much to risk losing it. If there had been a real threat, they would have stayed.”
And that’s the end of it. As guild leaders file out, Wagner drops another coin pouch in front of Bennett.
“Wages and a half. Don’t come in.”
Bennett doesn’t even look at it. For once, something exciting is happening. Something new.
Something worth watching the horizon for.
“Deal’s a deal. I’ll be here.”
🕂
When Bennett was little, he used to stay up to watch the sun surface on the horizon each morning. Tucked on the roof of what used to be a church and what is now a market hall—the only god here is commerce—he’d watch the port come alive in the first light of dawn.
Everything had been exciting, even the mundane. When you know so little of the world, your imagination fills in the blanks, and it’s always better than reality. Every unfamiliar ship was a Pirate King, here with treasure and stories and exotic cargo to trade. The fishing boats were hauling in giant squid, kelpie, leviathans. Musk Reef was such a tiny corner of the world, but it didn’t matter; the rest of the world was bridging the distance.
The world was made for Bennett, when he was little. Unending and interesting and always moving so that he’d run to catch up. The waves lulled him to sleep, the gulls woke him up.
Then he got older, the work got harder and the hours longer, so he slept through sunrise instead of waiting up to meet it. There’s no time to watch the horizon when just making enough money to cover rent barely leaves him time to collapse in bed under the roof he’s earned. The world stops bridging the gap.
The windows of Windwail are a fine enough view, anyway. The world is framed by salt-burned wood and perpetually rusting hinges, but that’s all it needs. No reason to dress it up, to watch for Pirate Kings or leviathans or the sun.
Bennett was the son of someone, once, washed ashore in the smoldering hull of a ship on a morning just like this. Like all things that came to Musk Reef, he went for a fair price, and was expected to be worth the trouble of fishing him out of the water. Then Musk Reef changed hands, and so too did Bennett.
Now, he is not expected to be worth anything. Towns like Musk Reef have no momentum on their own—limp sails luffing in the wind without any impetus to move. They beg for fresh air, new blood, something to keep them going.
How long has it been, such that everyone forgot the air they’re breathing is stagnant?
🕂
A sister once told Bennett once that his mother had been a pearl diver. That she’d dove into the sea one day and never came back out. Bennett didn’t remind her that he wasn’t from here, that there was no way she could have known who his mother was, because he wasn’t from here.
It didn’t matter. Another orphan boy listened in and teased Bennett for weeks after that she’d been a siren all along, and that that made Bennett a monstrosity, a halfling here to doom the town.
Musk Reef was already doomed—it didn’t take Bennett to do it.
Maybe the nuns told him the story to tie up a loose end, to give a child who had nothing at least the comfort of closure. Lies are still lies to their God, but maybe God looks the other way sometimes.
Maybe the little boy had only wanted to knock him down so that there’d be someone lower than himself.
But all Bennett heard was; she got out. That Musk Reef couldn’t sink its claws into everyone, not forever. Even fictional, inhuman, monstrous mothers were capable of escape.
And if she could, why not him? The tide takes anyone willing, as far as the sea goes.
🕂
A week passes after Tenyrou's departure. No one will admit it, because the good people of Musk Reef have nothing if not their unearned pride, but the silence puts everyone on edge. Every day without word from scouts, without a new ship pulling into port, means more crews weighing the merits of booking it out while they have the chance.
Bennett, as it happens, is not booking it. Nowhere to go but to work, he shows up early in the morning with the hopes that if nothing else, new gossip will have come through the tavern, if not new faces.
"Busy body," Wagner accuses, the second he shows up and sees his barkeep has beat him to the door he lives above.
"Good morning, sir." Bennett grins, narrowly avoiding getting his ears boxed. "Any new shipments?"
"Oh, because that's what you're here for." Wagner holds the door open for him anyway, letting Bennett duck under his arm before he locks the door behind them both again. "You know very well when the next shipment comes."
"Right, well, in these unprecedented times—" Bennett gestures to the docks, busy but still emptier than they should be, in evidence. "I just thought, maybe, we'd have new crews come in to fill the gap. And, perhaps, they would know something."
Wagner stares at him for a long time. Long enough that Bennett starts to weigh the cost benefit of fleeing out the window.
"I'm going to sell you to the next crew that comes in, you know that? And I'm going to get a good deal, for all I've endured these long years."
"Really?" A head pops up in the window, to which Bennett screams and tries to slam the storm shutters. A shockingly strong arm stops him before he gets far, and Bennett blinks at freckled, tanned, just-on-the-edge-of-burnt skin before he lifts his gaze. "Captain will be thrilled with me, then."
Bright blue eyes, dark red hair. Bennett's never seen this man before. But there isn't a crew behind him, which means he can't be from the ship Tenryou fled to avoid. Wouldn't they all have come out in force, their infamous Captain leading the charge?
Behind him, Wagner hums. A low, warning tone that usually sends their less behaved customers running. The man doesn't move.
"Tavern isn't open yet." Wagner nods to the man's hand, still holding the shutter open. Second warning.
"Oh? Guess I'll have to come by later." He hasn't looked at Wagner once, which convinces Bennett the man wants to fucking die. He winks at Bennett, which confirms the theory in totality. "Bet you go for a pretty penny, huh?"
Before Wagner can demonstrate the need to heed two warnings before the third is issued, the man is gone, disappearing into the crowds. Bennett inspects the wood of the shutter as he locks it into place like it'll be branded somehow.
"Think he's one of them?"
"Can't say. Stupid to send such a loudmouthed scout." Wagner walks over to the window, surveying the horizon before he looks down to Bennett. "Whether he comes back or not, you be careful. Clear?"
Bennett watches the crowds for a flash of red. Nothing.
He meets Wagner's gaze. "Clear."
🕂
Careful is a relative term. Some people may consider the fact that Bennett does not physically go down to the docks on his own to be evidence that he's being careful. Others still, if they paid attention, would appreciate the fact that Bennett doesn't ask any of their regulars if they've heard anything of suicidal gingers gallivanting about port. He doesn't even tell anyone what he's seen, and he knows Wagner is expecting him to, because he watches Bennett like a hawk the rest of the day.
The man doesn't come back. Bennett doesn't watch for him, but he does take a longer route home, in case he really meant to come back to bid for Bennett at some point. Wagner doesn't go as far as walking him home, but he watches from the doors of the tavern, which is more than he does on most nights.
Maybe it should worry Bennett, that Wagner is so worried, but nothing ever happens. Not to Bennett, not that counts. That leaves a mark, besides some scrapes and bruises.
Everything heals, given time, and Bennett has that in spades.
From his church bell perch, he watches the port get its second wind of the night. Crews onboard ships, singing and dancing, making their way to and from the various bars and brothels and dens dotting the cliff sides. No new ships, no red flashes, only the warm golden glow of a thousand lanterns. Too far away to choke Bennett with smoke, only to offer him a glimpse of a desert mirage.
False and fleeting and seductive, what-ifs caught by the moon on choppy waves. Fool's gold that he refuses to reach for.
Instead, he slips down the tower, shutters his windows, and climbs into bed. Holds onto the truth, tucked against his heart under thread-bare blankets; nothing ever happens.
Not to Bennett. Not that counts.
🕂
The next morning is unremarkable as the one before. So is the one after that. and the next. And the next.
Still drunk sailors litter the dawn-hued streets, like they never even made it back to the docks last night. It probably isn’t far from the truth—Bennett gives them a wide berth as he makes his way to Windwail. At least the tavern itself is relatively unafflicted; only one sailor, who hobbles off as Bennett crests the hill as though he’s being chased.
Not once has Bennett ever been intimidating enough to drive anyone off on his own, but paranoid drunks will see anything in the fog. Maybe he should have leaned into the halfling rumors, if only for the implied threat behind it. It’d make mornings opening the tavern by himself worlds easier, not having to watch his back.
The bar is a mess, which is equally unremarkable. Bennett grabs a bucket and starts on the entrance.
"You still for sale? Am I too late?" Bright blue eyes, dark red hair. The sailor from before leans in the doorway over him. Here; the merits of watching his back, writ large. "I came as fast as I could."
Bennett bristles, straightening up as if there's a way to make himself bigger, scarier than someone who towers over him. "Never was."
"No? Not what your master said."
Anger flares hot over Bennett's cheeks. Eyes narrowing, he shoves the already filthy rag in his hand against the man’s chest. "I don't have a master. If you want slaves, Musk Reef doesn't have them, so you can fuck right off back—"
"Woah, woah, woah, I wasn't—" Hands raised, the man’s back hits the wall of Windwail. His eyes are so wide, they could hold the whole sea. "I didn't mean, it was just a joke—"
"It's not fucking funny, is it?" Bennett corners him against salt-rotted wood, and is shocked he just takes it. It would be easy for him to out maneuver Bennett, to fight his way out of this, so why isn’t he? "Maybe you should stick to, what, scrubbing decks? Picking barnacles off the hull? Wit doesn’t seem to suit you."
"I—um. I'm the scout." Thoroughly cowed, a kicked puppy. He swallows, the bob of his throat heavy as he takes Bennett's rag. "I'm sorry, truly. I shouldn't have said that."
Bennett holds his ground. "No. You shouldn't have."
Large hands reach for the bucket in his hand, largely empty now. He sets it aside with the rag, and offers Bennett his clean hand. "I'm Ajax. Can I make it up to you...?"
"Bennett." He considers Ajax, resolutely does not linger on big, pleading eyes. Instead, he glances at the bucket. "You can help me clean before open."
Instead of being disappointed, Ajax brightens up all over. "Yes, sir." He grins, following Bennett inside with supplies in hand. "Won't miss a spot."
"Better not." He tosses two new rags to Ajax from behind the bar. "Or you'll answer to Wagner."
"Much rather answer to you."
"You'd enjoy that, wouldn’t you." Bennett meets his gaze. "Gratification can’t be good for you. Can’t always get what you want."
Ajax smiles at him, leaning over the bar to tap Bennett’s nose with a wet finger. "Can’t I?"
He doesn’t miss a spot.
Bennett is shocked he hangs around, that he doesn’t beg off to find a better target to flirt with at the first opportunity. Instead, he slides into an empty chair near the window, head resting on his arms against the bar he just polished.
“You always open alone?” Ajax watches him reorganize the back of the bar. “That guy—Wagner, he seemed awfully protective of you.”
Bennett blinks. “More protective of the tavern, really. He sent me home early last night, so I came in early today to open. The nights here are pretty long.”
“The tavern, right. You’ve worked with him a long time, then.”
“I used to be just a stock runner, when I was little. I wasn’t old enough to be behind the bar, or tall enough, so I did odd jobs until I was.”
“Still barely tall enough.” Ajax grins, cheeks flushing pink when Bennett sets a flagon down in front of him. “What’s this?”
Bennett tries not to look directly at him. “Your wages.”
“I thought this was penance.”
“Yeah, well.” Heat creeps up the back of Bennett’s neck. He stares at a dent in the bar between them. “Then you stuck around for two hours and cleaned under the counter, so. I don’t even do that. It feels fair.”
“Little dirty work never hurt anyone.” Ajax grabs another cup from behind the bar, pouring half of his own drink in before he slides it to Bennett. “Gonna help me clean up after?”
“Sure, there’s a well out back.”
“Aww, what if I fall in?”
“You’re tall.”
Even after the tavern opens for the day, Ajax sticks around. When it gets particularly busy, he even helps run drinks, and Bennett can’t figure out why. If he’s angling for a job, he could have just asked Wagner for one, but that doesn’t seem to be it.
The only conclusion that makes any sense is that he’s just doing it to help Bennett. Which loops back around to making no sense at all, because Bennett has nothing he could want.
The company is nice, anyway. Even if it’s only for a day until greener pastures are in sight. Ajax finishes wiping down tables and lounges back in his seat.
“Your regulars keep talking about a new ship coming in. Scouts spot them already?”
“Not yet.” Bennett sits behind the bar, grateful to rest his feet for a second. Everyone is out in force today to trade information and gossip like hens. “We got a tip off from a trusted crew—they left town because of them.”
Ajax leans forward, conspiratorial. “Really? Who?”
“Tenryou.” Bennett stays in place, but they’re close enough he catches the way Ajax’s eyes light up with what must be recognition. “You know them?”
“Who doesn’t? I’m shocked there’s anyone who could make them run off.”
“The Drowned Man sure did.” One of the regulars, so old he’s practically walking at a ninety degree angle, pipes up as he makes his way back to his own seat.
Ajax snorts, and Bennett rolls his eyes.
“That can’t be what they call him.”
Ajax tilts his head to the side, playing with his earring until it throws light into Bennett’s eyes. Crimson, like the best kind of sunset. “Why not?”
“It’s too…” Bennett purses his lips. Ajax's eyes linger on them. "I don't know, stupid? It doesn't even make sense—what kind of captain would brag about drowning? It's like calling yourself 'Capsize Jack'."
Laughter, warm and loud and unrestrained. Bennett feels it like a hand on the nape of his neck, smoothing down his spine.
"Sharp little tongue on you." It sounds like a compliment, like praise, the way Ajax says it. The way he leans in, like the tavern isn’t full of people who could be watching. Like there’s nothing else worth looking at but a barkeep. "You'd really tell him what you think?"
“He’d have to know who I was first.” Bennett tops up his flagon just to have something to occupy himself—Ajax hasn’t drunk enough to warrant it. “Besides, why would he care what I think? What anyone thinks? He’s got the entire port panicking and he isn’t even here yet.”
“Aren’t all pirates image obsessed? Burning beards, blood-red coats, men that rise from Hades to crew their ships; it’s all just theatrics.” Ajax flourishes his hands, fingers wiggling in Bennett’s face like a pantomime phantom. “The audience has to buy in, or the trick doesn’t work. No one wants to play to an empty theatre.”
“I’m not the audience.”
Ajax smiles. A dangerous, riptide thing. “Aren’t you?”
Bennett snorts to remind his lungs to function and turns to wipe down the bar. His feet complain, but he needs the distraction. To keep his hands busy.
“Impressing me has the same outcome as not impressing me; the world still turns. I think if every pirate lord lost sleep over the opinions of barkeeps, they’d be terrible pirates.”
“I think all pirate lords are particularly talented at assessing value. It's a practiced skill, honed. Otherwise, how would they know what’s worth taking?”
Before Bennett can answer, Wagner slips in behind him. Bennett hadn’t even noticed he’d entered the tavern at all. Grabbing two growlers, he turns to Ajax. “And just what are you assessing here?”
Most men would tuck tail and run. Ajax smiles with all his teeth. “Only your impressive stock. Rare to see a collection this fine so far south.”
“Rarer to see a new face so far south.” Wagner shoves one of the growlers into Bennett’s arms and nods him to the other end of the bar. “What was your name, sailor?”
“Oh, no one.” Bennett can feel Ajax’s eyes on his back the second he turns it to them. The tips of his ears grow hot, and it is not because of the man at the bar. It is also not because he strains to hear the conversation over the chaos of the tavern.
“Well, aren’t you a regular Odysseus.”
“Impressed you know him. They teach you boys down here?”
“They teach us just enough.”
“Charity never rests idle, does it?”
“Frequent recipient?” Wagner blinks at him, glancing at Bennett as he makes his way back over. He doesn’t need to vocalize his next question.
“He helped me open this morning.” Ever the skeptic, Wagner raises an eyebrow. “He scrubbed under the entire counter, and the floor behind the bar.”
Wagner whistles. “Thankless work to not get paid for.” Which is the closest Ajax will get to a thank you at all.
Ajax doesn’t seem to mind. He smiles as Bennett walks past them to grab another growler. “I got thanked plenty.”
Ajax leaves around midday, presumably to check in with the captain he’s been avoiding all morning. Bennett doesn’t ask where he’s going, but he insists he’ll be back for Bennett later.
Later is an indeterminate thing. Undefinable, impossible to anticipate. So Bennett doesn’t. He keeps busy, eyes on his work and not on the door.
Two days later, still no Ajax. No new ship, either. It sets Bennett on edge. Wagner leaves him to close up for the night, so he takes his time cleaning up, ignoring the way his shoulders ache.
The ache is a familiar one. Unchanging, predictable, tide-like. Bennett needs to stick to what he knows. Whether or not this phantom ship ever comes, it won’t change anything. He needs to what is familiar and safe, and not fall for easy bait like anticipation.
By the time he’s done, Musk Reef is beginning to quiet down for the night. It’ll only last an hour, but the sense of calm is a comfort after so much noise and constant movement all day. He steps outside, fog clinging to his skin, and jumps as a hand slides along his lower back.
Before he can scream, or grab the dagger from his belt—Ajax. He presses his finger to Bennett’s mouth.
“Just me, sorry. Didn’t think you’d want me calling out and drawing any attention.”
At this time of night? No. Bennett sighs out, lips ghosting over the finger Ajax still hasn’t moved. When he does, the feeling of it lingers. It’s hard to look him in the eye.
“I didn’t. Why are you here so late? The only places still open are closer to the docks. If you wanted drinks, or—women, I guess, or—”
“I’m not here for any of that. Drinks or otherwise.” Ajax smiles. “I’m about to head back to the ship. Figured if you were here, I’d walk you home first.”
Bennett raises his eyebrows. “You want to walk me home?”
“Docks seem kind of rowdy, tonight. Everyone’s on edge.” Ajax glances down the hill to the harbor, brow furrowing. “They’re looking for excuses to get into trouble.”
“You think I’d get into trouble?”
“Not everyone has your manners.” Ajax looks back at him. “Can’t blame them, really. They never see anything half as pretty at sea.”
Overwhelmingly, Bennett is grateful for how dark the street is. How obscuring fog can be. “...so you’re here to walk me home.”
Ajax offers him a hand. It’s warm, despite how cold the wind off the water is. All of Ajax is. “Just a walk. Unless you want me to come inside.”
It’s sensible to accept the help. When Ajax is so much bigger than him, physically imposing. It’s just to deter the kind of trouble that usually makes him take detours and double the time it takes to get home. It’s just a walk.
“Won’t your captain be upset?” He knows some ships have curfews, a holdover from back when most of these men were still merchants or seamen.
“He knows where I am.” Ajax walks closer to the road, eyes scanning the street once. “We’ll be in port for a bit, anyway. Gives the crew some time to stretch their legs, relax.”
Bennett resists the urge to ask how long. It doesn’t matter, either way. He takes a turn, squeezing Ajax’s hand to make sure he follows behind, glancing behind them. Ajax does too, lantern light catching in the red of his hair. They’re only a few steps from his door.
“Why don’t you ever come down to the docks? Hiding from someone?”
“Not exactly.” Bennett chews his lip. “I used to…get in trouble, a bit. With older boys.”
Or slave runners, when they still frequented Musk Reef.
“Bennett.” Ajax clutches at his chest with his free hand. “I can’t believe it.”
“I didn’t want to. They all just want to impress each other, so they pick on easy targets.”
Ajax hums. “I don’t think you’re an easy target now. You weren’t afraid of me.”
“I don’t need to be.” Bennett glances up only to find Ajax watching him already. In the dark, his eyes are almost black.
“No? What’s to say I didn’t offer to walk you home to lure you away, all alone?”
It doesn’t sound like a threat. It sounds like Ajax calling a bluff. Teasing. Bennett taps his dagger against Ajax’s chest, and feels more than hears the way Ajax exhales in surprise.
“Alright, then. I’m all alone.” He tilts his head. “But so are you.”
Ajax doesn’t look away. Doesn’t flinch as he leans closer with nothing but thin, razor-edged air between them.
Bennett flushes hot all over. “You’re not scary at all.”
“Not at all.” Ajax thumbs the edge of the blade, something like pride in the way he smiles at Bennett. “Maybe you can walk me home, next time. Tuck me in.”
“Maybe.” Bennett slides the dagger back into its sheath on his thigh, blue-black eyes trailing behind. He steps towards the door.
Ajax tugs him back by his hand, bringing it up to his mouth, lips brushing over his knuckles. There’s no one on the street to see it, only Bennett. Just the two of them, all alone.
“Goodnight, Bennett.”
Maybe he should be scared of Ajax. Heart pounding, he swallows. “Goodnight, Ajax.”