It was a good sleep that a delicious aroma and the resultant rumble of his stomach pulled Blaine from that evening. He supposed he should be grateful that a diet of bread and water wasn't on the pirates' agenda for their prisoners, but Johnny was grateful enough for the both of them, if the way he was trying to push his face between the bars was any indication.

"They wouldn't starve us," Thad was saying.

"You don't know that," argued Johnny, refusing to take his eyes off of the glorious sight before him.

Dinner, Blaine saw when he joined the others, consisted of thick slices of bread and a hearty stew that was being dished up by a rather formidable and vocal woman, and passed through slots in the doors by two boys who jumped to do her bidding. Superstitious grumblings could be heard from prisoners here and there about female sailors and bad luck, but no one, Blaine noticed, said it to her face or declined her food.

They'd just about finished serving everyone when Mr. Finley clomped down the steps, Davidson right behind. Finley smugly regarded the room full of people whose mouths were too occupied for bellowing grievances. "Captain Black asked me to look in on you again before lights out." He spoke without interruption, and grinned afterward. "Also to remind you the offer stands if you'd like to pitch in topside. He reckons you'll want to think on it awhile. We can't be babysitting, though, so you'd be expected to work while stretching your legs. No more than a few at a time either, so keep in mind you'd have to take turns." He got a mixed reception, with expressions ranging from thoughtful to furious – Smythe. "Most of you are crew, I expect. How many passengers?"

The ladies raised their hands, of course, and the maid followed suit after a few swiftly spoken words from the other two. There was also a footman who'd been traveling with them, one older, rounder gentleman traveling alone, and Blaine. Finley murmured something to Davidson, whose hard glance examined both the footman and Blaine before he nodded curtly and left.

"Captain might come around again sometime in the next few days." Mr. Finley's voice rose progressively louder as meals were consumed and the clamor grew. "In the meantime, if there are any problems you can ask for me!" The cook was going about her business, scraping the pot to refill bowls held out for more and calling to her assistants to fetch water, without moderating her volume. The boys each filled a pail from a large barrel, dropped ladles into them and brought them to the table where the cook thumped down her empty kettle. Men were talking, metal was clanging, and spoons were clattering, and Mr. Finley threw his hands in the air. Few captives showed him any interest. Most eyes were on the cook.

"What's she doing?" Blaine nudged Johnny, whose attitude had taken a sharp turn for the better. He'd practically inhaled his bread, shoving the entire thing into his mouth before it could be snatched away again as a cruel joke. And he was now humming rapturously after diving face first into a second helping of lamb stew. He came up for air far enough to peek over the edge of his bowl.

The cook had pulled a jar of pale, cloudy liquid from a wooden crate and was dumping it into the water buckets before her young helpers hauled them from cell to cell. They started with the women, handing them the ladles to drink from, to Miss Pillsbury's horror. Blaine looked curiously at his cellmate.

Johnny was gaping in surprise, which was unfortunate for Blaine, because he hadn't swallowed that last bite yet. Johnny realized it himself when he tried to speak and nearly let a mouthful get away. After rectifying that and wiping a palm down his beard, only to lick it clean while Blaine cringed, he hugged the bowl closer to his chest and stared at the cook with wide eyes. "Lemon," he said nonsensically.

"Beg pardon?" Blaine asked.

"She put lemon juice in the water," the sailor said with a reverence Blaine couldn't share.

He thought it a very odd thing to do, except as a prank on one's already sour-faced governess. Not that he had ever– "Why would she do that?"

"Keeps away the scurvy," Johnny mumbled around another mouthful, moaning sounds of ecstasy that Blaine thought a little disturbing. And Johnny wasn't the only one. Though a small handful of officers scowled relentlessly over their empty bowls and spitefully refused offers of more, the lower ranking sailors were happily gorging themselves. The superstitious grumblings had transformed into effusive praise, with Blaine's cellmate leading the pack of the cook's newfound admirers.

Blaine drank his fill of unpleasantly tart water when his turn came, with encouraging nods from Thad and Johnny, then sat with his back to the wall. He made a cushion of his folded blanket. Then adjusted it. And readjusted it. Until, after a painfully long hour of fidgeting, he concluded that he would go mad stuck in this cell for months. He'd never been good at sitting still, to the aggravation of his various tutors, and though he didn't know how much use he'd be as a crewman, anything would be better than being locked in a cage.

Scrubbing the deck was probably simple enough, if a bit labor intensive. Blaine wasn't afraid of hard work, so maybe he could try that. Except... On the Iron Fist it was used as a punishment. He'd seen men unable to straighten after hours spent kneeling over the book-sized sandstone, scouring the wooden deck until it was spotless.

For all he knew it could be standard practice to reserve that chore until someone annoyed a superior, drank someone's grog, cheated at cards, or whatever else passed for minor infractions at sea. He knew it was a minor punishment because he'd also seen men flogged. Well, one man. Once was enough for him to never watch again.


Deep red wine swirled slowly around in its glass, glinting in the light and sending colorful shadows dancing across the floor, and thoroughly wasting its full-bodied bouquet on Kurt. He sat staring sightlessly over the rim, his thoughts turned inward.

Earlier he'd asked Finn to find out if there were any male passengers in the brig who looked fit for work. As if he didn't know. It was embarrassing, even if he was the only person aware of the fact.

Impulsive actions weren't something Kurt was prone to and he'd instantly regretted this one. Fortunately, his brother hadn't noticed the way Kurt had not quite met his eyes when he asked, but then Kurt had to go and make it worse by babbling an explanation, claiming that the passengers they'd seen in the past were irritatingly self-important society gents who'd never done an honest day's work and wouldn't know a yardarm from a mizzenmast. At which point Finn started to look confused, so Kurt dropped it.

Beautiful eyes and striking features had left him irritatingly spellbound earlier, when he had much more important things to think about. He absently sipped his drink and frowned at its flatness. The glass was set aside and he stood to begin pacing, the click-clack of his boot heels announcing his agitation, had anyone been listening.

They'd lost two men taking the Iron Fist. That was the one aspect of this life to which Kurt would never adjust. Knowing that he was responsible for someone's death, whether directly or indirectly, weighed on him until he couldn't breathe. He stayed strong in front of the men, though, never for a moment showing how affected he was, until it got to be too much and he would lock himself in his cabin to grieve in private.

He could scream without making a sound.

As long as he kept his pain and anger buried deep, everything would be fine. Absolutely fine. He probably just needed a diversion. Yes. That would explain his ill-timed interest in a man he'd spent approximately two seconds looking at.

Sure, the stranger was handsome, and clean shaven, which Kurt happened to prefer. He was also well dressed and, frankly, not your standard, scruffy, unwashed sailor. Naturally he would stand out. That was no reason to take any special notice of him. Neither was his open expression, filled with unabashed curiosity and not the hatred Kurt was accustomed to seeing. So, he resolved to push any thoughts of the man out of his mind. Done. Problem solved.

He jumped at the sound of a sharp knock and scolded himself for daydreaming. Nevertheless, he walked – didn't run – back to his chair, crossing one long leg over the other and grasping the stem of his glass in a steady hand. "Come in," he called, giving the Burgundy another swirl.

One of Kurt's officers pushed open the door and took a single step inside, keeping hold of the brass handle. "Sir."

"Yes, Davidson, what is it?" Kurt set the wine glass gently down again, knowing he had no intention of drinking it.

"Mr. Finley sent me to tell you there are two able-bodied passengers aboard, sir." Davidson's jaw clenched.

Kurt wilted at the untimely reminder of something he'd only just determined to forget. "Thank you," he sighed wearily, then frowned. "Did you say two?"

Davidson gave a short nod, looking more stern than usual, if one could distinguish among his many levels of sternness. "Yes, sir. Mr. Finley is in the hold now, talking to the prisoners." He kept his eyes trained at a point over Kurt's shoulder. "If that's all, sir?" He made to leave.

"Wait." Kurt's hand fluttered in a shushing motion. "Did you see them yourself? Were they both gentlemen, do you think?" Hearing the blatant curiosity in his own voice, he winced inwardly, wishing he had let the officer go before he'd had a chance to embarrass himself further.

Davidson glared harder at the wall. "I believe one was a manservant, sir."

"Oh. Thank you." Kurt pictured the beautiful, expensively attired man and knew he was no servant. "Not that it matters," he added belatedly.

"If you say so, sir."

Kurt's brows knitted at the tone, causing the sailor's eyes to shift farther away. "Thank you," Kurt repeated sharply. "Is everything ready for this evening?" The coldness that Kurt usually reserved for strangers served as a warning to tread carefully.

"Yes, sir." Davidson's mouth tightened until his thin lips were non-existent.

"Good. You may go."


Up on deck, the men were unusually quiet, going about their work without ribald jokes or even a cheerful sea shanty. Kurt was similarly subdued as he passed by, returning muted greetings on his way to the galley, where the atmosphere was much the same. Sailors offered a quiet, "Captain," and went back to their meals.

The quartermaster was placing his empty dish with a stack of others to be washed later. "Captain," he said and moved to stand next to him at the enormous cast iron stove. "Can I help you with that?" He reached for the bowl Kurt had picked up.

"No, I think I can manage. Thanks, Puck."

"All right. But I wouldn't let her catch you eating with the crew, unless you enjoy a good thrashing." Puck grinned lasciviously. "Some people do."

Kurt half-smiled. "I notice you're here." He gave Puck a knowing look.

"I have permission from the lady, herself." Puck smirked back. "She enjoys my scintillating company." He curled both arms in front of his body and flexed his pecs to force a small laugh from the captain. Then, with a friendly swat on Kurt's shoulder, Puck headed back to his post at the ship's wheel.

"Captain!" barked the cook minutes later. Kurt nearly flung a spoonful of stew across the table where he'd been sitting, stirring his meal, lost in thought. "What are you doing in here? Did you serve yourself?!" She stood in the doorway, looking as menacing as any sailor aboard. More so when she turned a murderous glare on those unfortunate enough to be present in the galley just then.

"It's fine. I don't need to be waited on," Kurt insisted as she stomped forward and her two mess hands were able to slink through the door behind her. The boys carried a large, empty pot between them and immediately tackled the scrubbing, trying to make themselves invisible.

"How dare you sit there stuffing your worthless faces while your captain spoons up soup like a common kitchen maid, you filthy bilge rats!" Flatly ignoring Kurt's denials, she bellowed to the room at large until a dozen big, strong men shrank in their seats, necks disappearing into shoulders.

Aboard the Blackbird there were three people upon whose bad side no one ever wanted to be: the captain, the surgeon and the cook.

"Get! Out!" she yelled at her shipmates, who began mowing each other down in their attempt to escape. "Get out of my kitchen this instant! I'll boil your bollocks for breakfast! I'll use your entrails for shark bait, you good-for-nothing-but-cannon-fodder sons of a penny whore!" she continued at an unholy volume, ensuring no man slackened his pace on his way out the door.

"That's better," she sighed pleasantly, seating herself across from Kurt. "I love a man who can follow direction." She gave him a saucy wink. "Now," her warm tone turned serious, "how are you, Captain?"

"I'm fine, Zize," he said, which told her how bad it really was. They never used real names, especially at sea. It was his own rule, made to protect every member of the crew for the day they decided to turn their back on pirating. Only a handful of people aboard knew her as anything other than Cook, or Cookie if they liked living dangerously – Puck. Kurt himself was the only exception to the rule, using his real first name, which Lauren privately believed was because he felt he deserved to be caught and punished. She also believed that anyone who tried would have to get past her first.

Kurt's feeble smile didn't fool her for one second, either. They'd been friends from the day they met; a couple of misfit kids who immediately clicked. It was for Kurt's sake that Lauren had insisted on taking over as cook aboard the Blackbird. He was already skin and bones, and growing thinner with every voyage until she could have picked him up by the scruff of his neck with one hand.

It wasn't just Kurt, though. All the men would return lighter than they'd left, looking sickly and half-starved and causing her unceasing worry. Lauren didn't appreciate being made to worry. Disease and malnourishment were rampant problems at sea, which didn't stop men from signing on to be sailors. She'd realized years ago of course that men were not very bright. But the stupidity of men did not stop women from loving them, and she loved Kurt like a brother. Maybe better; she didn't actually have a brother for comparison. Her hand slid across the table to cover his. "It's not your fault," she told him gently and watched with a sad heart as his eyes clenched and his head turned away.

Lauren patted his hand and checked to see that her helpers were minding their own business, which, of course, they were. Alex and Billy may have been a little too young yet to be promoted to crewmen, but they'd been with her long enough to know when to close their eyes and ears.

Giving Kurt time to compose himself, she got up and prepared a cup of hot tea with lemon, adding a generous spoonful of honey and a splash of rum and sliding it in front of him before sitting back down.

His smile was sad now, but grateful when his hands curled around the tin mug. "O'Neill and Thomas," he said in a small, pained voice, watching steam rise steadily from the hot drink.

"I know," she quietly replied.

"Doc's getting them ready now." Kurt swept a finger and thumb under his eyes and cleared his throat, speaking more evenly. "Services at sundown. I expect to see every man on deck in a few minutes."

Lauren followed his lead and raised her voice. "We'll be there, Captain. Billy, Alex," she called, and the boys ran to her side. "Go down to the cargo hold and haul up another case of rum. We'll be sending our shipmates off to Fiddler's Green with proper toasts and sea stories tonight!"

"Yes, ma'am!" they chorused and dashed out the door.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Captain? You hardly touched your stew. How about a fresh bowl later while the boys fetch you some nice, hot bath water?"

Kurt picked up his dear friend's hand and brought it to his lips. "You are an angel." He shook his head. "I don't think I'll be able to eat a thing tonight. Just the bath, please, if Billy and Alex aren't falling down drunk after the service."

"Pshht. If they fall, it'll be 'cause I knocked 'em down."


Captivity was boring! And smelly, and itchy. Blaine scratched for the hundredth time at the short, dark hair on his face.

It didn't start off so bad. He'd spent time getting to know his cellmates, Thad and Johnny and the other two, Trent and Nick. Thank heaven they never seemed to run out of adventurous tales to spin, and thank heaven there were neighboring cells for him to turn to if they did. If he'd been locked in here alone, he would be banging his head against the bars of his cage until they were imprinted on his forehead. With any luck he would knock himself unconscious.

Except that Lady Luck had abandoned him. Fickle tart.

For the first couple of days, the captured sailors weren't really inclined to chat. Blaine soon wore them down, but he couldn't take all the credit. Like Johnny, the others began to look forward to meal times, and then they rediscovered something they hadn't enjoyed since early childhood. Naps.

Full bellies and no eighteen hour work days? Captivity wasn't so terrible as all that.

Of course, Blaine had never known the feeling of relentless, gnawing hunger, or years of being worked ragged, and he'd always been able to sleep when he was tired. To the sailors, it felt like a well-deserved break. To Blaine it was prison, plain and simple. There wasn't even enough room to pace properly when the need to move burned under his skin.

He used both hands to scratch at his face and neck, scraping hard until his skin was red and raw, just to have something to feel.

"Why don't you run in place, or something?" Thad suggested.

Blaine took deep, calming breaths and looked at his friend. "Thanks. I would, except I'd be drenched in sweat inside of five minutes and none of us want that." He sighed and plopped down against the cell wall. He was spoiled, he'd decided. Well bred, he mentally mimicked his father, using an extra snooty accent for emphasis.

They'd been in here for a week. Never in his life had he gone a week without a bath and change of clothes. Never had he been denied exercise or fresh air or a close shave when he wanted them. This was good for him in the long run, then. Character building. That's what he kept telling himself, because these living conditions didn't seem to bother the others, except the ladies and the older gentleman, of course. Blaine knocked the back of his head lightly against the bars. He was soft. Like a woman. But even the maid didn't complain, only the 'proper' ladies. He groaned inwardly.

At least Blaine could honestly say he wasn't as bad as Smythe. When that man wasn't abusing his education to call the guards every derogatory term he didn't think they'd understand, he was complaining about the odor, or the cramped space, or being locked up with common sailors. And when he wasn't doing any of those, he was plotting. He and his two henchmen – as Blaine had come to think of the second mate and navigator – were forever forming elaborate escape plans. Being two cells away, though, Blaine couldn't hear all of it, thankfully.

So, Lady Luck hadn't entirely abandoned him. She was still out there, laughing.

It wasn't until the beginning of the second week that Mr. Finley came to pose the all-important question of who wanted to earn some time out of the brig. Smythe informed Finley in great detail exactly what he thought of him, and declared that none of his men would lift a finger for the pirate scum.

The well fed and unusually rested crewmen looked at each other, then at Smythe, and every single one of them started calling out to Mr. Finley to get signed up.

Smythe turned an unflattering shade of red, snarling orders at the men until someone across the way told him to shut his trap. "How dare you," he fumed. "I am the captain now!" Smythe stood tall and proud.

"Are ya now?" the old salt baited him. "Captain o' what?" Laughter broke out on all sides, causing Smythe to splutter furiously, demanding obedience. "Look around you, Captain," the crewman called out sardonically, waving a hand at the room full of smiling sailors. "There ain't a man here who owes you a blessed thing, least of all obedience. Come to think on it, I'm owed wages for the last three months, and since you claim to take over for Cap'n Clarington, I reckon that means I'll be gettin' my share from you."

Smythe's nose went into the air. "You'll burn in hell before you get a penny from me."

"That so?" asked a heavily muscled sailor from the cell next to Smythe's. Red flush quickly paling, Smythe took a step backward, right into the three pairs of hands that reached through the bars on his other side to grab at his waistcoat. There was a shriek, and Smythe and his men stood with their backs to each other, keeping out of range of all but the two sailors who were stuck sharing their cell. Those two leaned against the back wall, arms crossed, enjoying the show.

Blaine felt sorry for them. He also felt very ashamed that the navigator, Mr. Stanley, was actually the reason he'd chosen the Iron Fist from between the two ships preparing to leave port the day he'd made his impulsive decision to travel abroad.

The officer he'd spoken to from the other ship had seemed nice enough, a brawny, obviously hard-working man, unlike the petite, dough-faced, acerbic Stanley. Blaine hated to admit, even to himself, that the idea of buying passage from someone whose over-inflated ego reminded him of his father, yet who possessed no authority over Blaine whatsoever, had held a certain immature appeal. He grimaced. He'd brought this on himself. Someone out there was teaching him a lesson for being petty and disrespectful, and this prison was his punishment. It all made sense now.

He was quiet while the crewmen took turns speaking to Mr. Finley and listing their skills, which were numerous and varied and incomprehensible to Blaine. They rattled off so many nautical terms it was like a foreign language. Blaine spoke Italian, himself. He doubted it would come in handy in this situation.

"And you were a passenger, Mr...?" Mr. Finley's question snapped Blaine out of his introspective mope and he found several pairs of eyes turned in his direction.

"Anderson. Blaine Anderson." He cleared his scratchy throat. "Yes, sir, that's right."

Finley's smile was friendly, if still awkward, when he looked at Blaine. "Traveling on business, or visiting family?"

"Neither," Blaine admitted. Beside Mr. Finley, an officer whose name Blaine didn't know raised his writing hand from where he'd been diligently taking notes and slowly pushed his spectacles back with a pointed finger, blue eyes peering at Blaine through the glass. The man slid a sideways look to Mr. Finley that spoke volumes about this being a waste of time. Nevertheless, his pencil returned to his logbook after a moment, poised to take note should Blaine happen to say anything worthwhile.

A welcome distraction arrived at that moment in the form of the cook barging through the door, already spouting off orders right and left as one of her assistants and a couple of sailors carted down food and dishes under her watchful eye. Johnny, for one, had eyes only for the newcomers, the question of Blaine's journey forgotten.

Mr. Finley turned to call out a greeting. "Morning, Cook. Where's Billy, is he sick?" He glanced around for the other young man who usually tailed her everywhere.

"Serving the Captain's meal in his quarters." Her expression was pure challenge; a warning he didn't heed.

"But he usually just grabs something from the galley, doesn't he? If he eats at all."

"That's right!" She pounced on the opportunity to vent, and a finger jabbed him hard in the chest. "He doesn't eat enough to keep a guppy alive and you let him get away with it! It ain't healthy and I've had just about enough!"

"All right, all right. Calm down, Cookie." Mr. Finley patted her arm. "I'll talk to him."

"See that you do. And don't call me Cookie! How are you this morning, Johnny?" she asked her biggest fan, going from fighting mad to sweet as honey in the blink of an eye. "Nice to see someone appreciates my work."

"Yes, ma'am," Johnny agreed wholeheartedly, taking a deep whiff of the delicious aromas filling the air.

Mr. Finley turned back to the prisoners, grinning. "So, Mr... Anderson?" He glanced at the shorter officer for confirmation and received a nod, with a fair hint of exasperation thrown in. "You've never worked aboard a ship, is that right?" he asked Blaine.

"No, I haven't." Blaine refused to blush, grateful the first mate hadn't asked if he'd ever held any kind of employment, anywhere at all.

"Nevertheless, the captain is extending the same offer to you." Mr. Finley's smile was magnanimous – whether or not he knew what that meant. "If you have any interest, that is. Do you?"

Blaine's relief was complete and instantaneous. "Absolutely. Yes, I do. Yes," he confirmed with more enthusiasm than was warranted. If there was one thing Blaine had always had in spades, it was enthusiasm.

"I'll put that down as a yes, then, shall I?" snarked the blue-eyed pirate. He grinned at Blaine, who couldn't help smiling back.

"Yes, please."

"You understand you'd be expected to work?" asked Finley.

Thad developed a sudden cough so severe that he teared up.

"Yes, sir," Blaine gritted through a smile that was all teeth.

Mr. Finley cleared his throat, belatedly realizing he might have phrased that poorly. "Did you, uh, have any particular type of work in mind?"

Drooping shoulders gave Blaine away. "I could, maybe, scrub the deck?"

Finley's mouth fell open. "I'm not sure that's–" he began, and was quickly interrupted by the other officer.

"Would you mind showing us your hands?"

"Abe, what are you doing?" Mr. Finley asked him and was summarily shushed, a pencil waving in his face.

Blaine's cellmates craned their necks to peer over his shoulders as he reluctantly held out his hands, palm up, giving the pirates a good look at his smooth, callous-free skin.

A soft whistle came from the cook. "Wish I had hands that pretty."

Finley shot her a look. "All right, let it go." To Blaine he said, "I don't think we need any deck scrubbing right now. Do you have any other skills?" he asked without a trace of sarcasm, which Blaine truly appreciated.

"Well," Blaine glanced around at the curious faces turned his way, as well as those pretending not to listen. "I studied philosophy at university," he offered.

"Why?" asked Thad, getting a punch in the arm from Johnny.

"I've also studied business, history, and science, including a little astronomy." Blaine went on, ignoring Thad. "And Latin, of course," he shrugged, his confidence beginning to grow at the slightly impressed looks of his audience. "I speak Italian and play the pianoforte. Not that you'd have much use for that," he trailed off, remembering where he was.

"Is that all?" asked Thad. Johnny punched him again and Blaine chuckled.

"As a matter of fact, I also sing and dance. I was thinking of joining the circus. Do you suppose they'd take me?"

"With a mug like that? No way."

Blaine wasn't sure if that was an insult or compliment. "Uh, thanks?"

"Got all that?" Mr. Finley asked, cocking his head to look at Abe's notes.

"School. Circus. Got it," Abe confirmed, making a small flourish in his logbook. Then he moved on to the next cell while Cook pulled Mr. Finley aside for a few quiet words. Blaine watched nervously, attempting to look like he wasn't watching or nervous. There had to be something he could do. Anything. He'd think of something if it killed him, and if he had to wait in that cell until something came to him, it might.


A/N: Maybe I should have added Sebastian-bashing to the warnings. Hmm. Well, someone has to be a bad boy – um, the bad guy.

Also, I have a note about Johnny. I had researched while writing Chapter 1 and couldn't find a name for this Warbler, other than Beatbox, so I named him after the actor, Jon Hall. Then today I found out Beatbox's name is Richard James. *sigh* Sorry about that. So, for the purposes of this fic, his name is Richard John James, Jr., and he goes by Johnny.