"All right, Cap?"
"Mmhm."
Somehow, Puck wasn't completely reassured by the distracted mumble, so he meandered over to the deckhouse rail for a closer view of his brooding friend. "Sure?" he asked. "Only you've been watching them awhile now." Down on the main deck, men were hauling water and slinging drying lines. Canvas bags filled to the brim had been sorted into piles. "Lotta wash today. Exciting." The dryness of his tone failed to impress. Not so much as a dirty look for his trouble. Something was definitely up.
Another interminable minute passed, in which Puck's thoughts drifted aimlessly and then homed in on their journey ahead, a much, much more interesting topic in his opinion. "We'll be there soon," he thought aloud.
"Mmhm."
Puck sighed. Sometimes this having friends business was a lotta hassle. "I hear the island is really a giant dragon turtle, napping on the ocean floor," he tried.
Kurt's hands moved from his sides to grip the rail, his attention remaining fixed.
"They say one day it'll rear up its head, belch fire across its back and have the inhabitants for a crunchy snack."
"Yeah."
Snorting quietly, Puck followed the captain's line of sight. Tibby and Dom and Cap'n's cabin boy were stripping down to their trousers. Alongside them were two other prisoners, also shucking clothes, until they were covered only by saggy, worn, knee-length drawers. Puck had never seen much point in underpants himself. Not good for much. Just another layer to have to dig through when his balls itched. Probably invented by women. They had no appreciation for a good scratch. Speaking of which... Ahh, better.
Thankfully, not everyone shared his disdain for underpants, because one glimpse of those hairy-assed prisoners bent over a washtub, scrubbing away, would put him right off his lunch.
"Tibby looks cheerful," he ventured after the boredom grew too thick, approximately four seconds later. This seemed as good a time as any to test out a certain theory of Cook's. "Could be he's looking forward to seeing the missus," Puck mused. "Or could be he plans to shackle your mop-headed one to the mainmast and stuff him full o' pirate treasure."
"Mmhm. What?" Kurt's head swung sharply toward him and back, seeking out the world's most jovial pirate. So, he was paying some attention. Flushed cheeks and narrowed eyes turned slowly back on Puck.
"Yes?" His benevolent smile would have made a deaf and blind monk proud, could he have but seen or heard tale of it.
"You. I. Tibby wouldn't," Kurt sputtered with conviction, if not articulation.
Puck pondered this, observing the men with slightly more interest than previously and noticing someone else balefully watching the proceedings. "Nah, he probably wouldn't. Stick seems more the type."
As soon as the words sank in, the captain's gaze was racing across the deck again until his target was located. Knuckles whitening on the rail, Puck's buddy, Kurt, morphed into Captain Black before his very eyes. "It would be the last thing he did."
The tone was convincing. Puck had to give him credit, because it was a mystery to him how someone so gentle could project such menace. His voice would go quiet and dark, with a razor's edge, like the promise of a kind and personable serial killer right after you learned he was a hundred percent insane. If he didn't know better, Puck might have believed the threat. He did know better, though, and personally thought Kurt was about as dangerous as a kitten with a ball of yarn. Not many knew it, of course. In fact, he didn't think Kurt knew it. But, the Blackbird had been Puck's home for years and he had adapted to the captain's oddball way of thinking – eventually – even if he couldn't wrap his own brain around it.
Being a good guy wasn't so terrible as all that, Puck had decided long ago, so long as he and the others still had their reputation as ruthless cutthroats. That was important.
Another of Cook's theories was that the captain's biggest problem was being unwilling to lose his temper – also that he was too skinny, which Puck ignored. Years of refusing to take his anger out on anyone had caused it to build and fester until he was ready to explode. So said Cookie, who fancied herself an expert on all things Kurt. Oh, who was he kidding? She fancied herself an expert on all things, full stop.
As for himself, Puck thought Kurt needed to bend somebody over and have at 'em. Or bend himself over and whatnot. Whatever worked for him. (Puck honestly didn't want to know.) A vigorous plowing never failed to relieve tension. Which is why I'm always so relaxed, he smirked.
While Puck had moved on to other, less agitating thoughts, Kurt, unplowed and tense, still had his mind on the belligerent redhead. "I want him off this ship."
There was that tone again, crazy killer, normally reserved for strangers and enemies. Worse yet, Puck sensed the beginnings of a world-class snit. Shaking his head, he applied himself to the problem. Otherwise, they could all look forward to several days of a stompy-footed captain and a cook hell-bent on making everyone else suffer with him.
Soon he was grinning at nothing, so brilliant he impressed himself. "Did you know, Captain, that in some countries, the Navies beef up their ranks by pressing men into service?"
Kurt twitched with irritation and shot Puck an incredulous glare.
"It's true," Puck confirmed with a lazy nod, as if Kurt had asked, or cared at all. "They sign men up and force them to work, sometimes for years, before letting them go again," he elaborated. "Never their own countrymen, though. That's what's strange. They only enlist outsiders against their will." He nodded at the comprehension creeping into Kurt's newly attentive face. "I've heard tales of men being snatched right off the docks. Most times they don't even speak the language, but that doesn't stop the foreigners from makin' 'em work."
"No?" There was an unmistakable trace of hopefulness.
"Nope. We'd best keep a sharp lookout at some of those port calls we've got coming up. It'd be a damned shame if something like that happened to one of our own men. We'd probably never get him back."
Kurt's head circled around in a bemused yes-no motion. "Shame. Yes." He inhaled deeply of the salty air. "What would I do without you, Puck?"
Puck's snort was eloquent. "Sail around in circles and let Cook walk all over you."
"Well. At least we aren't sailing around in circles." Kurt looked slightly relieved as they went back to people watching, until the prisoner-cum-cabin boy spotted them and offered a friendly wave, grinning like a loon.
"He'd better put those teeth away before he signals our location to every ship in a hundred mile radius," Puck sniggered, then laughed aloud when Kurt's eyes slowly rolled upward, expressing his disbelief to the heavens that this was his life.
Puck had a great laugh; deep and resonating and rarely heard. Not the out-loud, full-bellied laughs, not from him. Kurt's instinctive, quelling remark was withheld in honor of the occasion. Also because, no matter how well his threats might work against men who believed Kurt was about to introduce them to their own entrails, they were less than effective against his friends. Such was the price one paid for letting people get close. Why, Kurt might have joined in his friend's mirth if he weren't so busy being eaten away by anxious, simmering, mind-scrambling questions.
Blaine's behavior had gone from atypical to unsettling to bizarre in the space of a day, it seemed, making Kurt feel highly confused and jumpy. Feelings he hated. People should behave as expected, damn it. As Kurt himself did. A pirate's duty was to capture ships, steal treasure, mistreat prisoners and, uhh, kick puppies – he blanched – all that dastardly, piratey stuff. A prisoner's duty, on the other hand, was to be miserable and fear for his life. Or try to escape. Or both. That was how this captor/captive business worked.
It was not Blaine's duty to smile all the time. Or voluntarily wash Kurt's hair, with thoroughness and care and amusing anecdotes. It was not his duty to pull an armful of shirts from the wardrobe to press against Kurt's body, tilting his head this way and that, murmuring about colors and Kurt's complexion, and being unnecessarily wonderful while Kurt stood like a giant china doll, complete with rosy cheeks and unbending limbs. It certainly could not be right for him to help Kurt dress when his numb hands couldn't quite manage it alone, or to stroke light fingertips caressingly down Kurt's back in search of creases to smooth. It was all wrong. Wrong!
And Kurt, confounded beyond his capacity to respond, had hardly managed to form two consecutive, coherent sentences all morning. He didn't know whether to laugh hysterically about Blaine having no notion of his effect on Kurt, or beat the man unconscious if he did know and was being deliberately cruel. Both held appeal.
Instead, he had done nothing. There was the crux of the matter. He hadn't stood up for himself. He'd worked hard to get where he was, plotted his life out on a map made of his own choices, regardless of the myriad obstacles, not the least of which was the law. He should be concentrating on their current mission and researching their next. Blaine should be nothing more to him than good – all right, excellent – nighttime stroking material. The man had no right to consume so much of Kurt's waking hours, no right to come along and scatter the pieces of his carefully laid plans, not to mention his brain, all to hell with the swipe of one nimble-fingered, uncalloused hand.
"Wanna talk about what's bothering you?" Puck leaned his elbows on the rail, watching the scene below. Kurt envied him the casual pose, feeling too agitated to slouch, let alone bend in half. Puck's head swiveled slightly and a brow was raised when there was no response. He sighed at the sight of Kurt's poker-stiff frame and tight lips that were by no means trembling.
Straightening, Puck offered him a sympathetic pat on the back that didn't make Kurt uncomfortable at all. His problem with being touched all the time must be entirely Blaine's fault, and he should keep his grabby hands to himself. But Puck, having very little idea of Kurt's inner turmoil or proximity to frustrated tears, just looked upward and released a shrill whistle, waving when a face popped over the side of the crow's nest. "Micky!" he shouted. "Exercise!"
Mick whooped and yelled in turn over the other side, calling for a replacement lookout. "Move your ass, Pepe!" he urged soon after, when the sailor didn't climb fast enough to suit. "I could have been up and down the mast twice by now!" Pepe chose his handholds with yet more care.
The focus Kurt had been lacking all morning began to coalesce at once, pulling itself together from amongst the shattered remnants of his formerly useful mind and shaping into the kind of concentration that comes of long practice. His tightly locked muscles began to loosen and move, stretching and shaking off some of their tension in preparation for one of his favorite pastimes. "I could kiss you," he said with feeling.
Puck pulled a face. "Can't you just punch me or something?"
Kurt smiled – his first of the day – and took a sharp swing.
'Ow,' Puck mouthed, pressing fingers into his upper arm. "Thanks for that," he dryly intoned.
"Any time."
A whirlwind, by name of Mick, bounded up the stairs to land silently and with a wide grin next to them. "Swords?" he got straight to the point. One might think he was eager, and one would be correct.
To one side of the ship's wheel was a chest that Puck unlocked, stepping aside so Mick could choose his weapon. Blaine was glancing up at them curiously, Kurt unwillingly noticed, before a tap at his shoulder thankfully prevented him from falling back into the trap of staring uselessly at the root of his troubles.
"Captain." Davidson had appeared at his side. Unlike most of the crew, armed only with pistols, Davidson wore his sword at all times. He was always ready to hand it over to Kurt, though. Kurt accepted it now with a quick thanks and tested the familiar weight in his hands, tossing the hilt from palm to palm and rolling his shoulders. Davidson also held out a pair of leather gloves, which Kurt put on, flexing his hands and rechecking his grip on the sword.
"Ready, Captain?" Mick tossed aside his shirt to reveal an enviable abdomen and pulled on gloves of his own, his easy smile still in full bloom. "Main deck?"
"We'll get there," Kurt replied and gave his friend and opponent a respectful bow, as he'd been taught.
After Mick did the same, they fell into a circling gait, slapping blades together with an introductory clang and sizing each other up. Puck and Davidson stood back to observe from a safer distance.
It didn't take long for Mick to make the first move. He lunged, springing forward from his left foot with the grace of a gazelle. A flick and twist deflected the thrust, winding the swords harmlessly around one another. Kurt smiled and followed through with a standard slice and backswipe that Mick easily dodged, arms thrown wide and concave body hopping backward so the honed edge cut only air where his trim belly had been.
"Ha-ha!" Mick's delighted laugh cleared the last of the cobwebs from Kurt's head, and then they were on, slashing and parrying, the sound of steel meeting steel ringing loudly across the deck. Crewmen stopped to watch, cheer, and place bets. The two fighters were evenly matched, with Mick touted as the more creative and agile swordsman, and Kurt the more precise and controlled. Being as proficient and accomplished as they were, they were favored dueling partners. To one it was all good fun. To the other it was an opportunity to prove to himself that he was good enough.
"Fhsss," Kurt sucked a sharp breath through his teeth.
"Sorry," said Doc. "There's no help for it." He finished dousing Kurt's arm with whiskey and handed him the bottle. "Drink," he ordered and went to fetch his suture kit. "I take it you didn't bother with practice swords. Again."
Kurt took a few swallows and lowered the bottle to rest on his thigh. "Where's the challenge in that?"
"The challenge is in continued survival," the disapproving surgeon wryly suggested. "It's dying that's easy."
A quiet knock accompanied the opening of the door, and Mick peeked around with his good eye. Kurt's mouth quirked and he flexed bruised knuckles. "All right, Mick?" he asked, beckoning the sailor in. His half-grin dropped when the door opened fully to admit not only his sailing master, but his cabin boy too, whose wide, worried eyes alighted on him instantly and dropped straight to his bared arm. Kurt's attention was placed firmly back on his dueling partner and the thin bandage wrapped diagonally around his head, holding a compress to his face. "Cook's already seen to you, then. How's the eye?"
"Fine. Cheekbone's tender." Mick touched his fingertips to the compress and winced. "It's my ears that are ringing after Cook finished with me." He grinned. "You'll be next," he warned toothily and stepped farther into the room. "She sent some of her willow bark ointment for you, along with choice words that I will let her deliver herself." He looked over his shoulder, where a brief glance showed Blaine to be carrying a tray. "Oh, and tea," Mick added.
"Way ahead of her." One mocking bottle salute later, another hefty portion of amber liquid was burning its way into Kurt's gut. He needed it, and not just because the surgeon was pinching his wound together, preparing to stitch him up.
"Captain." All heads turned at the hoarse sound. Blaine flushed, looking away from Kurt's injury for the first time since he'd entered. He set down the tray, and his voice had returned when he spoke again. "Is there anything I can do for you, Captain?"
"Just stand over there," Doc directed with a jerk of his chin, and Blaine hastened to comply, moving close to the uninjured side, followed by Kurt's suspicious gaze until the first stitch had him closing his eyes and baring clenched teeth.
Inhaling and exhaling slowly through his nose, he drank deeply again to deaden the pain and focused on the concerned face hovering near his own, his mind already becoming too muddled to dwell much on the 'concerned' part. He'd never been quite this close to the man before, unless one counted the previous evening's bath that he was going to pretend hadn't happened.
The normally smooth forehead was currently knitted with anxiety, and hazel eyes watched the doctor's every movement with unnerving intensity. Up close, they were even more startling; sworls of dark and vivid colors, sprinkled with gold flecks and ringed by heavy lashes as black as the expressive eyebrows that offset them. Too expressive, really. Kurt didn't think brows should say so much.
He'd spent years learning to structure his own features into an expression of nothingness. It hadn't been easy, as Kurt was very expressive by nature. It was a matter of control, of suppressing instincts. People who gave away too much through their emotions made themselves vulnerable. Not him. He decided when and to whom his feelings were allowed to show; a rule Blaine obviously didn't live by. The bottle was upended again. He should probably stop thinking of his prisoner by his given name, Kurt thought woozily, before it got him into trouble.
"You're still wearing my clothes," he remarked when his head was pleasantly buzzing and his gaze had dropped from the visibly thrumming pulse of a tanned throat, to the expensive fabric stretched across a taut chest that Kurt could picture with little difficulty, having been exposed to it more than once.
Anderson's unfairly handsome face tilted down from where he stood next to Kurt, his troubled look beginning to fade. "Yes, Captain," he answered gently. "I'm afraid I didn't finish my share of the wash." The slash of brows twitched as if to say Kurt should forgive him, since it was his fault Anderson had been distracted. Kurt's face sent a rare message back, telling them to sit down and shut up and let the man speak for himself, which he did, blinking owlishly and taking a faltering step back. "I'm sorry. I'll go clean these for you right now," is what he went with. Kurt harrumphed a very Cook-like sound.
"Keep them," he grumbled. They fit the man too well. Kurt knew he'd never be able to wear those pieces again without imagining them clinging to the curves and angles of another's body.
"But, Captain–" he began to protest.
"Don't argue!" Kurt thumped him soundly on the chest with a bottle-toting fist, then remembered he was supposed to be drinking. "Doctor's orders," he declared and tossed back another shot.
"Hold him steady," came a low voice from his other side, where a certain amount of agony told him Doc was still working. That dagger he called a needle had been stabbed through Kurt's arm again and again until the pain was too constant to tell what was happening anymore. He surely must have a hundred stitches by now, and the medicinal beverage was running low.
Two hands gripped his forearm, holding the injured limb in place while Doc worked on the slash across his bicep, and a pair of strong arms encircled him, one hand sliding across his stomach to curve around his rib cage and another lying above his shoulder blades. Kurt could feel the slow back and forth of a thumb against his nape. How many hands did his prisoner have, anyhow? Not important. What mattered was that it was harder, but not impossible, to drink with his good arm pressed so tightly against a firm torso. "Hurts," he complained and let his forehead drop to rest there, as well. There was plenty of room. Anderson's chest was broad enough, he knew. Broad and sculpted and touchable and kind of perfect. "Stop that," he muttered to himself.
"Almost done," said Doc, and stabbed him again.
Kurt blew a resigned breath, wishing he'd been able to hold onto his concentration earlier. He'd been doing fine, trading near miss after near miss with Mick, like always, chasing and being chased all over the deck, jumping high and rolling low to avoid the sharp blade, and generally having a great time until... "You were watching us," he remembered, then chuckled into Anderson's breastbone. "You shouldn't be scared. No one was gonna get hurt." Someone snorted. "Did you see Mick try to swipe my legs out from under me? Sneaky bastard." Someone else laughed. "Hafta get him to teach me that move," Kurt said, turning his head to the side to rest more comfortably on his pectoral cushion. The thumb at his nape was joined by a number of other digits and they all went exploring into his hair. Kurt's eyelids drooped. "I decked him for it. Did you see?"
"I saw. You were amazing." The arm around him gave a gentle squeeze.
Kurt basked in the compliment. He was an amazing pirate. "I don't wanna kick puppies, though." His cushion shook.
"Um. I think it would be acceptable if you didn't kick any puppies."
That was good news. Kurt let his head tilt up on its pillow until he could see a fuzzy, black beard and full, shapely lips. He studied them, guessing at their texture – soft – and taste – yummy – and watching the way they curved, always upward. As lips went, they were pretty magnificent. "Like you," he admitted. The curve deepened.
Facing forward again, Kurt stared blearily at a painting on the wall. A little boat, adrift on a vast ocean, was bobbing up and down to the soothing rhythm of the heartbeat under his ear. "You'd like Mick. He smiles a lot, too."
"I do like Mick. I like all your friends."
Kurt could feel vibrations rumble through his cushion boy when he spoke. It was nice. He could also feel the tangling of a beard with his hair when Blaine or Anderson or whoever bent his head down to rest his cheek. He must be tired, too.
"He's my fam'ly," Kurt corrected, letting his voice go quiet in case Blanderson was sleeping. "Him an' Abe an' Finley an' Puck an' Cook an' Doc an' Trout an' Billy an' Alex 'n everyone. Even Mr. Scowlypants. They're all my flam'ly. 'Specially Finn. He's my–"
"Okay, all done patching you back up," Doc rudely cut him off. Kurt carefully rearranged his features into a frowny face and hoped Doc could see it from the side, because he couldn't be bothered to turn his head right now. There were some very clever fingers still at work in his hair.
"Feels like m'arm fell off and you sewed someone else's in its place," Kurt grouched and snuggled deeper into his cozy resting spot. Something was prickling at his senses – a scent that made him think of dampness and heat. It was spicy and manly and he thought he caught a whiff of hibiscus. Maybe it was him that smelled so good.
"Anderson," Doc said, ignoring Kurt's (slurred ramblings) constructive criticisms. "I need you to pay attention while I dress the wound, please. The bandage should be changed twice a day for the first week."
"Yes, sir," his cabin pillow quickly agreed. So polite, thought Kurt. Perfect gentleman.
"Good manners are v'ry import'nt," he mumbled sleepily and shifted again, making himself more comfortable in his sweet-smelling bed.
"Captain."
The warm breath in his ear sent shivers rippling down Kurt's spine. He moaned softly, curling deeper into his lover's arms and smiling when the hair was pushed tenderly back from his face. Petal soft lips touched his forehead and glided downward like the barest brush of silk across his skin.
"Captain."
It was breathed against his lips this time and they parted on a soft gasp, anticipating the sweet kiss. Aching for it.
"Yes," he sighed back, lifting his face, seeking that tantalizing mouth with his own.
"Captain!"
Kurt's lover vanished into a cloud of vapor at the sound of Cook's jarring screech, and he was ripped brutally from the most wonderful dream he'd had since, maybe ever. "Nooo," he whined in frustration. Once he could bring himself to open his eyes, he was going to give that woman the mother of all death glares. Ready? Go! His head lifted on a wobbly neck and sleep-fogged eyes cracked open, filled with all the promises of torture and imminent demise he could muster.
This was met with an amused giggle. His head dropped heavily back to his pillow; a plush, cotton-stuffed pillow, he noted with something like disappointment. "I need new friends."
"You seem to have made one new friend at least," she evilly implied all sorts of things that weren't remotely true.
"Did you wake me up merely to share your fanciful imaginings?" he addressed the ceiling and realized he was still in the infirmary. Blurry, whiskey-related recollections peppered with alarming blank spots made his face heat with embarrassment.
"I came to check on you, because that is what close, personal friends do," she huffed. "What they do not do is keep secrets from each other." Her pinched mouth didn't have the desired effect of making him feel guilty. It did, however, make her look like her mother. And he'd tell her so, when they were on land and he had someplace to run.
"If there's something you need to get off your chest, go ahead. I'll be right over here, trying to care."
"Get off my–!" her mouth snapped shut. "I'm not the one keeping secrets around here." Lauren came very near dropping what, for her, passed for evasiveness, to accuse him of something outright.
"I don't know what you're talking about." He sat up slowly, pressing a palm to his temple, where he felt a headache coming on.
She snorted in disbelief, nevertheless pouring him a fresh, hot cup of tea, which she then thrust directly under his nose. "Drink."
"That's what Doc said, and look what happened," he muttered, gratefully gulping his tea in the hope of drowning whoever was drumming on the insides of his eyeballs.
"What did happen?" she queried with exaggerated slyness. Fake subtlety was one of her favorite forms of sarcasm, because it was a subtle form of sarcasm. Lauren enjoyed irony.
What happened? Hazy feelings of pain and comfort were still with him in equal parts. Memories of gentle hands and a sweet mouth hovered just out of reach, fading as fast as his dream lover had done. On the bright side, his sad, disappointed sigh put an end to Lauren's dogged questioning. She peeled his fingers from the empty cup and wrapped his neck in a tight, careful hug, planting his face mid-bosom.
He accepted the embrace, as he did most of her mothering. Fighting it had never done him much good. It was only when oxygen deprivation began to set in that he commented in a muffled voice, "These are utterly wasted on me."
"Oh, you!" With a firm, loving slap to the back of his head, she let him go.
"Ow. Injured man here."
"Injured. Hmph. Don't think for a second that I've forgotten how you got injured. Get your bony backside to the galley, or I'll show you injured. Supper's already half over."
"The galley?" He got to his feet, with some minor teetering and swaying. His arm was throbbing as if someone had sliced it open and stitched it back together again... Right.
"Yes, the galley. What of it?" She snatched up her tray and cast him a squinty glare while he gingerly inserted his bandaged arm back into the torn sleeve dangling loosely at his side.
"You want me to eat in the galley," he clarified in small, slow words. "With the crew?" He hadn't sneaked behind her back to dine with the men since the whole cabin boy debacle had begun, which was strange now that he thought about it.
"Yes, with the crew!" she snapped. "They'll want to see for themselves that you're all right, won't they, Mr. Injured Man? Now move your ass. Some of us have work to do. We can't all spend our days playing with our little friends and lazing about, napping, can we? No." The lecture began in earnest. "How would you like it if I went on a drinking binge instead of working my poor, tired fingers to the bone?" she harped, barely pausing her tirade for breath as they made their way through the ship. Kurt followed behind, where she couldn't see his mouth jabbering in silent mimicry. He hoped.
Outside the galley, she came to an abrupt halt and spun about to see if her vehement and eloquent speech had roused sufficient remorse yet. If not, she'd be happy to continue.
Kurt's expression quickly transformed into a meek plea. "I love you," he cooed in blatant and irresistible manipulation.
Tightly puckered lips held back a laugh – and didn't make her look so much like her mother – but the twinkling eyes were a dead giveaway. He grinned in triumph. "Oh, shut up." She cuffed him again, just because, and opened the door.
Blaine must have been watching for them. How else could he have managed to place a hot meal in front of Kurt before he'd finished sitting down? Kurt's mask dropped automatically into place. There was no outward sign that his pulse had quickened or that a phantom tingling had settled inexplicably along the base of his skull. An offhand, "Thank you," was his only acknowledgment of the quietly attentive man.
The galley was abuzz with the noise of rowdy, lighthearted men. They commiserated good-naturedly on Kurt's loss, particularly those who'd wagered he would draw first blood, and told him he'd win the next one for sure. One sailor went so far as to clap a friendly hand to Kurt's back. That one soon found himself hauled out of his seat by the ear, which Cook continued to pinch in a tight grasp while she shouted into it a reminder of the captain's injured state, and offered to give the sailor some stitches of his very own to help him remember.
A chorus of laughter followed and Kurt chuckled along with everyone else. Mostly, he found it amusing that she had no compunction about giving him the flat of her own hand, albeit nowhere near his wound.
As always, his smile disappeared when he caught Blaine watching him, but if breathing became slightly difficult, no one was the wiser. It was his burden alone to deal with, and he would. There was only one sensible course of action. Ignore the problem until it went away.
How hard could it be? They'd be halfway to their destination after one quick stop. Then the prisoners would be released. Blaine would be gone. Kurt's life would return to normal: work all day, fail to sleep at night. He wouldn't miss the sound of Blaine's voice, his cute stories, or his openness and joy in the simplest things. He didn't need anyone else to take care of him or worry about him or talk to him when he was lonely.
Because he wasn't lonely. He had friends. Family. He had Lauren and Finn. He had his work to fulfill him, shipmates to protect and men to hunt down. Everything he'd ever wanted. Yes. Blaine would leave and Kurt would go on with his life and nothing would change.
Except. Maybe sometimes he'd have dreams in place of nightmares. And occasionally he might catch a whiff of something in the air that would stir up memories and feelings. If it made his chest ache a little, there must be a remedy for that. Doc would know what to do, or Cook would brew her special tea for aches and pains. And she'd hug him too, if he needed, and let him cry on her shoulder when the nightmares were too real. That was enough.
"Do you need anything else, Captain? More tea?"
The deep, honey-sweet voice next to his ear was immediately preceded by a mouth-watering scent that had nothing to do with Cook's supper. It filled Kurt's lungs. "No." He didn't grasp at the man's messy, black hair to pull him close and bury his face in fragrant skin, or snap at him to get away, or scream at the injustice of it all and yell out his fervent wish that he'd never laid eyes on Blaine Anderson.
He didn't do any of those things. A plain and unequivocal 'no' was a sufficient response for a cabin boy, and that is all he is, Kurt gave himself a vicious reminder. So, having received the answer to his question, Blaine would now step aside until he was needed again. Kurt waited tensely for that to happen, all the benefits of his relaxing morning exercise flown out the window.
"Okay, sir, if you're sure. Your arm isn't hurting too much? Doc left some bandages in your room and showed me what to do. He said it would be all right to put a little of Cook's tincture on the wound, but I'm to tell him immediately if it starts to look worse or if you become feverish, because it could be infected."
A sudden, mortifying and somewhat fuzzy memory of being held snugly in Blaine's arms, leaning trustingly into his body and enjoying the sound of his heartbeat had Kurt's hands curling into white-knuckled fists on the table.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Captain." A gentle hand clasped his good shoulder. "I shouldn't talk about such things at the table. My mother would have my hide. Good manners and all. Right, Captain?" The hand that should have already been removed gripped a little bit tighter. "Please do eat something, though. You had quite a lot to drink earlier and I'm afraid you might be ill otherwise." His words cut through the white noise in Kurt's head. "I'll go heat the water for your bath while you finish." He leaned in closer, voice dropping to a whisper and marking a direct line from Kurt's ear to his groin. "Cook's watching, Captain. Please try."
Finally. Finally! Blaine moved away, heading for the stove and the barrels of water Cook kept on hand. Kurt's eyes stung. His lungs were burning. Blinking and breathing had been forgotten throughout the ordeal. He'd probably made a spectacle of himself.
No one was staring, though, or whispering behind their hands or laughing aloud at their captain's ridiculous crush. No, no, it's impossible. Absurd. I canNOT have a crush. It's purely physical. Only physical. Please? Cook was chatting with Puck. She gave him a friendly smile when he caught her eye. No one knew, and no one would find out. If his thoughts remained unreadable, he'd be safe.
Lively conversation continued in the galley, unaffected by the tilting of the Earth's axis. A discreet gulp or three of his tea helped restore some of the moisture to his mouth and a small bite of stew created the illusion that all was normal. Nothing unusual going on here at all. Another bite to reinforce the image. It didn't matter that the food had no taste. The men couldn't see it stick in his throat like desert sand. He swallowed. Everything was fine.
"All right, you big, lumbering oafs. Everyone who doesn't want to scrub these tables and sweep up the crumbs you mannerless louts manage to throw into every nook and cranny, get your lazy asses out of my kitchen. Now!" Cook announced the end of the meal, requesting that the crew kindly depart so cleanup could commence.
Kurt was feeling almost human again and, while he couldn't say what he'd eaten, he'd managed to choke down enough to keep Cook off his back.
"How're you doing, Captain?" She joined him at the newly deserted table and touched the back of her hand to his forehead. "Another cup of willow bark tea for the pain?"
"No, thank you, Cook. I'm fine. Supper was delicious, as always. I see you still have the crew wrapped around your charming finger," he skillfully maneuvered the conversation away from himself.
Cook preened. "Some people are born with the gift of persuasion."
"Yes, and some queens are born to trample peasants under their feet."
"Flatterer."
"Captain?"
Kurt stiffened. "Yes? he replied coldly, realizing too late that his behavior might raise questions he'd rather not answer. Cook could be relentless in ferreting out the truth. He immediately switched to a neutral expression "What is it, Anderson?" he added with strained politeness.
"Uh," Blaine stammered, apparently startled by the unwelcoming response. "I'm sorry to interrupt, sir. I wanted to tell you that your water is ready," he said, his tone hesitant.
"Thank you." Kurt bit out through a tiny and patently false smile. Cook's raised brow and pursed mouth promised an interrogation later. But how could he explain to her what was baffling to himself? As little as one day ago, he might have been able to own up to lusting after his cabin boy, in secret, of course. He had no illusions or expectations.
Today, the lack of expectations was eating at him. Hurting.
If only the man weren't so damned likable! He was too kindhearted, too interesting and funny. Too sweet. He'd never once looked at Kurt with the hatred he deserved, and his touchy-feely friendliness caused yearnings that made the squeezing sensations in Kurt's chest unbearable. No way could he confess any of that, not even to his best friend. Especially to her, because she would try to do something about it. That way lay disaster, humiliation and heartache. Better to crush his feelings down into the dust himself rather than have it done for him.
"Are you okay?" murmured Cook, who'd been watching him with growing concern. "Want me to send them away so we can talk?" Her head motioned toward the others, busy washing up across the room.
Kurt was horrified to feel the burn of tears stinging his eyes and slammed down the shutters that had protected him for so long.
'What are you hiding from?' His father's words from years past came unbidden to Kurt's mind. He, too, had looked at Kurt with love and worry, much as Cook was doing now. 'Be proud of who you are, son; as proud as I am of you.'
His father hadn't understood. Hiding his emotions was purely strategy. All part of Kurt's master plan. It had nothing to do with not liking himself. Not that he disliked himself. No more than anyone else, at least. Probably. But that was irrelevant, because it wasn't the reason behind his behavior. Therefore, he'd had no reason to alter his plans. And now, here he was, captain of his own ship, respected by his crew, and dreaded by everyone else. Exactly where he wanted to be.
Exactly.
"Alex, give him a hand with those buckets," called Cook, waving fingers in Blaine's direction.
The young man was only too happy to relinquish his kitchen duties for a bit. "Yes, ma'am."
"Wait. I think I'll skip the bath tonight," Kurt denied, to the astonishment of absolutely everyone.
Cook, as usual, was the first to recover. "Nonsense!" she cried and gave her assistant a withering look that warned of dire consequences should he, Blaine, and the hot water not be gone from her sight within the next ten seconds.
"C'mon, Blaine." Alex grabbed a couple of pails and tore out of there before he could get tangled any tighter in the middle of this fight. Blaine followed with a perplexed glance at the two friends, or combatants, as the case may be.
The moment they were gone, Kurt rounded on her with such genuine anger that she was stunned. Since when did he object to a little overbearing solicitude? It was practically her job description. "What?" she challenged.
"Has it ever occurred to you to let me make a decision regarding my own life?"
"You mean like this morning, when you decided to let Micky whack a chunk out of your arm?"
Kurt gnashed his teeth. "I mean that I will be the judge of whether or not I want a bath. Whether or not I am hungry. And whether or not I need a damn cabin boy!" he yelled.
Billy hunched over the washtub, scrubbing his heart out and willing himself deaf as an old wooden post.
"You do need a damn cabin boy, because you're the damn captain. The wind would have picked you up and thrown you overboard a long time ago if I didn't force you to eat. And you smell like a cheap saloon!"
The last brought him up short. Frowning down at his blood-stained shirt, the sleeve torn and gaping, he cringed with shame. He was stupidly embarrassed that Blaine had seen him – and smelled him – like this. And he was ashamed that he'd been reduced to yelling at his best friend.
"I..." He hardly knew where to begin. "I was upset and I took it out on you. I'm sorry."
She sniffed, crossing her arms and tossing her hair, ineffectually, as it was bound tight to her head, but her point was made. "And?" she said to the wall.
"And you're a wonderful human being, a paragon of womanhood, and the finest chef on the seven seas."
"Obviously. What else?"
"Neither this ship, nor I, would be anything without you. You are the sea and the air. Sailors will be singing for centuries to come in honor of you. Your contributions to the Blackbird cannot be calculated. They are infinite. Your wisdom is as boundless as the sky. Your generosity as deep as the ocean. You are as vital as the day and night. As priceless as the stars that guide us. You–"
"Yeah, yeah. I'm the sun and the moon and all that horse manure. You're lucky I love you, or I'd save the wind the trouble and toss you over myself."
"I love you, too." He kissed her cheek and heaved a sigh. "I should probably go bathe."
"Those of us with a sense of smell would appreciate it. You're burning the hairs from my nostrils."
"I'm very sorry," he said again. "You too, Billy," Kurt raised his voice above the din of pot scrubbing. "I apologize for subjecting you to that."
"Mood swings," said Cook. "All us girls have 'em," she sniggered quietly.
"Oh!" Kurt emitted a high-pitched yelp. "You take that back, you hussy!"
Cook high-tailed it toward the exit, laughing heartily, then ducked back in through the door as soon as he dove after her, slamming it in his face. "Go! Wash!" she yelled through the wood.
"But–"
"Now!"
"Yes, Mother," he grumbled, stomping away.