DeGroot had once got quite conflicted over Bones' mental performance, the impetus of the fret being the damned French book, but now his adrift and ambivalent gaze was beyond vindicable. The ship had officially entered the unavoidable sequence of any battle, it was arriving too early yet. Engulfed in the vociferous hullabaloo of canon volleys and bustle of the gun crews, the men were frothing already, frothing with bate and disinclination to condone. As if chaining the pack of crumbs would be offsetting. It was hard not to notice her absence albeit she had rarely sought to make her presence manifest.
Those who wished and those who did not, those who'd never spoken to her and those at ease with unbosoming themselves to her, the ones openly disliked and the ones overtly welcomed, they felt it. The ship lacked her.
She wasn't there and it was evident, the reality of it stunning and terrifying, almost like the news about Grande y Felicíma Armada's shellacking that had hit the Spanish a century ago.
But unlike the Invincible, they had all believed Galloway would be dead, sooner or later: she was a girl, and she was on no pleasure craft, which was a guarantee that violence would seek her out. But the time would progress, and she would keep defying the odds and proving them wrong – occasionally in the ways that hurt – and would walk over the shibboleths and shut the door on death time after time. And inchmeal even those of the crew who were not disposed to act genial, found themselves masochistically reconciling with the fact she was there to stay.
And now the girl who lived was dead. And bewildering was the way she'd left them.
The trembling frame of the gunwale, forced into an unequal battle, confronted by an unmanageable choice, escaping shame and filth, remained imprinted in their minds. The mess of the dark hair, the chest covered in blood, the torn shit and the soft stomach, heaving, the glimpse of the breast. The scratch on her cheekbone, washed over by the uninhibited flow of salty tears falling from the lifeless eyes.
Of course, none of them did, but it was unanimously voted she was by far the last one to deserve it.
They kissed goodbye to the dramatically undramatic companion of Randall's, alleged daughter of Mr Gates, a woman with a wit bridging scuppering moxie and thigh-slapping funniness, the best cook the crew had seen and the prettiest petulant petal that ever walked the deck. They didn't even get to know the abstemious iconoclast well enough.
And they were back to only one Betsy.
Regardless, DeGroot soon bailed from his pundit task, in piety to Bones who must've lost something more ensouling than just that, for he looked utterly unaffected.
Billy had issued an order to check the ropes – the first thing to do when something felt off. Some of the crew had ran along the boards, surveying the waters, but he hadn't joined them. There was nothing for him to see, for them to see. No trace of her. There was no faith for him in the practice of positive thought and a touch of denial. The deadpan expression wasn't too hard to manage. But only if he had to keep his eyes to the sightlines.
The town plunged in atrocity and the patrol ships getting demolished alloyed into the conflux of attention and action, and the water, uninvolved, seemed to have been taken out of a painting and glued into the reality. The surface untroubled – apart from a narrow radius around patrol vessels that kept harassing entirely blameless ripples by constantly shedding laths – the depths quiescent and estranged from the purgatory above. Welcoming. Quiet. Rest.
Rest.
He glanced around aimlessly.
It couldn't have been a coincidence – whenever his eyes roamed the deck, Joji was an imminent part of the canvas. For the first time in this millennium the man had an emotion on his face. Emotion of hope he'd have a bloody drink some time soon.
It wasn't a coincidence, really.
Joji possessed more self-control and quench than all Nassau rolled into one. That, and many other traits, were ascribed to him, not for nothing, considered loaches of his origins. The adamantine loyalty was one of the most valued ones, alongside with the calm and formidable sensation that he could evoke in arbitrary people at arbitrary times. Once he had arrived in Nassau a decade before, leaving everyone wondering how, he adjoined himself to Captain Flint, leaving everyone wondering why, and never moved from the secured position. The rest of the loyalty, that wasn't yet spent on the crew, steered fully to the girl – a person he found agreeable, turned into a somewhat of a protégé, and adored like a pet.
And the amount of self-control nurtured was jeopardizing, when the convulsion swelling inside trampled itself, unable to break the thick shell of the acquired toughness. Galloway had left a lot behind – maybe not by conventional standards, but she would've been surprised to learn the tally of shit she'd ended up obtaining – the half empty chest, another sack of sugar she'd snuck aboard, the dagger. Joji just gravitated towards it. The knife he'd sharpened. And Billy, who bore it. She'd left him behind, too.
What Bones saw in Joji was exactly the same what DeGroot saw in Bones.
And he went questioning whether the warrior was blaming himself. Too.
They would never live it down.
Bleeding for her wasn't nearly enough. They should've died in the attempt to save her life. He definitely should've. He never undervalued his life – perfectly aware that on the grand scheme of things none of their lives had value – but holly hell where did they go from there?
It drained him, and when he though it couldn't possibly get worse, it resorted to a second wind. There wasn't much he could do, and he was simply doing his job, hoping not to get outbalanced by the endless inner catechism that was impossible to cork, the odd weight of her dagger sitting in his belt (he couldn't even bear the thought he would have to yield it to the water), the minutiae of their conversations...
No, his unvoiced hopes that one day life would stop pelting him with shit were vain, and God would never have mercy upon him.
Well, why should he?
He even only let him hope for a spell.
One thing tossed him afoul, and it was a frantic terror and a vivid hope that maybe one day he'd exert enough insanity to conjure her up and...
"Boat approaching!"
You'll deal with it, son, Gates' hoarse voice muted the sound of life, She's managed, so will you. She's even managed to laugh, remember?
Of course I remember, but you ain't doing a great job, Hal, you know it?
You only spur it.
Bones felt for the grip of his pistol.
With a steady assurance that a spur was the only thing he deserved, he drew the weapon out, weighing it in his hand. He needed the sorrow, so that he could drown in the guilt and deploring since he'd failed to go hence with her.
Bones' hand flew up. Vane was first to embark the Man o' war.
And first thing Vane saw was Billy's pistol pointed at him. And he disregarded it completely, leaning back over the board.
"Help your captain," he grunted, awkwardly assuming James' charge – the reason James was struggling holding onto the ropes. A dark spill of hair and bloodied white shirt.
Charles took the body, dragging it over the board. He caught her legs aptly, despite his chains, and straightened up, displaying the haul. Dooley pulled Flint up, wet as a drowned rat.
"A bit of turmoil since you left," uttered Billy, close on losing the veneer, when his captain landed on the deck, the level of anger rendered on his face unmanly. "But it's under control now," the gun didn't waiver in his hand, but the vision went swimming and, scanning the lifeless body he suspected the evidence of his own eyes.
"Release those men," Said Flint, watching Vane's crew. Bones wasn't fit to protest, but he opened his mouth as if he was about to notwithstanding... "I'll not hold pirates prisoner on this ship, not after today."
Making use of Billy's triple confusion, Vane proffered his arms forward to him.
"Keep your men in line," spat James, looking at Charles. "Take her, will you?" he said to Billy, whose arm fell sharp, lowering the pistol. "Take her to Howell."
"Howell is occupied," Bones heard Dooley speak.
Billy took a swift step forward, letting Vane almost gingerly hand the girl's body to him. Cold.
"Then deal with it...Take us back towards the sandbar. Southwest corner of the bay. We'll start from there."
There was no frown on her forehead.
"Ready the guns! Full complement."
"What's the target, Captain?" asked Scott.
"Whatever's left."
Bones didn't know if there was a continuance to that conversation, he didn't follow it any further.
She was barefoot.
He rushed into the captain's quarters.
She was heavier than he remembered, might be due to the dripping wet clothes. Pliant, ice-cold, disturbingly peaceful, she was burning his skin.
Her head hung loosely off his arm, and he moved his elbow to steady it. The torn shirt revealing more than she would be comfortable unveiling.
He opened the door with his shoulder. Joji hustled in, getting ahead of Bones to spread a blanket he'd snatched from Abigail's hammock on the windowsill for Billy to lay the girl down. And then he hustled out.
She was barefoot.
She'd not been when she fell. She'd taken the boots off.
The shot couldn't have been fatal.
Billy took her head in his hands and ducked down. A murmur of feeble breath. Alive.
He finally remembered what happiness was, when the inexorable wave of it knocked him down. The happiness of every kind in the world, getting him so weak he couldn't even smile.
The loose strands of her locks were sticking to her wet forehead, and he stroked the baby-fine hairs up with his thumb, registering the shakiness in his hand.
When was he ever lucky?
The muscles in his stomach rippled and, as if held in a fist, he pulled back.
Fatal or not, it was still a shot.
Rum.
He was hot with alarm as he rummaged through Flint's shelves and drawers.
Joji burst in again, carrying a pile of clothes and jingling keys to the shackles.
The bottom of the bottle Bones had fetched landed on the sill right above her head, and once her hands were free of the irons, he drew the dagger out. She didn't even flinch when the chains crashed onto the floor with a loud clank.
Bones cut the torn fabric of the shirt, rosy with the washed out blood.
"I'm sorry," he breathed out, tossing it away. He shouldn't be seeing it. He was not supposed to be seeing it. The skin that looked so smooth, yet too pale. The soft stomach, and the crease he'd noticed when he carried her was not there anymore. Her round breasts and nipples hard with cold. The dips under the collarbones, the moles... Any other day, different circumstances, he would've appreciated it the way it deserved, but all he could think about then was a long, semi-wide dashed wound on the inner arm and rent skin on her side.
While Joji was trying to calculate the trajectory of the bullet that must've caught her right in the moment when her arm was outstretched throwing the dagger away, Bones torn a piece off a shirt and saturated it with a generous amount of rum.
"Wash it, I'll get gauze to…" he took a step back, handing the fabric to Joji, but the man gave him a pat on the shoulder and went off.
Bones neither challenged nor searched for a reason behind Joji's decree. His heart was galloping.
He didn't have a name for that feeling. For the affluence of it.
She lay in front of him, vulnerable as never before, her frame beginning to quiver, weak, small waves running through her meek creature. Mauled. Defenceless. Dear. Breathing suddenly seemed a labour.
He knew what was asked of him, and he knew the only thing she truly needed: his resolution, his level-headedness, his mind. He would deal with his inner turmoil later. Galloway's stomach tensed in another shiver.
Any wound could turn gangrenous, but his could wait.
Unusually white and cool, her skin was tender and soft to the touch, caressed by the water.
The wound wasn't deep and wasn't bleeding anymore. The sodding bullet had sheared the skin off, somewhat missing the target and leaving her relatively unscathed. No matter how hard she was trying to die, she still managed to stay alive.
There was a merit to her unconsciousness, Billy knew only too well the stinging pain that came with alcohol meeting flesh. I would've knocked her out either way, given the toll being in the water had taken on her. Delicately, even more delicately than he had used to hold his mother's dearest china, he cleaned the wound of salt and gunpowder that hadn't been washed away by the water. His meticulousness surfaced in the form of the hard brow and clinched teeth.
And then, putting the cloth away, still holding her hand, he finally let himself breathe out.
"Think we'll do without stitches here," Bones uttered colourlessly when Joji returned and came up to Galloway to examine Billy's work. Thank god. She doesn't deserve any more suffering with the needles. "Silver?"
Joji just nodded.
"Right," he took the gauze. "Thanks," he forced out and gritted his teeth again.
Billy carefully wrapped her wounded arm, to the accompaniment of Joji's suppressed grunts as he was clearing the cabin of the bodies plastered across the floor. She needed not to see it when she came round.
He was careful not to coil the gauze too tight: her arm was slowly turning coral and swollen as the blood was rising to the skin. A snap image of Galloway, sent hurtling to the floor, hopped in front of his eyes. She'd landed on that side, and the bruise would leave her tender for a few weeks, best case.
Bones was nothing if not mindful, and he deliberately covered her bosom, wrapping a strip of gauze around her torso to secure the pad on the side wound, to save her another unease. And Joji decided to support that edifice and quietly leave, when Billy pulled the blanket from under the girl to cover her legs. He had to take the wet and cold off of her, but couldn't bring himself to strip her of intimacy to an even bigger extent. Seeing her in the state of undress not being granted the consent wasn't something he would take the liberty to.
Joji left because he trusted Billy, and knew that she did. And she'd appreciate it to learn she'd been handed to one of the few people on board who wouldn't even consider doing anything outside the scope of the strictly necessary. Because that was something to be thankful for – not to be abused.
Denuding Galloway blindly didn't go as easy as he supposed it would. He attempted to pull on the trousers to tug them down as he knew they had been untied, but the width of her hips denied him. And Bones had to venture under the blanket and grasp the waistband of the breeches to pull them down and off. Her skin painfully cool, and he felt the tiny thin hairs on her thighs covered in goose bumps.
The pants joined the shirt on the floor, making one soggy heap. A little more. It'll be alright.
He pushed the upheaval on the back burner and the frontiers of his conscience went blissfully empty.
Bones sat down at her feet and slipped the dry breeches on her legs. He made gathers at the ankles at first – and the only thought travelling his vacant head was that she had interestingly bony ankles... - and pinned her ice-cold feet against his stomach to slide the trousers up her legs, but the blanket followed, and he shut his eyes, swearing to himself. Her bottom was another hiccup. Bottoms had always been hiccups – Billy, unsurprisingly, had been through that routine, maybe not even once, when he and his brothers – either pirates or yet impressed ones, - had to take care of their mates. There had never been a blanket, though. And he'd dealt with other kind of... bottoms. Galloway was heavyish, round. She was a woman. And boy did she do a great job hiding the curves, the dips of her hips, the waist, the bosom – fuller than he could envisage – from the view by dint of the breeches and shirts. Predominantly his shirts. And yet somehow her ankles and wrists were bony. Women.
Nothing on the ship would let him forget that his favoured mule was female. A woman, out of place there and constantly reminded of which by being diminished and abused, always finding herself at the end of a taunt, and a punch. A woman, and nothing was to hide it: neither the shirts nor the forced hardening. She would always try to make them see past her gender, and she would always know she would never be an equal. She was weaker.
Bones shook the dry shirt up. Weaker. He put her arm into the sleeve. And then the other one.
Galloway was melted, not a single muscle tensed, only shivers running slowly up and down her limp body.
Those arms were weaker.
She was shorter.
The fingers were daintier. The ankles bonier.
Oh, enough to say Bones' arm was thicker than any limb of hers but the thigh. Her body was smaller, and weaker.
But she wasn't.
Gender had nothing to do with mind, and half of the crew would be obliged to even be put in comparison with her. Or with some of the wenches in the brothel.
Button by button, Billy was bringing Galloway her privacy back.
It was a new level of peace that he'd discovered, that came with a feeling of a new legitimate need. Surely it would've been stupid to assume anything else but her would be able to alleviate the pain that she caused, but the thought shot through his mind – something he would never picture himself thinking, let alone thinking over – but he treated himself (the amount of blunt happiness warmed him into oblivion) to settling that she herself was just generally alleviating.
That stupid advantage they, man, had. Built. And strength. Was it enough to deem oneself superior?
He took the strings of her pants and swiftly tied them up. Too big, still.
His fingers accidentally brushed against her stomach. Soft and cold, the beating of her heart echoing under his fugitive touch. His dirty hand, covered in blood, gunpowder, grime and sweat against her skin, colour of parchment.
How superior it was to deem that that strength could be the decisive factor? In a circumstance of battle that could be, but she wasn't there to fight. She only had the arms to protect herself.
And she would stand in one line with the best of them if it came to the mind. If not a step forward.
"What happened?"
Billy didn't look up. He merely walked round the cabin with a grim expression, gathering all the blankets he could see, and answered dryly, "Ask the ones you released."
Flint didn't say a word more. Flooding the floor as he went, he came up to the windowsill.
It had almost cost her her life: proving.
One after another, Bones tucked her into the blankets, her whole self trembling in one steady, subtle rhythm – good, her body wasn't giving up, - and her lips were finally gaining a warmer tinge, not livid anymore.
He barely cared: Billy sat down on the floor, right under the windowsill, and closed his eyes.
He threw his head back, breathing out. She was back, the peace – the ace of it that he still had – was back, and the steady soothing confidence that she was there was intoxicating.
Flint just stood next to her, watching the cocoon of her barely heaving.
"You saved her," Billy's voice was low and tight. There, acknowledging and being grateful fused into one.
"Wouldn't be able to if she didn't want it," was the captain's line.
I don't think she wanted to swim…
Billy heard him shake the jacket off and toss it onto the chair.
Bones didn't know what the captain was trying to do just standing next to her. Was he casting a healing spell, was he apologizing, or waiting for a gratitude, or was he praying? Billy was.
And only hours later, well into the night, laying in his hammock, Billy would recognize Flint had never mentioned anything about Bones' duty that he, in fact, was not exactly performing that moment.
Minutes later, the captain's slow, but determined step headed to the door. It opened with little sound, and Bones felt a tide of air spill across the floor.
"Billy…"
The rasp and small voice forced him to scramble to his feet like an explosion and he almost got dizzy. Flint halted in the door.
Billy's lips parted as he erected himself into tall posture.
Galloway didn't open her eyes, but the frown had already established itself. He hovered above her like a dumb tree, slack mouthed and...
Her neck moved as she tried to swallow, the tongue was sticking to the dryness of her mouth, and only after a few moments of struggle she croaked out exhaustedly, "Where's Mrs Barlow?"
The door closed behind Flint.
How odd death is.
One may sue for it, but is only eager to greet it at their will.
She fell back first, the rigid and inhospitable strain of water delivered a mighty slap to the whole of her. It stung. And burned, and her eyes went black for a second, and the tears leaking from her eyes didn't really bring the salinity up. A heavy blanket covered her.
The agony was short-lived. She went sinking, fast, and her own legs in front of her, moving free, hypnotized her.
The water deep blue, the rays of sun piercing the mass, the hull slowly blurring. And Galloway closed her eyes, succumbing to the deafening pressure of the water around her. She was weightless, and free, and unsuspiciously easy.
"Don't be afraid," he holds her by the middle. Her limbs restless as she is fighting the flowing waters. "Come on, keep calm," he chuckles, buoying her up. "Ready?" Lizzie nods, holding her breath. "Three, two…"
But she doesn't hear the "one" as he has already pushed her under the water. She swings her arms and dangles her legs. But he quickly lets go and she pops up, laughing.
"Not as bad as it looks, right?"
Lizzie cracks up, the water runs down her chin. She dives once more, moving her arms bottom-up to delay floating to the surface.
When she bobs up again, she sees his smiling face.
Her heart was thumping.
A glance up.
The hull now seemed far away. Too far away.
She let her eyes fall closed again. The chains were weighing her down even more.
"Enough, Elizabeth, enough," he laughs as she emerges again. "Mother is waiting. Come, let's come out," he takes her under one arm and leads her to the shore. "We'll practice tomorrow."
She moved her elbow subconsciously, hoping to feel his touch, but it was horrendous pain that she came instead. No sooner had she woke to the wound, the wound woke to her.
It only intensified when Galloway moved, as panic took control of the situation, and she pushed her feet off invisible something and mustered her body in the direction of the surface.
The water pressed against her chest and her lips trembled in hysteria as she tried not to cry out in pain, fearing to fill her lungs with water.
You won't make it.
The wounded arm was hard to move, the shackles still added more complexity to the scheme, and soon the muscles in the legs began to burn and shrink.
Stupid instincts.
You only make me suffer.
Like a wrong-way mermaid, hands-tied, she wormed her way up.
You won't make it.
"You have other things to see to, surviving here in a cook's capacity."
"Surviving, yes. Half of the time I barely know what I'm doing."
"But you're doing well."
"Yes, failing, but successfully."
"You are impressive."
"...I'm glad you're alive."
"I'm glad you're alive too."
She managed to break surface right before her lungs got flat.
Ears still submerged, Galloway didn't open her eyes at first, focusing on the reckless breathing that pushed water out of her mouth to drip down her chin.
And then she dived again, to take care of the pain, and let out a long shriek that drowned in the numbness of the water.
Resurfacing again, the girl opened her eyes, and the world was divided – the azure and the umber. The water brought her home.
A few waggles of her legs, and she grasped the sharpness of the hull. Covered in barnacles, weeds, ooze and other filth she wished not to know the name of.
Her nails scraped against the wood and fouling, and soft, wet splinters mawkishly rasped her palms.
The ship was quiet, save for the creaks coming from the foremast. It would still take them some more time to complete the forestay fixing.
And she scrambled her way to the rudder.
Hunger.
That was what kept her alive.
The agonising pain, the water jamming her chest from the outside, the itching soreness in her hands, the sudden heaviness of her legs, the water burning all nasal cavities and making her feel like a child undergoing a badly executed baptism, and it was the gnawing, vacuuming feeling in her guts that was buoying her up. Dying on an empty stomach was the silliest idea, for the black hole devouring her innards was quite diverting from, well, the important.
She would die for a loaf, but would there be a loaf after death?
Oh, if only they'd made sure and put a nail right there, on the hull, for her to throw the chain over and just hang.
Time did not fly.
Her grip on the ship was alternating between practical and nominal, depending on what did tire – the fingers of the legs. The hardest thing yet not letting her eyes slam shut.
One point, she pressed down on the heels of her shoes with her toes to remove them: the shoes were only adding the weight and wouldn't be a great loss, and given the pains it took to actually force them down her feet, she didn't even mind the feet coming off just as well.
The only thing that virtually seemed to bother her, and sent her lower lip trembling harder, was her looking down on her bare chest and discovering it was bare. The bastard had torn not only the shirt, he'd destroyed the self-made brassiere-strap, and man did it sting.
She cried. And cried, and cried, gulping down her tears and sobbing like a toddler, letting all the conceivable fluids dribble down her cheeks and chin. Trapped in the hell of her own making.
Shock was a great thing – it kept her floating and secured her brain from seriously pondering why she was currently choosing that torture – the torture with an end unpredictable – over reuniting with her father. Granted only three options – sinking, swinging or swimming, she chose the latter, not realizing just yet that the choice would sooner or later be narrowed to exclude the preferred alternative.
It kept the exhaustion at bay.
It kept her amental.
But it would wear off, sooner or later.
Galloway came to her senses when one of her legs cramped, and screwing her face in a throe, she heard a holler. And soon after, a splash. And a string of thunderous shots.
The hearing was restoring, the body registered the cold, and her limbs were flushing with life and new era of pain.
Another burst, the cries still rang.
She moved her stiff fingers.
Footsteps echoed above her head.
The ship spewed it's round of fire.
Only a few minutes, and they were moving, taking it to the open.
At least I tried.
Galloway closed her eyes.
She'd though of an orderly way to farewell life many times. Nothing would make it go amiss.
She looked up at the sky, a slow smile went spilling across her face...
Jensen.
He came up to the board for a mere second, and she caught sight of his dishevelled hair.
Her heart set drumming.
The ship was theirs.
Theirs.
When were they ever that lucky?
She clawed back to the wood and exercised all the might she could muster to administer an outcry, but only managed a wheeze.
The thudding of the guns enveloped her, almost bereaving her of senses.
She tore her throat again, but it came out no louder than a pup's whine.
Now she didn't even have the time nor the strength to perform the farewell, and the water already started to suffocate her.
The noise was getting louder. The straws she was grasping at were snapping.
She choked.
Her hand slipped, and the sea sucked her down under the surface.
The barnacles crashing under her hands as she clawed at the fouling.
Last time, she wouldn't make it any more, Galloway wrestled to the surface, spluttering and spitting tears out. Her breath hitched and the ragged gasps deadened the explosions around.
Her wrists gave out under the irons, and she turned away from the ship.
And she saw a boat.
A series of indescribable movements, and she sank again only to pop up one for a final time and see two men in the boat. And one of them stood up.
And then an umpteenth discharge stunned her.
The weight of the withheld hammered him down to the floor. It was a thin margin between effusion and emptiness, and Billy reeled.
Her little croak went through his body like a bolt, forcing one shuddering surge of throb, "Billy..."
It was far from over. There was nothing to her voice but suffering.
"Where's Mrs Barlow?"
He didn't know.
He didn't know where she was. But the realisation that she wasn't in that world, but the next, came with the door closing behind the captain.
Whatever she was – the spring of his doubt and the merit of his near-death experience – Billy was concerned to comprehend the sort of anguish tormenting the captain. Time and tide wait for no man. Life gives no quarter.
He didn't answer, and her eyes inched open tardily, the black irises in the sea of red, ruptured vessels.
Galloway unsealed her dry lips again, and Bones just shook his head.
"Where..." the girl took a breath in, inhaling a hysteria, "... is she?"
She hadn't felt that way in a long time. There was not a single inch of her that wasn't hurting. The head was reeling and the blurry light of cheerful sun was burning her eyes out. Even a mere thought of administering a limb sent the said limb shaking in frailty. She didn't have the voice to scream. The eyes rolled back closed and overbearing the pain, Galloway tried to push the blankets off her.
"No, no, no," Bones ducked closer to cover her back, but she went writhing in pain when the wounds checked in. Fainting could be considered rest, but that was all she had managed to recover the strength for.
Galloway died down. The physical stillness of hers that she'd been trying to save so desperately was betraying her. She'd only managed to roll a bit, and facing the glaring blueness of the window, she let desolation jam her throat and pry the tears out.
The cold refused to leave and only fortified it's reign over her with each shiver, and Galloway didn't know what was scarier: the embarrassment of the tidal jerks that were so far beyond the control that it was getting painful, or the nauseating feeling when the world went black again.
"Galloway?" a pool of warmth descended on her as Bones put the blankets back over, and Galloway caught feeble hold of some of the warmth – something to keep her conscious.
It only got sharper – a twinge enough to fall a regiment, it felt, and her limp body bent, lifted. An unfamiliar embrace, but the familiar grip.
Bones destined everything to go fuck itself, and scooped the girl up.
He sat on the sill, cornering himself, and clutched her tighter when she shivered.
Billy was warm. Warmer than the blankets. The scent of him she would hardly dab appealing anywhen, no one probably would, but the pungent smell of sweat, gunpowder and metal that wafted form him was weirdly luscious and yearned for.
And his hand, rough and dry, gently held her head up, and Galloway opened her eyes.
"Miss Ashe?" she whispered. Her lips trembled as she tried to breathe in. The mouth was dryer than DeGroot's humour, the girl barely could swallow.
"She must be all right," he took a wildest guess, but he couldn't risk another swing.
As half-dead as she was, the eyebrow curved with athletic proficiency.
"How do you know?"
Billy pursed his lips. Half-dead, yeah. If the mule argues, the mule is very much alive.
Alive. How long it took to sink in, but once there...
Galloway just stared into his eyes that forced her into healing: she took all she could since he wasn't overly informative.
"Decker," a last shot.
"He is fine."
The girl nodded, closing her eyes.
Tears had dried as fast as they emerged and she scrutinized the sparkly darkness of her lids, welcoming pain into intimacy. She got acutely aware of the heaviness of her body. And every single inch of her that was touching him, the solidity of the tangency. Blissfully exotic.
That offer of closeness set the new record for the bravest things Bones had done. He wouldn't be surprised if she, from then on, chose to approach men with a wooden cross in her outstretched hand and never let a brat come closer than an arm's distance. He wouldn't dispraise it. But her angled head pressed against his arm, extending reassurance she wasn't to rebuke his action for frivolity.
He held her carefully, afraid to double the pain, and her stillness, the weight of her carelessly resting in his arms, the absolute lack of apprehension in her eyes were the biggest compliment anyone had ever paid him.
Her brow twitched and she frowned deeper, opening her mouth.
"What is it?" he responded instantly.
The tears left two shiny thin lines framing her cheeks. Galloway took a semi-deep breath, almost hiccupping, and opened her eyes into a squint. She lay in his arms impotently, and God knew how long she'd been even more incognizant. She appreciated the clothes she was clad in were dry and almost warm, but was too tired to ponder how it had been accomplished, and get embarrassed.
His big arm was around her shoulder.
He'd tasted her concoction. He'd witnessed her bleed, in various ways. He'd heard her swear. He'd seen her cry. They were past acting coy. Quite relieving.
Billy swallowed, growing worried, and the girl breathed out shortly before ungluing her tongue from the dry palate:
"I haven't … lost control of my…" she halted, "… bowels?"
Apparently, that question followed Decker in the rating of concerns.
"No," he hastened to answer. "No, no."
They stared at each other for a few seconds before Billy hung his head. He couldn't hold it anymore. A timid smile broke on his face.
"I've seen it happen," she stated, examining the dimple on his cheek. It blossomed out of her control: a vague resemblance of a smile.
"It does… happen," he nodded, looking up.
Galloway felt as if trampled by a pack of bulls. And maybe touched in the head for there were multiple things she couldn't decipher, but...
She had killed another one.
Another man.
Why didn't she feel anything?
Her nostrils flared and lips trembled, and Bones saw her eyes water as she tipped her head back, and hastened to bring the neck of a rum bottle to her mouth, before she could fall in the thicket of derangement.
Her frozen fingers braced the bottle, partly covering his digits supporting the container. She took a hearty gulp, and her face contorted with surprise when she realised what it was, but didn't let go. She lapped up, devouring the liquid as if it was water, and a few tears slipped from her tightly shut eyes.
"Easy, easy," he gently bereaved her of the bottle, noting it couldn't have been her first encounter with strong spirits.
The girl drew a long breath in, sniffing.
"Better?"
"No," she confessed, putting her head back onto the support of his arm.
His jaw jumped.
Her eyes, deep and dark, warmed his face. He was like music – a tune she'd heard people whisper and mumble on the streets, but now it was a hall, and a full-scale classical orchestra was performing the lush and rich symphony. She'd studied his face so many times, but it was so sharp now, so close. Coarse bristle covering his hollowing cheeks, every single pore, every single hair, the grime on his skin, the eyebrows and lashes, barely visible, fairer than even his skin. The sun-kissed boy. His lips so even and smooth, enviably fuller than hers. And the eyes… no, there was nothing different this time: no matter how close or far he was, they were bluer than lagoon water and clearer than spring air, and the glint… Staring was indictable, but she kept submerging, and not even a part of her brain stirred to elaborate a justification.
"You still have blood on your face."
Billy's eyes roamed her face and he swallowed with difficulty.
"Does it hurt?" she cheeped, and he felt the shakiness of her icy fingers on his cheek, tracing up to his nose, following the flow of blood. A solid frown of the brows, her lashes fluttered when she evaluated the damage.
"No," his voice was only a ghost of it. Her fingers on his skin. She smelled... fresh. A small tilt of his head, and he would have the tips on his lips. He didn't move.
"And the arm?" her eyes swam down onto the cut Vane had left.
"It doesn't," it wasn't a lie: he didn't really feel anything. Other than... "It will," he added, pursing his lips.
"How...?"
"They never hurt until you notice," he smiled it off.
"That's right," the line of the wound was straight, but it curved over the muscle. The blood was a dry crust and a recollection suddenly flashed past her eyes: she'd grabbed him, he tensed and...
"And you don't have... blood on your face," he distracted her from whatever concern he saw blossoming.
"I took my time washing it away," Gal drew a heavy sigh.
It was no lie, there was no blood on her face, but Billy's hand reflexively drifted to her cheek.
He'd resuscitate the bastard. Grind him into the ground and enforce the law: he'd kill him again, and he'd exploit every single item in his repertoire, unleash the wrath, and maybe, just maybe, the savagery of his abuse would approximate that of the slap.
"Are you mad at me?" she wheezed out.
Billy blinked the foggy bitterness back.
"Do I look mad?" he probed himself.
"Yes," she said bluntly, shifting her eyes across his face.
"I'm…" there it was, unnoticed, the rigidness of his muscle. He unbraced his brows, and his whole skull relaxed. "… not."
Billy took his hand away from her face, "Sorry, it's…"
But he only shook his head.
Galloway nodded, closing her eyes in complete misery.
No running amok or wrecking vengeance will ever satisfy the thirst for retribution.
He didn't know what possessed him – he didn't really ask questions alike anymore – Bones lowered his hand to hers. To impart the warmth.
Her nails were purple, again, but this time the inner sides of her palms were wreathed in tiny scratches, pink and thin, and bigger abrasions. He had never noticed earlier, and now had to school another wave of high dudgeon.
He would have the twat's ancestors screech in pain.
Life was getting crazier and crazier every second, and then, through maddening pain, she felt his fingers fondly fiddling her thumb.
It felt delightful.
"Everything hurts," she confessed in a small voice.
"I know," his fingers stopped for a spell, and Galloway looked him in the eyes.
"I would love to exaggerate, but I'm not," the girl didn't remember if she'd whined too much, but now he could name any part of her body – even the ones she wasn't aware existed – and she'd say yes.
"I know you're not," he took a deep breath. Revealing any kind of pain was a something she indulged in rarely if even, thus exaggeration wasn't anticipated. "I'm sorry."
"That's not your fault," she offered light heartedly. Her pale lips moved wearily – not in grease and smile, but he kept staring.
"It is."
"No, it is not," she threw her head back a little – how come you can be annoyed when I say it, and I cannot when you shovel yourself down – and her lids glued over her eyes.
Galloway had battled through a lot, and was quite a connoisseur of self-castigation to be able to spot even the slightest hint of it at a hundred miles, even in a language she didn't understand. And the girl believed that if she was insolent enough to resist the pangs of conscience for robbing a man of his life, then Billy could as easily let go of his remorse for whatever was bothering him. Especially if he repented of not saving her life when he had no means for it...
Her tortured countenance dissuaded him from further argument, and Bones bit his lip. He'd apologise again later, and afford her the parage to argue.
Billy felt her body shiver in his arms. Her breathing was growing steady, the eyebrows twitched.
It would be unusual not to speak to her. But there was no distraction from hurt, and when she faded down, pursing her lips, Billy shifted his gaze onto her hands.
They used to speak for hours and even when they didn't feel like it, there was a strong feeling of receptive attention. But even despite the mutual limb enclosure, at times now he felt he was losing her – a sobering sensation and, with the jitters almost over, he still checked the solidity of his support at every odd stir of her body.
"You're almost bald," Galloway whispered searchingly.
Billy's eyes flung open as he leaned closer, hoping he'd just misheard the phrase that fished him out of his thoughts.
"You look... almost like... Muldoon," she squinted at the close-cut hair on his head. Is she going mad?
"Do I?" his eyebrows rose, and he was hovering between laughter and tears.
"I might be getting hard of seeing..."
"Galloway?" he hailed her, the moment of indecision was dislodged by complete absence of merriment.
"But it's easy to tell... that that's you."
Either she's going insane or being...soft. The hardest thing was – with Galloway it was very hard to tell which it was.
"Is it?"
"It is," she replied simply. "There's no person on the ship who's too big for the bloody Man o' war but still hasn't grown into his ears."
The line of thought fell.
"What?" he narrowed his eyes, gravely concerned, any piece of even vague comprehension he hoped to have had escaped him.
"What?" she mimicked, a faux lazy expression, as if she'd not heard him.
Oh, she's just being Galloway.
His mind caught up with his body seconds later. First, her nose went out of focus. Then, the chipping flesh of her lips, dry and soft, under his. Sea and rum. Her body rippled in a wave rising from her feet, tensing up for a moment, and then she fell limp again. They'd been breathing it for too long. It felt like breaking moorings. The creak, the hiss of ropes against the wood, the splash.
His hand cupped her face, and he pressed his lips even harder, only to feel her reciprocate the pressure – ever so slight and weak, – and her neck craned, the chin tilting towards him.
And Billy Bones was lost.
One of her hands escaped his hold and rose, her fingers curled round the rim of the shirt on his chest, icy against his heat.
So heady, yet so unhurried; his lips parted on their own accord, and hers followed – and they froze. Launched into the tenderness neither of them was used to, for once in their lives kissing someone because they wanted to. Not because someone thought it their right to kiss her. Not because he felt like the circumstances required him to. Deafening silence and soft beat of blood.
Frown wouldn't leave his face, and he was pleasantly allayed to find she wasn't wearing one when he pulled back a little. Their lips were still grazing– a wispy touch – and he could count her lashes. Her nose pressed into his cheek, her scarce breathing, her scent, her taste and Oh, God it spiralled up again.
His palm travelled up her cheek in a cosying desperation, and he let his face sink into hers.
Galloway only hoped her heart wouldn't give out.
His ardent near-kisses were flooding her cheek and chin, and the girl was scorching from within. He caressed her nose with his dry lips, not even pursed. So fiery against her cooled face. Soft and bristly, magnetizing.
Her body forgot to shiver.
Oh, why there was no manual so that she would know the options, and how, and why and that it could be, and maybe she wouldn't be so stupidly overwhelmed and would move... but the weight of her feeling lay fully and solely on the fast hold she had on his shirt.
Billy stilled, pressing a real-kiss to her forehead.
Galloway thawed. Little did she know what it took Bones to control himself and not crush her, hugging her to jelly, when she was so mellow and giddy in his arms.
The girl kept losing her grip on the crazy reality, resigning herself to the rule of the warmth spilling inside. His skin was hot and rough, the callousness of his thumb was sliding up and down her jaw as his palm rested on her neck.
It'd been years since he was that close to crying. Bones contorted his face, pressing his cheek to the crown of her hair – wet and cold – as he cradled her head.
It'd been years since she felt so relieved. Not a muscle tense, Galloway was malleable, and she abandoned herself to him. Just closed her eyes in pain and surrendered to his firm embrace. Letting the inordinate in her heard blur with that worldly calm.
Billy felt her wavy breath on his neck as her mouth fell open, and something inside crashed in a wave. Flutter spilled through his body and he suddenly felt every inch of his skin tingling.
Galloway didn't know when it happened, but she was in tears again. And that time her lips curved and trembled as she wept, shutting her eyes. His hand was holding her cheek and he turned her face to his, and any other day, any other circumstances, she would loathe him to see it, but the exhausting and long suffering blocked the diffidence. The girl offered no resistance when he pulled her up and pressed tighter to his chest. She cushioned her cheek against his shoulder, staring into his eyes, chest heaving hectically, and made no sound.
Billy's thumb slowly lifted to her eyebrows and he gently stroke the deep wrinkle, and she obeyed, closing her eyes.
The blueness behind the window never changed, and he slipped into it, missing the moment when the town must've been reduced to powder. The canons died down and Bones grew aware of that only when he felt the ship give a lurch. They were leaving it all behind.
She'd quietened, burrowing her face in his chest. Her breath was halting, yet the hand pressed to his chest wasn't cold anymore.
The fingers of her other hand were laced in his, and his thumb was rubbing circles on the silk of her skin.
Galloway had warmed, and it was emanating more and more hope, immersing him into ecstatic comfort, but there was a pinch of restlessness, an irk that burned him like salt burns a fresh wound. The colour of the sky was acid. It was getting hard to breathe.
"Galloway," he whispered, lowering his head to find her face. Bones still didn't know what exactly he wanted, but he could always come back and revisit the subject of his ears...
She didn't react.
"Galloway?" he stirred, sitting straight, and her head fell back loosely. "Hey, hey..."
She was oblivious to his touch. The assault of panic gathered momentum when his eyes fell on the smears of blood soaking through her shirt.
"No, no, no," Billy shot up to his feet. Her hand slipped off her stomach and hang lifelessly.
Good job, mate, she barely made it out with her life intact, and you've arrived to be the first in the queue to become her undoing.
But Bones didn't have the time to get too roily.
For that day would come down in history as the day of great timing.
Howell kicked the door open, wiping his hands on a towel, and came to a halt.
He didn't utter a word, and the men gravitated towards each other.
The surgeon just put his hand on her cheek, frowning, "A touch too warm for my liking. Come."
Time went slow.
Bones stepped out onto the deck, following the doctor. With the girl in his arms.
He felt their eyes. From the ropes in the rigging, from the deck around him, from the guns below. Tousled, wet hair. Clean skin. A vivid spot of blood on the fair shirt. Her beautiful neck. And parted lips. And eyes closed. And no line between the eyebrows.
And his every step resonated through him.
Sooner or later Silver had to come out to the deck, and taking into consideration he had been named the quartermaster, his desire to do so rose with every minute of his coming round. So he opted for sooner.
The deck cheered upon seeing his lame self, the crew ayed and hollowed, clapping him on the back, almost sending him down. He smiled wide. But the person who had claimed to never be even remotely happy with the idea of him being the quartermaster wasn't there. Billy.
Silver swallowed hard. She wasn't there either – the recollection struck him as stray rock and he frowned, letting his jaw hang loose.
The deck below was like a magnet with the same pole. But he had to go down. He opted for sooner. John eyed the men once again before limping down the companionway.
The lower deck was dark, stuffy with sweaty and stale air and laughter. Way too alive.
Silver spotted Bones' tall frame in the corner. Frowning, he was exchanging words with someone. Then he nodded, turning his head. And he smiled, seeing John. It was a faint smile, a smile of politeness, Silver believed. As he couldn't picture Bones shooting him a grin, not after seeing him rather… devastated by the girl's death. The frustration and dismay had been clear. No shirtlessness-combined-with-the-war-paint-on-his-face daunting ensemble would beat the rampage that had got the upper hand over his inflamed sense. It couldn't have been the same face that was now looking at him, so serene. For a moment Silver feared Billy had lost his wits and was to supersede Randall.
John rushed – well, attempted to cripple faster, if we are not exaggerating – to Billy. The person standing by his side turned out to be Howell, and he was now bowing down to someone lying in a hammock.
A curve of a hip, white gauze against the olive skin. He halted. Her forehead was covered in beads of sweat, and her parted lips were trembling a little.
It was hard to draw his eyes away from her. For a reason.
"God strike me blind," John breathed out.
Howell turned to him. Silver just stood there with his mouth open. He knew that Billy, damned bastard, smiled next to him, shifting from foot to foot. The one-legged man grasped his arm for support as he bent his knee to sit down, facing the girl. Gal was frowning, and stared straight at him with her red eyes.
"She's been delirious for a few days," said the doctor, wiping the wound. "Not the strongest constitution, but…"
"She doesn't recognise me?"
"She does," Galloway licked her lips.
Bones gave a tug on his arm up as John chuckled.
Silver leaned on his crutch, skimming the cuddle of the girl with his eyes, and Galloway examined him back.
Her gaze lingered on the vacant space under his knee and she sealed her lips to swallow.
"Don't you dare... look at me like this," he whispered grievously, but a suave smile cracked his face. "You, deathless fawn."
The girl nodded, shutting her sore eyes.