Jim opened his eyes slowly.

There was a dull pounding in his head. It's your own damn fault, he thought aggressively, you should have run.

But he hadn't been able to: he had been petrified that if he moved, Frollo might have inexplicably glanced up and seen Ariel lying on the beam directly above them. She hadn't been well-concealed at all; it was a wonder it had taken him so long to spot her.

He suddenly became aware of a gentle weight on his hand.

Ariel was beside him, wearing the blue day dress that he had stolen for her. She had fallen asleep in a sitting position, her back pressed to the wall. Her head was drooped forward and mostly covered by her long red hair. Her hand was holding onto Jim's, its delicate weight somehow making him feel lighter than usual.

"Ariel?" he whispered. He squeezed her hand. He was, for some odd reason, filled with the pressing need of apologizing to her.

She opened her eyes blearily and turned to Jim.

'You're okay.' She said sleepily.

"Yeah, I think so." He replied. "Sorry I haven't been talking to you for a while."

'It's okay.'

"No, it's not. I just—I don't like people seeing and knowing about what happened. I have to deal with it on my own, okay?"

'You don't have to do anything.' Ariel hummed softly. She laid down next to him, choosing to rest her head on his chest.

"I know, but this is something I want to do on my own, you know?" Jim said, running his free hand softly over her hair.

She looked up at him, her blue eyes slightly misted over.

'Are you okay with me lying like this?' she asked. 'I know you don't like being touched.'

"Who told you that?" Jim asked.

'Quasimodo.'

Jim snorted.

"I'm going to let you in on a little secret, Ariel." Jim murmured. "I love contact. Hugs, hand-holding, shoulder touches…you name it, I like it. The thing is, I do come off as not liking it because I—well, I don't feel like I deserve it. So I lash out."

'So why aren't you lashing out now?'

"For crying out loud, I just got a fucking bust tossed against my head. I'm not in the mood to do much of anything except lay here and talk to you."

Ariel giggled.

"So what was it like, being a mermaid?" Jim asked her. "Did you drown any sailors?"

'What?! No!' Ariel cried out. 'Mermaids don't drown sailors! If we go to them at all, we either make sure they get to land safely or…'

"Or what?" Jim tilted his head to gaze at her.

'We make sure they don't die alone.'

There was a small pause.

"Would you do that for me and Quasimodo?" Jim asked suddenly.

'What?'

"Well, I always wanted to become a sailor and I obviously want to leave this tower." Jim said softly. "And it goes without saying that I'd take Quasimodo with me. But if something were to happen while we were on that boat—would you make sure we wouldn't go out on our own?"

'If I was still a mermaid, I would.' She nodded, squeezing Jim's hand.

'Get some sleep.' She said after a while. 'Unless it's a concussion. Then don't sleep.'

Jim snorted.

"Frollo's weak old man arms couldn't give me a concussion, even with a fucking bust added. It just feels like one hell of a headache. I'm fine, really."

Ariel laughed.

'Then rest. You need it.'

"YOU LET HIM GO TO SLEEP?!"

'He said that he didn't have a concussion—'

"Ariel, listen to me." Quasimodo said, wringing his hands. "Did Jim seem…different than usual?"

Ariel scrunched her nose as she thought about it.

'Not really. I mean, he did let me put my head on his chest and hold his hand and he was stroking my hair and—'

"How is that normal? That is not something Jim does! Think about it!"

'Oh no.' Ariel muttered, realization dawning on her.

"See, when you get a concussion," Quasimodo explained, desperately splashing water in Jim's face to wake him up. "There's a lot more involved than the 'I-really-should-stay-awake' thing. People act contrary to their natures when they have a concussion. Jim is NOT a cuddly teddy bear. He does not like warm hugs, he's disgusted by displays of affection, he's—"

'No, he's not!' Ariel argued. 'He just feels like he doesn't deserve any of it!'

"What gave you that idea?!"

'He TOLD me, Quasi!'

"He told you that when he wasn't in his right mind!" Quasimodo said firmly. "Ariel, listen to me. Bring me another bowl of water and be quick—we might be able to wake him up yet."

Ariel ran into the kitchen, yanked a bowl off of the shelf and dipped it into a bucket of water. The whole time she felt like sobbing. Of course Jim had been concussed, how could she be so stupid? To think that she had thought that he had just been too tired to pretend to hate her, that she had thought, however briefly, that maybe it hadn't been a coincidence that Jim had saved her. That maybe he could be…

Ariel shook her head, refusing to let the thought complete itself. She walked carefully back to Quasimodo, mindful of the sloshing water in the bowl.

"Thank you, Ariel." Quasimodo said, relieved. He reached for the bowl and Ariel handed it over.

"Yeah, thanks." A voice growled. "I feel like I've been dipped in a sewer."

Jim slowly turned his head to look at her. While she was glad that he was awake, she did not appreciate this. She put her hands on her hips.

'It's a shame we didn't think to do that before.' She mouthed off. She was expecting an angry retort, but Jim just laughed.

"As if I don't smell bad enough already." He said, rolling his eyes. He gave her a little wink before drinking out of the bowl.

Ariel hated herself for laughing.

The girl was giggling again.

Jim did his best to ignore her, which was much harder than he thought it would be. Silent laughter should be the easiest thing to overlook, but for some reason, she demanded his attention. He chopped onions in relative silence, feeling her waves of laughter washing over him. Quasimodo smiled at him, but all Jim could give him was a shrug in return. Quasimodo moved to one of the arches and reached out his arm: raindrops fell heavy and thick onto his skin.

Though his head still ached mightily, Jim's predicament had improved. He was no longer fighting off sleep and he was wide-eyed and alert and back to his normal self, which, Quasimodo noted with a grimace, wasn't truly that likeable.

"Hey, do me a favor." Jim called to him. "Can you rinse our forks off in the rain? She's been using them as brushes again."

"Why does she do that?" Quasimodo asked, taking the forks from beside Jim and moving back to his perch. "You think it's like a cultural thing?"

"Maybe. I just wish she'd quit it."

"So talk to her about it." Quasimodo suggested, running his fingers over the forks' tongs.

"I shouldn't have to." Jim growled. Quasimodo gave him a questioning look before handing the forks back over.

"Why did you bring her back here to live with us if you aren't going to talk to her?" he asked quietly. Jim opened his mouth to retort, but Quasi had already lifted himself up into the beams and was conversing with the bells. Jim snorted in frustration and returned to his chopping.

"I talk to her all the time." He muttered under his breath. His knife made sharper and louder noises as he continued to mumble.

"It's not like I don't try, anyways. I mean, I did go through a few days without—but that was a few days, that's it!"

Yeah, Jim's conscience conceded, but she hasn't really been here that long has she? Like, two months?

And there were all of those instances when he wasn't even mad and just didn't talk to her. Jim's stomach lurched. If it hadn't been for Quasimodo, she would have been so severely neglected…he was always sneaking out to town or roaming the church. Anything and everything he could do to get away from this depressing tower.

He should take her with him to town, he mused. She saved the city, after all; she might as well have the privilege to see it.

Jim's stomach settled.

There. His conscience soothed. Just don't be so rude again. Maybe then, your mother's face won't haunt you.

Jim wiped his eyes and instantly—and rather defensively—blamed the onions for the moisture left on his arm. He let out an inaudible growl before stopping, the hairs on his neck standing up.

She was right behind him.

He didn't know how he could tell: perhaps it was the smell of saltwater that was suddenly enticing him or maybe it was the immediate tension he felt in his bones when she moved up to him.

"Hey Ariel," he sighed.

Ariel peeked over his shoulder and pointed at the well-chopped onions.

"They're onions. Have you never seen them before?"

Ariel shook her head.

"They're good, trust me. They—hey!" Jim yelped, slapping Ariel's hand. She had picked up a whole handful and was going to put it in her mouth. Ariel looked at him, wide-eyed and hurt.

"They're for seasoning only." He muttered, feeling guilty but not particularly inclined to show it. He shoveled the dropped onion pieces back into a pile, avoiding her gaze.

Ariel moved away from him and stood by a gargoyle that Quasimodo had lovingly nicknamed Laverne. Jim ignored her—that is, until he heard a sniffle.

"Shit." Jim murmured, looking over his shoulder. Ariel had her back turned to him and was massaging her hand.

Sighing, Jim put down his chopping knife and moved towards her.

"Hey, I'm sorry, but trust me, you didn't want to eat that stuff like that." Jim whispered. He reached a hand out to touch her shoulder, but withdrew it before she could notice.

Ariel turned towards him, nodding slightly in understanding.

'I wasn't expecting it. You didn't hurt me.' She mouthed.

"Are you sure?"

"You're horrible at apologizing." Quasimodo called from the rafters.

"You know what I'm—I'm working on it!" Jim fumed, his very recent conversation with himself still playing through his mind.

She was giggling again. It took everything Jim had not to smile.

Quasimodo leapt from his perch and landed right next to them. Ariel jumped, startled, but Jim didn't bat an eye.

"You apologize like this." Quasimodo said. He grabbed Ariel's hand and dropped to his knees.

"I never meant to hurt you." Quasimodo began, tossing his bangs frivolously in a horrible impersonation of Jim. Ariel was biting her lip to keep herself from laughing. Jim merely rolled his eyes.

"Truth is, I care about you Ariel, but I'm such a big jerk that I don't know how to show it." Quasi continued. "But I promise I will never, ever hurt you again. I am so sorry."

"I am not a jerk." Jim muttered, returning to preparing dinner. Quasimodo laughed in response and walked downstairs, beckoning to Ariel to join him. Before she left, she placed a small, warm hand on Jim's shoulder. He felt himself freeze underneath her fingertips. He knew she was mouthing something behind his back, but he didn't know what. He allowed her touch to linger there for a couple of seconds before shrugging her off and giving her a mumbled "thanks." He turned his head in time to see a portion of her smile before she followed Quasimodo clumsily down the stairs, gripping the handrail like her life depended on it.

Jim smiled slightly. Considering how clumsy she was, it probably did.

Later that night, Ariel headed towards her cot, hidden expertly behind the bells so that Quasimodo and Jim's 'master' wouldn't know she was there. The taste of Jim's roasted potatoes—with the onions added tenderly to the skins—still lingered in her mouth and it was with a smile that she prepared to make her cot.

To her surprise, she found her bed already made and a beautiful, painted wooden statuette placed carefully on her pillow. Smiling, she looked at it. It was a carving of her and Ariel had to admit that Quasimodo was incredibly talented. She had, of course, stumbled upon Quasimodo's collection her second night in the tower. But this piece, the one he most assuredly made for her, was his most beautiful work. Her eyes were exactly the right tint of deep ocean blue and her hair was a beautiful cherry red. He had carved her wearing a beautiful powder blue dress that she swore sparkled when she turned it in the candle-light. Her little statuette was dancing—dancing! How had he known about her fascination with the subject?-and smiling widely.

Unable to conceal a smile herself, Ariel snuggled with her gift and was soon fast asleep.

From the shadows behind her, Jim quietly wiped the last of the wood shavings from his pants before carefully climbing down from the rafters, Quasimodo's carving knife held securely in between his teeth.

"And what am I supposed to say when she tells me thank you for something I didn't make?" Quasimodo asked the second Jim dropped back down on the floor. Jim took the knife out of his mouth.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Jim said, blushing. He hurriedly placed the knife back on the table. Quasimodo smiled.

"Rrrright." He said, winking. "Shame that Ariel won't know that Jerky McJerk Face actually has a heart."

"It's best that way." Jim said hesitantly. "I don't want her to get hurt, like…like my mom did."

Quasimodo fell silent.

"I'm going to sleep." He said finally, awkwardly patting Jim on the shoulder. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah." Jim muttered. "Night."

For a solid hour, Jim stayed there, staring out at the stars, the last memories of his mother playing through his head. He closed his eyes and tried to remember what life had been like before they let those damned gypsies in. Jim knew he smiled easier and laughed more sincerely back then. He could also, vaguely, remember the sound of his mother's chuckle and the happy clink of wine glasses that could be heard all throughout the night.

He opened his eyes and he felt the tears he had been holding in finally fall to the ground.

He found himself climbing back into the rafters and sitting next to Ariel's cot. There were loose strands of hair in her face and he cautiously moved them away, sighing in relief when she didn't react to his touch.

"I made you the doll." He whispered. "Quasimodo was right, I can't apologize, I'm horrible. So I, uh, thought…well, I thought you'd like it. I'm sorry."

Jim blushed as he lowered himself out of Ariel's sight for the last time that night. When he finally did clamber into bed, the sun was already beginning to rise. Ariel's smile and the smell of his mother's old inn haunted his dreams.