When he opened the door, the room wasn't entirely quiet. He could hear frustrated whispering coming from his right. The privacy sheet had been pulled around the bed, concealing everything but Dea's blurry shadow. She must have some sort of light nearby. It looked like she was laying down, arms crossed, gaze directed at the ceiling above as she muttered under her breath.

He closed the door with a click. She sat up and turned her head in his direction, but did not move to pull the sheet.

"I see you've already chosen the sleeping arrangements," He commented, glancing at the unoccupied bed. It looked more comfortable than the usual ones he slept in, at least.

"-And where have you been?" She asked curtly, her shadow moving as if she were grabbing something.

"Enjoying the view."

He moved to sit on the edge of the mattress, taking off his shoes and removing his cape. He unbuttoned his jackets until he was sitting in only his shirt and pants. He peeled his socks off and exhaled, wondering how to start this conversation.

"I…apologize for what happened today."

She finally pulled the curtain, revealing her masked face and blue zendale. She was in her pajamas, a red set with plaid bottoms and a flower on her long-sleeve.

"You wouldn't happen to be sorry for leaving me to die, would you?"

"It was a mistake on my part, to not tell you what we were doing. I never intended on fighting today. I only wanted to make sure that our target was there - but we ended up either getting seen or heard."

He inwardly cursed at himself for dropping his focus to talk with her. He'd never been that sloppy, succumbing to easy distraction. If he'd kept his attention, they could've hid or fled in time. He was the one responsible for that mess.

At her silence, he was compelled to press on.

"Normally, I have a plan ready and a crew to direct. But my idea was shared this time, and you needed to be told before we acted on it."

"Exactly," She huffed, swinging her legs to hang over the mattress. Her nails were painted a light blue. "Was that so hard to say?"

He glared at her, but didn't refute.

"This 'I work alone' attitude you have is getting on my nerves. You didn't ask for me to be here, but I am. And neither of us can change that."

He rested against his pillow, and immediate relief came to his back. He had to stifle the satisfied sound that wanted to leave his lips.

"-So, you'll have to get used to it." She finished.

"Right." He agreed.

He didn't move for a minute. He clasped his hands and rested them on his stomach, releasing a slow breath. Dea had nothing more to say, so she closed her privacy sheet. He heard the sounds of her removing her mask. The light was eventually turned off. Only the dim streaks of nearby moonlight provided limited visibility in the room.

Deacon stared at the ceiling for an awfully long time. Long enough that he heard Dea stop moving and was sound asleep. Only then, he pulled his sheet and removed his mask and his gloves, turning in for the night.

It didn't take long before they had a routine.

There was an unspoken agreement of privacy when the two were in their shared quarters. They slept and changed behind closed sheets, and gave the other seclusion when they used the sink to take care of their hygiene. They ran on the same schedule, starting their days early and retiring late at night. Deacon took care of the sailing and navigation while Dea supervised their crewmembers and kept the order. After their small conversation in the cabin, he shared some of his plans with her ahead of time. While she had plenty of alterations made, they shared insightful discussions that led to a mutual agreement. When they put their mind to it, they worked together decently. Deacon just had to swallow his pride for it.

At first, it was bothersome. But he got used to the extra company, and the pair of eyes that hovered over his shoulder as they drew their maps and strategized aloud. She wasn't as familiar with Armada procedures as he was, but still offered valuable input that made it worth the time to listen to her.

For a few weeks, things remained stagnant as they sailed across waters and visited various islands. Deacon took this time tending to the businesses he was assigned - retrieving important documents, catching up with the Armada's excavations, and keeping an eye on those under his personal watch list.

Most of their time was spent sailing. Which meant they had a lot of time to kill. The crewmembers sparred together and played games while Deacon made good progress on the novels he brought for this trip. Dea had an interesting pastime of singing while they traveled. A couple members of the crew would join in on the chorus when she sang something familiar. She got along pretty well with them and was on good terms with most of their company.

Deacon didn't outright compliment her, but she had a beautiful voice. He would listen to her while he was at the captain's wheel, pretending to focus on his compass everytime she looked his way.

. . .

He was sitting at the table in their quarters, eating some Mooshu takeout, when he heard an audible rumble from across the room.

Dea was positioned on her bed, fully clothed with her boots off, polishing her pistol. They never ate at the same time together. Taking off either of their masks was simply not an option, and she had to do exactly that to eat anything. As a compromise, he usually had his dinner on the above deck somewhere while she ate in their room. But today was particularly windy and he didn't feel like battling with his cape right now.

Her stomach growled a second time. She was obviously hungry. She rested a gloved hand over her abdomen in frustration, hoping to quiet the noise. Deacon sat back and tsked.

"You can join me anytime you'd like," He offered. She paused in her movements before shaking her head.

"I'm * not * taking off my mask just to eat some noodles and rice."

"Suit yourself." He shrugged. This meant she'd be in a bad mood since she didn't eat, and he'd just have to deal with her being snippy again. It wouldn't be the first time.

After a minute or two, and some more ungodly growls from her body, Dea's eyes wandered over to the food. With a huff, she stood to her feet and walked over to the table. She hesitated to sit down. Instead, she made a circling motion with her finger in his direction.

He didn't budge. She rolled her eyes.

"Turn your chair around and don't look."

He stood, made a show of turning it completely around to face the wall, before sitting back down. He resumed eating with his chopsticks, counting the amount of books they had on their shelf. He heard the soft noise of Dea sitting down on the cushion. A tense minute passed before she grabbed her takeout and started eating. If he turned around, he'd have seen that she didn't remove her mask at all - but merely pried it away from her face as she brought the food into her mouth. It covered a majority of what she wanted, with the exception of her lips and a few loose strands of hair that fell from behind her ear.

She kept glancing upwards to catch him if he peeked. He remained unmoved. A small smile grew on her face.

Eventually, she was comfortable enough to let her guard down. She sighed sadly. "You're lucky you have a bauta. I wish Queen had given me one, so I can eat and drink without issue."

He picked up his head, but didn't move it in her direction. "Why didn't she?"

"Felt I would look *too* much like you. She also offered me a moretta, but that wasn't ideal, either."

'A muta would've been perfect,' He mused blissfully. She wouldn't have ever talked to him. He imagined what that would've been like. After a few seconds, he snapped himself out of his daydreaming.

"...So you're a friend of hers?" He tested the waters. His co-captain went quiet. She set her chopsticks down, but didn't respond right away, leaving Deacon's thoughts to wander.

They still knew little of each other. The most he'd learned about Dea was that she was originally from Monquista, aspired to be a famous singer when she was younger, and tossed and turned in her sleep. She kept to herself most of the time, but they did have little conversations when no one else was around. Deacon stopped prying into her business for the longest time, believing it was a lost cause. So far, she proved worthy of serving alongside him on The Executioner. They hadn't had another incident since their first day, aside from some mindless bickering and arguing. They were more or less * tolerable * of the other's presence by now.

But at times like these, he couldn't help wondering who this woman was. Who he was sharing such close company with. He hated the tension that lingered in the room - exchanging so little when they were only a few feet away from each other. It felt like they were strangers still. And that was beginning to bother him.

He was to blame, of course. He distanced himself the moment he heard of Dea's position. He offered nothing but a cold shoulder and silence for the first couple of weeks they worked together. She easily met his unfriendliness and rarely asked him anything about himself. This likely resulted into what they had now. Deacon was having second thoughts if this was what he wanted for the few months away from home.

"You could say so," She finally answered. "I haven't known her for very long, though."

'That makes sense,' He thought. While Queen was the more friendly type out of the Elites, she wasn't easy to impress, either. Anyone she personally deemed a friend often caught her attention somehow. This made him wonder what was so special about Dea that must've stood out. He went quiet again as his eyes wandered the room in thought.

"I don't know much about the Elites at all, actually," Dea confessed, pulling him back into reality once more. "When she told me I'd be working with one, I didn't expect you ."

He didn't know whether he should be offended or not. "-What's that supposed to mean..?"

"You guys are superior to anyone else in the Armada. You're so highly praised that I expected some God to meet me at those docks. Instead, it was an ordinary man who walked up to me." She giggled as she plopped a dumpling in her mouth. "-Just what makes you an Elite, anyway?"

"I've worked hard to get where I am." He snapped. He wanted to face her when he said this, but had to stop himself from turning around. "I'm committed to my work and I know my way around most things."

"I was only asking. No need to get so defensive, espía ." She teased. That was a nickname she started calling him by. "I'm just saying…from what I've heard, the elites are either smart, strong, or both of those things. And you don't seem to be either."

"Maybe you don't know enough about me," He muttered, finishing the last of his rice. He was growing annoyed.

She went to say something, apologize maybe, but he gave her no chance to. He discarded the box on the table and dipped his head, allowing his hat to conceal her face from his sight. She watched him do this before resting her head in her hand.

"-You don't have to worry about that anymore. I'm finished."

"That makes two of us."

He took this cue to collect their trash and dispose of it. Once that was done, he left the room. He balled his gloved hands into fists as he went, fishing for his pack from one of his pockets. When he was out of sight, he surfaced a cigarette and lit its end thoughtlessly. His eyes drifted to the sun currently setting on the horizon. Something twisted in his gut unpleasantly when he watched the smoke filter from under his mask.

This wasn't a habit he was proud of, and would get rid of in a heartbeat if he could. He'd taken more smoke breaks than he usually did on his voyages, and that was because of his stress. This entire situation…from losing all those prisoners, to being ordered to retrieve them with so little time, and forced to partner with a woman who doubted his validity as an Elite…

Familiar insecurities brewed inside him. He tried his best to push those thoughts down. His hands were shaking when he went to extinguish his cig. He had to bury all of the emotions he'd felt in that second. He hardened his demeanor before returning to his present duty.