Over the next three days, Morse watched as The Cowley underwent an apparently familiar transformation. What had once been a lawless pirate vessel slowly became something almost… respectable.
The first day was dedicated to repairs. The battle with The Gull had left its scars, but nothing fatal - thankfully. The hull was mostly intact, the sails torn but mendable, the rigging in need of attention but not beyond saving. The crew worked tirelessly, some climbing high up on the masts to replace ropes while others reinforced planks and caulked seams, sealing out the ever-hungry sea.
Morse, still aching from his injuries, found himself mostly sidelined, watching from the rail as men and women hammered, tied, and mended with the efficiency of a crew who had done this a thousand times before.
The second day brought something almost more surreal than battle damage - deception. Crates and barrels were hauled up from the hold and arranged in neat stacks across the deck. At first, Morse thought they were unloading real cargo, but it quickly became apparent the barrels were empty, the crates held nothing but straw, and it was all an elaborate farce. The Cowley needed to look like a merchant vessel, not just in flag but in function. The crew scrubbed the deck until it gleamed, stowed away anything that could be deemed 'unsavoury' and even rearranged the furniture in Jakes's cabin to make it seem like a captain's quarters fit for an honest trader rather than a pirate king.
On the final day, as Tortuga loomed on the horizon, the illusion was completed.
Fancy, grinning like a madman, scaled the mainmast with an almost unnatural ease, the red ensign tucked under his arm. The Union Jack snapped into place high above them, bright and bold against the deep blue sky. The crew traded their usual attire for something far more refined: half of them donned tailored coats and breeches, appearing every bit the wealthy passengers on an opulent voyage, while the other half wore the crisp, simple uniforms of a respectable merchant crew. They moved amongst the supposed nobility with the air of practised professionals, performing an elaborate charade designed to fool even the most scrutinizing eye.
According to Strange, it was Jakes who had first insisted on the disguise. Merchant ships were easier to slip past under the Royal Navy's watchful eye, but even those were sometimes subject to scrutiny - a ship full of wealthy passengers, though? That was something the Navy didn't bother troubling itself with. Pirates were their concern, and smugglers, and even enemy fleets - not soft-handed aristocrats bound for London with their imported luxuries.
Morse had to admit - if he didn't know any better, he'd have thought The Cowley to now be an innocent passenger ship too.
They were due to dock in an hour's time. Morse, watching the crew move in carefully orchestrated deception, felt a wave of disbelief crash over him. This was it. Land was on the horizon. A port. A chance at freedom.
And yet…
"How're you holding up, matey?"
Strange's voice pulled him from his thoughts. He turned to see the man lowering his spyglass, his expression one of mild curiosity and not-so-mild concern. Morse had taken to leaning against the railing these past few days, the pain in his side still sharp enough to prevent him from standing upright for long periods at a time.
"I'm fine" he replied automatically, unconvincingly, even as his fingers gripped the wooden railing in front of him, "Are we almost there?"
"Aye, not too long now" Strange said with a grin, "Eager to get your feet back on solid ground, are you?"
The thought honestly hadn't even crossed his mind.
"Something like that".
"Oi! Morse!"
He turned at the shout, spotting Trewlove on the main deck below, hands on her hips as she called up to him.
"Sarge wants to see you!"
Next to him, Strange gave an almost theatrical sigh. "What've you done now, matey?"
"Honestly?" Morse replied, straightening up with a wince, "I think he'd find something wrong even if I were entirely innocent".
Slowly making his way down the wooden steps of the quarterdeck, Morse moved toward the door of Jakes's cabin, every step feeling heavier than it should. The ship rocked gently beneath him, the scent of salt and perfume thick in the air, the distant sound of the crew's movements a steady backdrop to his thoughts. Was this the last time he'd stand here like this? The last time he'd smell the ocean like this? The last time he'd be a part of the crew like this?
He hesitated at the door, fingers flexing at his side, before raising his fist and knocking sharply.
"Enter".
The word was curt, clipped. It sent something curling in Morse's stomach, something both apprehensive and electric. He took a breath and glanced over his shoulder. The coastline was closer now, the jagged silhouette of the harbour coming into view against the dimming sky. Port. Solid ground. Freedom.
And yet.
Morse squared his shoulders and stepped inside.
Jakes sat back against the edge of his desk, his arms crossed over his broad chest, one boot planted firmly on the floor while the other rested against the desk's leg. The dim glow of the lanterns painted him in flickering gold and deep shadow, sharpening the cut of his jaw, the height of his cheekbones, and Morse found himself momentarily distracted by them - those sharp, delicious, maddeningly perfect cheekbones.
Jakes watched him, his expression unreadable. "So this is it".
Morse nodded, swallowing thickly as he slowly closed the door behind him, his heart pounding loudly in his ears. "This is it".
"We're almost at port" the captain continued, his voice carefully level, controlled, detached, even, "And a deal's a deal. You're free to go".
He should have felt relief. Excitement. Anticipation. Free. He was almost back in England, back on land, back in the place he'd grown up. He should have been making plans, considering his next move, plotting his own course, back to Oxford, perhaps, or to London... But instead, there was only a strange, hollow emptiness in his chest. But instead, he found himself opening his mouth and allowing an entirely different thought to escape.
"You'll need a new navigator".
Jakes blinked, just once, before tilting his head ever so slightly. "So we will".
Morse wet his lips. "Good navigators are hard to find, I hear".
"So they are".
The air between them seemed to still. Morse could feel his own pulse hammering in his ears, a steady, persistent drumbeat.
"It would be… irresponsible of me to, uh… to leave The Cowley before you've found yourself a new one" he continued, his words coming out hesitant, almost tentative, as his fingers curled and uncurled at his sides.
Jakes's gaze was dark, unreadable. "Is that so?"
He nodded, clearing his throat. "Yes… Rude of me, even".
A slow, knowing smirk curled at the corner of his mouth. "And God knows you've never been accused of rudeness before".
Morse let out a sound that might have been a laugh but he suddenly felt too short of breath to know for certain. Across from him, Jakes just watched, something unreadable, something dangerous in his expression.
"... There will be other ports" he said at last, voice quiet.
"There will" Morse agreed, his heart stuttering, "You never said I had to get off at this one, after all. Just… a port. Any port".
The captain's expression didn't change, but something unnamable flickered in his gaze.
"Any port" he repeated, his voice lower now, rougher, "And there are plenty of ports in the world".
"So there are… Can you play nice until we reach another one?"
"Can you?"
"I will if you will".
"Quid pro quo?"
"Well, it's only fair, isn't it?"
Jakes considered him for a long moment, then exhaled through his nose, almost like a laugh. "I suppose it is".
The silence between them thickened, stretched taut like a rope pulled too tight. A slow smirk tugged at the corner of Jakes's mouth, his dark gaze flickering over him, assessing, considering. And then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he pushed off the desk, rolled his shoulders back, and crossed the room.
Morse forced himself to stay still as the man moved to a trunk near the wall, rifling through it with practised efficiency. After a moment, he pulled out a bundle of neatly folded clothing - a fine shirt, a deep navy coat with gleaming brass buttons, and a pair of breeches. He turned and tossed them at Morse who only just managed to catch them in time.
"Put those on".
"Put them on?" The boy gave him a confused frown. "Why?"
Jakes arched an eyebrow. "Because if you plan on going ashore, you need to look the part. We don't want anyone stopping you from returning to us, now, do we?"
And also because I'm a possessive bastard, he silently added, watching with a hungry gaze as Morse hesitated for a moment before beginning to unbutton his shirt, and I want to see you look like mine.
The boy, entirely oblivious, pulled off his shirt, wincing slightly as the movement tugged at his still-healing wound. The lamplight caught on the fresh bruises skirting along his ribs, the edge of a white bandage peeking out above an angular hip, the lean muscles beneath his skin.
Jakes's mouth went dry.
"How long do we get onshore?" Morse asked as he started to pull on the new skirt and fastened the complicated cuffs.
The captain quickly cleared his throat. "A few hours. We'll likely stay here for the night, but I want everyone to check in before sundown just in case, and then we'll change shifts. At the first hint of trouble, we move".
The boy nodded, a rather adorable furrow to his brow as he struggled to figure out how to tie the cravat around his neck, his delicate fingers twisting it in a way that betrayed his working-class upbringing. A soft exhale escaped from Jakes, and for a brief moment, he was acutely aware of how close they were, the warmth of Morse's body so near his own, the temptation to reach out and take what he wanted teetering on the edge of his control.
He stepped forward before he could think any better of it, invading the boy's space as he reached up to fix his shirt collar with deliberate care, and Morse-
Morse stilled.
Jakes's fingers brushed against the base of his throat, his touch slow, deliberate, and sending a shiver down both of their spines. He could feel the boy's pulse beneath his fingertips - erratic, fast, a mirror to the beat of his own heart, and he couldn't help but savour the moment, feeling intoxicated by it. His hand lingered just a little longer than necessary, every second pulling them deeper into the charged silence as he smoothed out the fabric, taking his time tying the cravat properly, lingering long enough, close enough to make Morse's breath hitch.
Neither of them spoke.
Morse could feel the heat of him, the faint scent of salt and rum and something distinctly Jakes. The air between them crackled, thick and heavy and charged with something unspoken but undeniable. Jakes's dark gaze briefly flickered down to Morse's lips, and Morse didn't pull away, and that was enough, enough to make Jakes feel the tension coil in his chest like a storm ready to burst. His eyes darkened as the urge to close the space between them became overwhelming.
His fingers brushed against the soft skin of Morse's throat once more, a barely-there caress that sent a rush of heat through his veins. He saw the way the boy's lips parted, the flicker of desire that flashed in his eyes, a brief moment of vulnerability that had his pulse pounding even faster.
The distance between them was nothing. One step. One breath. One movement.
Jakes leaned in.
And then-
A loud knock on the door.
They jolted apart as Strange's voice cut through the tension. "We're ready to port, Sarge!"
Jakes exhaled sharply, mentally cursing the man using every word he knew, before turning toward the door. "I'm on my way!"
Morse took a slow breath, his chest rising and falling too fast, still acutely aware of how close they'd been, of the way the man had looked at him, of the way his fingers against bare skin had felt. His heart raced, his mind spun with confusion, desire, and something more, something heady and rich and swirling around and around fast enough to make him dizzy.
Jakes's eyes flickered over him once more, dark and guarded. The look was heavy, laden with a mix of things neither of them dared to voice, and it sent a shiver down Morse's spine. Then he swallowed thickly and took a step back.
"Hurry up and get dressed" he said, his voice low, almost hoarse.
Neither of them commented on it.
Jakes gave him one last look - his expression blank, his dark eyes burning with something Morse couldn't quite name - before stepping past him and out the door, leaving the boy standing there, alone in the cabin, still clutching the captain's clothes, his heart hammering loudly in his chest and his entire body buzzing with the ghost of the captain's touch.
Morse exhaled slowly once Jakes was gone, his breath shuddering as he stared at the closed door as though it might swing open again at any moment.
His fingers tightened around the fabric of the coat he held, the weight of it heavier than expected, the brass buttons blessedly cool against his skin. It smelled like salt and sea air, yes, but beneath that - Jakes.
Something rich, something dark. Rum and tobacco. Spice and leather. Safe.
The scent wrapped around him, sinking into his skin like a ghost of a touch. It was disarming, how much it unnerved him. How much he liked it.
He pulled the coat on, his movements deliberate, smoothing the fabric over his shoulders. It fit well. Too well. It fit perfectly. Jakes must have known it would. He had chosen it with that knowledge, had anticipated this moment, had orchestrated it with the same careful precision and control he applied to everything else in his life. That bastard had been thinking about this!
Morse flexed his fingers against the cuffs, feeling the faintest pull of resistance in the fine material. Jakes had picked this coat with intention, and that thought alone sent something hot curling deep in his stomach. It wasn't just about appearances. It wasn't just about making sure he could pass for a gentleman onshore - Jakes had wanted him to wear it.
And Morse… Morse wanted to wear it for him.
That realization hit him harder than it should have, sending a rich, broiling heat curling deep in his stomach. His hands lingered at the buttons, the fabric still infused with Jakes's scent, the warmth of the coat pressing in around him like an embrace. He swallowed thickly, shoved the thought away, and took a breath to steady himself before stepping back out onto the deck.
It would appear that the transformation was nearly complete. The Cowley had slowed, its sails shifting in the breeze as they approached the dock, the massive wooden structure coming into view, lined with flickering lanterns and the vague figures of dockworkers going about their business. The ship's red ensign flapped against the mast, the Union Jack an innocent facade for what lay beneath the surface. On deck, the crew moved in seamless, well-practised deception, dropping anchor with crisp efficiency, adjusting the rigging, and securing their alibi.
And at the centre of it all was Jakes.
He stood near the helm, barking orders over the sound of creaking wood and snapping ropes. Even from a distance, Morse could see the tension in his shoulders, the firm set of his jaw, the sharp focus in his gaze. This was the man who commanded The Cowley, the one who ran the ship with a steady hand and an iron will. He was vicious and cutthroat, ruthless and a force to be reckoned with, all sharp edges and lethal precision, dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with the cutlass at his hip.
Morse hated how much he wanted to stay by his side.
"Fancy's part of the crew taking first watch" a voice said beside him, pulling him from his thoughts. He turned to see Trewlove standing there, hands clasped behind her back, her expression as easy as ever. "Which means I'm officially off duty for a few hours and have nobody to spend it with. Care to join me?"
Morse nearly answered her before he suddenly realised what he was seeing.
For the first time since he'd met her, she wasn't in her usual loose linen shirt and breeches. Instead, Trewlove wore an actual honest-to-god dress - soft blue, fitted at the waist, the fabric brushing against her ankles in the breeze, with a tightly laced bodice emphasizing parts of her body that Morse had honestly forgotten existed.
She raised a knowing eyebrow. "Go on. Say it".
"It… suits you" he replied, his voice sounding utterly baffled even to his own ears, "You look… stunning".
Trewlove shoved him away from her with a teasing grin. "Yeah, yeah, I know - I was raised to be a lady of the house and all the rest of that bullshit! But if you start calling me madam, Morse, I swear to god I'll show you just how un-ladylike I can be!"
Morse gave her a solemn look. "I perish the very thought".
Her grin widened even as she shook her head at him in exasperation. She was right, though. In another life, this would have been her everyday attire. A fine lady of high breeding, elegant and graceful, far from the bloody gritty survival of the sea. He could picture it all too well… Still though, it might have suited her body, but it definitely didn't suit her mind. She was too quick, too sharp, too alive for the kind of life that came with corsets and arranged marriages.
He held out his hand with a mock bow. "Shall we, Miss Trewlove?"
She took it with a dramatic flourish. "Oh, Mister Morse, how gallant of you! It would be my honour!"
Smirking, he turned towards the gangplank that had just been lowered to the wooden port and started to lead her towards it, feeling like a completely different man wearing the clothes of a lord and escorting a lady on his arm. In another life, this could have been him, too.
In another life, this could have been his last time on a ship, his last time stepping foot on The Cowley. He would've taken Jakes up on his offer to escape the pirate crew as soon as they reached port and ran as far inland as his legs could carry him. He would've been appalled, terrified, even, of the bloodthirsty killers who had stitched him up and given him a purpose, a duty, a home, over these past few weeks.
In another life, this moment would have been his goodbye.
Morse's smile widened as he helped Trewlove onto the harbour, feeling a familiar burning dark gaze pierce through him from the quarterdeck as his boots met solid ground for the first time in months.
He was glad this wasn't another life.