James Barnes ;

🪐 — james barnes​ ;

even his name is ripped open, torn apart until it becomes something tangible, something they can sink teeth into and tear to shreds until it no longer feels like his. his own self is lost between memories that are and are not his, an endless cacophony of voices that slip between his bones until they echo in the hollows, convince him of a haunting tied to his cartilage. she takes his hand like he were nothing more than a man, like they didn’t give him a name and twist him into a horror story. if she somehow doesn’t know the truth of his existence, if that’s why he’s allowed so close to her, allowed someone who doesn’t alternate between fear and pity, then selfishly he wants to keep it that way. mesmerised gaze watches the soft trace of her fingers over his, allows her the freedom to move it this way and that way, trying not to focus on the clawing in his chest at the first touches, the realisation of how long it’s been since he’s been allowed this. 

there’s a new dryness in his throat, a thickness as he swallows his voice back, fights hard to not have a reaction that might seem strange, that might give away something of the truth of him. he doesn’t like the hiding, doesn’t like lying when she has been nothing but kind, but there’s a lightness around her and he doesn’t want to do anything to lose that, not when it makes him feel like he can breathe again, like there’s a hope for someone believing he’s still a good man. so he sits there and lets her play with his fingers, wonders for a moment what it might have been like if she’d taken his hand between hers, has to stop that thought when he realises he might have liked her to, might have wanted a moment when he felt like anyone else in the world.

      —        ❛   don’t think anyone’s going to be interested in pictures of me. ❜       it’s a lie really. there are far too many reasons people might want anything connected with him, and he’s never sure which one of them is worse, which one of them makes him feel most out of place in his own body. he doesn’t want to let her down though, likes the way the light lingers on her cheeks when she smiles at him properly, finds himself craving her approval whenever he can get it.      ❛   you can, if you want to. just … only for your eyes, okay?   ❜

                 SHE DOESN’T CLAIM TO KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT HIM.  in fact, when she thinks about it, there’s actually very little that birdie does know about him. james is a tightly closed book most of the time, his memories  &  missions always fraught with painful things he either will not or cannot discuss with her. but while she knows that it all weighs heavily on him, none of it really matters to her — especially not when they are seated together on the sofa, an old record scratching softly in the background, alpine dozing at their feet. casual  &  comfortable together, as if they’ve always been like this. part of her hopes they always will. after so long on her own, it’s just nice to have someone she trusts around.                                           &  birdie does trust him, in spite of how little time they’ve actually had together. it’s not a question of james’ abilities; no, she knows what the hands she gently traces are able to do — she’s not in denial about that. but with her, he’s always been so cautious  &  gentle, so kind  &  caring. how could she not feel safe with him when he lets her tuck under his arm  &  trace her fingertips over his hand ?              when james gives his conditional permission, birdie comes alight, bouncing to her feet with the excitement, his hand still held loosely in her own. ❝ of course, i promise, they wouldn’t be for anyone else. just me. cross my heart, ❞  she chirps, her free hand tracing a large x over her chest to illustrate.  ❝ just let me get my sketchbook. ❞  &  it’s only when she turns away that she releases his hand, practically skipping across the room to her bag  &  tugging the notebook  &  her little tin of drawing pencils out. she’s smiling widely when she makes her way back to his side, seating herself back on the couch with her feet tucked close to her hips, knees raised up in front of her chest. ❝ you know, i’ve actually been wanting to do this ever since i saw you sitting at my bench that day, ❞ she says with a giggle, opening her book to a blank page  &  propping it on her folded legs.

My family’s here now, at sea.

🪐 — lucius spriggs​ ;

the thing is,   izzy is not as scary as he thinks he is.  sure,  lucius wouldn’t want to be at the receiving end of his sword because that would end up horrendously bad for him,  but this?  oh,  he knows he has the higher ground in this.  so the boy shrugs off the trademark abrasive tone coming from the other man,  even avoids spitting back a caustic no shit and sits down on a little stool he has found nearby.  because this isn’t like last time, right?  this isn’t a fight.  not that lucius has any idea what this even is.  a truce,  maybe? possibly.   

❛  of course i don’t.  and listen, that’s between the two of you.  but,  do you really think glaring from afar is going to do you any favours?  how’s that going for you so far?  ❜   he follows his gaze to where stede and blackbeard are busy looking at each other,  oblivious to the world around them  (   lucius thinks it’s cute,  though he wisely keeps it to himself   ),  and well.  his tone softens a bit when he looks back at izzy.   ❛  what are you afraid of?  ❜   he wonders if this is pushing it too far,  if he hasn’t just crossed some precarious boundary with voicing that question out loud,  but he does nothing to take it back. 

       HE KNOWS HE’S LOST IT ALL when lucius sits down beside him, as casual as anything. like he’s about to give izzy a heart-to-heart — like they’re sodding friends or something. whatever sense of authority he’d had  ( or hoped to have )  over the crew, it was clear that it was all well  &  gone now.  &  izzy curses under his breath, his gloved hand clenching in anger. he almost wants to reach for his sword to shut the boy up, but his captains would likely reprimand him grievously for such an outburst. he’s trapped, nowhere to run, nothing he can do except listen.                                                                                         &  though it infuriates him to admit it, lucius has a point. his sulking is unlikely to lend any change to the situation, &  izzy isn’t sure how much longer he can take an existence of slinking about the ship trying to avoid too close contact with the golden glow that seems to surround ed  &  stede whenever they are together. he glares at lucius, his teeth grinding, bristling again at the gentler tone he takes. perhaps izzy couldn’t be feared any longer, but he still refused to allow himself to be pitied. ❝ i’m not afraid, ❞ he growls, seething, tearing his eyes away from his captains with some effort. ❝ i’m just... i’m not like that twat bonnet — &  i’m not like you. i can’t — it’s not — ❞ words fail him, as they so often do,  &  izzy curses himself again for his weakness, for his shame, for his inability to throw either lucius or himself over the railing  &  be done with this ridiculous conversation once  &  for all. ❝ that, whatever it is that they have — ❞  he says, gesturing vaguely astern. but his eyes remain fixed out on the sea, unable to look at edward or lucius as he speaks. ❝ — it isn’t meant for the likes of me. ❞

🪐 — edward teach​ ;

he waits for hatred or disgust to crawl into stede’s words.   waits and waits for it to hit him straight to the chest,  like a fatal wound delivered with inescapable good aim.  it’s no less than what he deserves.  but nothing of it comes, not in the slightest  —  the only thing he hears is wretched sadness.  and regret,  too.  so much of it edward nearly chokes,  chest tightening painfully at each intake of breath.  he can’t breathe right,  like something is pulling him underwater and he can never gulp down enough air before he goes down again.  right hand curls,  desperate to hold onto something,  anything,  and it doesn’t stop when it only finds the flesh of his palm,  it doesn’t stop when skin tears and he starts to bleed  (   better his blood than the sight of stede’s own   ).  it grounds him,  at least a little.  not nearly enough.  what he needs is what he can never have:  stede.  stede touching him,  his arms keeping him afloat like he did in his dreams. 

❛  i killed the writer boy.  toss’d him overboard.  ❜   and that can’t possibly be stede’s fault now,  can it?  no,  that is on his hands alone.    ❛  so why shouldn’t you—  what else can you be here for?  ❜   now that anger doesn’t fuel him anymore his voice sounds weak,  on the verge of breaking.  he is so tired of pretending to be dealing with this any better than he is.  it doesn’t take long now  —  a sob wrenches itself free from his throat,  and it’s like a dam finally bursting open.  edward doesn’t have the strength to hold back tears any longer,  so he lets them fall down his cheeks in messy rivulets,  streaked with black,  his head still hung low. 

         IT’S THE MENTION OF LUCIUS that makes stede feel suddenly ill, his stomach rolling unpleasantly like a ship in a storm. the scribe hadn’t been left on that god-forsaken spit of sand with the rest of the crew, but nor had jim or frenchie,  &  yet only the later two had been waiting safely aboard the revenge upon his return.  & stede flinches at the thought that the boy had died all thanks to him,  all because he hadn’t been there to keep him safe. the regret overwhelms him for a moment, makes him nauseous. perhaps lucius’s ghost would appear to haunt him now, waterlogged  &  deathly pale with seaweed in his hair. but the broken sob that escapes from ed’s lips returns stede’s attentions to the present — he will have to assuage his guilt about the boy later, somehow.                                                                      edward’s face is downturned, its expression hidden by his long loose hair. but the flickering candlelight glistens against wet tear-lines that track through the black paint ringing his eyes  &  trail down his cheeks.  &  stede can’t stop himself any longer, the instinct to comfort his beloved when he is in pain far stronger than the need for self-preservation. he takes half a step closer, a hand gradually extending until his fingertips make contact with edward’s leather-clad shoulder.  ❝ oh, ed. i do wish you hadn’t done that — after all, it was me you should’ve been angry with, not him. ❞ when he doesn’t instantly lose his hand for its impudence, stede allows it to slide slowly up the shoulder. it moves only a meager degree at a time until the fingertips catch on ed’s long hair, gently brushing a few fallen strands back so that he can see more of his face. it is contorted in pain, streaked with tears  &  black paint, but he’s still beautiful. ❝ but that’s not why i . . .  i came back for you. because — ❞  his voice is breathy  &  breaking as he chokes back the heavy lump in his throat, still fighting to keep his own tears from falling.  ❝ because i love you, ed. ❞

                                luck hasn’t exactly been on my side.

🪐 — kang sae-byeok​ ;

sae-byeok doesn’t belong there.   she can feel her skin crawling with the wrongness of it all,  more and more with every minute ticking off that stupid expensive clock over her head.  she forces herself to unclench her jaw,  to stop trying to guess how much it could be worth and how much she could do with it  —  she would bring her mother here,  would save up money for her brother’s education,  to start.  but in order for her to do even a fraction of that,  she needs to pretend to be one of the young and wealthy for as long as it take for her plan to work out. 

katiana’s voice grates on her ears,  still she turns on her heel to gather both the bottle and the box of pastries,  seemingly without a word of complaint.  even if she utters a few nasty words in korean under her breath,  it’s too low for anyone to hear and besides,  no one is really paying attention to their surroundings.  a mistake,  obviously.  that is exactly what she is going to use to her advantage to lighten their purses.   ❛  that is your dinner?  ❜   she is back on the patio with brows raised,  voice a little too flat to pass for concerned.  not that she is trying.  not that she cares.  it’s only going to be a bother if the other girl ends up feeling sick.

         PERHAPS IF SHE’D BEEN PAYING ATTENTION,  katiana would have noticed the way her guest eyed the pricey decor,  or heard the irritated whispers at being asked to wait upon her.  but the heiress is in her own little world,  as usual  — one where the only thing that matters is her empty glass  —  &  sae byeok’s displeasure goes unnoticed.  ❝ don’t be silly — i’m going out to eat with some investment banker’s son later tonight, ❞  she muses when sae-byeok returns, sweets in one hand  &  champagne in the other.  &  katiana’s graceful fingertips reach out to pluck a perfect pink pastry out of the box without so much as a thank you.  ❝ i just wanted a snack now. ❞                                                   but when she takes the bottle of champagne from her, at least katiana pours two glasses,  handing one to sae-byeok  &  clinking the crystal rims together delicately before taking the first sip.  ❝ he invited me to this little greek place,  i guess it’s supposed to be good — his uncle or something owns it.  you can come, if you want.  i’m sure he could bring a friend for you to go with. ❞  she continues, swirling the champagne around in her glass as she reaches for another macaron.  ❝ ugh, these are so good, ❞  she says through her mouthful, the pastry airy  &  sweet. ❝ they’re honestly the best you can find outside of paris,  don’t you think ? ❞