Chapter Text
Time crawls at the docks. Despite himself, Vasco checks logs and tries not to look at the ship he's been wrenched away from, rather than counting the hours. It may be that after the week Marie's had, she doesn't feel like entertaining him. (But if he could just hold her again, it would be more than enough. The way she burrowed into him like he was a port in a storm, every muscle unclenching. Her resting her head on his chest when they're in bed, and the darkwood shine of her hair in the firelight; the softness of it between his fingers.) Although after tiring, frustrating days, she's seemed to want to lose herself in him even more.
(Above him, below him, around him, inside him. Her pent-up frustration at a clan double-cross, the smouldering flame of it – that night she put her hands on his hips and told him to keep still and sucked him off mercilessly, precisely, with delighted looks up whenever something made him groan or whenever he had to work particularly hard not to thrust up into the wet, welcoming heat of her mouth, until he broke and squirmed and pleaded for it. At that, her own desire took her over. He remembers how it became sloppier after that, her hand shifting to cup his arse, trying to drag him closer like she couldn't have enough of him – a rustling sound – her tonguing at him, panting, and him realising that her other hand had slid into her own trews. Her half-startled moan against his cock when she came. It still warms him, on some nights. He tries not to think on that too long, or at least to stay… unmoved, glad for a coat and layers.)
The docks bell rings: it's nine. Vasco swallows, and debates with himself. And then, because he's an idiot, he puts his hat on and heads to the Silver District, with as relaxed a pace as he can. He checks his watch as he stands outside her door. Fourteen past. He inhales, and knocks. She answers the door swiftly, as if she was waiting for him.
"Vasco!" Marie offers him a smile, but it's still not quite right. Distraction from a bad day? Something else?
"De Sardet," he returns, taking off his hat.
She lets him in and closes the door, ducking her head. "I… it's good to see you." It isn't so unusual; once or twice she's made him a cup of tea and they've played with the polite fiction for a few minutes, her eyes meeting his heatedly over the rim of her cup – usually until they’ve traded a kiss or five, and get impatient enough to drag each other upstairs. But that isn't the sense he gets from her tonight.
He reaches for her, and she – steps back, away from him. Something freezes in his chest, and it feels like inevitability. His hand closes in mid-air, and then falls to his side. He instantly moves back, too; if she needs space, he can give her that. (What has he missed? He thinks of that brief moment where she froze in his arms – he thought it realisation that she had more to do. The alley? The way she almost fell apart in front of Cabral? The – him holding her, in that miserable storeroom? Perhaps that was too much, asking too much.)
Marie says, "I'm sorry, I can't. I'm so sorry, Vasco." She shakes her head, then looks up, meeting his eyes with a desolate look on her face.
"You don't need to be sorry." He swallows. "Are you all right? Have I – ?" Hurt you? Disappointed you? Been too obviously in love with you?
She shakes her head again, vehemently, but he doesn't quite believe her. "No! No, you've been a wonderful friend to me." That feels like something – a trap, a clue, a… something. "I just don't think this is such a good idea anymore. You're trying to regain your ship, Constantin is worsening… there's simply less time.”
It’s almost convincing. He might believe her, if he didn’t spend so much time with her, traipsing a step behind, watching her work herself half to death. His test of loyalty is no more than a glint in Cabral’s eye, a thing held over his head if he’ll do one more job for me, Captain Vasco; Constantin is stable – for now, those words always hastily added, the crows not daring to make promises. Things might have changed after the coup, but he’s certain he would have heard of it from Kurt.
Besides, he knows de Sardet. Not as well as he thought he did, if he can only see the edges of this, an island yet to come fully into focus even if he knows it’s there – but he’s learned to know when he’s lying to him. And now she’s ending their arrangement, looking like she's about to break, no less, over an issue of scheduling? He’s had enough of the nobility try to feed him horseshit, but it’s not usually his friend. Part of him wants to ask – needs to know so he can fix this, because he must have hurt her somehow and he’s uncertain he can live with himself – but she’s looking at the fire, one hand gripping her other arm as if she’s a taut rope she’s trying to hold together, even as it frays. If he pushes her he might break her, and that’s the last thing he wants. Though perhaps it’s too late for that. If she came to him like this after some travail, he’d be asking, Who did this to you, and will I be needing my poisons? But it’s him. He did this to her. Somehow.
He licks his lips, and says, the words coming out far rawer than he wants them to, “When we began this, you said I didn’t have to come to you. You said that even if I did, I didn’t have to follow through, and you wouldn’t hold it against me. Do you remember that?”
She nods.
“I’m not about to hold it against you, either.”
For a moment he swears there’s a shine to her eyes; that doesn’t seem to have assuaged whatever’s paining her. She blinks once, twice, and her mouth works. And then she says, “Thank you, Vasco.” A soft, sharp inhale through her nose. “Business as usual for our trip to San-Matheus?” There’s that awful, brittle brightness again.
“Of course.” He puts on his hat, and tips it to her. “Goodnight, de Sardet.”
He can’t make himself look at her; he lets himself out instead, quietly, into the drizzle.
Marie manages to stay there a moment, listening to the click of the door in the silence. Not quite a gunshot – no, that was the stricken look in his eyes, the fear that he’d hurt her somehow, that he’d done something to her. (Anything other than the kindest thing: held her, and steadied her against him, and…) She breathes out, steadily, hoping that it will help fill the hole in her chest. It doesn’t.
Marie turns and trudges upstairs. One step at a time. She manages it without doubling over, even if some melodramatic part of her wants to. She closes her bedroom door, and makes it to her bed. That feels like an achievement, for some reason. She sits down, numbly, silk sheets cold against her hands. It was the right thing to do. It was the right –
Regret hits her like a rock. The house is too empty, this damn bed is too empty. She could be with him, her skin against his, his gasps and laughter in her ear – and she turned him away. A man like that offered himself to her, and instead she made him miserable. (As if she hasn’t hurt him enough.) Light, his eyes, the brief second before he hid it. The pallor of his skin under the ink. She's seen him get shot with better grace. (All she wanted was to hold him and tell him, No, I didn't mean any of it, I'm so sorry, come to bed with me. I love you, I love you. She wanted to kiss the shame and fear and misery off his face.) She must be mad. She must be… She realises that she's laid herself down on the coverlet, curled up on her side, flinching from the turn her mind has taken. She knows that she would have regretted letting him stay, too; that she couldn’t touch him and tell him how lovely he was and not also tell him, Sorry, but I’m quite sure I’m in love with you. Stay, please. Just a little longer.
More than his fingers or his cock, she misses the way he smiles, and his arms around her. Her bed is a different place with him in it. She aches for him curled warm around her, an arm around her waist, his legs tangled up with hers; that soft, steady breathing. (The storm will pass, de Sardet. They always do.) She misses waking up knowing that she'll see him, that he wanted to stay with her; his bedhair and morning squintiness and languorous pleasure. The quiet reassurance of him beside her, the soft movements of him making himself at home in her house, in her life. The rare, wonderful mornings he'd stay for a cup or two of tea and often refuse to put some clothes on because I work with poisons, de Sardet, I've learned how to be careful, and kiss her afterwards with still-warm lips. She misses him looking away, embarrassed and trying not to be and beautiful, when she asked him about his poetry collection. She misses that rough but steady voice saying that she’ll have a plan, saying she’s a good person – or trembling, wonderstruck, saying Marie. And all that tells her is that she’s made the right decision.
This was a simple arrangement, a favour between friends. She’s already asked too much of him. By the Light, she’s why he’s stuck here, scullied he said, furious and resentful. She’s the reason he was sold to the Nauts in the first place – he was part of the price her uncle paid for her. If she'd known this would happen, she would never have asked him into her bed. He’s given enough. This… She knows him too well to pretend he’d smile and say yes, lie I’m in love with you too, thank the Enlightened. He’s always been stronger than that; that quiet, proud integrity fascinated her from the moment she met him. Which means…
I'm flattered, but… I'm sorry, de Sardet, and him being utterly, horrifically polite until he could flee on the first ship. All the work of the past few months, carefully trying to open him up like a rusted pocket watch because she so dearly wanted to be his friend, undone. He'd close himself off again, in case any trace of who he was, any kindness, was taken as an invitation. At least this way, when the hurt fades, she has half a chance of keeping one of the dearest friends she's ever had.
…Or he'd be honourable and gentle and keep being her friend like nothing had happened, and that would just make things worse. Because he's a kind man, and she fell for him because of it, and she misses him. He's a few streets away, and most likely she'll see him tomorrow, and she misses him terribly. She'd forgotten how it could feel. She'd thought she was older, more intelligent than this, or at least too damn busy.
She wants her mother to kiss her hair and tell her it's going to be all right. Her mother, who… This damned island. This damned fucking island. Marie curls up in her freezing bed and cries.
He’s done something. He’s done something to her.
That thought dogs him on his way home. He doesn’t know what it is, but he’s hurt her. He couldn’t see it to avoid it, or, now it’s happened, remedy it. It doesn’t seem to be a matter of what they’ve done in her bed – nor is it the matter of her birth, she assured him of that in the alley. (And she’s seen enough of his behaviour with those they’ve met, and with friends such as Síora, to know that he doesn’t think of those with native blood as lower.) His presumption in holding her? Perhaps. She froze. But they were in private, and she’d kissed him first, and then she held him. That can’t be it.
Vasco’s long learned to spot those who look upon him with fear; diplomat she might be, but she’s been his friend long enough for him to know her tells, and even she couldn’t entirely hide that. She doesn’t even seem angry – at least not outwardly, but he’s seen Marie hide her anger before. So often, her compassion betrays her: if she were looking upon him with pity, having sniffed out his feelings and thought him a dog begging for scraps, he’d know. Her eyes… they contain worlds, when her heart is breaking. And yet that’s nearly it. The anger, almost anything, would be better than her utter, aching sadness. He remembers spreading blood and her doubling over, and this felt like that – but the emotional hurt, rather than the physical. Her trying to hide pain. He’s had to see that far too much.
He’s caused it far too much. Marie was wary due to his stubborn nature even before they were friends; he spoke stupidly of silk sheets and easy lives, blinded by his own bitterness, unthinking of the malichor and her mother dying back in Serene. (I’m sorry, my friend, he remembers telling her by the fire, when at last they spoke of it. All she did was smile and say, She’d have liked you, her eyes bright in that way that said she meant it. He felt his heart drop out of him. Just for a moment he put his hand over hers, fingers flat on her knuckles, hoping she’d feel a little of the intended kindness through their gloves. He took it away before his presumption could become too obvious – too late, she was smiling at him. He wonders how he could not have known this was going to happen then.)
Vasco’s a damn captain – he’s meant to be able to see those who are struggling to keep their head above water. A friend, even moreso. And the rest… he professes to love her, and he can’t even spot what’s tearing her in two? What kind of lover would he be, if she ever wanted – not that she’d want that. He’s taught himself not to daydream. He fights down the rising tide: families made of blood and love, softness rather than freezing scrubbing decks, and… Marie’s bed, with her soft and happy. Or her in his, with her unbound hair and relaxed shoulders and her seeming glad to see him, as if she might find something of home there too. Sailing with her again, or saying to their friends that De Sardet and I are… yes, with all the pride that deserves. Seeing the rest of her story, because he’s a part of it.
No. He’s got enough scars in that particular collection. Some fade; the others, he learns to deal with. These will fade too, in time. (Even if something in him rebels at the thought, thinks she must have left some permanent mark on him, the way he feels now, the way he's changed under her. Maybe that's the Naut in him, too used to tattoos.) The lieutenant of the Sword-Fish didn’t want his rash heart either, but he was nineteen and a fool and it’s not something he thinks of often, these days. Still, there are things to help the scabbing-over process along. Before, he could tell himself it wasn’t important; he had a crew to look after; he wasn’t important. Besides, back then he could keep himself busy. With his family.
He misses his ship again – always, but moreso now, the bells and the watch and the brine and knowing who he was, before being scullied and Léandre d’Arcy and falling in love with a land-dweller who doesn’t want him. It's an ache behind his breastbone. It spreads, threatens to take him to his knees.He breathes, fingers flexing in his gloves. The gloves she painstakingly made for him, wanting to look after a friend, and all he did in return was hurt her… No. That won’t do him any good. In through the nose, out through the mouth, keep your chin up. Spine straight. That way a new crew won’t smell weakness on you. And the nobles passing won’t go home and chitter about Some heartbroken Naut, he looked like he was about to cry into his ink. How peculiar.
Perhaps that’s it: nobility. Perhaps she’s had some proposal – no, no, he thinks with her sense of obligation she’d have told him. Or she thinks he views her as an idiot fop. No, he tries to think that, but can’t make himself believe it. Nevertheless, he’s hurt her somehow. And she will not let him in to tell him what he’s done, and if he can’t fix it, he’s not certain he can forgive himself.
A knock on the door rouses Marie. She startles, and that, the fact that anyone could sneak up on her, tells her something is wrong. And damn it, she's still in her trews and stockings. She must have cried herself to sleep.
“Madame?” Her housekeeper’s voice comes through the door, rather muffled.
Marie takes another breath in, even if it shakes, trying to wear her mantle. By the time she sits up and says, "Come in!" she thinks she has a decent expression. “Cécile?”
Her housekeeper peers round the door and frowns, clearly unconvinced by Marie’s attempt at a tolerable facade. She must be rather more puffy-eyed and rumpled than she’d hoped. Drat.
“You haven't come down for breakfast," Cécile says.
Marie blinks at her, praying the redness round the eyes has faded. It's probably rather unbecoming. "Oh! I'm sorry. I lost track of time. Has anything gone cold?"
Cécile's concern hasn't budged. "I didn't prepare it, when there was no sign of… life. Would you like me to?"
No. Yes. Marie doesn't know. There are meetings and a world outside this bed, but that world's one where she wounded her best friend, and she doesn't want to return to it before she has to. ...No, less of that. She's not a child, or a sulking adolescent. Honestly, even when she was, it was usually Constantin's job to do a full and proper sulk while she tried to coax him out of his bedchamber. She takes a steadying breath, and says, "I'd like that. Thank you."
Cécile pauses, and visibly weighs the merits of what she's about to say next. "Your guest… I heard the door.”
Marie swallows. “...Ah. Yes. I think his visits may have concluded.” She neatens her hair, in an attempt to distract from the gnawing emptiness in her chest. Surely it must be a visible wound. “I’m sorry if we bothered you.”
“Are you… all right, madame?”
She nods, too swiftly. “Of course.” A smile at the moment feels like broken glass, but she manages one anyway.
Cécile nods, after a moment. "Come, my lady. We have sausages from San-Matheus."
Marie climbs to her feet, and lets herself be gently escorted downstairs.
The next day, after paperwork and carefully not thinking about it – breathing through the blurred words and stinging behind her eyes whenever she failed, trying to settle to things and failing – is a Guard mission. Rooting out more of the rackets on the streets – smaller, stupider operations than Egon's, that at least is a blessing – and reporting to Sieglinde. It makes most sense to take Kurt – of course – and Petrus, an expert in corruption and blackmail. (It really does. She wouldn't shun Vasco due to her own issue, or leave him bored on land. But at least this way, he might get a little space. From her. Because she's upset him. Oh, Saints. No, no, not the time.)
Marie manages to keep her head – or at least, neither Petrus nor Kurt look at her like her worry is showing, or like she's about to fall over. Besides, it helps: the distraction, the glaring at guards who are nothing more than badly-disguised muggers. The sense that if she can't help herself, at least she's helping someone. There are those who might sleep better in their beds tonight. She manages to keep her head, until she sees Vasco again.
The next day, there's a harbourmaster asking for their help. There's trouble with the Inquisitors – less bothersome in a Congregation city; they must have travelled here – but it's still paramount to stop them sniffing around Nauts without causing a diplomatic incident. She has two friends who might help her deal with this. One is Petrus, and the other… Well, she tells herself, she planned on taking him to San-Matheus with her when they left tomorrow anyway. Probably best to get it out of the way. (Not something she ever wanted to think about her dearest friend bearing her company. If anything, the problem is that she likes his company too much. Damn all this.)
"I was looking for someone," she starts, to the harbourmaster.
"He's with the Admiral. Petitioning for his ship back again, probably," the harbourmaster's assistant says at once, some young Naut who… there's no coat, which gives her some idea, but she wishes she could read rank on their faces the way Vasco can.
Marie blinks.
The boy adds, helpfully, "You do mean Captain Vasco, right?"
She pauses, and then nods. "Thank you."
Find Vasco they do. She follows the sound of voices – the furious, carefully-not-raised kind. She'd know the sound of his anger anywhere – cool composure issued through gritted teeth. "Is this some idea of compensa – ?" he begins, not quite snapping.
… Ah. Oh dear. Marie thinks she knows what this is about. And why does just the sound of his voice bring a thudding of her heart in her chest, somewhere between pain, excitement, and fondness?
Cabral's voice is firm as she interrupts him. "No, or I would have been far subtler about it. It's because you've done good work on land, for de Sardet and for us. It's about time to let you prove yourself. There's been enough upheaval, and you've stayed steady through it, Captain Vasco.”
“I… see.” Vasco still sounds sceptical, but that's not unusual. Sardonic is what he does best. Interesting, to hear that battle in his voice with respect for rank.
“Give me a week, and I’ll have a mission for you. Be sure of that.”
“I thank you, Ad – “
Marie steps on a floorboard, and the cursed thing creaks. Vasco and Cabral look around at the same time, clearly hearing them. Something passes through Vasco's eyes at the sight of Marie – not quite dread, or hurt, but it's gone too fast for her to truly understand. His mouth tightens infinitesimally. (They're probably putting on quite the show for Petrus.)
“Ah." Marie bows her head, glad not to have to look at him. "Admiral. Captain. Apologies for my timing. I can return –"
Cabral gives her a half-smile. "No, I think Captain Vasco was just leaving."
Vasco might have sighed, or it might just have been the wind. Either way, he keeps his back straight, and doesn't shift, with discipline clearly born partly of muscle memory. It's strange, sometimes, seeing him wear his station so obviously.
Marie says, "May I borrow the captain for a little while?"
"Of course. You're dismissed, captain." Cabral looks back to her paperwork.
"Admiral," Vasco says, with a nod of his head, and then he turns smartly and leaves with Marie. A moment passes until they're a safe ways away from Naut politics, and then: "Petrus. De Sardet," he says, easily. It never used to feel like the wrong name.
"Vasco," she returns.
"I take it it's been a long day for you at the office," Petrus says, drily.
"It's not even noon, but that it has," Vasco sighs. He offers her one of his small, careful smiles, and it almost reaches his eyes. Almost. "You have need of me?"
You can say that again. "I do. Inquisitor trouble. They're hassling your fellows."
He grimaces, and looks to the heavens, pulling down his hat to shield his eyes from the sun. "It’s hardly unusual. Disappointing, all the same."
She pauses, and says, "If I may… I'm glad to hear you'll soon have your ship." She swallows, and tries to make herself see a future without his company in her bed. Tries to make herself mean it. He deserves his happiness. I'll miss you, she can't quite make herself say. It's too much. It's too little. It will never be enough.
Again, a shadowed something, something she both needs to understand and dreads truly examining, crosses his face. And then he's mild and easy again, and he nods. "Thank you, de Sardet." He's always been cheered by her saying such things in the past, or at least seemed touched by her considering his circumstances. And yet… there's a cloud over him. She wonders if their abortive meeting has ruined the rest of their friendship, too. Perhaps he thinks – oh no.
She opens her mouth to say something like, Not that I want to be rid of you! but again, it's too close to the truth. It will scrape her throat raw to say it, and she'll give something away, and Petrus is hawk-eyed next to them. The man already knew about her parents, her mark, before she ever did. She needs just one thing… one thing for herself. They'll find a moment during this mission, a moment where she can take Vasco aside, or she can show him that she's still his friend.
But that moment never comes. Not while they're making their way down to some port warehouses, with him at her side, just a little behind – a steady presence, all easy stride and shaded eyes and the creak of leather, watching every corner . It shouldn't matter. It should be the same as always. They've spent enough time like this – most of their time, if anything. Their nights entwined in bed together have been in the distinct minority of hours she’s passed in his company.
He doesn't stand any further away from her. He doesn't speak less to her. No, nothing so obvious. He's the same as always – except he isn't, quite. He's trying desperately to hide it, but something's… dulled. She's reminded of those first two or three weeks on the island, when he'd managed to fool everyone else, but she asked him if he was angry with her. He can muster most of his usual wryness, but when he thinks she isn't looking… He’s straining to hold something in tension, it’s in the lines of his mouth and the way he’s hiding under his hat – but it isn’t anger. All she can see is what she saw that night in the tavern, that made her so ill-advisedly reach out to him: a quiet, aching sadness. And with it, worse than that, something duller, more resigned. She wouldn't recognise it, except she saw it after the meeting with his brother. He thinks he should have expected this. Marie would take the anger over that, every time.
"Here," she says, as they turn into a port street, "I was told they were in this area."
"I doubt you'll have to ask far," Vasco says, desert-dry. "They aren't exactly subtle. And we tend to keep an eye."
"Not hard, with the way they polish their armour," she says, tossing him a half-grin.
"And the odour of self importance," Petrus mutters.
Marie snorts at that. Vasco shoots her one of his wry looks, and she returns it, and just for a moment, things are normal again. Her chest lifts. And then he glances past her to the ships, and that clouded quality settles into his eyes again, even if he’s keeping his face still. She knows him too well for it to fool her. And isn’t that just the problem? She’ll talk to him, eventually, or they’ll settle back into their old routine. She tries to tell herself that, because the idea that she’s utterly lost on this gamble, that she’s lost lying in his arms and the softness of his kisses and his friendship is… well, it’s intolerable. She tries to tell herself that they’ll speak of this, that they’ll fix it, or they’ll wait for the sting to fade; that a temporary misunderstanding is better than months of trapped awkwardness while he wants to flee from the first available port but is too honourable to. She tries.
But there’s never a moment to speak to him later, either, without watching eyes and, once, a group of Nauts nearly ambushing them in an alley thinking they were working for Theleme, before lots of hasty palm-waving and explanations. She can make one. It's just that their I'd quite like to be your friend, actually talks required a different level of privacy than would be ideal for an I slept with you and now I'd like to stay your friend and I'm so, so sorry sort of conversation. And perhaps she should leave it, and not have him associate their missions with awkwardness. She can't just corner him when he has to work with her. Besides, she can't focus on that now. Not when she's threatening the Luminis with going to Mother Cordelia while Petrus makes pleasant, calm proclamations of doom beside her.
"Of course you would threaten such things," snarls an Inquisitor, "when you have one of their guild with you."
Marie carefully doesn't look over, but she can practically hear Vasco raising a brow at that.
"I also have a bishop," she counters, "who agrees your overzealousness is embarrassing the church."
It's easy to hand the duty over to Petrus, to let him chastise the Inquisitors. It's easy to bribe and cajole them back to San-Matheus. It's impossible, however, to find a moment alone with Vasco. First they have to see the harbourmaster – who nods to her side and says, "It's good you have one of ours with you," and for some reason Vasco stiffens. She doesn't understand. He's always been so proud of being a Naut. And then there's a Native trader being hassled, and they can't just leave her – which means a visit to try and find a permit, and then the minister is ill and his clerk has been beset by bandits…
"Vasco…" she begins, after Petrus has returned to the Palace, as they wander back to the docks. Here, his bunkhouse. She knows it well. She's met him here so many times - and some very rare nights slipped in to see him, nerves humming in excitement for his touch, and for the way he'd open the door and smile at her, warm and wanting.
He looks at her, and that dread, that look of a sinking ship, is in his eyes again – and she can't do it. Not tonight. She's a coward, but she's hurt him enough, and if he thinks all their missions are going to end with a ham-fisted apology, she'll never see him again. Or he'll be permanently tensed, waiting for the axe to fall. She'll just have to think of something else.
"Thank you for all your help,” Marie says, giving him the best smile she can muster, drawing on all the good intentions she has for him, the way she is genuinely glad to see him. “Good night."
He tips his hat, and says in farewell, "My friend." She tries not to feel that like a kick in the chest, because she doesn't deserve it. And then he walks into his bunkhouse, and a Naut's voice raises in greeting, and he closes the door behind him.
Marie allows herself a moment to imagine him sitting in that little, lovely room full of his things, and taking off his hat and coat. Unbinding his hair with a sigh, rolling up his sleeves, the way she’s seen him do at the end of a long day. Those twining tattoos, strong forearms she's run her hands down after testing knots, listening to him sigh… The way his face goes softer in his own space, his habitual wariness falling away. She imagines knocking at his door, and him being happy to see her there; lets herself have a world where she strokes his hair, and kisses the sadness from his face. Where he wants her the way she wants him. Only a moment, before it feels too much like self-indulgence, and she turns away for home.
You'll soon be regaining your ship. It’s a good excuse. It would make sense. It almost, almost blew him adrift. His time here does come with a limit, after all. But it’s not – it doesn’t feel right. It hasn’t stopped her from making friends with him, and even though matters of the heart are different, no. Still not right. But something about it itches at him, in the back of his mind. I’m not the one your lot lied to about her entire life. Her wide eyes in the alley; the first real words she said to him being, Tell me you didn’t know about this. The way she took her hand from his. Her freezing in his arms before she managed to make herself pretend.
I'm glad you'll soon have your ship – and once that would have cheered him, but there was something dull in her eyes, and after she backed away from his touch that night… She wants to be rid of him, he's certain of it. It's crushing in how definite it is. And it's taken on a different tint, the way she tensed and carefully didn't look at him when told, You have one of their guild with you. Once that would just have been her denying bias, but this was stiffer than that. Her awkward goodbye at the end of their errands together. It clicks into place, the last tumbler in a picked lock – and beneath the lid, a pile of shit and misery: she thinks he knew. About her family, about what was done to them.
She said she didn't. Something in his mind repeats that, desperately, and it sounds small and sad and alone, a boy clinging to the ropes in a storm. She lied. She's a politician. Of course she lied, his mind snarls at him. He should have known. Idiotic of him not to know. He should have expected this, he should never have – he’s grabbing his hat and tossing it onto the floor before he can tell his hands not to. The rest of him follows, and he slides to sit on the floor of his shitty little bunkhouse room, staring sightlessly at his bed. He scrapes numb fingers through his hair. (You couldn’t go onto deck in this state, some old habitual part of him says, and he snarls at it for quiet.)
He stupidly thought it would be all right. His ink-scars, the callouses on his skin from ropes and swords and the grinding, relentless work of sailing… Just because she wasn’t one for easy prejudice. (The Nauts are the shadow behind every handshake, every announcement of expectant wives at dinner parties, the knock you never want at your door. The demon you deal with, the cost of doing business. They’ll take your children, your people…) Sometime over the months on land, unmoored, he let himself forget. He grew stupid, between her soft words and her easy friendship and the easy way she sat with him, talked to him. The stories she must have been told… Hearing a few was more than enough. He forgot he wasn't another taken child. He was the Naut who took them. Storms. He went to her bed, and she thinks he did it while he was part of this. While he knew –
He’s pulling himself up before he can help it, trying to breathe through the blow of that. It makes sense – the jagged, horrific kind of sense. Cabral embedded him in Marie’s entourage with an eye to preserving Naut interests – she sent him to see if the Legate de Sardet was another noble idiot who would make things difficult for his people. Why wouldn’t she tell him about Marie's lineage? (Because Cabral needed another pawn. Because your superior officer tells you only what they think you need to know. Rank, he told Marie, it sets you apart. But Marie’s not a Naut, and she would have had the obvious thought. A court full of knives at her back; and her standing in the alley, tired and pale like a falling sail, telling him, There have been so many lies.)
And yet there's a horrified fury building in him – at himself, at the world that's done this to them, that's used him as a tool to hurt her. He almost tries to muster up anger at Marie for thinking that badly of him, but after the months – the life – she's had, and the Admiral so deliberately and blatantly placing him in her retinue… It would be easier if he could blame Marie. Anger is easier than hurt; it's got him through enough. If he could just find his anger – No. No, he just loves her, and he aches for her.
Vasco wants to hold her. He wants to sail far, far from her, until he can’t hurt her anymore, even with his own foolishness. He wants, more than ever, brine and his crew, and the life he knows. He wants to go home. He wishes to hell and hurricanes he’d never come here in the first place. Why did the admiral do this to him? He wants… he wants to sleep in Marie's bed, but that's not an option. It never has been, the way he wants.
But he can't let Marie go on thinking this of him. He can't. It's an absolute howl in his head. Perhaps it's selfish of him to try and barge his way back into her home, but… he knows the pain of being sold out. Of thinking you were never loved, just a means to an end. He can't do that to her. Even if it means he has to reveal the foolish intensity of his feelings – stars, he hopes not – and she backs away from him, she needs to know that she's cared for. Surely, it must be a far lesser sin to have loved her than used her. It's not that I was laughing at you, or I used you for my duties. It's that you were too kind, and beautiful, and brilliant, and you… accepted me. I'm sorry. But if it doesn't come to that, and he can just… explain…
Three days. He realises that he's taken his hat and he's running thumb and forefinger over the brim, thoughtfully. They have three days until what would be their usual time. One more visit. One more, to apologise and to explain and then to leave her be. And then maybe she won't look at him with such pain in her eyes.
One more.