The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea (boyxboy)

CHAPTER 17

(A/N): Would like to quickly direct your attention all the way back to the author's note at the very beginning of this story where I stated that there are trigger warnings in effect for some of this story. That comes into play now more than it has previously, so please take care!

~&~

Portos Grava | Present Day

"Azaziah, why are you lurking behind me?"

Captain Slade doesn't turn when he speaks, instead continuing to scribble notes on papers that are weighted down by empty bottles. That just makes Az hesitate more than he already has.

A hot breeze ruffles his hair, and the shouts of sailors down on the docks are carried on it. The sun looks down over the land and sea without a cloud to dull its fierce yellow burn. It's not yet noon, but already he can smell the humidity in the air, warning how stifling the day will become.

Slade must feel it too, because he has shucked off his dark blue coat that Az has only seen him without once or twice, baring his slender white arms and bony shoulders to the glare. Az knows not to stare, but it's difficult. The captain's skin is littered with scars. Most of them were obviously once small cuts peppered over the backs of his hands and all around his arms, now just silvery lines with a faint bluish-purple outline. Almost invisible unless you're looking closely. A few might have been much deeper, the healed-over skin raised and coloured a dark, ugly shade of pink.

Those scars have, rarely, been the topic of debate among the crew. Some have postulated that they are self-inflicted, the old wounds of some condition of the mind that Slade might not have a hold on even now. Az isn't sure if the one who came up with that is still living, but he certainly doesn't sail with them anymore.

"Don't you have a siren to be feeding?" Slade asks.

Az tears his eyes away from the captain's marred skin. Slade still hasn't turned. "I already fed hi- I mean, it."

"And did you have any problems?"

"No."

"Then would you mind either going away or telling me what you want?" he snaps. A bead of sweat rolls down the back of his neck. The heat never fails to get everyone's blood up.

Az swallows. "I've been thinking–"

"Uh oh," the helmsman at Slade's side snickers.

But he has been thinking. Or, more accurately, plotting. Kaeltki is finding it harder and harder to hide his discomfort from Az. Every time he shifts in that tub to alleviate his aches and cramps, his face pinches. And he's been moving more and more. Az watches him try to conceal it, Kaeltki notices him watching and gives a half-strained smile but doesn't comment.

The tub isn't even designed for an average-sized human to sit in it for longer than it takes to dunk and wash. Az himself would find it a tight fit after ten minutes or so. And if measured from head to toe — or tail in Kaeltki's case — the siren is much bigger than anyone on board.

Choosing not to scowl at the black-skinned helmsman, Az looks firmly at the back of Slade's head.

"That wash tub is too small." His heartbeat thunders in his ears. This is worse than asking for the chalk. "I was thinking, since we're here, we could get something bigger for it to sit in?"

The captain turns, sweeping his inky ponytail out of the way. Tendrils of black hair, shorter in the front, stick to his forehead. He squints in the light.

"It is far too hot today for you to be coming up with one of your ideas, Azaziah," he huffs, equal parts bored and annoyed. "We are here to resupply necessities. A cushy bed for that thing to lie in is not a necessity. Give me one good reason, and I'll think about it."