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His head was throbbing before he was even fully conscious, a blinding headache centered between his brows and beating like drums at his temples. Bass dragged his eyes open to blink blearily at the harsh sunlight streaming through warbled, water-flecked glass, only to have to shut them again with a flinch as the dull pain sharpened abruptly.
"Christ," he hissed, shoving upright on his cot with one hand and pressing the heel of the other into his eyes, trying to get his bearings. The sun was bright even through his eyelids, disorienting; the ship rocked in a swell, the cabin creaked, and his stomach lurched uncomfortably like he might be sick. Cautious, he dropped his hand and leaned back down onto his elbows, keeping his eyes closed and swallowing dryly a few times, his tongue thick in his mouth.
"God, I hate rum," he muttered to the empty cabin.
"Shoulda stuck to whiskey then."
Shock went through Bass like a gunshot, a bone-deep stillness that lasted one heartbeat, maybe two, and trapped the breath in his lungs like wind in a bottle. He didn’t move—couldn’t—for a moment, caught in the grip of recognition and surprise, and a sudden bittersweet wash of realization.
"Miles." He breathed the name without bothering to look, to see, because he didn’t need to. There were some things that a man could never forget, that Bass could never forget. Things that would be ingrained in him for all time like saltbrine in deckwood, like the scent of sea air in the sails.
Miles’ voice was one of them.
Bass opened his eyes slowly this time, brow tugged low by the ache, but as he turned his head away from the impossible glare of the windows, turned his gaze to the other side of the room, he saw now what he’d missed the first time.
Miles Matheson, reclining into a low-backed wooden chair, legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at booted ankles; he rested with his elbows propped on the arms of his chair, an apple cradled in one palm as he removed the peel with the edge of a knife, the motion smooth and practiced. His skin was tanned more golden than was his natural, the way it had always been when they’d spent too many months at sea; his hair was longer now than he’d worn it once upon a time, brushing roguishly down over his brow, the color of it lightened by too much time in the sun and touched with grey at the temples. He wore two sword belts low on his hips, close-fitted breeches and a loose linen shirt that gaped at the throat, baring a portion of his chest to view. The shadow on his jaw was two days old, at the least, and invoked memories of the scrap of Miles’ kisses over his throat, his shoulders—and lower.
Heat unfurled in Bass’ middle and he shifted his gaze upward, realizing belatedly that while he’d been looking his fill Miles had been watching him, and that those dark eyes were half-hooded, amused and knowing, and maybe warm. The only sound for a long moment was the whisper of Miles’ blade over the apple, and the thrum of Bass’ own heart in his ears.
But then somewhere above deck there was a shout and an answer, and the cabin creaked again, sea spray washing up over the windows, the crash of the ocean close enough to be loud and it broke the spell, just enough that Bass’ gaze slipped away from Miles, down to the floorboards.
He couldn’t pretend he didn’t see that little uptick at the corner of Miles’ mouth, though he desperately wanted to. He’d caught himself a moment too late to pretend complete indifference, yes, but even still, the sound Bass made in the back of his throat was only half-feigned disgust. He tried to put the image of Miles (the reality of him, right there, so close) out of his mind and instead focus on the bigger problem, the one that was—now at least—an obvious concern. He swung both legs over the side of the cot and planted his feet on the floor, but didn’t try to stand quite yet.
No point in it. He had a feeling he wasn’t leaving this cabin without Miles’ say so, in any case.
Because this was not his cabin; this was not his ship.
The answer was obvious enough, because he knew Miles, had always known Miles; he knew the way the man thought, knew the way he worked—on both sides of the law. It had probably been easy enough for Miles to catch him out carousing with his men on the first real shoreleave he’d allowed in months; easy enough to pay off the whore Bass had been just drunk enough to want to take to bed. He remembered following her from the tavern, remembered walking down the darkened alley way between the brothel and the inn. He remembered the whisper of boots on cobblestone, and the rustle of clothes and then—
"Why?" Bass lifted his head, settled his elbows on his thighs as he leaned forward, looking at him, really looking this time. "I’ve been on your heels for a year, with two hundred men and three ships, to say nothing of the full-weight of the law at my back. Why risk this?"
Miles mouth curved in that half-careless smile Bass had always been so susceptible to, and he cut a slice of apple free from the peeled side of the fruit. “Is that really the question you wanna ask me, Bass?” He lifted the piece of apple to his lips. “What’s it been? Three, four months since you last saw me?”
“Five,” Bass corrected automatically, too sharply. “Five months, Miles. Jesus.” He pushed a hand through his hair, exhaled slowly. “It was Tortuga.”
"Mhm," Miles agreed, chewing. "Tortuga." He swallowed slowly and Bass tried not to watch too closely, wondered instead if this was how they were going to play this. Weren’t they going to talk about it? Was Miles just going to ignore what happened on that god-forsaken spit of an island?
"You saved me,” he accused, the old confusion and annoyance rising up again.
"You followed me into port," Miles shot back, peeling the skin on the apple again; this time he dropped his gaze down to look at his work as he did it. "Followed me into that tavern. You had to know how that was going to end, Bass. Didn’t matter how many men you had with you. Didn’t matter what you offered." He carved out another bite of apple. "My people are loyal. They weren’t going to turn on me."
"Lucky you," Bass spat, "to have someone’s undying loyalty. I wouldn’t know what that’s like." He grit his teeth a little, knowing he was walking a fine edge. "I thought I knew, once. Turns out I was wrong."
Miles’ head came up and whatever warmth there’d been in his eyes was gone for a moment, shuttered down under something cold and hard, but then he blinked and it was gone. Instead, that half-smile was back and it grated on Bass because he’d missed it, and because he knew Miles was using it against him.
This time Miles took the second bite of apple, chewed it over entirely, and swallowed before he actually replied.
"I saved you because when you couldn’t get me, you thought you’d pick a fight with someone else. Hudson’s crew would have torn you limb from limb."
"Why not let them?" Bass pushed, needing to know. "Why step in at all? My men were down, I was going down with them. Your problem would have been solved, Miles."
Miles’ knife scraped over the apple, more slowly now; he was running out of peel.
"Which problem is that, I wonder?"
"Me," Bass hissed through his teeth. “Me, you arrogant bastard. I’m always a step behind you, I know how you think. One day I’m going to catch you, Miles—and then what, huh? You’ll hang.”
Miles breathed a sound that could have been a laugh but lacked the mirth.
"That’s every pirate’s problem, Bass. Not just mine. We get caught, we’re all gonna hang."
"Not you," Bass rushed out. "You could still come back, Miles. There are still people high up who know what you did for this country; there’s a man in office who’d write you privateers documents, swear to them, swear you’ve been working for us the whole time."
Miles’ lips curved, but it wasn’t a smile. “And we both know that a privateer’s license isn’t always honored.”
"I’d make sure it was."
"I know you’d try," Miles said, but not with any real conviction. He set the apple aside on the table, tucked the knife into his belt, and rose to his feet with a grace that only natural born sailors ever find on their sea legs; he crossed the berth slowly and came to stand just an armslength from Bass, close enough that Bass had to crane his head back to look at him.
Miles looked down at him, eyes unfathomably dark. He reached with his freehand and knuckled at the underside of Bass’ jaw in a move that was both half-forgotten and heartstoppingly familiar, and for a moment it was like Bass forgot how to breathe, how to think. He stilled, searching Miles’ face for something, for anything.
Miles was never oblivious of the effect he had on Bass, not back then and not now, but the expression he wore made it seem like he’d thought, so incorrectly, that it could have faded with time.
But it hadn’t. Bass stared up at him, abruptly lovelorn all over again.
"It seems like you’ve got more of a problem with me hanging than I do, Bass."
"Of course I do," Bass whispered raggedly, low because if he had to say it out loud, at least it was here, between them, just another secret like so many others. Despite himself, he reached out to catch a handhold in Miles’ shirt, to twist the thin linen material between his fingers.
There was the ghost of a smile trying to settle on Miles’ lips, but only just. “And I’ve got a problem standing back and watching you get yourself killed.” He thumbed at the line of Bass’ jaw. "We’re brothers, Bass. Nothing’s gonna change that."
"We’re a hell of a lot more than that," he said, watching Miles’ eyes.
Something flickered there, deep and dark but there was no instant denial, not in his expression or on his lips and something traitorous like hope sprang up behind Bass’ sternum. His fingers tightened in Miles’ shirt.
"It’s always been you and me, Miles." He pulled, dragged, and Miles inched forward the step Bass wanted him to and a bit more, stepping between Bass’ legs and bracing his other hand back against the wall behind the cot so that he loomed over Bass, larger than life. Close. Intimate. Bass leaned back, lifted his head, drew a breath from the dwindling space between them now, and held Miles’ gaze. "Remember?”
Miles inclined his head a fraction, his fingers slipping from Bass’ jaw to find a grip in his hair instead. "I never forgot," he said, so quietly Bass might have imagined it, except that Miles’ head dipped another scant inch and Bass tasted the words, felt them warm against his lips as Miles’ moved over his own, the phantom movement of a kiss.
Bass reached for Miles with both hands then, to grab him, to pull him in, to touch him, to—
But Miles was already pulling away, slipping away from the cot with the next rock of the ship and standing upright, out of reach, before Bass could draw a breath to protest.
He looked, if nothing else, less at ease than he was, but he was holding himself back, literally, and Bass’ confusion welled up in a torrent at the unfairness of it. His hands dropped to the edge of the cot to give himself a shove up as he rose.
"Miles—”
"No."
"Listen to me, just—”
"I said no, Bass.” That quickly, Miles was in his space again, crowding him back against the edge of the cot. It wasn’t fury but it was something close, the harsher lines in Miles’ countenance stark suddenly. “Sit down, keep quiet. Don’t make a nuisance of yourself. I’ll be back in a while.” He flashed a smile, all teeth and little humor. “Test my patience and I’ll have you dragged upstairs and manacled to my bed, so help me god.”
Bass ignored the way his gut tightened at the implication. “Oh yeah? And what will your crew have to say about that, Captain Matheson? A pirate hunter chained to your bed. There will be talk.”
"No," Miles breathed through his unamused smile. "There really won’t be.” And there was that edge, the one other pirates whispered about, the one that had terrified the men in their unit when Miles and Bass led them together; the one that made something angry and wild in Bass lift its head.
"What’s the plan here, Miles? You can’t hold me prisoner forever. My whole squadron is probably already looking for me. They will find me." He mimicked Miles’ smile, the dangerous one, sent it right back at him. "They were trained by the best, you know."
"Oh, I know," Miles said, but instead of engaging he was turning away, headed for the door. Bass didn’t think about taking the advantage while his back was turned; surprise didn’t put Miles off his game, just made him vicious.
"I’m not worried about it," the pirate added, hand on the door frame. "Captain Baker is leading the hunt, but he’s sailing in the wrong direction."
A skitter of suspicion crawled up Bass’ spine. “How do you know that?”
Miles glanced back at him over the curve of his shoulder and the half-smile made a final appearance, spreading slowly over Miles’ lips they way it always did when he had a secret, when he had the winning hand.
A lead weight settled in Bass’ stomach.
"Because," Miles said, careless and casual, "I told him to."
Realization crashed over Bass the same moment the ship lurched through another wave; he rocked back on his heels and settled down hard on the edge of the cot, staring back across the cabin at Miles.
Anger warred with confusion, mingled with surprise, with hurt.
Jeremy.
Of course it had to be Jeremy.
He should have known.
Miles, for his own part, had the grace to at least attempt to look sheepish. “Don’t take it personally, Bass. He cares about you, always has. But he knows the truth, the one you’re refusing to see.”
"Yeah?" Bass edged, off balance. "What’s that?"
Miles had the door half open and through it, Bass could see one of the middle decks, any number of barrels and crates. Cargo, maybe. The details slipped past him as he tried and mostly succeeded in focusing on Miles.
"The truth," he was saying, low and even, "is that I was always going to win this war, one way or the other. But that as long as they had you, they still had the best weapon against me; a way, when all else fails, to bring me to my knees. And they were going to use it."
The way he said it wrenched something in the region of Bass’ heart.
"Miles—”
"You’re my last weakness, Bass," Miles said quietly, looking away from him. “I took you out of play so they couldn’t use you against me.”
Silence fell between them, the creak of the cabin louder than it was and the crash of the ocean somehow nearer than before.
Somewhere above them a woman shouted "Captain!" loud enough that Miles winced and Bass was startled enough by the familiarity of the voice that he glanced up, breathed, "Nora," and then looked back to Miles, half expecting her to materialize behind him in the doorway.
Ghosts had that ability, he’d been told.
Miles was already half way out the door this time, but he glanced back at Bass again as he stepped out into the corridor. There were no words, not really, but in his face Bass read "We’ll talk later," as clearly as if it had been spoken.
And then Miles closed the door, leaving Bass alone with his thoughts, and more questions than answer.