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One of the first things people noticed about Jim was the gaping empty air at their side. Those who didn’t know better would assume their daemon was a small creature; an insect, a small snake, or a mouse hiding under their tunic and out of sight.
Oluwande was one of the few who knew better. He never asked the details as to why, but the bond between Jim and their daemon was…different. They had broken it, long before he had ever crossed their paths. Something had made them separate. He only spotted Nimo occasionally when the daemon deigned to crawl under the makeshift cot where he hid, or sometimes he lounged in Oluwande and Jim’s room.
Looking at Jim by themself was an exercise in control. Most of the time it hurt to look at Jim standing all alone, like his heart was weighed down with sympathy pain. Oluwande knew his eyes drifted to the empty air at their side even though he knew it would be empty, like poking an old bruise, or biting down on a sore in his mouth.
Though not all that pain was sympathy pangs. When he looked at Jim sometimes he swore his heart was burning. Though Oluwande suspected that his feelings came from a different source than others. He feared to call it by any name, but in the pit of his stomach, he knew only what it could be. That feeling of his skin aflame when he accidentally brushed against Jim, and wherever they touched he felt the heat through their clothes.
He didn’t touch Jim often. Only by accident. The touching was to be expected; their cabin had only one bed, and though they usually switched on and off for it, Oluwande had accidentally kicked Jim’s ankle by accident on more than one occasion while trying to slip out of the room to hunt down breakfast for the both of them.
Without the beard, Jim’s face betrayed their round-cheeked youth. It betrayed more than that, but more than anything else, Oluwande found himself shaken by that more than anything else. There was a lot about Jim that denied assumptions.
“I just can’t imagine it,” Eniiyi confided softly. She glanced back at Jim guiltily, though her voice was so soft it would’ve been impossible to hear. Oluwande kept his eyes on the ropes he was tying, as they lowered the sails to catch the eastward winds.
“It’s none of our business,” Oluwande told her. He kept his voice low like hers, because if there was one thing he understood about Jim Jimenez, was not to underestimate even an inch of their abilities. And super-hearing along with insanely honed assassination skills would honestly be less of a surprise than anything else.
Jim ignored it — the attention, the pity, the quick glances before looking away and barely concealed surprise — like they could care less, but Oluwande averted his eyes anyway. The last thing Jim wanted was his pity.
Eniiyi rubbed her head reassuringly against Oluwande’s left calf. She probably sensed some of his discomfort and bumped the tip of her nose against his ankle, reassuring and warm, saying without speaking: I am here. Do not be afraid.
It must have been torturous to stuff one’s daemon into a small space, no fresh air or sun, but Jim never complained. Neither did Nimo. Maybe if Jim’s daemon had been smaller, they could have smuggled him out for some freedom on the deck, but Nimo was simply too large. Cougars were nothing like house cats, especially not like Captain Bonnet’s cat daemon.
Though sometimes Oluwande wondered if Nimo was more of a house cat than a cougar. He liked to play with the broken strings hanging off their threadbare blankets, batting them back and forth with his large paws, and purring like a great forest cat. For a moment he entertained himself with a fantasy — how Jim might have looked with a small black cat at their side, like Captain Bonnet’s. Somehow he had a feeling whatever form their daemon settled in, they would have always exuded an encompassing aura of unease.
(Oluwande was fairly sure Nimo was a cougar. Jim had referred to him once as the fiercest Floridian panther, but Oluwande didn’t know if that was a joke or they were entirely serious. He had never found the right time to ask.)
After the sails were raised and the crew stumbled off into their respective hammocks or assigned quarters, he and Jim retreated to their private cabin. The ship was on route to the Republic of Pirates. Oluwande worried at his bottom lip as Jim took out their whetstone and systematically sharpened their knife with a treacherous thoughtfulness that only added to Oluwande’s anxiety.
Despite their time together — much of which in close quarters — Jim was still the most puzzling riddle he had yet to meet. Sometimes he felt like he was the only person who understood Jim entirely for who they were, and other times he was astounded at how little he actually knew about Jim. They always held Oluwande at a distance, like strangers.
That night, Oluwande found the courage to try talking to them. Jim answered in mostly one syllable grunts, which was not encouraging, but they didn’t try to stab him in the thigh or anything. That was about as warm and cuddly Jim got, really.
He asked Jim what they planned to do in the Republic of Pirates. Jim just smiled, slow and sharp, and Oluwande sighed. He steered onto other topics. Nimo watched him, their bright eyes glowing in the dim under the bunk. Eniiyi chirped and scuttled as he watched her and Oluwande. Somehow, he had a chilling feeling that Nimo knew exactly how he felt about Jim, and saw through his facades of small talk.
The cougar daemon said nothing. He flopped over and swished his tail across Jim’s face, and then when that failed to earn a reaction, leaned over and rested their head on Jim’s thigh.
Jim’s hand twitched around the handle of the blade they were sharpening. “Oye — Nimo, stupid, get off my fucking legs.” Nimo chuffed and twisted his head back around to look at the wall.
Oluwande met his gaze and looked back at Jim. He didn’t ask too many questions. Usually. Asking questions was a good way to get your fingers cut off among pirates. But Jim’s face softened as they turned to look at Oluwande and he swallowed and forced it out. “Why do you call him that?” Oluwande asked them.
Jim flipped off their hat and scratched their hair. They turned, their face vanishing into the shadows, with only the bare outline of their profile. For a while Oluwande wondered if Jim had ignored his question, until they said in an uncharacteristically gentle voice: “It’s what I call him. He’s just…anónimo.”
Anonymous. Not named. It was a hell of a thing to call one’s daemon.
Eniiyi rubbed her head reassuringly against Oluwande’s left calf. Oluwande lowered his hand and she nudged up into the top of his hand. His mink daemon didn’t purr, but Oluwande imagined if she could, she would be doing it.
When he glanced up again, Nimo was watching the two of them with half-lidded eyes. He turned away when he met Oluwande’s eyes. Jim’s daemon was the hardest to read out of any daemon he had ever met, but he imagined a sadness there, or maybe an unfocused kind of yearning.
He wasn’t sure what Jim had ever said or done, but he had the distinct impression Jim wasn’t happy with how Nimo settled. He assumed he would never really understand. As a child, Oluwande had always wanted a big daemon, something fierce but also gentle and capable of protecting him or anyone who needed it. When Eniiyi settled, the joy and excitement of settling overpowered any lingering disappointment. Minks were small but loyal and clever, and Oluwande was humbled by her.
As for Jim…
He wasn’t sure what part of Nimo they rejected. The nimble hunter and predator at Jim’s side just seemed so right. Jim moved with the same cat-like grace and prowl that made him feel large and clumsy in contrast. Though maybe that was part of the problem — he knew nothing of Jim’s history, only that they were on a mission of revenge. Maybe they never wanted the role of the nimble hunter assassin to begin with.
He had tried asking. Jim never gave him any answers he understood, or their face pinched up and they cursed Oluwande out under their breath. Oluwande could take a hint. He steered clear of the topic after that.
Most of their conversations were held in quiet Spanish passed between them late in the evening. “It’s quiet tonight,” Oluwande offered. “If you and Nimo want to go on the deck. Buttons is out communing with dolphins…or whatever.” Nobody was ever really quite sure where Buttons went when he vanished off the ship. They were too far from port, and the dinghies were still swinging from the side. “Maybe a harpy picked him up,” Frenchie had volunteered. It was about as plausible as anything else.
Jim seemed to consider it for a moment before they answered, “No.”
“It can’t be good to keep him down here all the time,” he said. He didn’t want to push, and yet — and yet. Nimo’s fur was matted around his neck and Oluwande imagined it couldn’t be very comfortable to stay cooped up in the same tiny cabin all hours of the day. “And it’s not good for you either, in disguise.”
Jim shook their head. “Don’t worry about me. I can handle myself.” Nimo huffed softly and turned his head away. “Maybe there’s another ship we could get on, at least —”
“You can go on whatever ship you want.” Their next stroke against the stone was too hard. Oluwande winced at the metallic shriek.
He said, “I don’t want to go on any other ship unless you’re there. You and I — we’re a team. I’m sticking this out with you.” He winced again. He had said too much.
Blessedly, Eniiyi filled the silence before it stretched out too far. “It’s something to consider,” she reconciled. “If you think there’s another place, a ship, or somewhere you and Nimo would be happiest.”
Nimo spoke at last, the most he had said throughout the entire exchange. “There’s nowhere for us to go.”
Jim lowered their chin to their chest. Oluwande bit the inside of his cheek. “I was just offering,” he added softer.
“No me queda otra opción.” Jim mumbled to him.
Oluwande’s Spanish was improving, slowly, after a year or so of exclusively talking to Jim. He still stumbled over his replies no matter how much he practiced, like a weighted scale in his brain took a moment to tip into the right language. “But there has to be, I mean —” Jim continued glowering at him until he deflated, “—ah, claro que sí. Whatever you want.”
Jim resumed sharpening their knife with their whetstone. “What I want doesn’t matter.”
It should, Oluwande thought silently. It matters. It matters to me. There was that smaller, though equally strong part in the back of his mind that yearned to draw Jim’s hands away from the stone and blade and hold them. You matter to me.
He didn’t say that; at worst Jim might throw a knife at his head, and he had never seen them miss. At best Jim might give them that strange look they wore sometimes, and then lapse into awkward silence. Some things were better off unsaid. So he said nothing, and hoped maybe Jim would settle. Truly settle. They would find their way. And if Oluwande was lucky, he would earn his place with Jim there too, wherever they decided he fit into that mythical promised land they were waiting to find.