Chapter Text
Jim may be an admiral of the Terran Empire’s Royal Navy, but that didn’t mean he let the responsibilities get to his head and turn him into a pompous, entitled jerk. When sailing conditions were smooth and calm, Jim would often use such moments as opportunities to work alongside his crew to get to know them better and show he didn’t view them as replaceable pieces. There were many times he’d temporarily taken over the galley from the cook just to prepare a meal for the crew himself to the point he’d earned the nickname Captain Cook among spacers that weren’t even part of his fleet or the Navy at all.
He was actually down in the hold to fetch up some ingredients he needed when he heard a quick skittering sound that made him pause. It had been twenty years, but he recognized it instantly. Old memories along with old nightmares never let him forget, and he slowly unholstered his flintlock laser from his belt. He crept closer, all of his senses on high alert, his eyes darting at every shadow and up to the ceiling. Morph was above deck and nobody else was down in the hold. He was alone, and despite being a capable, highly-decorated thirty-five-year-old admiral, he once again felt like a terrified, unskilled teenager searching for a monster in the dark. Jim heard the skittering again, louder this time, and briefly saw a shadowy multi-legged figure darting away.
“Freeze!” he shouted and chased after it, adrenaline now suppressing the fear.
He had a possibly dangerous stowaway on his ship, and he wasn’t about to risk any of his crew getting attacked by them. He followed after the shadow and the skittering through the hold around the crates and barrels until Jim was able to force it into a corner and brought his weapon to bear.
“Move and I’ll shoot!” he yelled as soon as he broke out into line of sight of the target and finally had a moment to take a proper look at his quarry.
As he’d suspected, it was an insectoid like Scroop with the black spider-like body, six legs, pincer hands, large glowing yellow eyes, and the curled mandibular mouthparts… but that was where the similarities ended. Scroop had been huge, as tall as Silver when his legs were fully stretched, had a muscular upper body from a lifetime of rigging, and had a bright red face and hands. This one was tiny by comparison even if they weren’t curling in on themselves as small as possible. Their torso was proportionately equal in size to their abdomen, they had a wide, round face rather than a long narrow one with short, brown bristle hairs on their head, and there wasn’t any red on their body, but white spots and stripes patterned all over their back and face. Jim had never met another insectoid in the past twenty years, and the stark differences between the two were more than enough to give him pause. This individual was also gazing up at him in pure abject terror and was waving their white mandibles in rapid circles that made a strong clacking sound every time they touched, something Jim had never seen Scroop do.
In fact, if Jim had to guess, this individual was probably a kid, and he was an adult pointing a gun at them.
He holstered it, though he was prepared to pull it out again if his guess about this insectoid being a child was wrong and he needed to defend himself, and lowered himself to his knees. “Hey there, little guy. Sorry if I scared you when I chased you. I thought you were someone dangerous that would hurt my crew. I’m Jim Hawkins, who are you?”
At first, the little insectoid said nothing and just stared at him, but the speed of the circles it was making with its mandibles slowed down considerably. Jim wondered what that meant. Then they spoke up with a high-pitched tenor and the same extended ‘s’ sounds Scroop spoke in. “Dessmond O’Dair,” he murmured.
“And how old are you, Desmond?” Jim asked.
“Eleven,” he said.
So he was a child, technically a preteen if he was being honest. Jim would continue to give him the benefit of the doubt for now. “Well, Desmond, can I ask why you stowed away onto my ship?”
Those large bug eyes somehow got even bigger. “Your sship?” he repeated.
“Yep, this is the RLS Victory, and I’m her captain,” Jim said.
“I-I’m sso ssorry, ssir! I-I-I wass only t-trying to esscape ssome gang members that w-were chassing me, and I s-ssaw your sship and climbed aboard to hide. I ssucceeded and wass sso, sso tired that I guesss I f-fell assleep and only woke up when the sship sstarted moving, I sswear!” Desmond said.
Jim stared at him long and hard, and the mandibles started spinning in faster circles again. Perhaps it was a nervous gesture? It was unfortunately very possible Desmond was telling the truth about being chased by a gang at port. Despite the existence of the Navy and other law enforcement entities, ports were just as important for criminal enterprises as they were for the empire in trading goods, and though illegal, sometimes those goods consisted of people. And with how important spacing was to commerce, it was depressing if unsurprising that the most vulnerable targets were young aliens with body types and features ideally suited for working on ships. With how deftly Jim had seen Scroop clamber about the rigging on the Legacy, it didn’t take much to guess why those gang members had wanted the boy.
“I believe you, Desmond,” Jim said. Desmond’s mandibles stilled and his jaw dropped which made Jim feel an uncomfortable twinge in his chest. Had Desmond never heard those words spoken to him before? He slowly stretched his hand out, and the young insectoid watched it warily. “And I promise I’m not going to hurt you or turn about and drop you back off at the port. We’ve been traveling for a few hours already though, and I don’t know when you last ate, but I bet you must be hungry, so why don’t we head up and get you something from the galley, alright?”
Desmond’s eyes flicked from his hand to his face and back again then looked at his own pincer-like hands. “Aren’t you afraid I’m going to cut your hand off?” he said.
The question sounded so genuinely puzzled it hurt Jim worse than if he’d said it with bitterness or sarcasm. “No, I’m not,” he said and meant it. Desmond may be of the same species as Scroop, but that was definitely where the similarities ended, and any lingering thoughts that this may be a small adult pretending to be a child were tossed out the window.
Very slowly, Desmond rose up a little, uncurling his legs and stretched one thin arm out to Jim. He took his hand so lightly that Jim barely felt the touch, and Jim gave him firmer pressure with a reassuring smile.
“Nice to meet you, Desmond,” he said.
Desmond’s mandibles quivered but didn’t resume making circles, and his mouth twitched into a small smile. “Thank you, Mr. Hawkinss.”
“No problem. Now, you may hear my crew call me Admiral Hawkins, Captain Cook, admiral, or sir. All of them refer to me, but you can call me whatever you like,” Jim said and stood up
“Wait, how are you both an admiral and a captain with two different namess?” Desmond asked as he stood to match him. He was tiny. Even at a resting position with his legs not fully extended, the top of his head only came up to Jim’s waist.
“Well, my official rank is admiral, but because I also like to cook for my crew sometimes, I got the nickname Captain Cook because it sounds better than Admiral Cook. Actually, that’s the reason I came down here when I did. I was going to bring up some ingredients for a meal I want to make, so you’ll get to try my cooking firsthand,” Jim said and started heading back to the crates he’d been looking for.
“Yess, ssir,” Desmond said and followed after him.
Jim had no problem finding the crate now that he wasn’t distracted by a hidden stowaway in his hold. After gathering the ingredients he wanted, he warned Desmond to stay close to him before ascending to the main deck, not because he necessarily thought any of his crew would be antagonistic towards the boy, but because he didn’t want Desmond feeling alone and overwhelmed finding himself the center of attention from a bunch of strange adults.
Sure enough, once Desmond crawled out of the hold, everyone was staring, some with confusion, others with alarm, and Desmond’s mandibles started making circles with that nervous clicking again as he pressed up against Jim’s leg. Even Morph seemed unsure of Desmond when he came over to Jim, though in his case, Jim knew it was because he also remembered Scroop.
“We’ve picked up an unexpected passenger, I see,” said Onyx, Jim’s first mate and one of his best friends from the Academy, with an amused smile and an expectant raise of one rocky brow ridge.
Jim reached his free hand down and laid it gently on top of Desmond’s head. “Indeed we have, Mr. Onyx,” he said and then spoke louder, “Everyone, this is Desmond O’Dair, and he’ll be staying with us for at least until we reach the next port. He’s only eleven, so mind your manners, and after lunch, he’ll start training as the new cabin boy.”
“I’ll what?” Desmond squeaked.
Jim glanced down and gave him a reassuring smile when he saw the worry and confusion. “Don’t worry, the work’s not hard. It’s mostly to keep you from getting bored while stuck with nowhere else to go. I worked as a cabin boy when I was fifteen, just a bit older than you, and while it wasn’t necessarily fun, I got to learn a lot of things and am still immensely grateful for the experience.”
Desmond’s golden eyes went from alarm to awe. “You were a cabin boy once too?” he gasped. “But you’re an admiral!”
“Even admirals gotta start somewhere, kid. Come on, let’s get you down to the galley. Lunch is calling, and I’ve got a whole crew’s worth of hungry stomachs to feed,” Jim said and brought the young insectoid along with him.