Chapter Text
Matheson did not like children his age. They were loud— and that was saying something, coming from him. His average day lacked no abundance of shanties and shouting.
With the young boys crowding him, though, that shouting crowd of Perry’s crew couldn’t finish their late-afternoon business in the tavern fast enough. A powder boy barely ten years old drew enough eyes already. But one traveling alongside Perry? Matheson had felt all those eyes. He’d blanched when Perry told him to wait outside, and shrunk into himself against the wall on the side of the building.
“What’s in there?” One of them grabbed at Matheson’s canteen, which he promptly shoved back into his bag. “I bet McWallander lets you drink, huh?”
It was nothing. Water. Perry didn’t want him drinking while he was still just ten; even his irresponsibility had its limits. Matheson wasn’t sure there would ever come a day where Perry would think he’d look old enough to drink. It wasn’t enough for Matheson to be the youngest on the crew. He had to be small, too. He didn’t like being small.
In a quiet, noticeably out of use voice, Matheson mumbled, “I’m not—“
“You’re some son of a gun, then?” the tallest of the boys asked, a jealous edge in his tone. Well, no. Matheson was nobody’s son. But he wouldn’t put it past these boys to envy him regardless. It was the sort of wealthy envy entirely alien to Matheson. He liked to think about how pathetic the most privileged could be, and feel better about himself, though he understood their wanderlust completely. It was a small victory he could hang over their sheltered, loved heads.
In practice, though, it was just uncomfortable. Matheson’s cheeks burned as he tried to duck under the shade of his cap. The first boy came up beside him and grabbed his shoulder, getting much too close for comfort— Matheson very much wanted to kick him, but found himself frozen.
“It’s a yes or no question, orbie.” Matheson looked up at the boy; blond, dark enough eyes. “Yeah, don’t think I didn’t see,” the boy laughed. Looking into someone’s eyes should be a gesture of respect. But Matheson knew respect was the furthest thing from the boy’s mind as he scrutinized Matheson’s light eyes. “That why you hide your freakish little face out at sea?”
He didn’t like being small. Anger looked silly on him.
Matheson clutched his pouch of dominoes—the most expensive thing to his name—and glowered at the blond boy. He tried to think of something to say. The other two stood in his peripheral, waiting and watching.
“Tongue-tied,” remarked the tallest. The boy in front of Matheson smirked, letting go and taking a step away. Matheson relaxed slightly—
The boy roughly shoved him; Matheson’s pouch slipped out of his hands, sending the dominoes scattering across the pavement. He clenched his hands into fists.
Retaliation was justified at that point, right—?
A clang sounded beside the blond boy’s head as a small ball hit the tavern window. The third boy,—with irises light enough to be Matheson’s, but unshining and circled in dark grey—swung his head around. The three boys’ eyes were wide as they accusingly shot at each other—
“The hell’s wrong with you?”
“That’s not mine! Why would I—”
“Ah, great…”
The tallest eyed the backdoor to the tavern a ways away, scowling.
“C’mon,” he said quietly, backing away.
The grey-eyed boy scoffed, but was close at his friend’s heels. “We didn’t even crack it this time.”
What luck, Matheson thought. He received one last half-smiling glare from the blond boy before he took off running, leaving Matheson alone at last. He breathed out a sigh. Looked at the scattered rectangles of white at his feet. Knelt, and began to pick them up.
“That worked better than expected.”
Matheson started, his heart jumping at a new voice in front of him. He quickly looked up, and promptly tensed at the red button-up and black vest of the newcomer’s uniform— another tormentor, surely. Though, he was older than those three. A teenager.
He was quite tall. As tan as Perry. His hair was fairly short; Matheson, in comparison, felt quite unkempt. Blond— though, it was puzzling. The hair within half an inch of his scalp was dark, nearly black. Dyed blond. Dark hair and a red uniform. Dark hair and a pin of the split moon of their country’s flag. The boy crossed his arms, smiling.
“I’d meant to stick one on the one who pushed you,” he explained. ”But the window worked out nicely, yeah?”
Before Matheson could even think of a halfway decent reply, the boy was level with him on his knees, gathering the dominoes that had spilled farther from Matheson.
Matheson’s eyes stayed glued on the boy. So far, there was nothing objectionable in the conversational tone of his low voice. Albeit, condescension took a bit to make itself fully apparent.
It dawned on Matheson that it was unlikely that the boy had some punchline. So he returned his attention back to the dominoes.
Swallowing and dropping a handful into his pouch, Matheson kept his gaze fixed on the ground. He hoped Perry would be done soon. Waiting alone on the dirt was getting old. He thought of the stranger once more, blond and uniformed. Matheson snuck a look in his direction. His slacks were probably as dirtied as Matheson’s, now.
The stranger, noticing Matheson’s glance, held out his hand. Rather like the reluctant stray he’d been the day Perry found him, Matheson hesitated. He looked at the stranger, then at the slabs of white in his hand. The stranger chuckled to himself.
“I don’t bite,” he said softly, smiling. Matheson looked into those dark eyes. Not a trace of disdain, or mockery.
“…Thank you.”
He took the dominoes, stashing them away and tugging the pouch closed, save for one to fiddle with. The boy sat by Matheson, back against the tavern wall.
“That’s yours?” Matheson asked, pointing to his savior of a ball.
The boy snatched it. “Mhm. Like I said, it was meant for a head.”
“Why?”
Matheson did not like feeling stupid, and it was not something he felt often. The boy was still smiling.
“I don’t suppose you were getting along all chummy-like with that lot,” he said, raising his eyebrows.
Shaking his head, Matheson hugged his knees to his chest.
“So,” the boy said. “What’s a little git like you doing hanging ‘round a dive like this?”
“I’m s’posed to wait out here.”
What was one to say to that? An awkward silence fell on the two; Matheson ran his fingers across the dotted indentation of the domino in his hand.
“For Perry and the rest, that is,” Matheson said quickly, watching for a reaction.
And a reaction he got. The boy leaned forward, surprise and awe written on his face. He’d probably been among the smattering of people who’d caught sight of Perry and the others taking off towards the tavern.
“You what?” he asked. Matheson didn’t know why he’d said it.
But the boy seemed impressed. “…Fancy that.”
Matheson just nodded, his face a little red.
“Do you get that kind of treatment often, then?” asked the boy.
Matheson shrugged, a little confused. “Sort of.” However, it usually wasn’t because of Perry. Matheson pulled his cap a little lower over his eyes.
Maybe he was liking this boy. But if he thought Matheson needed any pity, judging from that dangerous gentleness in his eyes, then he was sorely mistaken. “Though, it’s better than stares, sometimes,” Matheson added.
“Yes, McWallander certainly has quite a bit of publicity at his heels. I can see how that could get old.” The boy looked off into the distance. Matheson stared at the ground between his feet.
“Are you jealous?” he blurted out before he could think better of it.
The boy looked over at Matheson, an amused expression playing on his face at his directness. The sun caught one of the boy’s eyes, setting it alight. Matheson watched the gold of the rays pool in his iris, bringing to mind a shard of stained glass.
“A bit,” he admitted. “Every night on the water? That must be kind on the eyes.”
Remarkably candid. Matheson gave a curious tilt of his head at his last words.
"The moon," the boy clarified. "How it looks on the sea. A familiar sight for you, I'm sure." There was not envy so much as wonder on his face as his mind seemed to wander astray.
"Aye," Matheson quietly agreed. He wasn't quite as interested in the mental image the stranger had described; he was plenty familiar with it, yes, but he didn't expect that sort of sentiment from the likes of the boy in red. Admiring that “unruly splotch” in the night sky? Matheson couldn't help but steal another look at the dark roots of his flaxen hair. The boy must've noticed it, though. The almost dreamy quality dropped from his face.
Matheson's own spirits dampened.
"Aye," he rushed to say again, louder. "It makes late watches more bearable." The boy chuckled, and Matheson was somewhat relieved to see his cooling demeanor loosen once more. "Or, so I'm told."
"Yeah, they don't make you do that much, I hope."
Still, nothing in the boy's tone betrayed any pity or condescension. So, instead of bristling or snapping back, Matheson—to his own surprise—kept talking.
"No, just..." His voice and gaze dropped. "Can't sleep."
He couldn't really complain about the restless nights— as the boy said, the water and its lunar decoration was a familiar sight. Calming. Fitting, for those moments of relative quiet he could steal in ungodly hours of the morning.
"A young mind needs rest," the boy murmured absentmindedly, running a hand through his hair. Rich coming from him, with those dark circles under his eyes.
Matheson shot him a sidelong glance. Immediately at seeing his expression, the boy sheepishly scoffed at his words. "Sorry. I spend too much time around grown-ups."
"Something we have in common. Me, minus the words of wisdom," Matheson said.
He was quickly growing fond of the sound of the boy's laugh.
"How did you end up with the likes of Pericles McWallander?" asked the boy. "If you don't mind me asking."
It was around two years ago. "Was on my own. He found me, let me come with him." Matheson anticipated the next line of questioning: what is the crew like, what've you seen, where have you been.
"Do you like it?"
It was his whole world.
"...suppose so."
The boy kept talking to him, and Matheson's throat started hurting from how many words the stranger managed to pry out of him. As for the boy, he went to school nearby— he'd just gotten off for the day when he happened upon Matheson.
He forgot himself; he forgot he was waiting for Perry, and he didn't think he wanted to stop talking with the boy. But a small, high voice called out. Both of them looked down the road, where a dark-haired girl in yellow waved towards the two. She looked around Matheson's age. The boy recognized her, rising to his feet. Matheson did his best to hide his disappointment
"D'you have a name?" asked the boy, before he went.
"Matheson."
He raised one eyebrow. "A first name?"
None. His parents, whoever they were, hadn't bothered. A kind man lent his name to him. The kind man was gone, and they had taken his—and Matheson’s—home, too. Matheson shook his head.
"Well, it was nice to meet you, Matheson," the boy said, smiling.
"Likewise."
He watched the boy run towards the girl, who ran ahead in turn, laughing.
“Back aboard, wee crab.”
Matheson perked up at the sound of Perry’s voice. He turned, the man already making his way back to the dock, that hideous purple-and-green coat draped on his shoulders and flapping in the breeze. A few more of his men trailed behind him, one of them following Matheson’s lingering gaze in the direction of the boy.
“Making friends, are we?” he said over his shoulder, with a smirk. Matheson nodded distractedly. He hadn’t gotten the boy’s name. Of course, it wasn’t as if he’d ever see the honey-eyed stranger again. Why, then, did his shoulders sink at his not knowing the boy’s name?
No use in dwelling on it now, he supposed. Matheson took his bag and shoved his domino sack in it, running after Perry.
An eyesore of an outfit, as always. He was truly fond of that pink shirt of his, no matter the wardrobal ramifications. Perry’s mess of straw-colored hair—similar in hue to that of the boy’s, Matheson observed—was unkempt as usual. Matheson wondered how in the world those artists managed to twist Perry’s features into a proper public hero.
The great Lieutenant Pericles Llewellyn McWallander is known to the public as fearless, forceful, heroic. And indeed, he is all these things, but yet so much more than the painted posters depict.
His eye caught a brightly colored leaflet peeking out of some shaded alley. Right. They didn’t. He veered off the road to pick it up, where a picturesque portrait of chiseled masculinity stared off into the distance. “JOIN TODAY” was printed in bright red. There were some other, longer words below it, but Matheson didn’t care enough to take the time to sound them out. He looked up at the alley where it came from.
Matheson stepped into the shade. On the cracked wall, above the grass poking out of the bottom, were many posters— reds and blues and yellows. Large printed text, white and black and loud.
In fact, the only accurate physicalities shared between picture and flesh would be the Lieutenant’s chronically smooth jaw, for when your author was fifteen, he had more brush on his face than Perry’s ever sprouted.
Oh, how he wished he could claim better taste than those other boys, with those split moon uniforms and stars in their eyes. But Matheson gazed up at the covered wall, the painted ships afloat in his own gaze. “SWORN TO BE FREE” and “FOR OUR MAJESTIC NATION.” He couldn’t help stealing glance like he used to, in the orphanage, even though he knew they were lies. Perry had taught him nothing if not that— how prettily people could paint lies.
He peered around the corner of the wall back to the road, Perry’s form a ways ahead; the purple-and-green coat drew stares and double takes once curious eyes landed on his hat. The sun caught the gold of the small, embellished ‘P’ in the center. Matheson held up the poster of Perry, looked up at the real Perry, back down. He grinned. The truth was oft unsightly. But he couldn’t complain.
Yes, Perry gave these struggling government artists a run for their money; his elusively and erratic nature making his visage rare as sighting a sober man on St. Patrick’s Day. The man was never easy to keep track of, but those lucky enough to sail at his side, those men were graced by his staunch trust and loyalty in return for theirs.
Matheson caught up to Perry and the others— one of them slapped down his cap with a laugh as he slowed at Perry’s side. Perry lifted his cap back up, the scowl on his face softening as he looked down at the boy. The crowds were taxing on McWallander’s spirits, Matheson knew.
“Go on and wait down below,” Perry said. “I’ve got a story for you, don’t I?”
A rush of excitement rose in Matheson as he remembered his discovery below deck, that unfamiliar sheet of red with its wear and tear. “From days long past” were Perry’s words. So Matheson ran ahead, where the ship seemed to buzz with energy as the sailors cast their gazes beyond the dock.
The crew of the Luna was steadfast and capable, and any one of them could raise the mainsail or rig an airship as well as pick a lock or tell a tale. Yes, the men of Pericles McWallander’s crew were the limbs of his very soul, their camaraderie and devotion to the sea, their leader, and each other certain as the sun brings the daytime.
Matheson’s hand faltered. Ten years was a long time. Two years, longer still.
So begins this account.
…
“Think it’s time to book it, mate.”
The awful pun pulled Matheson’s attention from his writing. He opened his mouth to reply, but followed the bartender’s eyes to the door and dirtied windows of the bar. Outside— he could somewhat see the crowd parting… well, shying away from whatever newcomers were making their way down the street.
It took Matheson a moment to process his meaning. It became quite clear once he saw the first red uniform, and the first red-and-yellow armband.
“Dammit,” he muttered, before throwing back the last of his drink. The sting down his throat fully brought him out of his memory-hazed state. Matheson shut his notebook, and shoved it into his bag. “That fake permit finally causing you trouble?”
“Those bucket bastards,” the bartender sighed. “Just ‘cause I’ve got a bit of blue on me don’t mean I appreciate folks runnin’ their mouths in here.”
“Should get you one of those ‘loose lips sink ships’ posters.”
“I would, if it wouldn’t lose me some regulars.” His eyes scanned the few other individuals sitting and talking, but Matheson knew the ones he referred to had the sense not to drop in in light of the newcomers outside.
What a silent battlefield taverns were these days. Matheson supposed, in light of that, he could understand the poor man’s trouble. Square establishments were too dangerous for a sane— right, “rebel”-leaning citizen. Yet the only alternative establishments were chock-full of actual rebels. Bucket bastards with nothing to lose. Alcohol and keeping up appearances did not mix. Hence, Matheson’s hesitance to stay at this bar any longer. He just knew he’d catch trouble if a couple squares dropped in for an “inspection.”
The bartender pocketed one of the coins Matheson set on the table. After an appropriate pause of reluctance, Matheson grabbed the remaining one with a muttered thanks. He was happy with the progress he’d made today, as far as writing goes. And now, back to… wandering. Out in the late noon heat.
A lone carriage rumbled down the road, melding with the sound of all the people around. Matheson joined it with the heat and the sweat forming on his skin and all the blurs of buildings, and set it all aside. Another aimless afternoon.
It’d be a perfect day out on the water. He wouldn’t even mind the sweat amidst furling the mainsail or fumbling with a knot on the dock. Matheson looked up towards the horizon, and chided himself. No more of that. Some merchant ship ought to need hires… regardless of his reservations with what surveilling eyes might find him anyhow.
He shook his head slightly. No use being paranoid. Or living with paranoia, leaving a light trail and keeping a low profile. Not unless you’re two years out of a stable job with a notorious adventurer-turned-legend, and still in the dark regarding whatever the hell happened back at—
“Sir!”
Matheson abruptly turned—not even sure if he was the addressee—and saw a young man maybe a few years his junior approaching him. A gleam of something dangled in his hands.
“Ah, that’s mine,” he said dazedly. His dog tags, from those days with Perry. Perry hated it for the military association, and other reasons. Who’s identifying your corpse at the bottom of the sea? The damn fishes?
Matheson had no plans of parting with them, though his feet hadn’t touched the deck of the Luna in two years. They must’ve slipped out of his bag without him noticing.
The young man held out his hand, and Matheson took the chain with a thanks. And then a few things rose to his awareness.
What a startling stare his savior wore. Owl-eyed. Matheson sympathized enough to know not to linger too long on the fact; though, he didn’t think the young man would mind, by his demeanor. Even where they stood, the young man fiddled with the buttons of his shirt sleeve, and his freckled face seemed ready to break into a grin at any moment.
And Matheson was sure it would any second, considering the next thing he realized. Dog tags with Perry’s emblem on it. One can’t mistake that embellished ‘P’ for anything but the mark of that man.
The young man didn’t. “Oh!”
Before Matheson could think of anything to say, he also noticed the young man’s attire, and how familiar it seemed—
“That’s McWallander’s emblem,” he said, tilting his head as he studied the metal.
“Toby! The hell did I—”
Another man—scruffy, black-haired, roughly cut features—caught up with the two, scowling at the young man. The young man—Toby pointed to Matheson’s hand. Matheson closed it into a fist reflexively, but the man had already caught a glimpse. He gave Matheson a once-over, unmoved.
“Likely,” he muttered.
Finally, Matheson found it in him to react to the strangers. He narrowed his eyes in indignation and opened his mouth to retort, against his better judgement, but Toby spoke before he could.
“I’d say so.” Toby’s examination of him was far kinder. The edge of his mouth twitched.
“You’ve seen the headlines,” said the man. “And even if he did sail with McWallander—“ The man cut himself off suddenly, his scowl letting up for a moment. Like he realized something.
Now, Matheson wouldn’t say that he wasn’t apprehensive of this new company, and what line of questioning they might direct at him. He took in their attire.
Matheson wished the man had finished his sentence. He also wished he hadn’t stopped so close to an alleyway.
He didn’t think his reunion with the sea would involve falling unconscious and waking to a coin in his pocket—
Or worse, probably. What an unfortunate moment to be recognized as a former crew member of the Luna. There was nothing to complain about in places like the bar a block or so back; the opposite, really. A number of times, he’d been approached by strangers with keen eyes or proximity to rumors.
It was the one exception Matheson made when it came to lying low. Because he couldn’t resist, seeing faces light up when he confirmed rumors—true or not—and acquiesced to deign the strangers with a tale or two of his days with Perry.
People. Matheson, for all the musicality of his way of speaking, was never quite the type at ease around others. But he didn’t have to worry himself, or about himself. Stories spoke for themselves. So, people— they could be, on a good day, remarkably easy.
And the subject matter helped, certainly! Who hadn’t read of—or heard of, from a relative, young or a boy-hearted—the numerous alleged exploits of the pride and joy of the Nation, praised even by the king himself? Three hundred bloodthirsty vikings? Figures of wealth from treasures far overseas, figures that dropped the jaws of even the slimiest bankers?
Matheson was always more happy to share. A sliver of hope, entertainment, what have you. Something bigger than him. Plus, the rapt attention of strangers was simply wonderful for the ego.
He doubted he was in for a friendly time of storytelling with these sailors, though.
The black-haired man’s gaze darted to something behind Matheson, and he turned— oh, the last of his hopeful doubts were dispelled.
The newcomer wore dark red, and a patch with a yellow split moon. Tall. Dark hair.
“Who’s this?” he asked conversationally, a tendril of cigarette smoke leaving his mouth as he spoke.
Nobody at all, Matheson itched to blurt out. A humble traveler. But that Toby, with all the enthusiasm of a greedy puppy, spoke up before Matheson could.
“He sailed with Pericles McWallander, sir,” Toby said.
The man raised his eyebrows, his eyes darting to Matheson.
And Matheson took in the man’s red button-up, the armband around his bicep; and Matheson knew this stranger, he was sure. But it was not any hint of remembered irritation or apprehension he felt. No, a spot of sunlight out of the shade seemed to warm Matheson.
If not some past tormentor, who—?
“You,” Matheson said, in a boyish manner.
Toby looked at him oddly, but the man did not notice.
“Go ahead,” he told the two beside Matheson, crossing his arms. The black-haired man half-shrugged and started to walk off, but his younger counterpart opened his mouth in silent protest.
“What, you have sudden solitary business with him?” Toby muttered. He must’ve caught a warning look from the black-haired man, though, so he sighed and began to follow. Matheson received from him one last curious, friendly nod. And then the two were alone. A boy hiding under his hat. A young man with a handful of dominoes.
In Matheson’s mind, at least.
Presently, the sound of the street was all there was between the two. Late noon murmurs from passersby.
Still, could Matheson not take a moment or so to appreciate time, and the fine sculptor she was? Not that he was staring at the man, the lines and planes of his features—
“Pardon?” he ventured, when the man mumbled something inaudibly.
“…Matheson,” the stranger repeated.
Immediately, Matheson was forced to shove down a rush of nerve, desperately limiting the crack in his composure to a widening of his eyes. But that same juvenile delight that had come over him when he first realized who this was… it rose in Matheson’s chest. How could he forget? How could he forget the boy who looked not down on him, but eye-to-eye?
He couldn’t shove down a grin, though. “I never did catch your name.”
At this, the stranger grinned.
What an odd reunion, to say the least. The honey-eyed stranger’s hair was dark brown now, not blond. Matheson could get a better gauge of his age— what, late twenties?
In all likelihood, though it was much more strange for the man, seeing Matheson now.
He certainly wouldn’t pick himself out of a crowd as the grown version of that boy on Perry’s crew. His brown hair was nearly past his shoulders; long gone was the smooth jaw of his youth. Perhaps more striking was Matheson’s raised chin, even as recent days dragged on his spirits. Though, nothing could change that unfortunate animal-gleam in his eyes.
But just like that day all those years ago, the man looked at him no differently because of it.
The man’s train of thought seemed similar to Matheson’s. “How many years ago was that? Ten?”
Twelve. I was ten. “Something like that,” Matheson replied with a shrug. The man smiled, nodding slightly.
“Pericles McWallander…” he said to himself, as Matheson clasped the dog tags back around his neck and tucked them beneath his shirt. Formerly, Matheson corrected him in his head. “We’ve both run our courses, then.”
Matheson wasn’t a member of the Luna’s crew any longer. But he’d made no attempts to find any crew of sorts anywhere else, land or sea. He’d kept the engraved ‘P’ hanging around his neck, but nothing could’ve revealed his loyalties as clearly as his restless wandering. Matheson hadn’t even really thought about it. It was as natural as a shark’s instinct, to move and keep moving; a reflexive, compulsive habit. A way of staving off that dangerous pastime. Idleness.
Maybe wandering wasn’t the word for Perry. He had destinations.
Meanwhile, the man certainly seemed to have “run his course.” Red-shirted. Styled and collected as the caricature Matheson would conjure if he heard the word “loyalist.”
So why don’t I stiffen and turn away?
Matheson was conflicted. So was the man, judging by the furrow in his brow. The man’s confliction vanished—or was hidden—as soon as Matheson caught a glance of it.
“But not at sea any longer?” he asked.
Ah, how he missed the salt and spray…
“Unfortunately not,” Matheson said. “I’m a solitary creature, these days.”
A silent “why?” hung between the two, but the man didn’t give voice to it. Matheson knew the look of someone searching for words as the man’s gaze dropped from his.
“Tobias and his big mouth…” muttered the man.
Matheson cocked his head.
And the dreaded—“I’m afraid you’ll have to come with me.”
“Ah,” Matheson said in a small voice. To the man’s credit, he did look apologetic.
Now, it did strike Matheson— his two feet and the alleyway at his disposal. Not exactly a pleasant reunion. Because Matheson was forced to realize how little a chance he had at evading his old acquaintance if he took off running. A vagabond could win no fight against a naval officer. At least, Matheson assumed he held some position of authority, judging by his interaction with the two other sailors.
The navy. Those soldiers on the water, out at sea, a shared solitude of insufferable boredom in between heart-pounding leaps into action—
Perhaps those recruitment posters were worming themselves into Matheson's head.
Still…
Matheson’s palette of options was very limited, at the present and pressing moment.
So he said—
“Sir, yes sir.”
The man nodded, turning. Matheson, against much of his better judgement, followed. For all he knew, some shirty bastard of a captain awaited him.
Well, if the kind stranger from his youth retained even a fraction of his good spirit, Matheson had a silver lining to cling to.
“What a strange thing, fate,” said the man, flicking the dog-end of his cigarette aside as the dock came into view.
How did he ever remember Matheson? Matheson himself considered himself an occasional freak of memory—a great help in putting together Perry’s story—but if he were in the man’s shoes? He doubted he’d remember some runt like him outside a bar, even if he was with Perry. Maybe a mistake. Like a sudden recollection of a dream halfway through the day.
Still; what a wonderful mistake it turned out to be. No, the man was not yet the Captain Matheson would faithfully sail alongside of. Just a first lieutenant. But even at the present moment, Matheson couldn’t help but steal a glance or two as they walked towards the dock. A story yet to unfold.
Matheson would welcome it with open arms.