Work Text:
There’s something wrong with the second mate. You know it the minute you see him.
His eyes glint from behind his wild mop of hair, and he’s easy in his body in a way that you find grotesque. He dangles from the rigging like he has no care for his own life — and maybe he doesn’t, with the wild, improbable stories he tells.
You can feel him watching you and your little brother. His gaze makes your neck heat like you’ve been out in the sun too long without a hat. Back on the farm, you’d shoot wild dogs with that sort of mad, hungry look. There was no taming them; if you brought them into the house, they’d be dangerous to children and livestock both.
Worse still, he laughs at you for praying, his eyes crinkling demonically and his teeth flashing white through his bristled beard. He needs the guidance of the Lord more than anyone on this filthy vessel, you’re sure of it, but you can’t bring yourself to mention him in your nightly prayers. It’s the one time of day you manage to feel any sort of serenity, and that’ll be spoiled the minute you murmur his name alongside those of your family.
The mate has become fast friends with your little brother, too, and that makes you angrier than anything. How dare he try to infect the best thing in your life, the whole damn reason you’re on this ship, with his sin-filthy ways. Sweet Lord, if only the two of you had never left the farm!
You pull your brother aside one day after he’s been especially lax in his prayers. He’s rushing through the words; you reckon that he’s eager to finish so he can trail the second mate around the ship like a soppy-eyed puppy.
“Be careful of him.”
A look of baffled incomprehension comes over your little brother’s face.
“What are you talking about, brother?”
You don’t know, exactly, what you’re even warning him about. “The second mate. There’s somethin’ bad about him, wicked. God wants us to be pure of heart — but the mate wants to make clean things as dirty as him, I know it.”
When you try to picture the evil things he might have done, might do, your mind shies away from the details. Something best hidden in dark corners, shared between men with desperation in their eyes. You shudder.
Your words have little impact on your brother. He only shrugs, casting a curious look back at you as he turns to go.
When did he turn into a man of his own, who doesn’t always take your word as gospel? You’d be proud of him, if you weren’t so worried about the company he’s keeping. He’s your only friend on this ship, and you’re losing him.
At night, you roll back and forth in your hammock, until your blanket tangles under you in an uncomfortable knot. You curse the mate for how he’s taken up residence in your thoughts. What must it be like to care so little about the opinions of others? To go through life with no fear of God in your heart? You’ll never know — will never let yourself know.
By day, you throw yourself into your work on the ship, though it doesn’t come natural. You scrub the deck so hard your hands bleed. You practice your knots until you can manage them without making a tangle of the rope.
The other men on the ship leave you a wide berth. Distrust lies heavy in the looks they give you. It hurts, even if you pretend not to care.
Hell, you’re tired of stewing. If your brother won’t heed your words, perhaps you’ll have a word with the mate himself. You find him manning the helm; the captain is nowhere in sight. The mate gives you a long look up and down as you approach. You grit your teeth and try to keep your voice even.
He laughs when you warn him away from your brother, and feigns ignorance. As if he hasn’t had filthy things on his mind while paying particular attention to your brother, smiling and cozying up to him like he’s one of the harborside doxies he’s always bragging about.
“God watches you,” you tell him, jabbing a finger at his chest.
“I don’t know about God,” he replies lazily. The careless blasphemy makes your lip curl. He smirks. “I think you’re watchin’, though.”
You yank your hand back with a hiss. His eyes flash like hot coals, and you stumble away.
Of course you’ve watched him. Watched the easy friendliness he has with the crew; watched him slide his arm around your brother’s shoulder. You’d be a fool to let him out of your sight.
You feel his eyes on you as you retreat. The sour, still air belowdecks does nothing to calm the roiling in your stomach, and you swallow down the bile you can feel rising.
Your prayers are twice as fervent that night.