Chapter Text
Chip can't quite reach the burn on his back, and it's killing him. Not literally killing him, or he'd have at least bugged Rudith into patching up the parts he couldn’t reach, but it's deathly annoying.
With the side of his head pressed up against the grainy rosewood, he tries to leverage his elbow against the wall. He gets the cloth he'd dabbed with disinfectant further down than before, but the stinging pain and the fact that he can't see his back makes it all the more difficult to get it right.
He sighs, tossing the cloth to the side and abandoning the idea of cleaning the wound. He’d probably done enough, right? Ah, well—whatever doesn't kill him makes him not-dead.
Chip reaches out across the floor, wincing as the movement strikes spikes of pain through his body, and right as he snags one of Rudith's cotton pads—
"No, Pretzel, I believe you shall beat Caspian entirely on your own merit and ability! It is your destiny– oh, Chip!"
He yelps, nearly knocking over the bottle of disinfectant he'd gotten from the makeshift infirmary stuffed in Lizzie's ship, only managing to catch it at the last second.
"Geez – Gill, do you ever, y'know, knock?"
For some reason, Chip feels kind of like a toddler with his hand caught in the candy jar, even though he's obviously not a toddler, and he's actually being responsible right now. He clears his throat and straightens up, curling his hand over the cotton in his hand. Which doesn't do anything at all, since Gillion can obviously see the scattered supplies, including the disinfectant he was accidentally about to waste.
"What are you doing, Chip?" Gillion asks, even though Chip knows he must know exactly what he's trying to do.
"What's it look like?" Chip shrugs, stupidly, because again—annoying burns from Gillion's sacred snake. "Got eaten. Teeth bite, stomach acid burns. The usual stuff."
"Well, he un-ate you after I asked politely, with the appropriate level of respect," Gillion reasons. Which, sure, is true. That doesn't mean getting chewed on felt like a nice massage. Gillion strides further into the room, then behind Chip, presumably looking him over.
Suddenly, Chip feels the pressing urge to put his shirt back on right now and crawl back up into the crow's nest for another awful night of restless sleep, even if the open burns stick to the fabric again.
"Uh, you–" Chip coughs, sharply doing a half turn to shield his back against the wall. Unfortunately, this not-so-suave move puts his face way too close to Gillion's, but he'll take what he can get. "You're already done with the sick people? Thought it'd take longer."
Right after Gillion had pulled a prank on Chip—which was potentially one of the greatest moments of his life—he'd turned back around and kept on using his trademarked hero healing to help the still injured. Meanwhile, Chip had slipped back to their own ship, turning over Rudith's spare bandages and Gillion's promise to tell him more about the Undersea.
"Oh! You're here to uh– tell me about your titans? You know, the–" Chip snaps his fingers, trying to remember what Gillion had mentioned. "Dugon!"
"Yes, that was what I had come to seek you out for–"
"Alright then, talk to me–"
"But, you are obviously preoccupied with another task," Gillion finishes, a frown beginning to twitch down his lips.
Chip waves a hand dismissively, shaking his head. "No, no, it's just–"
The saltwater didn't help. He should've waited until Gillion swam back up from wherever he'd gone after the fight so that he could've been doused with freshwater. Despite his mild misgivings about the marriage between open wounds and sea brine, Jay and Lizzie were so adamant about getting all the gunk off him that he'd gone ahead and dunked himself into the ocean.
And, to be fair, that usually worked! He'd just happened to forget that some of that stomach acid had gurgled up around him as the titan threw him back up, so it wasn't only the open punctures he had to worry about. By the time he dove in, the burns had begun to pus up, sticking to his shirt, seething in the saltwater.
If Earl's complaints about their lack of fresh fruits hadn't already made obvious their desperate need for a shopping spree, the total absence of any sort of basic medical supplies aboard the ship would've done it. Luckily, he knew Rudith had set up his station in the crevices of Lizzie's ship, so he wandered over to see if he had anything that could help. In the process, he'd gotten distracted with retrieving Gillion to help that lady with the nasty cough, and he'd forgotten all about his original plans.
"Ah, it's nothing. I cleaned it up twice, which is two more times than I'd usually do. So don't worry 'bout it," he says.
For whatever reason, Gillion doesn't look impressed. But it's not the usual disapproving expression he gets around Chip, it's softer. More concerned than anything else, which is– not necessary.
"You should've told me," he admonishes, gaze flitting to the shadow that obscures the worst of it. Chip leans even further towards Gillion to shuffle the wound out of view. "I would have healed you back in the infirmary. As it is now, I'm all out of juice, I'm afraid."
"Well, you shoulda gone to see Earl about juice problems, not me," Chip laughs, raising an eyebrow at Gillion.
Gillion doesn't take the bait. His brow forms new little wrinkles that Chip doesn't want to be the source of, but what is he supposed to do? Get unbitten? Yeah, he'd like that too.
"Why didn't you say anything?" Gillion asks, and Chip could almost see his own chest caving into the care threading through his voice, flipping itself inside out, and then he tacks on: "You should have told me, I would've certainly lent you my services, as–"
"The Hero of the Undersea, Champion of the Deep– yeah, yeah, I got it." He doesn't think he could spit it out as bitterly as he might once have, so he doesn't even try. He's just… tired. There hasn't been much downtime to rest following the fight, after all.
Then, with no warning, a hand settles searingly gentle on his bare shoulder, wrenching Chip's gaze from a very interesting pattern of wood grain on the floor to Gillion's wide eyes. They brim with his particular brand of determination that never entirely leaves, only flaring up fiercer at the worst times. Like now, for example.
"I could help you now." He blinks once, the liquid flash of his eyes burning blue in the lantern light. Then, he adds (or amends, Chip isn't sure which): "I want to."
If Chip thinks about it simply: Gill doesn't lie, which means he wants to help out just because he's him. Straightforward, uncomplicated. Not the sort of thing that would warrant interrogating the word want .
"It'll be fine in the morning," he dismisses.
"It's not the morning yet," Gillion says, even though they're corralled away from the open sky so it could be morning—that hand could've been perched on his shoulder for hours, really. "You're hurt right now."
And, well. It's simple. Uncomplicated, like Chip said, so there's really no other way to reply to that other than an equally uncomplicated: "Okay."
"Okay," Gillion parrots back, a broad smile taking over his face. Chip doesn't know where the sheer sunniness of it comes from, considering Gillion's from a world the sun can't touch. He looks away. "Would you turn around? I can't see it from here, even though I can see through all manners of darkness. Including shadows! There are a lot more shadows up there than I thought."
"Gimme a sec, showoff," Chip grumbles, gritting his teeth as he twists back away from the wall. Gill's hand falls from his arm, returning to rest on his crossed legs. "Damn, that titan of yours has teeth."
"Ah, yes. Majestic deities of the Undersea and their extremely sharp teeth designed solely to end lives. Well, you also have teeth, Chip," Gillion remarks, "Unless…"
"No, no, 'course I've got teeth."
"Oh, yes, that's right. You do have teeth, I remember," Gillion comments absently, in his usual fashion of strangeness.
"What do you mean you remem–" Chip cuts himself off with a hiss as Gillion prods experimentally around the borders of the burn, his fingers ice cold against his inflamed flesh. "Um, ow."
"That was my bad, are you alright?" Gillion asks. Chip can feel his hands hovering over his skin now, even when he's not actually touching him. The vague maybe of it is nearly worse.
Chip hums. "Really wish I did end up learning your–" He wiggles his fingers about, mimicking Gillion's divine powers. "–magic healing thing."
Even thinking back to Gillion's first prank makes something rise in his chest and sweep him face-first over with a wave of unrestrainable affection. Beyond the shock, the amusement, and the simple joy of it, there was something else, flipping and fleeting but there . Chip doesn't know how to describe it; he doesn't even know if Gillion himself could explain.
But when he pulled Gillion into that thrilled embrace, he almost didn't want to let go, just to see how long Gillion would let himself stay soft and simple. He wants to ask Gillion about the titans of the Undersea and all the things that make it his home and not just a place. He wants to hear Gillion rattle on about the customs and traditions he swings his sword around for but hasn't yet explained.
Right now, he wants to knock the crown of his head back into Gillion's forehead and see what he does about it. Does he scold him again, hero-like and holier-than-thou? Does he laugh, bright and mighty, or loose and low, or not at all, just smiling warmly enough that Chip can feel it radiate across the nape of his neck? Does he push Chip's head back, or does he stay right there?
"It is helpful indeed," Gillion agrees. He places both his palms flat against the junction of his shoulders, close to but not on the wounds. Unconsciously, Chip leans into the coolness of Gillion's hands. "But, as I said, there are other ways to heal and to help others."
"And I trust that it is your destiny to do so," Gillion murmurs, somehow both featherlight and heavy against Chip's skin—composed of contradictions that always manage to drag Chip in before he even gets a chance to blink.
Raising his sword to protect their crew, then putting it against Chip's throat. Brash and fierce one moment, the barest bit softer in a flash, then back to destiny and duty. Always in pursuit of the truth, and yet…
"My destiny, huh?" he asks, throat dry.
"Yes," Gillion confirms—there's that firmness, seeping back in.
"Haven't done much helping recently," he mutters, rattling through a humorless chuckle. "Probably not–"
Not ever, not once in my life, he thinks. "Not often," he says instead.
"This may hurt," Gillion replies nonsensically. While Chip's in the middle of trying to figure out what he's trying to say, water suddenly begins to run down Chip's back.
It flows carefully over the burns, steady and slow, not a bit like the furious torrents Chip's seen him whip up. It still stings like all hell anyway, and Chip barely manages to stifle a surprised yelp of pain as he instinctively begins to burrow into himself, away from Gillion. Ultimately, he wrenches himself into complete, practiced stillness, and the gradual stream of water eases as soon as it begins.
Chip sinks into a measured rhythm of breath, jaw wound tight.
"You have. Not only today, with the infirmary and the sick. You helped me out of the water, when we first met. Do you remember that?"
How the hell could he forget? The moon singing off that coral crown. How hard he had to grab onto that once-stranger's slippery skin.
"And you've helped Ollie a great deal, especially after he stretched out so quickly."
"What, after making all that shit happen to him in the first place?" Chip shakes his head, glad he can't see Gillion's expression, even gladder that Gillion can't see his. "I did that to him. That's all I ever do, Gill."
The truth of it all hangs thick between them. Even as Chip stays statue-still, Gillion only stutters for a second before bundling a clean cloth in his hand and gingerly soaking up the water that continues to trickle down Chip's back. The careful swipe of rough fiber on his skin makes him even tenser, fighting down the urge to shudder at the sensation.
"He would not have joined us for chess without you," Gillion replies, unwavering. Believing. "He wouldn't have started to get accustomed to his circumstances on the ship, and he would've missed home all the more. He cares for you."
There's a silence, broken only by the crash of waves against their ship and Gillion's rhythmic ministrations.
"I know," Chip finally says.
Ollie shouldn't, but Chip knows he does. Isn't that the way it always goes?
"I mean– he's just a kid."
What kid, stuck in a world with nothing for him, a place that'll beat him down for coin he doesn't have, wouldn't want a stronger shoulder to lean on or a back to huddle behind? What kid wouldn't hold onto any hand that gets offered to him?
There's a thump against the planks. Gillion's knee brushes his, and then he's right in front of Chip. Even with his eyes locked firmly onto the floor, he can feel Gillion's stare boring into him.
"What does that change?" Gillion asks, far too genuinely for Chip to bear. "Chip, why would he care so strongly for you if you were not good to him?"
He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Instead of tackling either question, he asks one of his own: "Why'd you never ask me about the necklace, huh?"
Chip looks up to meet Gillion's eyes, which flicker with confusion. "The necklace, what… Aslana's necklace?" His hand drifts to the pendant that now hangs from his neck, closing about the seaglass.
"What other necklace is there, Gill?" Chip scoffs, anger taking him by the throat and choking each of his words thin and tense. "You didn't have it. I gave it back to you. You didn't question a thing."
"No, I didn't," he repeats.
"So?" Chip prods, trying to get Gillion to see, because he's too much of a coward to say it outright. He wants Gillion to wonder. He wants Gillion to rip the truth out of him.
"So what?" he replies obliquely, too blithely.
"Aren't you going to say anything about it?" Chip stares at Gillion, just trying to understand. No matter where he gets, it always feels like there's something more that he isn't getting. A new depth to the seas. Another current pushing him away.
"Is that what you want? Do you want me to ask you?" Gillion counters, a tightness to his face, but a knowing glint in his eyes. His hand tenses about the fabric, droplets of soiled water dripping to the floor.
"I…" Chip swallows, trying to will himself into action. Gillion deserves the truth from him. Gillion deserves to know that Chip had clapped him on the back planning to stab him right through it. "I'd tell you the truth."
"That's not an answer, Chip."
"Fine. Fine, I–" Chip breathes in, breathes out. "I want you to."
It's a simple request. Gillion doesn't lie, cheat, or steal, but—he doesn't pull pranks either, does he? Does Gillion sit back like this, eyes on Chip's, soft smile tugging at his lips? Gillion nods sharply, and whatever passing expression Chip glimpsed gets broken, but still…
"Well! Then I certainly must ask you," he proclaims, chest puffed out in his criss-crossed position, "But in due time! Later!"
"Later?" Chip repeats incredulously.
"Much later. Since you've requested this of me, it is my duty and my responsibility to indeed pose this question to you… sometime else, farther down the line," Gillion replies, vague and flippant.
And his tone is so stupidly uncharacteristic and unexpected that Chip startles into a laugh, of all things, and then it just keeps happening and happening until he's heaved half over, wheezing out breathless chortles that definitely don't help the burn feel any better, but make him feel a million times lighter than he was a moment before.
"Chip, are you well? Have you been driven into a brief madness by your injuries?"
Chip shakes his head without a word, not trusting himself to get through a single unbroken sentence in this state.
"No, no, I'm just–" There's that senseless affection bubbling up again, dragging his lips into a helpless smile. "Just surprised."
Gillion tilts his head at him, back to being confused but blithely accepting, and smiles back.
"Ah, yes. Well, I, Gillion Tidestrider, am always surprised," he boasts, as if he's planning to add it to his list of titles one day.
"Oh, no, no, no ," Chip strings out, ignoring the screech of his back to scooch in even closer, pointing a finger right in Gill's face.
"I'm figuring you out, Tidestrider, " he promises, hushed at the proximity, fierce enough to rival Gillion's own intensity. "Just you wait."
Gillion doesn't budge away. He never backs down, and this is no exception—his shoulder presses into Chip's, his hair curls down, whispering against his arm, and his eyes flash the tiniest bit wider. Chip wonders if his lips had been parted ever so slightly since the last bellowing thing he'd said, or if this is a new phenomenon, something Chip had dragged out of him. The jag of tooth peeking out from under that lip certainly isn't new, he remembers that from–
"So," Chip says, reeling all the way back to where he started, a flush suddenly crawling down his cheeks and over his ears.
"Allow me to continue tending to your wounds," Gillion says, turning away from Chip and picking up the abandoned bandages from the floor.
"Oh! Yeah, you can– yeah," Chip very eloquently remarks, suddenly remembering the reason why Gillion had stayed down here to begin with.
Once again, they maneuver around until Gillion sits behind Chip. As he begins to shake the roll loose and start safely at Chip's shoulder, Chip asks: "So… you said you'd tell me about the titans, right? And the Undersea?"
Gillion can be gentle when he wants to be. Not always when Chip thinks he needs to be, but when he wants to be, he's softer than anything else.
"Indeed, Chip, I did promise that!" Gillion's voice chimes out so cheerfully that there's really no other option for Chip than to let the presence of Gillion Tidestrider crash over him and buoy him to shore. "Hm, what to tell you first… there is so much to know of the Undersea, it's difficult to know where exactly to begin."
"You can start anywhere," Chip says. As long as it starts, right?
"Then I will begin with the best parts!"
The sea sways about them as Gillion plays both storyteller and physician. Chip leans back, relaxes, and listens to Gillion excitedly ramble on about his homeland. And, both troublingly and tantalizingly enough, Chip catches himself feeling right at home too.