Chapter Text
Broken Mast Bay, where the balladeers play and the spirits never sleep. Where the whispers call and the legends crawl through the veil of the ocean deep…
Troy steps off the ship, coat billowing behind him. He breathes in the familiar air, salt and ale filling his lungs. He makes his way through the crews crowding the docks as the waterlogged wood gives way to rough cobblestone. The town is lively, everyone flocking to the pubs as the work day ends. Troy slips his hands into his pockets as he passes bars and shops on the way to the edge of the town.
Broken Mast Bay is a popular port, known for its tall tales and taller sailors. The town square is always bustling, vendors and shopkeepers shouting their wares while ship crews haul crates from the dock. Bards sing and tell their stories to anyone who’ll listen, young adventurers and small children always captivated by the legends of selkies and sirens. When the sun sleeps, old sailors take their places, drunkenly exaggerating their voyages in the taverns for the eager ears of captains’ successors.
Troy opens his door, the small house still and quiet. He hangs his coat up and ties back the curtains, the dying sun breathing life into the room. He makes his way to the kitchen as familiar scampering gets closer. He’s barely put his satchel down when a little red creature climbs up to his shoulder.
“Hey, Mickey.” Troy chuckles, plucking a blackberry from a bowl on the counter. “Miss me?”
Mickey, Troy’s little red mimic, chitters in response. Her tiny paws hold the blackberry as she nibbles on it, her tail wrapped securely around Troy’s bicep.
“How’s dinner sound?” Troy puts his apron on and starts cooking some rice. He looks at Mickey, whose mouth is now stained purple. She’s focused on her blackberry. “You’re not listening.”
Troy takes a pan from the rack, placing it on the stove. He pours a bit of oil into it, spoons in some crushed garlic. Mickey hops over to the kitchen table, poking her head into the sailor’s satchel. She disappears inside. Troy lifts her out a few minutes later, holding her up to his face.
“What do you think you’re doing?” He raises an eyebrow. “Come on, girly. You can help me cook.”
Mickey sticks her little tongue out, but doesn’t protest when Troy puts her in the pocket of his apron. Mostly because he feeds her little bites of salmon as he prepares dinner.
Troy hums as he cooks, a familiar shanty sung in the early afternoons on the ship. He slips Mickey one last piece of salmon before he puts the rest of it in a bowl, mixing it in with rice and a bit of olive oil. He doesn’t sit down to eat, instead preferring to lean against the counter. Mickey runs off to do gods know what, her little footsteps fading as she rounds a corner.
Troy finds her in his bed when he finishes eating, curled up and asleep on his pillow. He carefully moves her to the other side before bathing and changing, only to find her right back on his pillow. He stares at her for a long moment, before picking her up and dropping her on the other pillow. He quickly climbs into bed and lies down, smirking at Mickey’s little pout.
“You have an entire half of this bed.”
Mickey chitters and curls up with her back to Troy. A beat, and she finally wraps her long body around him. Her head stays turned away, which only gets her a short chuckle from the sailor. He pulls the blankets up over his shoulders and rolls to his stomach, sleep claiming his mind.
The poor sailor wakes up to the sight of a little mimic standing on his chest, face inches from his. He blinks, groggily noticing its pink hue.
“...You’re not mine.”
He grabs the mimic and gets out of bed, pulling on some trousers before making his way to the kitchen.
“Mickey, where’d you-” Troy stops dead in his tracks in the living room, seeing Mickey’s body stretched long and wrapped around an apparent intruder. He’s got long, curly, red hair, his skin a bit darker than a tan. Mickey looks up at Troy with innocent eyes, a stark contrast to the way she has the intruder apprehended. The sailor blinks. “...’Kay.”
The man grins, eyes roving over Troy’s bare torso. “Hey, gorgeous. Come here often?” His voice is silky smooth, his tone that of a flirt’s.
Troy just stares at him, his half-asleep mind trying to process what’s happening. “I…live here.” He holds up the pink mimic. “This yours?”
The man’s grin doesn’t falter. “C’mere, Mimi.” The mimic escapes Troy’s hold and runs to the intruder, whose smile softens as the mimic–Mimi, apparently–perches on his shoulder. He looks back up at Troy. “Name’s Conan. And you are…?”
Troy stares for a long moment before sitting on the sofa and patting his lap. “Why…” He pinches the bridge of his nose. Mickey frees the redhead and curls around the sailor’s arm, her head coming to rest against his shoulder. “Why are you in my house?”
Conan stands with a soft grunt and stretches his arms above his head. “It was raining and your door was unlocked.”
“My door wasn’t unlocked.”
Conan pauses, his face a clear and comical expression of “caught in a lie”. He chuckles sheepishly. “It unlocked by itself…?”
“Get out.”
“On it.”
The door closes and Troy relaxes back against the sofa. He looks at Mickey.
“That is the calmest interaction I’ve ever had with an intruder.”
Mickey just tilts her little head, tiny tongue stuck out and eyes wide and blank. Troy stares back.
“...There’s not a thought behind those eyes.” He stands and rubs his hands over his face, finally making his way to the kitchen. Mickey curls herself around Troy’s shoulders and tucks her head into his neck, promptly falling asleep to the sound of her own purrs.
Troy eats a breakfast of bread and butter, occasionally poking Mickey to no avail. He just smiles and goes back to his room, throwing on a shirt and some boots. He grabs his satchel and coat before leaving, Mickey still asleep around his shoulders.
His boots click on the cobblestone as he walks to the little textile boutique tucked between a pawn shop and a consignment store. He bends to pet the boutique’s calico as she weaves herself around his legs.
“Troy, honey, you’re back! How was it? Everything went smoothly, I hope.”
Troy smiles and Mickey chitters sleepily as Calla, the elderly woman who owns the boutique, appears from behind a rack of fabric. The calico hops up onto some scraps. “We hit some choppy water on the way back, but we managed.”
Calla takes Troy’s face in her hands, looking him over. She nods after a moment and lets him go. “So, what are you looking for today? I’ve just finished dying some leather.”
Troy approaches one of the racks, examining a sample piece of leather. “Actually, I’m looking for something warmer. I’ve been meaning to make a winter cloak.”
Calla nods and holds up a finger as she disappears behind a curtain. She returns a couple minutes later with a bolt of direwolf fur. She cuts off a piece bigger than what Troy will likely need and folds it into a neat square. He pays and thanks her, putting the fabric in his satchel and leaving the shop. As he steps out into the now-lively square, he sees a shock of red hair. He huffs and frowns, eyes narrowing as he watches Conan negotiate a lower price on already-cheap costume jewelry. Mickey decides to run in the redhead’s direction, causing Troy to groan and chase after her. Conan’s pink mimic hops down and tumbles with Mickey, the two chittering and chasing each other around the jewelry booth.
“Gold really goes with my complexion, don’t you think?”
Troy looks up at Conan, huffing at his shit-eating grin. The rogue is holding a heavy gold necklace up to his neck. He raises an eyebrow as he looks at Troy. Troy glowers at him.
“You broke into my house and now you’re asking for fashion advice.”
“Advice is a strong word.”
“Listen-”
“This silver chain would look good on you. Look, there’s even a pretty wave pendant on it.” Conan holds up a silver necklace, a blue crystal wave pendant making it swing a bit. Troy doesn’t answer, instead watching Conan shrug and buy the necklaces. Mimi and Mickey separate, Mimi following Conan and Mickey climbing Troy to perch on his shoulder. The sailor grumbles and turns on his heel, mood soured and jaw set.