Chapter Text
Dawn in the harbor wasn’t golden.
It was gray.
Jonathan knew it the moment they dragged him onto the deck.
The hands holding him were firm, practiced, not cruel.
Not yet.
The ship groaned beneath his boots like a living thing, and the mast rose in front of him like a sentence already decided.
The crew formed a half circle.
No one spoke.
And then the captain stepped forward.
Steve Harrington didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to.
His presence settled over the deck without effort: dark coat, salt-stained boots, eyes too clear to be kind. He didn’t look angry.
He looked interested.
Like Jonathan was a puzzle he’d already chosen to take apart.
“Spy,” one of the sailors muttered.
Steve didn’t answer. He walked until he stood inches away. Too close. Jonathan lifted his chin, refusing to look down.
He wouldn’t give him that.
The captain’s gaze dropped to his mouth. Jonathan felt the shift before he understood it.
Someone handed Steve the gag: a smooth wooden cylinder, worn from use.
Steve rolled it between his fingers, testing the weight. Then he looked up again.
The world narrowed to that moment.
“Look at me,” Steve said quietly.
Jonathan did.
Not out of obedience.
Out of defiance.
Steve held his stare while bringing the gag closer. His fingers brushed the corner of Jonathan’s lips.
The touch was brief… but not impersonal. Too deliberate. Too slow.
Jonathan clenched his jaw.
Steve waited.
He didn’t force it. Didn’t shove. He simply held his gaze until the resistance stretched thin and humming between them.
Jonathan opened his mouth.
The wood slid in. Leather tightened behind his head. Secure. Inescapable.
Humiliating.
The crew exhaled as one, like a ritual had just concluded.
But Steve didn’t step back.
His hands lingered a second longer at the knot. His eyes never left Jonathan’s. And in that silence, there was something that wasn’t victory.
It was recognition.
Then they turned him toward the mast.
Rope bit into his wrists. The wood pressed cold against his back. The ship smelled of salt, tar, and old sweat.
Jonathan breathed through his nose.
He would not shake.
Not in front of them.
The first meow cut through the air.
His head jerked.
Parches.
The tiny tuxedo cat appeared between the sailors’ boots like a streak of black and white determination. His little whiskers twitched as he sniffed, eyes locked on Jonathan.
“No—” someone whispered.
Too late.
The cat climbed.
Claws scraped wood. Quick, agile. In seconds Parches reached his shoulder and pressed against his neck like the rest of the world didn’t exist.
Tiny whiskers tickled his skin.
Jonathan exhaled.
For the first time since the capture, his breathing steadied.
A ripple of laughter moved through the crew.
“The spy’s got a guardian,” someone said.
Steve lifted a hand.
Silence.
His gaze settled on the cat.
Then on Jonathan.
He watched the way Jonathan tilted his head to protect the animal. Watched the way the cat didn’t tremble.
“Leave him,” Steve said at last.
He didn’t clarify which one.
No one asked.
The day dragged.
The sun climbed.
Heat clung heavy to his skin. Sweat ran down his spine, trapped between flesh and mast.
The gag turned every breath into conscious work. Not pain.
But effort.
Reminder.
Parches stayed.
Sleeping, waking, shifting. His tiny whiskers brushed Jonathan’s jaw with every small breath. That contact was a thread keeping him present. Human. Here.
Every time Jonathan opened his eyes, he found the captain watching.
Steve didn’t pretend indifference.
He leaned against the railing, arms crossed, gaze fixed. Not cruel. Not pleased.
Attentive.
Jonathan held the stare each time.
He didn’t blink first.
By dusk his lips were cracked. His throat burned. The gag felt heavier now, like the wood absorbed his breath.
Parches lifted his head.
Meowed.
Steve moved.
He didn’t call for anyone.
Didn’t give orders.
He crossed the deck quietly and stopped in front of him. The world narrowed again.
His fingers went to the knot.
Jonathan tensed.
Leather loosened.
The gag slid free slowly. Air rushed in. Jonathan gasped, the sound broken and raw.
Parches pressed his nose to his cheek, whiskers trembling.
Steve lifted a canteen.
He didn’t hand it over.
He tilted it.
Jonathan drank. Water spilled down his chin. Steve didn’t pull away when his lips brushed his fingers.
Neither spoke.
When he finished, Steve wiped the water with his thumb. Automatic. Intimate.
His eyes rose to Jonathan’s.
“Don’t scream,” he murmured.
Jonathan didn’t.
The gag returned.
But gentler.
Night fell.
The crew scattered into shadows and laughter. Bottles. Songs torn by wind. The deck emptied into moonlight.
Jonathan was drifting when footsteps returned.
Steve.
Alone.
He stopped in front of him. Looked at the sleeping cat. The ropes. His face.
And without a word, loosened the gag again.
Jonathan inhaled.
The silence between them wasn’t empty.
It was full.
Steve rested his forehead against the mast inches from his own. Their breaths mixed. Salt, leather, smoke wrapped around him.
There was no hatred in his eyes.
No forgiveness either.
There was something dangerously close to care.
Parches shifted between them, tiny whiskers brushing both their skin like a bridge.
Jonathan didn’t speak.
Steve didn’t either.
But neither stepped back.
And for the first time since the capture, the mast didn’t feel like a prison.
It felt like a fixed point in a sea that was already beginning to change.