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Language:
English
Series:
Part 75 of FEBRU-EERIE
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Published:
2026-02-12
Words:
353
Chapters:
1/1
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7
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1
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97

Pale as Wax

Summary:

First Mate Smee wraps Captain Hook in a blanket, helping him soak his feet in hot water when he catches a cold after being chased through the water by the crocodile at Skull Rock.

Work Text:

The wind howls through the rigging of the Jolly Roger, rattling the portholes like the ghost of a long-dead crew. February in Neverland is cruel—wet and biting, the kind of cold that seeps into bones and lingers. Hook sits hunched on his bunk, shoulders trembling beneath his greatcoat, fingers curled tight around a tin cup of lukewarm rum. His breath comes ragged, nostrils flared against the congestion clogging his sinuses. The crocodile had chased him halfway across the bay before he’d clawed his way up Skull Rock, boots waterlogged, stockings torn.

 

Smee doesn’t ask permission. He never does, not for this. The wool blanket is scratchy but warm, smelling faintly of gunpowder and bergamot, and he drapes it over Hook’s shuddering frame with practiced hands.

 

"There now," he murmurs, nudging the copper basin of steaming water closer with his boot.

 

Hook’s feet are pale as wax, toes curled against the chill, but he obeys when Smee grips his ankle gently, guiding him into the heat. A sigh slips past Hook’s lips, involuntary. His eyelashes flutter.

 

"Thank you, William," he rasps—so quiet it’s nearly lost beneath the groan of the ship.

 

Smee’s grin is crooked, softened at the edges. "Think nothing of it, James." But he shivers as he says it, arms crossed tight over his chest.  

 

Hook notices. Of course he does. His gaze sharpens, dark and assessing, before he shifts the blanket with a flick of his wrist.

 

"Come here," he commands—except it isn’t a command at all, not with the way his voice dips, fraying at the seams.  

 

Smee hesitates only a heartbeat before folding into the space Hook makes for him. The blanket engulfs them both, heavy and smelling of salt, and Hook’s arm snakes around his waist, hauling him backward until Smee’s back presses flush to Hook’s chest. Smee fits neatly in the cradle of Hook’s thighs, his smaller frame slotting into place. The silence stretches, broken only by the distant creak of timbers and the slow drip of condensation from the ceiling. Hook’s breath evens out against the nape of Smee’s neck, warm and steadying.

 

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