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When you live on the run, no two meals are the same. Zirk grows up knowing dinner as the only certain meal of the day-- sometimes they have to skip town too early for breakfast, sometimes they don’t have time to stop for lunch.
Dinner is never the same, either. Hunks of bread and cheese, eaten from the seat of their carriage. Hard tack rations that make his teeth hurt, washed down with milk his mother was “given” by a local farmer. A thin stew from a local inn, paid for with a few of her potions, bland but warm. (The last is his favorite, especially when the innkeeper or server takes one look at him and sneaks him a few extra potatoes or a hunk of bread to go with the stew.)
When he’s old enough to learn, Stella teaches him to help find their dinner. Sleight of hand, card games and magic tricks, how to make himself look scruffy and downtrodden enough that townsfolk would take pity on him.
It’s a rush, whenever he brings home a handful of copper or a bundle of lettuce or a sandwich tossed to him by a local laborer. Stella ruffles his hair, a proud smile on his face, and tells him they’re eating well tonight.
“And remember, it’s not stealing,” she always says. “They’ve got enough to share, you just gotta play their games to make ‘em.”
--
For a while, it’s all Zirk needs. There’s a thrill to it, this idea that he and Stella have it figured out in a way that no one else does. They’re getting one over on the world. Sure, when he sees a pair of kids playing at the edge of town he gets a weird pang of something similar to hunger, but those kids don’t know what they’re missing.
His mom’s figured out how to beat fate at its own game, and she’s teaching him how to shuffle the cards.
--
The first time he realizes he might want something more is unextraordinary.
He’s walking back to their wagon, carrying a bundle of bread that the local baker was about to get rid of, the collar of his coat turned up against the cool night air. The town they’ve stopped in is small enough that the residential and shopping districts are one in the same, and he happens to pass by a house with the window open.
Comfortable chatter catches his attention first, the sounds of mundane conversation drifting up the street. How was your day and guess what I did in school and bubbling laughter. By the time he reaches the house, he’s curious enough to stop, peering through the curtains.
A father and son sit at the table, the son gesturing with his fork as he explains something to his intently listening father. Their table is small, both their plates are chipped, their meal simple… and yet a familiar strange hunger twists in Zirk’s chest at the thought that this is their every day. That they’ll have breakfast at this table tomorrow, and lunch, and dinner again.
He can’t bear to watch it anymore. He clutches the bread to his chest, cracking the stale crust, and hurries back towards the wagon.
Stella must see it in his eyes. That night, as they break open the bread alongside some jerky they had left over, she reaches over to squeeze his hand.
“We’re so close, Zirkie. One of these days we’re gonna make it big and then every day will be a feast,” she tells him. “Whatever you want, we’ll ask for it and it’ll be ours. You know I’m close with this new elixir, this next time is it, I can feel it.”
And he believes her.
--
Until he doesn’t.
--
Being on the run alone, it turns out, isn’t too different from working for his mother. The only difference is-- instead of going back to the wagon, he eats his meager meals when he finds them, tearing chunks off bread as he walks towards the next town or spending his last copper on the simplest meal from the local inn.
Once, a rainstorm forces him to duck under a stranger's porch, sitting on the steps while he eats around the bruises of some apples a farmer was getting rid of. He has a perfect view into the house across the street, warm light cutting through the rain. The family inside is gathered around the dinner table, the parents laughing at something the little girl said. The father breaks open a loaf of warm bread while the mother serves a simple stew. It’s the exact scene that always used to make him linger.
He throws the core of the apple away, bruises and all, and pushes himself up. He wanted to make it to the next town anyway, and what’s a little rain?
--
When Zirk moves into a small room off of Dr. Nebble’s offices, he doesn’t expect much to change, either.
Sure, he won’t be wandering from town to town, won’t have to worry about finding a place to rest when his feet won’t let him walk much further, but… well, it’s only a temporary arrangement, just like every stop he’s ever made.
It’s strange at first. Dr. Nebble doesn’t seem to care much for the charms Stella taught Zirk to put on, almost seems to prefer silence or Zirk muttering some alchemical formula under his breath while pacing. Then again, Dr. Nebble doesn’t seem to care much for anything other than having his nose buried in a book. He’s not about showmanship, and he’s not a very hands on mentor, but they find their rhythm.
Zirk, hair. Zirk, gloves. Zirk, mouth.
Zirk, food.
It starts when Zirk is close to figuring out exactly what compounds he needs to finalize the healing potion he’s been working on. He hasn’t slept in days, hasn’t even left his desk, but his mind is clear enough to keep going-- and he doesn’t dare stop and risk losing his momentum when he’s so close.
He’s mumbling the formula to himself as he rewrites it, trying to do some adjustments on the fly, when--
The sound of a plate scraping across the wood of his desk, and Dr. Nebble’s even voice: “Zirk,” he says, in his familiar cadence. “Food.”
It’s enough to make Zirk look away from his notes, the muscles in his back screaming at him as he turns to look up at his mentor. Nebble is leaning against the wall next to Zirk’s desk, a book raised to partially cover his face.
“I--” Zirk looks at the plate on his desk, a simple sandwich and an apple sitting on it. “I’m sorry?” he asks, not quite comprehending.
Dr. Nebble peers at him over the pages of his book. “I said, eat.”
Zirk looks between the sandwich and Nebble and the sandwich and Nebble, the math he was doing slipping out of his head as the wheels in his brain turn. “R… right,” Zirk says slowly. “Um…” He slowly slides the plate until it’s in front of him. “Why?”
“It’s been too long,” Nebble says. “If you’re not going to sleep, at least eat. Your brain needs to be fed in order to be sharp for--” his voice does a strange little skip, and he clears his throat. “For alchemy.”
“Oh,” Zirk says. He picks up the sandwich, the bread soft beneath his fingers. Dr. Nebble doesn’t move from the wall. “Are you going to…”
“I’ll watch,” Nebble says.
What follows is, perhaps, the most awkward meal of Zirk’s life. It’s at least the first time he’s been so hyperaware of every movement he makes while eating. Nebble seems satisfied once Zirk has finished the sandwich, lowering his book and raising one eyebrow Zirk’s way.
“And,” Nebble tells him, “you’re sleeping tonight.” He doesn’t leave space to argue, just reaches for the plate in front of Zirk. “Take the apple.”
Zirk does, and Nebble takes the plate and is gone, leaving Zirk blinking in confusion with a ripe apple in one hand.
--
Zirk meets the Third Mates, his first semi-stable life explodes (literally), and somehow he finds himself not minding so much.
He misses Dr. Nebble-- Penley. Of course he does. Penley wasn’t particularly affectionate, but he was always watching, always pushing Zirk to take care of himself. Zirk learns he was a Smith, and can’t help but think were you sharpening me into a Blade?
It’s too late to ask.
Most of the time, though, he doesn’t miss any part of the past. He’s too busy sinking into the comfortable dynamic of the Third Mates. They travel and fight together, watch each other’s backs, and when it’s all said and done shuffle into their camp or into some inn in a city Zirk never thought he’d make it to for a meal together.
They pass rations around the fire, fill the others’ plates before their own, learn each other’s tastes. Fia likes more potatoes in her stew, Henry likes more meat. Zirk likes… anything.
Or so he thinks, until one day when they’re camping in the mountains and he spots Fia carefully dipping a ladle into the stew to spoon an extra ladleful of just broth into Zirk’s bowl.
He almost doesn’t say anything, but Fia catches him watching and smiles, holding the bowl out for him. “Extra broth for you, Mister Zirk.”
“Thank you,” Zirk says, taking the bowl carefully. He frowns, briefly considering staying silent, but… “Extra broth?” he asks, curious.
Fia nods as she starts on Henry’s bowl. “You like to dip your bread. So extra broth, for dipping. Right Mister Henry?”
“Huh?” Henry looks up from the bread he’s cutting. “Oh, yeah,” he says, before either of them clarify. “You always get the bread all soggy. Weird, but I guess if you like it.”
Zirk looks down at the bowl in his hands, stunned as he tries to figure out what to say. His friends learned his habits, like he’s been learning theirs, and that’s…
It’s nice. Special. Something he never wants to let go of.
“No good?” Fia asks.
“What? Oh-- No, no, it’s… sweet. Thank you Fia.” Zirk runs his thumb along the edge of the bowl. He just didn’t realize he still soaked his bread.
Fia tilts her head, studying him curiously. “There is something I am missing here.”
Henry focuses on them, now, setting the bread aside to scoot forward next to Zirk. “You alright there, Zirk? I’m sorry for callin’ it weird.”
“Sorry?”
“You look all…” Fia gestures with the ladle, splashing drops of stew into the fire.
“Brooding,” Henry supplies.
Zirk laughs, high and tight. “I’m not brooding,” he says.
“Well, you gotta talk to us, buddy, or we’re gonna think you are,” Henry says, taking his bowl from Fia so she can start serving herself.
Zirk swallows, stirring the stew in his own bowl with his spoon while he thinks. “I… had a lot of stale bread growing up,” he says, keeping his voice light. “I guess old habits die hard.”
“Ah,” Fia says, coming to sit next to them. “Your mother and you, you were often on the run?”
“It wasn’t… we never starved,” Zirk says, pushing down the thought in the back of his mind that this is the first time he’s ever talked about this. “Alchemy supplies are expensive, you know? Stale bread is as good as fresh, if it means some extra potions. That’s where the profit is.”
“And softening stale bread makes it as good as new,” Henry says. “We used to use salt water, out at sea.”
Zirk scrunches his face up. “That sounds awful.”
“And unsanitary,” Fia adds.
“It was not good,” Henry says emphatically. “But we’re losin’ track here. Zirk, it’s okay if--”
“I’m fine,” Zirk says. He’s pretty sure it’s not a lie. “You know when you don’t realize you’re doing something until someone else says it? Like… I’d always chew on my stirring stick while thinking and Nebble would call it out. Or, uh…”
“Mmm, and then it is a surprise when someone does. I know this.” Fia nods thoughtfully. “My Batilda used to say that your body remembers, and that is how you stay alive. If you forget, you will fall for the same trap again and again.”
“I dunno if his dinner is a trap, Fia.” Henry hands Zirk a piece of bread, an apologetic smile on his face. “Izzie used to complain about how tight I liked the blankets to be tucked in. Didn’t realize til’ I lived alone again that it was so I wouldn’t fall out of bed if the ship rocked. I hadn’t been on a ship in years.”
“That… makes sense,” Zirk says slowly.
“I see. It is more like my sleeping trenches, then,” Fia says.
“Your trenches?” Henry asks.
Fia looks up at Bukvar, who has been listening quietly. “It, ah, often felt safer to squirrel away in some hole or corner of the woods by Irina’s side, rather than go home and face my father,” she explains.
“And now we dig the trenches because we want to, Miss,” Bukvar says, flying lower.
“Yes, we do.” Fia smiles Zirk’s way. “It is like that?”
Zirk nods. “I think so,” he says. He’s not going to cry over stew, or his friends comforting him, or any of it. He smiles at them instead, knowing how to get out of talking about it further. “Now I just like my food to glide down my throat. Nice and slippery.”
“You might like the sea water bread, then,” Henry offers. “It definitely glides.”
“I have never considered slipperiness as a factor in judging food,” Fia says, raising her hand to her chin thoughtfully.
“I don’t think you should start, Miss,” Bukvar says, flapping his pages nervously.
Zirk laughs, relief flooding his body when Fia and Henry join in, the uncomfortable topics left behind as they return to their reassuring and familiar mealtime chatter.
--
When everything is said and done, and the Third Mates take to the seas with a crew two members stronger than they started with, the S. S. Alette quickly becomes home. Zirk learns the ship, her hallways and nooks and crannies, with the same fervor he studies his alchemical formulas.
It seems like the rest of the crew are always shoving food into his hands. He’s climbing to the crow’s nest to be lookout and Hank Jr. tosses him an orange. (It’s Shank, who always helps him climb the masts, who catches it instead.) Or-- Irina finds a way to always wake up before him, despite his atrocious sleep schedule, and greets him the same way each morning, with a warm slice of toast and a sheepish smile. She leaves honey candies on his desk and in his pockets and resting on his pillow, and they never mention it but Zirk always catches her smiling when she spots him sucking thoughtfully on one, wrapper in hand.
Fia and Henry are more aggressive with their approaches. Fia drags him out of his research or away from his post to get lunch, Henry piles his plate with more food than Zirk would ever be able to finish.
And Zirk returns the favor-- making sure they remember to eat, bringing Henry and Hank Jr. meals at the helm or buying some treats at the market for Fia and Irina. It’s unfamiliar but natural, a progression of their shared mealtimes and the way they watch each other’s back in battle.
--
A month or so into their time at sea, on an unremarkable evening, something finally clicks in Zirk’s head.
He’s sitting at the dining table, watching the comfortable chaos of four people (and a flying book, and a sprite) moving around in the small ship’s kitchen. Everyone manages to mostly stay out of each other’s way as they come to sit at the table, just the occasional muttered apology for bumping into each other amid the clink of plates and scraping of chairs.
It’s when Hank Jr. starts talking-- Did you guys feel that wave we hit earlier? We were like… flying-- that Zirk looks up at one of the portholes in the kitchen and sees his reflection.
Not the reflection of his current self, but rather the young scrappy kid carrying stale bread home, pausing to stare into a world he’d never know.
A world he now knows.
His eyes sting. He’s had a home before, briefly, with Nebble, but he’d never had one that felt like this.
Henry’s fork clatters loudly against his plate as he drops it, snapping everyone’s attention his way. Zirk’s eyes meet Henry’s, because Henry is staring across the table directly at him.
Zirk feels his cheeks burn.
“Shit,” Henry mutters, breaking eye contact with Zirk to grab his fork. “Sorry, sorry.”
“Are you alright, Mister Henry?” Fia asks.
“Just, er-- surprised.” Henry clears his throat. “You alright there, Zirk?”
Zirk hastily wipes the tears from his eyes. “Yeah.”
A chair scrapes as Irina stands. “Young Henry, would you like to check on Shank with me?” she asks, clearly trying to give Zirk some space.
“Yeah.” Hank Jr. sounds relieved.
“No, no, it’s okay,” Zirk says quickly. He’s not sure what the rest of them think, but-- “I’m okay.”
Irina hesitates, half standing. “Mister Zirk…”
“Sometimes when you do not talk about something it will, ah, bubble up,” Fia suggests softly.
Zirk looks around the table. Henry and Fia look concerned, Hank Jr. looks a bit awkward, Irina looks guilty. “Do you think this is about…”
“You haven’t really talked about it, y’know?” Hank says. “You’ve seemed… fine.”
Because he is. Maybe he’s more tired, maybe sometimes his joints feel frozen over, maybe summoning energy feels like a desperate battle every time, but he’s fine about it. He did his job.
He sighs. Fia and Henry know a bit about his past, and Hank Jr. and Irina know even less. “That didn’t even cross my mind,” he says, setting his own fork down.
“Were you… not crying?” Fia asks.
Zirk could lie. He shakes his head. “I was. I never thought I’d be here.”
“At sea?” Hank asks.
Zirk snorts. “No. I mean, yes. But no.” He gestures around the kitchen. “Somewhere like this, every day. With all of you.”
“And this is upsetting?” Fia studies him carefully.
“No it… I used to be jealous.” Zirk looks back at the porthole, his reflection only himself now. “I thought it was a fairy tale.” Like the Blades and Smiths. Like the All-Cure.
“You thought it was something you would never have,” Irina says, slowly sitting back down. “The little moments that come with a home.”
“Mhm.” Zirk isn’t surprised that Irina understands, from what he knows about her life after leaving Fia. “It hit me, that's all. No need to drop your fork, Hank.”
Hank Jr. looks around the table, at the three adults who are all struggling to reply, and stabs his fork dramatically into his dinner. “This is the fun kind of family dinner. Not all weird and awkward. You guys are pretty alright.”
Zirk knows the words will make Hank tear up before he sees the tears fill his eyes. He grins. “Now who’s crying.”
“Ah, c’mon,” Henry says, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand.
“He is right,” Fia says. “Mister Zirk, I am sorry for our assumptions. You are happy?”
“I think so.” Zirk looks down at the warm meal on his plate. “In the wise words of Hank Jr., this is pretty alright.”
Hank Jr. grins at him across the table.
“Can’t argue with that.” Henry picks his fork back up. “What was that about a wave?” he asks Hank Jr.
The momentary somber tone lifts, light bubbling back into the kitchen.
--
After dinner, Irina finds him in one of the ship's hallways. “Mister Zirk, do you have a moment?”
It’s strange, for Irina to approach him. They’ve traded treats, smiles, pleasant conversation-- made it clear there’s no hard feelings-- but not really talked.
Irina is fidgeting with one of the seams on her skirt, waiting for his answer.
“Sure,” he says lightly. “My lab work?”
She nods.
Zirk’s lab aboard the S.S. Alette is cramped, various bottles and ingredients covering every wall and open surface. (And the floor, whenever the ship rocks enough, even though most of the bottles are secured.)
He brushes a bundle of herbs off of his stool, gesturing for Irina to sit.
“D’you mind if I clean up while we talk?” Zirk asks.
Irina shakes her head. “Mister Zirk,” she says softly. “Did you grow up on the run?”
He nods. “Yeah. Stella could never stay in one place too long without being run out.”
“Stella?”
Zirk fiddles with the bottle he was putting back on its shelf. “My mother. She’s gone, now.”
“Dead?” Irina’s voice is gentle, still.
“Good as,” Zirk replies, surprised his voice doesn’t waver. He turns toward Irina, offering her a smile. “After I left, I was alone for a few years before I settled down in Thornkirk and met Fia and Henry.”
“Ah,” Irina says. “Do you ever miss it, Mister Zirk?”
“Being on the road?”
Irina nods.
“Do you?” he asks instead of answering, because he doesn’t know what an honest answer would be.
“I… do not know. Sometimes I think I want to be alone. Sometimes I think it would be better, because then I could not hurt anyone.” Irina twists a lock of her hair between her fingers. “I like sailing, even though it makes me nervous. I don’t want to leave Fi, or any of you.”
He recognizes her fidgeting. “But sometimes you wish you could retreat into your head the way you only can on the road?” Zirk asks.
“Yes. That, I think.” Irina searches his eyes, hopeful. “Do you feel this too, Mister Zirk?”
“Hmmm…” Zirk goes back to his tidying. “I don’t miss the cold. Or the food,” he says.
“That is true.”
“Sometimes it was exciting,” he continues. “Jumping from town to town, never really stopping. But it was scary, too, and… I was never there to help people, even if I thought I was. I stayed too long.” He exhales shakily. “I think… when I feel antsy, like I should be somewhere else, I come here.”
“To your lab?” Irina asks.
“Turns out I’m alright at making potions,” Zirk says with a small smile. “When we sell them, it puts food on our table, and helps some people… I think it settles my head.”
Irina is quiet for a second. “So you do not miss it.”
“No, I guess I don’t.” Zirk looks her way, at the way she’s still fidgeting. “You can, though.”
“I do not know if I miss it,” Irina says. “I just… that antsy feeling you mentioned. Sometimes I feel as though all of the dangerous magic inside my blood means it is just a matter of time before this stop is temporary, too.”
Zirk knows what she means, in a sense. “My mother was only ever skilled at making things that hurt people. When I feel like I can't escape that, I make a healing potion.” He lifts a finished potion from its spot, handing it to Irina. “Maybe, when you feel like you’re going to destroy things, you should create something, instead.”
“Try alchemy?” Irina asks, brow furrowing.
“Not necessarily. What makes your head go quiet?”
Irina meets his eyes. “Sewing. Baking. Being with Fi.”
“I don’t think you should make Fia your hobby,” Zirk says with a small chuckle. “What about the first two?”
She pauses, considering. “Could I bake something for you, Mister Zirk?”
Zirk smiles. “I’d like that.”
“Really?” Irina asks, her eyes lighting up in a way so similar to Fia’s.
“Yeah,” Zirk says. “No one’s baked for me before.”
“Really?” Irina asks again, smile widening. “I must get started right away, then!”
“You don’t have to do it right--“ Zirk starts, as Irina dashes from his lab at a full sprint. “-- now,” he finishes lamely.
He hears something move behind him, from where Spritle rests. His ear flicks up to catch the noise as he turns, coming face to face with Spritle, the light from their body pulsing sheepishly within their carapace.
“I didn’t know you were in here,” Zirk says, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m sorry, Papa. It seemed like a private conversation,” Spritle’s light flickers again.
“It’s alright. You would’ve been fine, Irina likes you.”
Spritle hesitates. “Are you upset, Papa?”
Zirk blinks at them. “Why would I be?”
“Talking about… her.” More nervous flickers of light.
Oh. Zirk shrugs. “I guess I’m not.”
“All better?” Spritle asks, flying closer.
Zirk chuckles, a bit of darkness seeping in. “I don’t think so,” he says. “Irina needed to hear that more than I needed to avoid it.”
Spritle bobs in the air for a moment, considering. “You are very kind, Papa.”
“Sometimes,” Zirk says. He shivers a bit, the chill that he hasn’t been able to escape since Fia saved him creeping back in. “Shall we make some potions?”
Spritle lights up brighter. “I can help.”
“Of course,” Zirk says, and they get to work.
(Later, late enough that Zirk should be asleep, Irina rushes back to his lab with an apple-filled pastry, her hands still covered in flour. Zirk takes a bite of the soft crust, the fresh sweetness of the apples immediately filling his mouth, warmth flooding his body. He hasn’t felt warm like this in weeks.
He gives Irina a thumbs up, and she immediately crushes him in a hug.
“You were correct, Mister Zirk,” she whispers into his shoulder. “It did help. Fi is right, you are a very good doctor.”
Zirk pats her back with his free hand, the other carefully protecting the pastry. “You’re a very good baker. It’s the best I’ve ever had.”
Irina pulls back, beaming. “Do you really mean that, Mister Zirk?”
“Of course I do.”
“You and I will be the best alchemist and baker on the seas,” Irina says. “Oh! Or I could be a seamstress, or find something new-- there are so many options! I need to tell Fi!”
This time, Zirk isn’t surprised by Irina dashing off-- he just waves at her as she runs from his lab, smiling to himself and returning to his alchemy.)