theladysnarkydame | The Edges of This Map Have Been Burned -- Pirate Big Bang fic

Title: The Edges of This Map Have Been Burned

Word Count: ~10,000
Rating: R
Warnings: NON/CON (implied), involuntary drug use, language
Summary:

The Killjoys took to the oceans instead of the desert, and raid the BL/ind supply lines with only tenuous contact with the Zone Runners on land. When Gerard is lost and taken by S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W's top captain, Korse, the crew of the Neon Angel have to get him back. Whether or not they'll get him back whole. . .

Notes: Written for the Pirate Big Bang. Betad by the long suffering L, and the very kind jrho. And check out the mix by littlblackghost !

Disclaimer: These characters are loosely based on the public personas of real people -- they belong only to themselves, and I intend no insult nor harm to any of them.

* * *

Sometimes, when the sun sank low against the edges of the water and turned the blue to blood and fire, he could believe that the world had finished ending. That all the land was bare as bone, charred black and cracking. That theirs were the only hearts still beating.

But then Mikey would roll his eyes at something he said, and he'd hear the radio still intermittently spitting out songs, Dr. Death Defying's voice growling through static, crossing so far over the airwaves that they could only catch one word in six on a good clear day.

Or Frank would shout down from the rigging, spotting the white sails and gleaming steel hulls that were the BL/ind fleet, and Ray would yell back from the wheelhouse, and the Angel would groan and creak and shudder as he turned her hard to port. Gerard would scramble for the bridge then, the deck tilting beneath his feet, and the world would be alive around him, furiously vivid, tasting of salt.

Not done yet.

* * *

The sea was calm. Like yesterday. And the day before, and the day before that. If the wind didn't pick up soon, they'd have to turn the engines on and hope they'd work, and that they had enough fuel left to get them to port before they all died of thirst and hunger. And boredom.

Gerard yawned. The laundry was spread out over ropes above his head, tattered shirts and salt stained jackets turning the deck into a patchwork of colored light and shadow. He thought he saw a sleeve ruffle in a breeze, and he held his breath, staring hard at it. But it was just the rocking of the ship.

He could hear the static from the radio, a quiet buzz at the edge of things. The lazy slap of water against the hull. Bare feet, padding across the deck.

Frank ducked his head under Mikey's favorite red shirt and smiled at Gerard. Half asleep, all he could see was that Cheshire cat grin where a Frank-shaped shadow lurked, and he stared at it curiously, not sure if he was dreaming.

"It's Ray's watch, Sleeping Beauty," he heard, in Frank's sharp-edged smoker's voice. "Shove over." And Frank (it was Frank now, as well as his shadow) crawled under Gerard's laundry-canopy and settled on the deck next to him. He smelled like salt and sun-baked canvas, rust and tar. He turned his face into Gerard's shoulder, threw an arm over his ribs, and just like that was snoring, soft whuffly noises like a little kid's.

Gerard held very still, watching him. He was too thin, and his eyes looked bruised. He'd been below decks all day, and most of last night, getting the engines back together as well as their balky, much-abused components would allow.

BL/ind's EMP cannons had done a number on the electronics. Mikey was still finding glitches in the navigational array, even though he'd gotten everything up again. But the goddamn cannonballs had turned the mechanicals into spare parts.

Cannonballs. He hadn't thought the tech-happy Battery City captains would touch something so antique. It was more something they'd use themselves, if they'd had a chance to find some. Luckily, it didn't seem that BL/ind had had a lot of time to practice with the cannons since they'd only hit the Angel twice.

If he closed his eyes, he could still see the splashes from the rest of the barrage, falling all around them in the sea.

Gerard sighed. He ran his fingers through Frank's hair, teasing out the tangles, and stared up at the motionless canopy.

They had enough provisions to wait another two days for the wind to pick up.

But for now, the ship sat on flat, quiet waters, as if it were anchored. And somewhere out there, over the curved horizon, the BL/ind fleet was looking for them. With their fucking cannonballs.

Frank snuffled and shifted a little closer. His hand spread flat along Gerard's side, warm and heavy.

"Quit it," he said, his voice a rumbling vibration. "Quit thinking so loud. You're keeping me awake."

Gerard tugged gently at his hair. "That's your snoring. I don't think loud at all."

"You lie." He felt Frank's teeth then, gnawing lightly at his shoulder, and he squirmed. Frank's laugh coiled around him, full of heat, and Gerard groaned.

He turned, bracing himself over Frank with his hands flat on the sun-warmed deck. Frank smiled up at him, sleepy and soft, and then snapped at his nose with his teeth.

Gerard's arms were shaking, and he lowered himself a little faster than he planned, bumping noses before he met Frank's kiss.

They were both tired, both hungry, both stained with salt and sweat and, in Frank's case, engine grease. But Gerard reveled in the taste of him, in the feel of Frank's skin as he worked his hands beneath the fabric of Frank's shirt. He set himself comfortably on top of Frank, melting down. No space between them.

He could still hear the quiet buzz of static, and the slow creak of the ship's mast as the Neon Angel swayed in place. But he listened more for the quickening rasp of Frank's breath and the half-swallowed sound of his own name on Frank's tongue.

* * *

Sometime later, he thought Ray said something uncomplimentary and a little obscene as he stepped over them, hauling in the laundry; Frank was drooling on Gerard's shoulder and his arm was fast asleep beneath him, so he answered with a thumbs up in his general direction and went back to sleep.

When he actually opened his eyes the first pale stars were peeking through the dusk and his side was cold where Frank had been.

"Over here," he heard, and stopped frowning. Frank looked back over his shoulder from where he leaned over the rail, cigarette glowing red. A thin haze of smoke hung around him, dissipating as he waved at Gerard.

"The squid are jumping."

Gerard rolled his eyes, rubbing the crick out of his neck as he hauled himself to his feet.

Frank smirked at him around his cigarette as Gerard shuffled over. The green-gold light of the lantern tied over the wheelhouse gave Frank's face an interestingly sinister cast. He pursed his lips. The stash of party lights they'd found in that half sunken cruise ship had come in handy enough when the Angel's own ship lights burnt out, but really, he thought they were just cool. Between the lights and the glowing sea -life, the Neon Angel was really living up to her name.

Gerard nudged Frank's elbow with his own, slumping down to rest his chin on his arms. "They aren't squid," Gerard mumbled around a yawn. "They're octopuses. They haven't got pen."

"Bullshit," Frank said, giving him a drag. "There's no way octopuses would be this close to the surface."

Gerard rolled the smoke over his tongue – it was harsh and hot and perfect. They'd grabbed six cartons from that floating supply dump off the New Nevada coast. Should last them a few more weeks, if they were careful. He smiled out at the phosphorescent school of mutated octopuses, breathing the smoke out through his nose.

"They might be now. Hell," he said, watching as one particularly lurid set of blue and purple tentacles seemed to close around a star, "maybe they can fly."

"Atomic powered super squid." Frank said, and he sounded so pleased Gerard didn't even correct him. Much.

"Flying octopuses would be bad ass."

Frank jabbed at his side with stiff fingers, and Gerard squirmed away from the rail, yelling.

"Hey, hey, asshole," Frank said, laughing. "Your brother's gonna hear us."

"Too late," he heard – Mikey, opening the wheelhouse door. The static from the radio swelled louder as Frank took advantage of Gerard's distraction to wrap himself over his shoulders.

Gerard hit the deck under his weight and lay there gasping. Mikey looked down at them both, one eyebrow raised high.

"You done?" he asked.

"Not even close," Frank said, grabbing Gerard in a headlock. Then he yelped and jumped away, and Gerard smelled something burning.

"Fucker," he yelled, "keep that cigarette away from my hair!" He smoothed his hands over his head, but it seemed like Frank hadn't done any real damage. Though Gerard might, just to stop him from rolling around laughing like a demented hyena. He swiped the cigarette from Frank's lax fingers and stood up, taking a deep, punitive drag.

Mikey huffed out a breath. "You could char the rest off, Gee. Keep it even."

"I just dyed this shit," he moaned, and tilted his head back to let out a dramatic breath of smoke into the sky. But he held that breath instead, staring at the fluttering tip of the signal flag on the roof on the wheelhouse. The fluttering flag.

He heard Frank go still on the deck behind him, and Mikey gripped his arm with long, tense fingers. Slowly, he released that breath full of smoke. Smoke that wavered. Blew apart.

The wind was rising. Gerard felt like jumping higher than an atomic powered octopus as he turned to grin his relief at his brother.

Over his shoulder, quickly blocking out the last of the daytime sky, a bank of clouds crept cold and heavy into view. Gerard blinked at it. That was lightning, sputtering like neon tubing in the dark.

Lightning and the momentary flash of bright white sails, bellied big and pregnant with the storm winds.

"Ray!" he yelled, already spinning around, running for the rigging. He knew Frank was ducking past him, heading for the hatch and the engine room. Knew Mikey was already sliding back into the wheelhouse, reaching for the gun controls. He could hear him cursing the EMP damage as he pounded past the wheelhouse.

Ray popped up on deck just as Frank reached the hatch – they spun around each other like dancing partners, quick and practiced. He was scanning the horizon before he'd caught his footing.

"Sheet them tight!" he called back to Gerard, already having to raise his voice over the wind.

The lights were swaying violently now, as waves rocked the hull. Gerard squinted as much against their flaring brightness as against the sharply cooling air. The engines coughed beneath his feet, and he heard Frankie shouting, incomprehensible beneath the deck.

He jumped over the heavy bolted collar that kept their jury-rigged mainmast secure on the Angel's scarred wooden deck.

In his haste, he fumbled the harness clip – "Fuck it," he growled, hardly hearing himself. The wind had risen to a teeth-clenching whistle, and he could feel the mast thrumming its response already, the sails still furled. He left the harness hanging and hauled himself up the knotted rope ladder hand over fist.

The big ship guns spit stuttering neon fire off the stern, Mikey firing more to judge range than do damage. The BL/ind ship couldn't be that close already. The heavy barrels gleamed white hot in their turrets.

Between the storm and the guns and the dancing, swinging lanterns, Gerard could only see in frozen, stuttered bursts of light, like the world had been set on strobe. He reached for lines that were there, and not, and there again – the strobe was messing with his depth perception.

But he found the right lines, released the right gaskets, and the sails came unrolled like manteling wings. He took a deep breath and hung tight to the rigging as they flung themselves open. The Neon Angel groaned, and the lanterns swung uniformly to the starboard side, as the wind in the sails dragged the ship over.

The air was flavored with the acidic bite of rain. The BL/ind ship was firing back. He saw Ray, at the tiller, duck under a brilliant green flash that scorched the wheelhouse.

At least, the thought came, wild and fleeting, they weren't shooting cannons.

He wrapped his sleeves over his palms and jumped for the harness rope, hanging an arm's length from the ladder. The rope bit through the heavy cotton, but it didn't shred his hands as he swung himself out and down, letting go to grab hold of the ladder again. He caught a glimpse of white tipped waves beneath him – the ship was keeled so far over he couldn't see the deck.

He wrapped his legs around the spar and hauled in the lines two handed. The sails resisted, so heavy it felt like he was trying to drag the ship straight all by himself.

But slowly, agonizingly, he pulled the sails in until they were stretched drum tight. The ship lept forward like she'd been goosed, and the waves sprayed high enough to drench Gerard, even before the rain came down.

Once it did, he couldn't see his hands in the rigging – couldn't see anything as more than formless smears of colored light through the water. He couldn't hear anything but thunder – from the storm, from the guns, from the engines that roared suddenly to life, as if Frank had pulled a Frankenstein and harnessed the storm itself.

Gerard breathed rain, grinning, and ducked his head before he drowned.

His muscles quivered, burning. The Angel bucked and thundered through the waves, outpacing the white ship.

"Yeah, you rat bastards!" He yelled into the rain, hardly hearing himself.

The ship hit a rising wave and flung itself sideways. His hands slipped on the rope.

* * *

Frank kept the engines running for a just a moment longer than it took for his heart to settle back into a steady beat, then throttled them back. The Angel slowed almost immediately, though not enough to worry him – they'd caught a good wind.

He raked the hair out of his eyes and ran a quick look over the instrument panel – nothing looked like it was going to blow up just now.

The guns had stopped rocking the ship, so they must have gotten out of range. But Frank grabbed his cutlass from the hook by the ladder anyway. The weight felt wrong – it skewed his balance. But the ray guns were drained dry, all but Mikey's rifle and the ship guns. The last three supply buoys they'd found hadn't had a single box of charges between them.

He paused, buckling the sword belt. Ray was yelling up on deck.

Rain hit his face as he swung the hatch open, and he squinted against it. Mikey's boots were at eye level. Something . . . Frank looked up. In the lantern light, Mikey's face was ghost pale. He stared at the rigging, not blinking in the rain.

"Mikes?" he asked, but Mikey didn't seem to hear him.

It was Ray who grabbed his shoulder, hauled him up to the deck. Ray who looked him straight in the eye and lied to him. And it was Ray who held him tight when he lashed out, held his fists and pulled him into a hug and let him scream, because Ray never lied, damn him to the driest blasted hell, and Mikey stood behind them both, staring blankly at the empty rigging.

* * *

It was dark and quiet, very cold. He could barely feel the ship rocking, and the lack of motion made him restless. His chest ached, and he felt the chill all the way through his bones. Gerard shuddered, reaching for Frank, for his warmth and his heartbeat. To let him chase the nightmare away.

But something bit at his wrists, trapped his arms behind his back. His eyes snapped open.

Through the red spray of hair over his face, he saw an unscarred deck, steel so polished he could see a faint reflection of himself. And dark boots, polished even more than the steel. He made himself keep breathing.

The boots came closer, heels coming down with a deliberate precision. Their owner went to one knee in front of him, and a long hand, gloved and half hidden by a fall of starched lace, gently brushed his hair away.

He stared. The first officer of S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W, Korse himself, smiled down at him, an expression as thin and soulless as a garrotte.

Gerard told himself that he was only shaking from the cold, but he didn't sound convincing, even in his own head.

"There you are," Korse whispered. His voice slithered. Gerard leaned away from it, but there was no where to go. And this . . . this was just pathetic. He made himself stop shrinking, made himself snarl with Party Poison's nihilistic flair. Korse wrapped a gloved hand through his hair and tugged until he'd pulled him to his feet.

"We pulled you from the sea like flotsam – discarded, left to drown. Didn't your merry band of Killjoys notice you were lost?"

He tried to turn his pained grimace into a sneer. Mikey. Ray. Fuck, Frank. Don't turn around. Don't come back. Keep running. The hand in his hair twisted, pulled him just a little higher. He could feel strands pulling free.

"Ah well. We have you now." And Korse's smile warmed. His free hand rose – the smooth satin of his glove was cold against Gerard's face. "I have you."

His scalp felt on fire. His skin crawled, rebelling against his touch. It took a few tries to find his voice, but Korse's satisfied smile required some response beyond this passive silence, for his own self respect.

"Fuck. Off. You. Machine." His throat felt salt-scoured. Raw.

Something sickly eager flickered in Korse's eyes. "Party Poison," he said, "welcome."

* * *

The mast was rough and wet between Frank's shoulder blades, though the wood of the deck was starting to dry. Steam curled up in tiny wisps all around him.

He was crying, he thought. But his face was numb, and he couldn't be sure. And anyway, he hadn't cried since half the world was ghosted. He wasn't sure he remembered what it felt like.

"Mikey," he heard, in Ray's anguished voice. "Mikey, just let me know the plan here. If it's vengeance, fuck, all right, just let me overload the guns before you ram us into them, but dammit Mikey, I need to know if you plan to survive. I need to know if you're still with me. Frank's . . . fuck, Frank's . . ."

He wasn't sure what he was. Sorry, Ray. He'd tell him if he knew.

"I'm not suicidal," Mikey said. "I'm just turning this ship around." His voice was . . . not empty. No. But Mikey was keeping it level like Frank was keeping calm – far too. Excessively so.

"And Gee's not dead, so vengeance isn't what we need."

Ray sounded so tired. "I don't . . ." But Mikey interrupted, voice no longer level. At all.

"He's not." A deep breath. Another. Frank felt himself matching those breaths.

"I'd feel it if my brother were dead."

But there was a hole in Frank's gut – he could feel himself bleeding out, even if the deck around him seemed clean. Mikey, he thought, is this the feeling you're waiting for? 'Cause I sure as hell feel like I've lost him.

* * *

It wasn't the pills. He could handle pills. Could hold them in his mouth and never swallow, spit them out. Like Poison. He giggled.

No. The giggle died, and he curled tighter in on himself. It was the needles. Fucking needles. And Korse. He held him down, whispering all the time. Absurdly gentle, so much so it made him want to scream. And his henchmen came with needles.

He held his head very still, just off the deck, though the muscles in his neck screamed protest. He couldn't raise it any higher. Refused to let it drop. It seemed very important, not dropping his head to the deck. Not bowing down.

But Korse was rubbing his shoulders now, massaging away the aches left by the cuffs holding his arms behind his back. "Just relax," he said. "There's no point to this."

He mourned those aches – he'd been holding tight to that pain, as an anchor. Without it, he felt . . . loose. Adrift.

He couldn't quite remember why he was trying so hard to keep his head up. He stared at the deck – strands of red hair quivered in front of his eyes, and sweat dropped, dulling the polished metal. He was . . . he was . . .

"Tell me," he heard, though he couldn't be sure, with the rushing in his ears. "Tell me where your ship would go, Party Poison. Where are they going? If you tell me, I can bring you back to them."

He could see their faces. He wanted to say their names. He wanted to, so badly. Oh. Oh no. He could never do that.

"Who?" he made himself say. He made himself mean it, and Korse's hands tightened on his arms.

* * *

The static from the wheelhouse was more voice than usual, even muffled as it was by the door. They must be closer to the coast.

"Why . . ." his own voice sounded unfamiliar, faded to nothing. His throat was too dry. He swallowed, tried again.

"This is the wrong way. We were going back."

"Yeah." That was Ray, kneeling down to meet his eyes. "You look like shit, Frank." Frank just stared at him. What did it matter?

"We were going back," he said, slowly. "Weren't we going after them?"

"We are." Ray's voice was firm, his eyes steady on Frank's. They were red-rimmed, but they were dry. "We still are." He took a deep breath, coming to some decision.

"Mikey heard something. A piece of a transmission." He looked up then, towards the wheelhouse. "We had to come further in for clearer reception."

Frank's eyes narrowed. "They'll get away," he said. It came out a growl, distorted. Ray looked back at him, jaw set.

But before he could answer, the wheelhouse door banged open, hard enough to set the darkened lantern swinging. Mikey stood there, eyes wild.

"Listen," he yelled, reaching back to turn the volume up. The blast of static made Ray wince, but Frank grabbed his wrist – he could hear Dr. D's dark voice in the mix.

. . .even here in the desert word like this makes a splash, tumbleweeds. Out there in the briny deeps, the Killjoys have met Scylla, and she has plucked Party Poison from the Angel's arms. But never fear, motor babies. The gods of Better Living demand their sacrifices on land, not sea. . .

Though static overwhelmed the transmission once again, Frank could feel Ray's pulse jumping under his fingers. Ray broke away from him when Mikey whooped, reaching for him as he punched at the wheelhouse door, a grin big and sharp and predatory on his face.

"He's alive," Frank said, watching them. He laughed once and buried his face in his hands. Oh god. He's alive.

* * *

He was pretty sure he was dead. His hands were free, but he couldn't move them. They lay in his lap and he slumped in the corner like someone else's luggage.

At some point his shirt had ripped – he remembered the tearing, rasping sound of it – and they'd taken it away. Torn shirt, his boots, his belt. They could have been weapons, he thought, with an absent sort of regret.

There was fire in his veins, a slow and sluggish sort of flame. More like lava, maybe, almost cool. Crusting over. Until he came back.

It was a lonely sort of afterlife, here in this tiny cabin on a ship whose engines ran so smoothly he could barely feel them. Which was wrong, but when he tried to think about why that felt wrong, the crusting lava cracked, and little flames flared up behind his eyes.

Still. Lonely. He'd invented some friends to keep himself company – friends his enemy couldn't see, couldn't touch. They had no names, his imaginary dragons, so he couldn't betray them. They coiled around his feet, all neon colors and sharp teeth, and he knew it was just the drugs but didn't care. They kept him sane. Sane-ish. Almost sane.

One of them, bigger than the others, watched the door, while the red one and the smaller one, the green and yellow one, stayed within arm's reach – or what would be arm's reach if he could move his arms.

In the dark room, the neon tubes that built their skeletons glowed through their skin. The green and yellow one opened a mouth full of serrated teeth and yawned at him. Its throat glowed like a dying cigarette.

It was quiet, and the only hurts were old and quiet. Banked embers, muffled in ash. He could almost have been content.

But the guard dragon roared, silently fierce, and he heard the lock click.

A flood of white, bright light swept over the dragons. He tried to reach for them, hide them, but he couldn't. His eyes stung as they faded.

The other let the door shut behind him.

"Party Poison. This resistance is counter-productive. You are only destroying yourself." The ruined voice was chiding, almost sad. The words were shadows, edged with dying flames. He watched them as they lingered in the air.

"Have you forgotten who your friends are? Who pulled you from the sea?" He crouched in front of him, pulling off his gloves one finger at a time. Barehanded, the other held his wrist – he tried to stop his own pulse, to keep it hidden, but of course that was impossible.

"Why do you fight me?" The other's mouth was very near his ear now, his breath obscenely warm against the side of his face. The other's hand trailed up his arm, past the needle marks and bruises, and wrapped around his bicep. "You know you can not win."

With great effort, he turned his head enough to face him. His jaw didn't want to work right, but he could make himself understood. He could see the malformed words as they left his mouth – brief flashes of neon light that sputtered and faded too quickly.

"That was never the point."

The other paused. "Even drugged, you defy me," he whispered. "Even lost, you refuse me. You do not even know your own name, and you will not submit."

Behind the other's back, he could see the green and yellow dragon crouched on the deck, wings spread, hissing. The dragon's eyes were furiously bright. He smiled, seeing it, but the other growled, seeing the smile. The hand on his bicep tightened and pushed, hard. His head rocked back against the wall, and he lost sight of the little dragon as the other loomed over him, his free hand coming up to grip his throat.

"You will not defy me any longer," he heard, over the roaring in his ears. He thought, for a brief moment, that the sound was his dragon, protesting.

* * *

"Mikey, hit the damn rudder!" Frank heard Ray bellowing overhead. The engine room was boiling – the whole thing glowed red like a vision of the Dust Up, and Frank snarled, swiping dripping strands of hair out of his eyes. The fuel cores were spent. The engines were running dry – just a little closer. Just a little more. They'd taken so long to find the white ship . . .

He punched the switch just before the rightful explosion, and felt the deck quake as the engines died.

"Fuel's done!" he yelled to whoever could hear him. That was their only shot. As he yelled the Angel shrieked – metal hull scraping along metal hull, deck groaning at the pressure.

He grabbed the tongs and whipped the shutters open, and poured the waiting bucket of sea water over the white-hot turbines. He ducked, and a hissing explosion of steam poured out where his head had been. He left the tick-ticking of cooling metal behind as he took the ladder two rungs at a time, dropping the bucket to clang on the deck beneath him.

The pale blue sky above the hatch was huge and empty – he spun in a circle, reorienting himself. Ray grabbed his shoulder.

"Take this," he barked, and Frank did, unsheathing the cutlass as he slapped the hilt in his hand. He reached the rail and hurled himself over it before the scabbard could bounce twice across the deck.

He was distantly aware that Ray was just behind him, and that Mikey was half behind the mast, the laser rifle on his shoulder. Everything was unnaturally clear, bright-edged under the clear blue sky. The ozone smell was thick all around him, and his cutlass flashed with reflected fire from enemy guns.

The white ship was small, an Exterminator. No more than eight or nine crew members, then. Though all of them would be armed.

He wanted to scream Gerard's name – wanted to so badly he could feel the sound of it catching in his throat as he cut his way past a white-masked sailor. Only years of conditioning kept it secret.

Fire licked across the point of his shoulder and he hissed, smelling the leather scorch. He slipped in the Drac's blood on the rocking deck, went to one knee. The blood was warm and tacky through his pants – he bared his teeth in disgust.

He limped when he got up. It didn't matter. He wasn't dead. Please, please, don't let him be dead.

Ray held a Drac by the neck, knife a hair's breadth from the eye hole in his mask. "Where is he?" he asked. Calmly. Frank shook his head in disbelief. He wasn't sure he could remember how to speak at all, himself. If he tried, there would be only snarls.

The Drac didn't answer, but his mask twitched in an aborted glance to the port side bow before Ray threw him down, and Frank saw a hatch there. He was on it before Ray could yell at him to wait.

The hatch was locked – he'd nearly yanked his burnt arm out of the socket pulling on it. But he had a way with locks. And a brick of C4 in his jacket.

"Ray, down!" he barked, skidding around the port side bulkhead. Ray ducked beside him as the hatch blew. The red flare of Mikey's laser rifle swept through the smoke like tracer rounds.

They dropped down the hatch without touching the ruined ladder – the cold fluorescent lights below flickered every time the ship's rail guns fired. Frank hoped Mikey took the gunners out soon – the Angel couldn't take too many direct hits.

Ray grabbed at Frank half way down the corridor. "Listen," he hissed, readying his knife to throw. Frank heard it then, boots on the deck, far too steady for this situation.

Their owner turned the corner – smiling, buttoning the collar of his white shirt as he walked. The pale lights washed his face out, made him ghoulish. Instinctively, Frank's shoulders hunched.

"Korse," Ray said, voice hoarse with surprise.

"The Fabulous Killjoys," the other answered, roughly urbane. "This is convenient."

Ray threw the knife. Frank started in surprise, but Ray was pushing him forward, past Korse, whose smile had changed into something less civilized as he tugged at the knife in his arm.

"Go," Ray ordered. "He'll be down this way." And he stopped between Korse and Frank, his second knife already in hand. Frank caught Korse's dead shark eyes. He hated to leave Ray there alone, but if he . . . he could be . . .

"Don't die, asshole," he yelled back over his shoulder. He heard Ray's grim laugh as he ran.

* * *

The other had left the door open. He could see the thread of light from the corridor, expanding and contracting as the door swung slightly with the rocking of the ship.

He could leave.

The thought was fleeting. With an effort, he pulled his bare legs up under the wool coat the other had draped over his body. It was cold, and the coat was warm. But it smelled like him, and that made his skin crawl.

There was a flicker of color at the corner of his eye. Green and yellow, neon bright. He tried not to look at it.

The little dragon seemed insistent. It hitched itself up over his ribs, claws finding purchase in the wool panels of the coat. It settled, weightless, on his thigh and faced the cabin door. Its tail lashed, the neon vertebrae flashing in time.

He could just barely see it, over the collar of the coat.

It was hypnotic. When it stopped, it took him a while to notice.

But the door was wide open now. Someone stood there, watching him. He tried to hide under the coat, ducking his head.

"Gee?" he heard the stranger say, in a voice that sounded choked. He curled tighter, held his breath until spots danced before his eyes, but the stranger didn't go away. He came closer, steps hesitant, almost as if he was ready to turn and run.

"It's me," the stranger said.

* * *

Frank felt like he was made of cracked glass – one wrong step, and he would shatter. He could see Gerard's red hair, just barely, and one bare foot. The rest of him was covered by a gray wool coat.

That had to be his coat. It was an oddly distant thought, tied to Korse in the corridor, buttoning his white shirt. The image made him want to howl.

"Gee," he said again, to no response. He knelt beside him on the floor, not touching, though his shaking right hand hovered over the wool. Gerard's foot twitched as he tried to pull it further under the coat.

Frank took a deep breath. Firmly, he tugged the hem of the coat down, covering Gerard's foot. "I don't . . ."

He tried again. "I don't know what they've done to you," though he suspected, and that suspicion made his gut churn, "and I need to know if you're hurt. Can I . . . " His voice broke. "Can I see if you're hurt?"

Gerard didn't answer, just pulled the coat tighter around himself. Frank's jaw was so tight he thought he might crack a tooth.

The rail guns had gone silent – he didn't know if that meant Mikey had taken out the gunners or that they'd taken out the Angel. The thought barely registered.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor, someone running. He was back on his feet with his cutlass held high before he recognized Ray's quick steps.

There was blood on Ray's face, and he held his left arm tight against his ribs as he leaned in the doorway.

"We've got to jet," Ray said. "Korse made it to the comm room. Locked it tight. I blocked him in from this side as well as I could." He looked down at Gerard, eyes bleak. "Can you carry him?"

Frank bit his lip. If he was hurt . . . But he nodded. He slid his bare cutlass through his belt, wincing as his scorched shoulder pulled.

He picked up Gerard still wrapped in the coat – Ray steadied him until he had him situated. Gerard's bare feet swung over his arm like a child's.

"Can we block Korse's transmission?" It wasn't likely – not with the mess their systems were in after their last BL/ind encounter.

"No," Ray ground out. "And there should be a Fleet patrol within ." His voice was tight with pain, and he listed sideways, still hugging his ribs.

Frank hitched Gerard higher, staggering a little under his weight as they made their way back up the corridor. If he gave Gerard to Ray, he could go after Korse. Not that kicking the bastard's head in would keep the patrol from getting that transmission. And if he gave Gerard to Ray . . . he'd have to let go of Gerard. And that. That wasn't happening.

Mikey looked down at them through the blown open hatch when they reached the ladder. His eyes went straight to Gerard. He had a bag slung over his back – its weight pulled him sideways, but his rifle was aimed straight across the deck.

"Prisoners?" Frank asked, surprised. Mikey shrugged, a barely there movement of one shoulder. "They surrendered. And I need to save the charge in this thing." Aside from the Angel's big guns, Mikey's laser rifle was their only distance weapon until they could find new charges for their ray guns.

Mikey kicked a line over the hatch – they'd need the rope to get up the half-blown ladder, even without Gerard, who still hadn't shown any sign of knowing what was going on.

Ray grimaced, releasing his ribs long enough to pull himself up. He quickly fastened a loop in the line and sent it back down for Gerard.

Even the few minutes it took to haul Gerard to the deck were too long for Frank. He was clambering after him almost before the hatch was clear.

He gathered Gerard back into his arms and then nearly fell getting to his feet. Mikey and Ray both moved to brace him. "I've got him," he growled, but neither of them seemed impressed. Mikey, in particular, looked Frank over like he might need to take his brother from him – but Mikey's lips thinned and he nodded, once, and turned away.

"We've got to go," he said instead, shifting the bag over his shoulder. "Get G-Party Poison off this ship." He spit it out like it actually hurt to cover up his brother's name.

"Reinforcements are on the way." Ray said, "and Korse will send them after us as soon as he gets out of that comm room."

"Not soon enough," Mikey said, a vicious satisfaction in his voice. "I took their charge packs. And their fuel cores."

"Fucking A," Frank breathed. He looked down to see Gerard peeking out at him from under the coat's collar, his eyes wide and very dark, pupils dilated so far he looked. . . not quite human.

"Come on," he said, though he knew Gerard wasn't hearing him. "We'll get you home."

* * *

He felt sick, mostly. It was too bright and too warm. He couldn't keep himself from shaking.

But he knew this place. This tiny cabin, wooden walls stained with streaks of color and scored by knives. There were tattered posters with curling edges tacked up with crooked nails. He recognized them, every creased and wrinkled image. He dug his fingers into the blankets piled around him. Patched and threadbare, stained with engine grease and scorched in places, they smelled like salt and sun and sweat. He buried his face in them, breathed deep. Familiar. He held them tighter.

Someone sat in the corner, head bowed. It was too bright. He squinted, but that just made everything blur together, so he couldn't see his face. Just a red shirt, worn and faded, and bright yellow hair held in tufts by clenched fists. He reminded him, somehow, of one of his imaginary dragons. He found himself reaching for him – more of a twitch really, movement aborted before he could really make it.

He'd panicked when they'd brought him here. The drugs had worn off enough that he could move, and he'd struck out – too many hands, touching him, too many voices calling a name he refused to answer to. Names were dangerous. Names were vulnerable.

His knuckles were skinned. He could see a darker smudge beneath that bright yellow hair that might be a bruise. And that . . . somehow that was unacceptable.

"I hit you," he heard himself say. The man in the corner went still. "I'm sorry?" He thought he was, anyway. There had been hands, on bare skin . . . but these hands had been rough with callouses. They were warm. Not his hands. So. "I'm sorry."

The man in the corner brought his hands down to cover his face. His hair stayed up in those lopsided tufts. He said something, rough and angry, muffled by his hands.

When Gerard flinched, the man brought his hands down. Said it again. "Don't you dare, Gee. Don't be sorry."

He stared back at him. He knew him. He knew him. Like the posters. Like this place. He was important. But he couldn't figure out . . . the room started swimming, colors swirling together. Vital, precious names and faces, forcing open the shutters he'd closed in his mind. It hurt, it hurt terribly, and he found himself with his head down between his knees, breathing in great shivering gasps of blanket-scented air.

"Breathe," he heard, "fuck, just breathe. It's okay. You're okay, Gerard. I've got you." And when the man – when Mikey, fuck, Mikey – put a tentative hand on his shoulder, he reached up and grabbed it tight and pulled his brother close.

For a long time, he pretended that he wasn't crying. But eventually, with Mikey stroking his hair, he just let go.

* * *

He'd thrown the gray coat overboard as soon as Mikey found new clothes for Gerard. It bobbed on the surface until the water soaked into the wool and pulled it under.

The Angel left it behind at a steady pace. Frank had to make some adjustments to get the engines to accept the BL/ind fuel cores – they were a new model. But he'd only singed his hands twice doing it.

He flexed his fingers. Shiny red skin bordered the strip of t-shirt he'd wrapped around the worst of it, but it didn't feel that bad. They still worked, at least.

Frank leaned his head back against the cabin door and imagined wrapping his burnt hands around Korse's throat.

Inside, he could hear Gerard sobbing. He focused hard on his aching fingers to keep from jumping up and throwing the door open. Mikey had this. Mikey needed to be there.

He couldn't face him yet, anyway.

He didn't turn when Ray walked up beside him. He slid down the side of the cabin until he was resting on his haunches. The cigarette he offered Frank was already lit.

He took it, took a drag, and passed it back.

"I thought he was dead," he said, when Ray kept quiet. He'd just . . . stopped. "If it weren't for Mikey, I'd have left him there."

Ray sighed, bumped Frank's shoulder with his knee. "He won't blame you," he said.

Frank shrugged. His shirt tugged uncomfortably against his throat, caught on the rough wooden door. "I know that."

* * *

There was too much to do on the Angel for him to hide in the cabin. Mikey got this look on his face every time he started for the rigging, so he stayed mostly in the wheelhouse, navigating. Every hour or so he'd look up, and Frank would be in the doorway, watching him.

He hadn't touched him since . . . He hadn't even . . . He could see the pain in Frank's face every time, but he still made himself smile brightly and turn away, making another excuse to keep Frank at arm's length. He hated that. Frank didn't deserve it.

And it wasn't like he didn't want to grab hold of Frank and lock his arms around him and never let go. He did. He did.

But he couldn't. Even the thought of it had him seeing Korse's face; feeling his long, cold fingers around his throat. It made him choke.

Frank hadn't pressed it. He just . . . kept him in sight.

Gerard pressed his pencil hard enough into the chart to crack the lead, and he eased up. Pencils were hard to find these days.

They'd reach the cove today. With any luck, Aces would have topped off their supplies. They could drop anchor, take the time to fix their engines with more than duct tape and spot welds. Stock up the galley, repair a few frayed lines.

The cove was secret. Only Pete knew where it was, and he never knew when they would be there. BL/ind controlled most of the coastline, but maps from Before were useless – too much had changed. They hadn't found that cove yet. He wondered if Sweet Pea still swam through there.

Before his unfamiliar smile could feel comfortable on his face, a red light started flashing from the navigational array. The pencil dropped and rolled across the deck as he jumped up.

One ship, just coming into sonar range – if the sonar was working. If it wasn't just a whale.

With their luck, it was never just a whale.

He thumbed the switch to the PA. "Something coming, twenty-six degrees starboard," he barked, hearing his voice magnified throughout the ship. Something quivered in his gut, but he suppressed it, held it down.

Fear was only helpful until it turned your spine to water. There was just the four of them – he couldn't hide in the wheelhouse like a coward.

"It's not him," he said, a scornful growl meant only for himself. "That's not his ship."

He made sure his ray gun was loose in its scabbard, thankful for the new charge packs, though he firmly refused to think about where they got them. His knives were strapped to his boots, and he made sure they'd slide free with a quick tug before he jogged out the door.

Ray was at the guns, using the sights like a telescope. The sky was pearl gray and the sea was shrouded in fog – it would be hard to see the white sails of a BL/ind ship. Up in the rigging, Mikey turned out the last of the Angel's lights. In the fog, the soft glow would carry for miles. Though the light would be diffused enough not to pinpoint them exactly, BL/ind had more sophisticated instruments than they did – all they'd need was someplace to start.

"So." Gerard swallowed, keeping his voice casual. "Is it Sweet Pea, checking up on us?"

Ray grinned, a quick, fierce flash of teeth, and kept scanning the horizon. "Was the blip big enough for Sweet Pea? I'd relax, if it was." It was common practice for the BL/ind fleet to avoid whales in these waters – they were . . . altered. Much more aggressive than they'd ever been Before. They'd found more than one derelict Exterminator off this coast – hulls warped and broken, masts toppled.

The went cautiously around the whales – but the Angel had never been bothered. Gerard theorized that the whales' behavior might have something to do with the metal hulls of the BL/ind ship – or the specialized sonar they used to find unexploded bombs, tangled in wrecks up and down the coast.

Gerard could see Mikey, still in the rigging. He looked more closely, making sure the harness was clipped to his brother's belt. Double checked.

He didn't know where Frank was. He could assume he was in the engine room, waiting for word on whether he needed to open the throttle or keep her quiet. But he didn't know for sure, and the lack of Frank in his sight made him anxious.

He breathed through his nose, willing his heartbeat to settle. Frank was fine. Nothing had happened yet.

"Ah." Ray's face was grim when Gerard looked back up.

"Not Sweet Pea?"

Ray cranked the turrets higher, and the big guns began to whine as they powered up. "Not Sweet Pea," he said. "How close are we to the cove?"

Gerard closed his eyes. "Not close enough to get there before they can follow us."

"It's just the one ship. And they haven't spotted us yet."

* * *

Frank had his head under the secondary turbine when he heard Gerard's voice and nearly brained himself. He slid out rubbing the lump over his eye and froze – Gerard's hand had reached out and stopped just shy of touching. Frank didn't even breathe.

Gerard looked . . . shocked. But he met his eyes, and his mouth twisted in what might have been a smile, if he didn't know what Gerard's smiles looked like. He finished the gesture, brushing aside Frank's hair to see the mark. He could feel his fingers tremble, even in that light touch.

"You'll be fine," Gerard said, bright as glass as he pulled his hand away. "No brain leakage."

Frank made himself match his tone. "None yet."

"Keep it that way," Frank drank in the concern in his voice.

"We're playing octopus," Gerard went on, tucking his hands behind his back. "Until we can't anymore."

Hiding in plain sight then. Not that they could keep it up long. The BL/ind ship could pick up the energy signatures from their guns if they thought to look for them, even if the fog kept visibility down. But if the ship wasn't after them, specifically, it might pass by before it noticed them.

"I'll keep the engines quiet," he said. "Let me know if we need to run for it."

"Can't run," Gerard said, that crooked almost-smile creeping back out. "We're too close to the cove to risk it."

Frank studied him. Gerard's eyes met his for the first time in days. Frank could feel his stinging. "Right," he said, clapping his hands to keep from grabbing at Gerard as he walked past. "Preparing to repel boarders." He waited until Gerard couldn't see it before he shook the stinging out of his still bandaged hands.

He felt absurdly, foolishly happy, even through that small pain. Gerard was still in there, beneath his shell. He hadn't lost him yet.

That giddy flutter stayed with him all the way up to the deck, when the watchful silence dampened it – in the fog, without her cheerfully colored lights, with the radio turned off and the engines down, the Neon Angel felt like a ghost ship. The creak of the rigging was eery in the fog, and every splash against the hull seemed magnified.

He looked up at Mikey, carefully positioning his laser rifle against the mainmast's crossbeam. The fog was thickening – wisps were curling around his boots. He could just barely see Ray.

He heard the soft click of the wheelhouse door. Knew Gerard had gone back in to watch the blip on the screen.

There was nothing left for him to do, but wait, and watch, and hold his breath.

* * *

The ship was bearing down on them as if it already knew exactly where they were. Or had no idea. Either way. Gerard stared at it, so he could stop staring at his hand. His fingertips were tingling. He could feel Frank's sweat, still. And the need that had shocked through him frightened him. It felt desperate.

And it wasn't as if he thought Frank would be ashamed of him, after . . . He wouldn't. Frank was an asshole, but he wasn't that kind of asshole. He firmed his jaw.

But he didn't want it to be desperate. He wanted it to be normal. Lazy, routine. Warm. So very warm. Korse had stolen that. And he hated, hated, him for that, more than anything else.

The tension was making his shoulders burn. He made himself slouch instead, relaxing his spine vertebra by vertebra.

Then he looked again at the radar screen – and blinked. There was another blip, larger than the first, coming up from the port side.

The PA was out – the sound would carry too far in this fog. He swung the door open, catching it just before it could slam against the wall. The thickness of the fog on the other side gave him pause – the ship's rail was indistinct, and he couldn't see Mikey in the rigging at all. He pushed down the anxiety that gave him – his brother was fine. He was wearing the harness.

He found Frank on the starboard rail, arms crossed, staring into the fog. Gerard chewed his lip, considering. Coward, he told himself. Fucking coward.

He put a hand on Frank's shoulder, and a finger on his lips, ignoring the way Frank spun into him, the way his eyes widened. This wasn't the time, he told himself, and let go with relief.

He raised two fingers and gestured to port, willing Frank to understand. Frank blinked at him, but a grim comprehension crossed his face. He gestured to the mast – to Mikey – and Gerard could only shake his head. There wasn't time to climb the rigging. They'd leave the first ship to him.

Gerard moved on to warn Ray, but Frank caught his hand. He froze, one foot off the deck. Frank wasn't meeting his eyes, but he raised Gerard's hand in both of his, and kissed his knuckles, one by one. Frank's lips felt hot against his skin.

And then Frank let go. He stalked through the fog until Gerard lost sight of him. Headed to port, to be as ready as he could.

Slowly, Gerard set his raised foot down, staring dumbly after Frank.

* * *

That was stupid, Frank thought. Pointless. Useless. There was an anger boiling up in him – he wanted to scream a challenge into the fog and be done with this.

He reached the rail and gripped it hard, leaning down towards the water. There was no visibility left – the whole world outside the reach of his arms was wreathed in opalescent gray.

Instead he closed his eyes and listened.

The slap of water against the hull echoed strangely now. The whispering of shifting lines and the sullen thud of heavy sails against the mast were turned into the rumblings of some sea beast, sleeping fitfully on the waves.

The BL/ind ship was close enough now that he could hear the rumble of her engine off the starboard side. But he couldn't hear anything closer to this side of the ship. He frowned, listened more intently. Was the second ship running silent? Had he confused the creaks and groans of that ship for the Angel's?

He leaned a little farther out, balancing his weight against the rock of the ship. Which was suddenly much more pronounced, as something huge rose to the surface only yards away. Frank's eyes snapped open, just in time to look into the great, dark eye of a breaching whale.

He couldn't help his shout as he fell back onto the deck, but it didn't matter. The sound of the whale's body hitting the surface was shattering. The crashing water drenched him completely, and the Angel swayed. He had a quick, frightened thought for Mikey, in the rigging.

There were shouts from the BL/ind ship, and their engine revved higher – Frank tensed.

But they were moving away, changing course. Frank wiped water from his face, trying not to laugh.

"Thanks, Sweet Pea," he whispered. "Owe you one."

* * *

He knew he was dreaming. The dragons were back, all three of them, ranged about his feet. This time, he could feel it when the green and yellow one hooked its claws into his pants, climbing up his side until it could perch on his shoulder. Its wing swept against the side of his head, and it hissed, teeth bared.

He knew he was dreaming, but he felt a frisson of fear just the same.

Korse stood on the deck in front of him.

"I have you," he said. "Did you think you could get away from me?"

Gerard could feel something rumbling up through him, from the soles of his feet up the backs of his legs, wrapping along his spine. He looked down at his bare arm – it wasn't glowing. Strange. His veins felt molten.

Oh, he thought. It's a scream. A scream that would shake him apart if he let it out. Like ash in the water.

Korse was still talking – his voice echoed weirdly in the fog. It was just noise. Gerard stared at him. Tried to stop his heart from beating, keep it quiet.

The dragon bit his ear. He flinched. Started breathing again. But then the dragon was gone, and it was Frank.

Frank was shaking so hard he was vibrating. He could feel it because Frank had his arm around his waist, tucking him tight into his side. His teeth were bared, grinding so hard Gerard could hear them.

Oh, he thought. Of course. And he smiled down at Frank, an honest, happy smile. The fire cooled. Frank went still, staring up at him.

"What?" he asked. He sounded irritated, confused. Not at all as if he'd been about to attack S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W's highest ranking officer with his teeth just a moment before.

"You have me," Gerard said, and knew it was the truest part of this dream.

* * *

He woke up in a tangle of blankets, alone. The ship's familiar rocking had that peculiar tug to it that meant they were anchored.

Gerard took a deep breath. And another, when that wasn't enough. He unwrapped himself from his warm nest and padded barefoot out of the cabin.

The sun had burned the fog away. Even under the bright sky, all the lanterns were lit – they flared blue and green and red against the high, thin wisps of clouds.

"No, dammit, leave that crap there! Let Aces take it back." Frank was slouched against the rail, yelling at Mikey, who stood on the shore holding a box of supplies over his head. Ray sat on the sand beside him, laughing.

"That stuff taste's like radioactive shit, Mikes, set it the fuck down!" Over Frank's curved shoulders Gerard could see the gesture Mikey tossed his way, as he set the box in the rowboat anyway. Frank groaned. Thunked his head down against the rail.

Gerard ran his hands nervously through his hair. He needed a cigarette.

But more importantly, he needed Frank. One more deep, salt-flavored breath, for his nerves. And he folded his arms on the rail beside Frank, close enough for Frank's hair to drift across his fingers in the breeze.

Frank didn't move. Gerard inched a little closer. "It's not that bad," he said, very deliberately not letting his voice shake as badly as his hands were. "If you stew it long enough, if almost tastes like food."

Frank turned his head without raising it – Gerard could see one bright eye beneath the fall of his hair, staring up at him.

It took a few false starts, but Gerard managed to unfold his arms. Tentatively, he wrapped them around Frank's ribs and bowed his head until he could rest it on Frank's back. He could hear Frank's heartbeat, hammering as hard as his own.

"I'm sorry it too so long," he murmured into Frank's shirt. "I miss you."

Frank made a sound like he was dying, and spun around so quickly that he almost fell back, fearful, but Frank kept his arms where they were. He held him so gently Gerard knew he could break that hold with no effort at all. If he wanted to.

Frank studied his face, searching. Gerard tried to show him everything – how much he loved him. How much this meant. How much it hurt, being apart from him, even on the same ship.

Gerard tightened his arms around Frank's waist as he stepped closer. Something was slotting back into place, something vital. Frank locked his hands on Gerard's shoulders and reached up to kiss him gently, on the forehead. His lips were trembling.

Gerard sighed, melting into him, until there was no distance left.

"There you are," he heard Frank say, voice broken and so glad. "There you are. I have you."

fin