Drawing back from the hug, Corra noticed the two of them staring at each other and laughed cheerfully. “Cy-cy, this is Rodrik,” she introduced, oblivious to whatever malicious thoughts were going through this Rodrik’s head. “Rodrik, this is Cyrus, the friend I was waiting for.” She grinned at each of them in turn and then seized Cyrus’ arm gleefully. “Come on!” she cheered, “Come dance with me!”

Corra started to pull him off into the crowd and Cyrus, eager to get away from whatever beating was coming his way if he stayed where he was, willingly followed. But before he could even move a foot, a second hand grabbed his shoulder, Corra’s grip slipped away and Cyrus was forcefully turned to face the grim leer of her former dance partner.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to cut in?” Rodrik asked, shouting over the music.

Cyrus’ first instinct whenever someone larger than him started threatening him was to run. But he had consumed just enough liquor and was having an evening just bad enough to overcome that instinct.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to steal someone’s date?” he snapped back, surprised at his own daring.

“I didn’t steal anything,” the man argued abruptly. “I just saw a cute girl and asked her to dance. Ain’t my fault her ‘date’ abandoned her.” Cyrus jerked his shoulder out of the man’s grip and opened his mouth to respond, but Rodrik beat him to it. “How bout you just get the hell outta here? That girl deserves someone who’ll treat her proper.”

At once, Cyrus was overcome with a blend of rage and despair. In equal measures he wanted to defend himself (“You don’t even know what you’re talking about, it’s not like that at all, shut up!” he’d shout), and run away. He hadn’t abandoned her. She wanted to dance, he let her dance. If anything, she had abandoned him, as soon as she’d decided not to give the nice restaurant a chance.

But she hadn’t given it a chance because she didn’t feel comfortable there. Just as he didn’t feel comfortable here. The realization spread over him uneasily. Maybe Rodrik was right after all. Cyrus knew that Corra wasn’t the type for fancy restaurants and polite dinner conversation, but he’d tried to fit her into that familiar mold anyway. A mold she didn’t fit in. And in return, she’d done the same to him. Maybe he really was a terrible date.

“Cyrus?” Corra pushed back through the crowd towards them and laid a hand on his shoulder. “C’mon,” she insisted again, but before Cyrus could even answer, Rodrik stepped in.

“He was just thinking of leaving,” the man said darkly, putting his hand on Cyrus’ other shoulder and gently pushing him out of the way. Cyrus looked up at him hopelessly and for a moment believed that he probably should just leave. Until Corra spoke up.

“Oh?” she asked, casting him a worried stare. “Okay, let me just finish my drink and we can go?”

A warmth suddenly arose in Cyrus’ chest. A warmth that was quickly put out when Rodrik relented his grip on Cyrus and moved towards Corra instead, insisting, “Oh, you don’t have to go too. Stay, dance some more, I’ll make sure you get home safe.”

“No thanks,” was Corra’s immediate response and she smiled at Cyrus. “I don’t mind going now, really.”

Cyrus felt a large temptation to step forward and pull her into another hug, but this guy apparently was not giving up so easily. He looked shocked, and then simply appalled that she’d turned down the offer. “Aw c’mon, stay a little longer. We were having fun til this guy showed up.” He jerked his thumb towards Cyrus.

This time, when Corra looked up at him, it was with irritation. “I’m still having fun actually,” she corrected, her tone terse. “Cyrus, let’s go.”

“Seriously?” Rodrik asked, defeated and now grasping at straws. “You really wanna go with this loser?”

Privately, Cyrus agreed with the sentiment, but apparently it was the wrong thing to say to Corra. Corra suddenly spun back around, fury in her eyes. “Excuse me?” she said viciously. Her hand, Cyrus noticed, was still wrapped around his wrist.

“C’mon, look at him,” Rodrik explained, though his tone suggested he already knew this was a losing battle. “Dressed up like some fancy prick? What the hell’s that about? And what’s this?” Before Cyrus could stop him, he reached over and seized the roses from his hand, holding them up in demonstration. “Flowers? Really? What is it, 1810?”

With a hearty scoff, he lifted his shoulders and tossed the bouquet to the floor where it was immediately stomped on by nearby dancers.

Cyrus had seen Corra angry plenty of times, but never had he seen her with quite the amount of fury that filled her as she watched her flowers pulverized by heavy shoes and four inch heels. Her eyes went from the destruction on the floor, up to Rodrik’s face and finally down to the still half full glass in her hand.

With a low growl, the last two combined as Corra splashed what was left of it straight in his eyes. “Those were mine, you son of a bitch!” she shouted angrily. But apparently, the drink wasn’t enough to satisfy her. Distractedly, she tossed the empty glass aside (Cyrus thought he heard someone shriek as it smashed on the floor), and while Rodrik was still reeling from the alcohol burning his eyeballs, she sucker-punched him right in the jaw.

Corra paid no heed to the gasps of shock and awe as she confidently strode out of the bar, Cyrus immediately on her heels, more happy than ever to leave this place.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

” …. right in the face. It hurt like hell, honestly,” Leta was saying, her voice uneven as she fought off another bout of laughter, “but it hurt her more. I actually broke her nose.”

Fiearius laughed, loud and uneven, as he handed her another shot glass, brimming and spilling over with whiskey. It was their — fourth shot? Or maybe their sixth, judging by the unsteadiness to Fiearius’ stance and the glassiness in his eyes when he grinned sloppily at her. She’d never actually seen the captain drunk before, and it struck her as particularly hilarious; even he couldn’t hold this much liquor.

In one swift motion she downed the shot, grimacing as it burned down her throat. Then she laughed and coughed as she tried to remember what it was they were even discussing …

Oh right. The one and only time she’d ever punched anyone, back in high school. “There was so much blood,” she recalled, sighing wistfully. “Enough that they had to repaint a wall.”

She laughed again, and then clasped a hand over her mouth as she hiccuped. It was admittedly difficult to keep track of the conversation now that they had moved into the kitchen to finish off this bottle — and it was nearly empty now, she realized, picking up the bottle by the neck and tilting it back and forth with interest.

“Anyway,” said Leta, noticing a certain wobbliness in her voice. She lowered the bottle beside her before looking over at Fiearius. He was leaning sideways against the cabinets, facing her, currently finishing off his own shot. She sat sideways atop the counter, one leg swinging toward the floor. “What were we talking about again?”

“How you like to beat up high school girls,” Fiearius said at once, sliding his empty glass across the counter, his eyes following it with a drunken level of interest.

“Wh — no, that was only once. And I think actually we were speculating about how the date is going.”

Fiearius, who was busy flicking the emptying bottle as though it was the most important thing he ever had to do, picked up his head in alarm.

“What date?” he demanded. “I never said anything about this being a date.”

“Well good,” said Leta blankly, and then recovered, “because this isn’t. Cyrus and Corra, however … “

After a moment of profound confusion, Fiearius blinked. “Oh yeah,” he remembered, laughing slowly. “My brother.” He fell silent, and then said abruptly, “Hey, I used to beat up high school people too. Not girls usually. But they always picked on my lil brother for being a goddamn nerd.” He made a fist and frowned at it determinedly. “So I punched ‘em in the face. Only took a couple times though.” He grinned proudly. “Then no one ever bothered him again.”

Leta looked between Fiearius and the fist he was making, wondering where this story had came from, but snorting out a laugh all the same. “Wow, you punching someone. Shocking.” But actually, there was something she wondered, and she tilted her heavy head to the side. “Were you two close growing up then?”

“Oh yeah,” he said, dropping his fist. “Real close. Our house was pretty small so we had to share a room and sometimes we’d just stay up for hours talking about everything. School, home, our family, girls. We used to help each other write love letters,” he remembered with a laugh. “I had the ideas, he had the grammar and literary reference. They were damn poetry. Worked for me a couple times. I think Cy was always too chicken to send his though.” He smiled at the memory, but it faded as he added, “But I left home at sixteen and didn’t talk to him for ten years so…” He grimaced and shrugged. “Oops.”

Before Leta could response, Fiearius continued his rambling, seemingly choosing the words out of thin air.

“Look, it’s not that I don’t want them to be happy,” he said suddenly, focusing his hazy eyes on her with difficulty. “Cy and Corra I mean. Since I bet my ship against them and all. I want them to be. Really. And I love Corra, I do. And so does Cy, obviously. But as much as he thinks otherwise, she’s just not the right girl for him. I know it. She knows it. If he’d just open his eyes for a few minutes and stop being blinded by those big brown eyes of hers, he’d know it too.”

“Sometimes,” Leta put in quietly, “people can’t help who they like.”

Fiearius frowned. “Cyrus has this underlying belief that all it takes for a good relationship is being nice to each other,” he went on, almost as though Leta wasn’t in the room at all. “You like someone, they like you, you laugh a bit, have some conversations, good to go. He and Corra are friends, they get along well, she has female parts, clearly they are meant to be. But that’s not true.” He pointed his finger at Leta accusingly. “It’s not true.”

“It could be true,” Leta argued.

“I was married for four years,” he continued, laughing oddly as though he, himself, couldn’t believe it either. “Trust me, that’s not true. And you probably know that too, don’t you? You know. Real love, the kind that makes a…thing, a long thing, and isn’t just…you know, whatever it is, it’s way more than friendship. It’s trust. And honesty. And respect and anger and forgiveness and all the little pieces of you that you wish no one knew, it’s that. It’s understanding and willingness to understand.” As he spoke, he moved his hands in the air dramatically, as though trying to act out the concepts.

“It’s taking out your soul and laying it on a table and smashing it with a hammer and letting the other person try and put it back together again.” His hand gestures were particularly dramatic at this point. “Real love isn’t fluffy, happy friendship, it’s a connection. A connection that you want but don’t want at the same time. Something you can’t live with. But you can’t live without either.”

Seemingly at the height of his rant, he turned suddenly to Leta and his expression fell into concern as he asked, “You know what I mean, right?”

Leta hadn’t expected to him to address her, so when he did, she felt caught. She didn’t particularly want him to notice how curiously she was watching him now, intent on his every word.

“Yeah,” she said at last quietly. “Yeah, I do.”

It was in the next moment that Leta, all at once, noticed their proximity: he slanted sideways against the counter, oriented fully to her now, his gaze level with hers. Her foot was swung over the counter’s edge, touching his knee. They were inches apart; she could have counted the scars marring the edges of his face.

When had this happened? She didn’t remember this happening.

She searched his face in surprise, then quickly averted her eyes and reached for the bottle again so she could subtly shift away.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

“Yeah, I’ve been in a barfight before.”

Corra laughed incredulously and squeezed his arm. “No you haven’t.”

“I have too,” Cyrus defended adamantly as he walked along the street back towards the dock. It was quiet in this part of the city, almost peaceful. “A few times actually.”

Corra laughed, looping her arm through his as she strolled alongside him. “Oh really? Do tell,” she demanded skeptically.

“There was one time on Tarin,” he recounted, “And there was another one on that little planet a few days out from Kadolyne? The one with that big monument of the person with wings and–”

“Lodain,” Corra put in helpfully.

“Right, Lodain. And then the one on Archeti,” he finished proudly.

“The one on Archeti?” Corra asked, indignant, though she was grinning. “What, the one where you got poisoned? Cy-cy, you were on the floor dying through the entire thing.”

“Well…yeah, but I was there,” he argued simply.

“And the other two?” He cast her a guilty smirk. “I wonder how those got started?”

“Okay, maybe my brother had something to do with it,” he admitted, looking ahead as the Dionysian came into view at last. The ship was a welcome sight, although he wasn’t sure he was ready for the night to end.

With a sigh, he started to open the ramp to the cargo bay, throwing a look toward Corra at his side. “But I was conscious for those two fights,” he reminded her, picking up the thread of their conversation. “I even punched someone in one of them.”

Corra shook her head, slowing to a stop. “You know, I’m okay with you not punching people, actually,” she declared. “I need at least one friend who has a less than fifty percent chance of ending up imprisoned for grievous bodily harm.”

“Dunno if I can keep that up,” he muttered regrettably and raised his arm to flex his bicep. Or, what little of one existed. “It’s not easy keeping this much raw power contained.”

She laughed even harder now, a little too hard, actually. Maybe he should have been offended. In any case, he said, “Seriously though. Thanks for punching that guy. Sorry you’re not allowed in that club anymore.”

Corra just smiled back at him kindly. “That’s okay, it was a stupid club anyway,” she remarked flippantly as her eyes trailed down to the hood hanging around his neck. Fussily, she readjusted where it sat on his shoulders. “You don’t even really look like a fancy prick, by the way,” she told him bluntly. “I’m mostly just bummed he wrecked my flowers.”

“Even if it’s old-fashioned?” he wondered quietly, suddenly finding their proximity and the foggy moonlight shining on her face particularly distracting.

“Especially if it’s old-fashioned,” she assured him with a smile. The sight of it actually made his heart — he swore it, biology be damned — halt in his chest.

Go for it, he told himself, as a brief, expectant silence fell between them. Go for it. Fear of rejection shouldn’t have held him back. Not when she was standing so close, smiling up at him like that and she was just within his reach. This was his chance, possibly the only one he’d ever get. He’d be a fool not to take advantage of it.

“I uh…I had a really good time tonight,” he muttered, since it sounded right, but of course Corra scoffed.

“No you didn’t.” She cocked a brow. “You had a terrible time.”

He considered arguing, but finally relented,“Yeah actually. I did. But…not now.” He cast her a hopeful smile. “I’m having a good time now.”

She chuckled, squeezing his arm warmly. “Well good,” she said simply. “Me too.”

This was it, right? Cyrus had seen enough movies to know that this was it. This was when he was supposed to lean in and …

His gaze lowered to her mouth, noting the particular curve of lips like it was his job to memorize the shape. His hand tentatively found the small of her back, and he leaned his lips gently down to meet hers, closing the small distance between them.

It was more of a light brush than a real kiss, but it still sent warmth running madly to his limbs. Before he had a chance to deepen it, Corra’s voice suddenly filled his ears, worried and alarmed.

“Cyrus, I — “

His eyes opened at once, just in time to see Corra step backward, breaking their embrace. Immediately, Cyrus felt all his insides churn at the look on her face: she looked stunned. Lost, even.

“I don’t –” she tried again, another step backwards. Her eyes widened in apology. “I have to go,” she said, and before he could find his voice, she had turned away from him and fled into the ship, leaving him standing at the bottom of the ramp, dumbfounded and alone.

“So. He killed someone?” said Leta, abandoning all pretense now.

Fiearius breathed a short, wry laugh. “Not quite. Woulda been kinder to us all though if he did.”

Leta felt her heart clench.

“That’s terrible,” she said quietly, gripping her hand around her otherwise untouched glass. “And I suppose it’s too late for me to … ” To help the victim, she thought, trailing off uselessly. “Why do you keep him around if he doesn’t listen to you?” she asked, looking up at him. “Good gunhand or not. He seems very … ” Unsettled. Disturbed. Creepy.

“Fucked up?” Fiearius suggested through another laugh. “Yeah. I know. But who among us isn’t, really?” He smirked, and then muttered, “I dunno. There are times like these when I honestly think we’d be better off without him. And then there are times when his rifle’s the only thing between me and a hole in my head.” He spread his free hand helplessly and took another sip of his drink. “It’s hard to say. I haven’t yet had a good enough reason to sway either direction so…stay he does.”

“Even when he hurts innocent people?” said Leta at once. She did not find this answer particularly satisfying. “If I’m remembering the combat ring correctly, you’ve recently taken a stance against that.”

Fiearius grimaced and shook his head. “Innocent isn’t the word I’d use,” he amended. “Useful people. People I didn’t want hurt. But innocent? No. Not innocent.” He fell silent for a moment, swirling the remaining liquid in his glass absently. Finally, he went on, “But as un-useful as that is, he makes up for it in how many times he’s saved all our asses. Been more than a few firefights that would have gone the other way if it weren’t for him. He’s not disloyal exactly. He defends the ship, through and through, and defends it well. And with the amount of trouble we get into? Kinda need people like him around…”

Leta couldn’t say she agreed, though she was understanding now why Fiearius craved that strong drink. She hadn’t actually had any of her drink yet; in silence she tapped her fingers against the glass, until Fiearius broke the silence and asked, “So where’s your posse at tonight, huh?”

“Cyrus and Corra?” Leta asked, wondering if it was wise to inform Fiearius of what they were actually up to. Then again, he’d overhear something about it soon. Gossip spread on the ship like wildfire. Besides, she felt proud of Cyrus, so she said, “Actually. They’re out on a date right now.”

At once, Fiearius snorted a laugh into his drink. “On a date?” he repeated, lowering his glass to better survey her. “Suppose that’s your doing?”

“No, Cyrus asked her,” said Leta at once. And then she admitted, glancing to the side, “I may have encouraged things, yes … “

He was still shaking his head slowly, a knowing smirk on his face. “You have no idea what you’ve done, do you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Leta, unsure if she wanted to laugh or not.

“It means that in…” He glanced up at the clock across the room. “In an hour, maybe two, you’re gonna have two very upset individuals knocking on your door begging you to erase the last twelve hours of their lives.”

This time, Leta did laugh. “What?! Not a chance. They’re probably having a ball right now. The time of their lives.” Leta hoped very much this was true. “What — you think it’s a mistake?”

“I know it’s a mistake,” he laughed. “I’ll bet you my ship this ends badly.”

Leta squinted, pretending to consider the offer as she looked around the room.

“Well I would make an outstanding captain … Yeah, I’ll take that bet,” she said.

Smirking, she reached for drink for the first time, tilting it against his with an agreeable clink of glass.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Of all the ways Cyrus had pictured the evening, this was not among them. His hopes of a classy romantic dinner had been squashed, but even then, he’d believed there would be some acceptable middle ground. A quiet cafe maybe or a nice relaxed diner somewhere by the docks. A place they could get a decent meal and have some decent conversation. A simple request really. Anything would have been better than the dark, crowded, noisy bar they’d wound up inside.

As he fidgeted on an uncomfortable stool, picking aimlessly at the greasy appetizers crammed onto the tiny table in front of him, he realized Corra was speaking, but he had no idea what she was saying.  The persistent thumping of the bass from the dance floor downstairs drowned her out completely.

Nor could he see much more than the dark shape of the woman in front of him occasionally silhouetted by a bright pink or green spinning light. A shape that was now waving at him, haloed in orange.

“What?” Cyrus shouted, leaning in to try and hear what she was saying.

Corra took a deep breath and shouted back, “I asked what you thought.”

“About what?”

Cyrus thought he saw disappointment in her eyes. She shook her head. “Nevermind.”

Admittedly, Cyrus had not been on a record number of dates in his life. He could count them all on his fingers if he tried. But of those minimal few, so far, judging by some mathematical ratio of how much he liked his date versus how poorly their date was going, this one was the worst. If decent food and decent conversation was what he had been going for, the final quality of both was a pretty hefty indicator.

As he sat up straight again, he heard a muffled ‘nnnngh mm hm hhhd’ across the table. Leaning in again, he shouted, “What?”

“I didn’t know this place would be so loud!” Corra said again, three notches higher. Cyrus provided her a light understanding smirk and nodded slowly. Sure, she didn’t know. Despite the fact that they’d heard the music a block away and that’s what had drawn her in.

Even now, even in the dim light, he could see her casting glances at the dance floor below them through the railings. Cyrus was no idiot. He’d known Corra long enough to know her ideal night out was down there in the crowd under the bright lights, swaying her hips to the music. But he also knew himself well enough to know that his ideal night was … well, the exact opposite.

But who was he to keep her from what she wanted? Better one of them not be miserable than both.

“You should go dance if you want to,” he called to her loudly, leaning in again. Her eyes widened in surprise and she quickly shook her head.

“No no! I’m okay here,” she assured him, picking up her drink and taking a long sip through the straw.

“Go on,” he insisted. “I’m serious. You should go. Have fun.”

This time, with her lips still pursed on her straw, she actually seemed to consider it. She glanced down to the dance floor and then back up at him. “No, I can’t,” she decided at last.

“You can,” Cyrus told her again, “Please. I want you to have a good time.”

Again, her eyes flitted between him and the stairs. A few times. Until at last, drink in hand, she slid from her stool and seized his wrist. “Come with me,” she ordered, but of course, Cyrus shook his head. “Come with me, please,” she begged, tugging at his arm. “I won’t go if you don’t.”

Despite himself, Cyrus chuckled. Well at least she cared. And although he wanted to simply turn her down again, as he looked into those big brown doe eyes, staring up at him with all the need and want of a starving puppy, he couldn’t say anything but, “Agh, okay. In a minute. Let me finish some of this food first at least.”

Corra bounced with excitement, still with a death grip on his arm. “Promise?”

“Yeah I promise,” he reluctantly agreed. “I’ll come find you in a bit.” Apparently satisfied with what would probably be half lie, Corra grinned, relinquished her hold and ran off towards the stairs, disappearing into the shadows and blending into the crowd below.

Which left Cyrus alone. On an uncomfortable stool. At a cramped table. In a loud, horrible bar. On the worst date he’d ever had. The next time the waitress passed him, he intended to order a very very strong drink…

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

“I’ll take another drink, thanks,” Leta ordered, nodding at the whiskey bottle on Fiearius’ side of the table. She skidded her emptied glass across the table toward him, like he was her personal bartender. Truthfully, she hadn’t intended staying for another round, but it turned out the whiskey wasn’t as cheap and foul as she suspected.

Besides, she was waiting to win a bet here. She leaned back in her seat and put her feet up on a chair, mocking the way she saw Fiearius sit in his captain’s chair, dramatically overconfident.

“By the way, have you noticed the time?” She nodded toward the clock on the wall innocently. “Notice Cy and Corra aren’t back yet? Because they’re having such a good time on their date?” She smirked. “You’re about to hand over your ship, looks like.”

As she spoke, Fiearius was obediently pouring her another drink, helping himself to another while he was at it. All the while, he was shaking his head. “In your dreams, kiddo, in your dreams,” he muttered, passing her a refreshed glass.

Leta grinned around the rim of her glass. “What’s so wrong with them giving it a shot, anyway?” she asked. “Someone on this boat oughta have a happy love life.”

“Who says someone doesn’t already?” Fiearius argued in false indignation. “Hell, for all you know, maybe I do. What makes you think I don’t have a fantastic love life, huh?”

“Because you sleep around every time we make a stop,” said Leta without missing a beat, laughing in spite of herself. Fiearius shrugged one shoulder in agreement. “But I guess — you could also … be in a relationship … that’s true … ” Her voice trailed off dubiously, until she joked, “Well, congratulations, then. I didn’t think a relationship would fit into your pirating lifestyle. Who is she? Or he.”

A mischievous smirk lit up his face. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he answered, tilting his glass at her before downing a healthy measure.

“Probably not,” said Leta, lifting her own drink to her lips. The whiskey went down easier now, warm and smoky, as she sipped. “I can’t picture you being very domestic.”

Putting his glass back down on the table with a thud of glass meeting metal, Fiearius shrugged and remarked, “Eh, people can surprise ya I think.”

Leta opened her mouth to refute, but suddenly hesitated. It may have been hard to picture now, but Fiearius had been domestic once, hadn’t he? The night from a few weeks ago came to mind — when Cyrus confessed that once upon a time, Fiearius, actually, had once been married … with a child …

Her expression must have softened, because suddenly, Fiearius’ own expression shifted toward confusion as he eyed her. And then, after a moment, realization spread over his face, and not happily so. He heaved a sigh and cocked a knowing brow at her. “You know, don’t you?”

“Know?”

He rolled his eyes. “About Aela. Cyrus told you, didn’t he?”

Leta froze, and then, after a moment, relaxed. It felt wrong to lie about something as significant as his deceased wife. She sighed. “Yeah. When he was drunk a few weeks ago.” She paused, and asked softly, “Aela, is it? I didn’t know her name.”

“Mmmhm,” he muttered absently, taking another drink. A significantly longer one this time, she noticed, but Leta couldn’t help but voice her curiosity.

“So … when did you get married?” she asked gently. “You must’ve been young.”

“Twenty-two.” He snorted a laugh. “Young and naive.”

“That is young,” Leta murmured. “But … when you know, you just know. Ren and I were engaged after six months. How long did you know each other before you got married?”

Fiearius quietly considered the question. “I met her when I was eighteen,” he decided at last. “Though it was another year before she’d give me the time of day.”

At that, Leta couldn’t bite back her smirk. “Well I can’t imagine why.”

“Oh, you think I’m bad now?” he replied with a grin. “Twelve years ago I was a right nightmare. Gotta give her some credit for ever giving me a chance at all.”

Leta winced, but it wasn’t from the whiskey burning down her throat. “I can’t imagine you at eighteen …” Gingerly taking another sip, Leta lowered her glass and wondered quietly, feeling bolder, “Fiearius, how did she die?”

He was looking at her when she asked the question, but immediately after, his eyes shifted past her shoulder to something she couldn’t see. He was so still, she wasn’t sure he’d even answer at all. Finally, a humorless smirk pulled across his face and he said calmly, “Let’s not.”

Leta lifted her eyebrows in apology, searching him over. Then she sighed, “Okay. Well, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry your time with her got cut short,” and then fell into an agreeable silence. She tapped her fingers against her glass, and, abruptly, pulled a face of disgust.

“Sorry. I just — I’m still trying to picture you as a husband,” she admitted shortly. “Domesticated. Tamed. It’s difficult to imagine …”

He laughed lightly. “I dunno about tamed exactly. Aela would probably disagree,” he admitted. “Whassa matter? Surprised you ain’t the only one on this boat to buy into the ideals of marital bliss?”

“A little. Yeah. Although I wouldn’t say I’m ‘buying’ into those ideals of happy marriage. At least, not anymore.”

To her surprise, he looked thoughtfully interested. “That so?”

Before Leta could think to stop herself, she started talking, more unguarded than she ever had around Fiearius, “Well, it’s difficult to feel optimistic when we were supposed to be married two months ago, and now I don’t even know if … if we’ll … ”

Ever be together again. She felt her shoulders sink, but she pressed on bluntly, “I don’t care about our wedding anymore. And I doubt getting married will be our first concern when I get Ren back. So I don’t care about that. Any of that. Right now I just want him to be alright. That’s all.”

A silence followed her words, and tentatively she flicked her eyes up to Fiearius. He was watching her with a frown on his face, his brow slightly creased. He said nothing. Then his eyes dropped to the glass in his hand, his frown deepened and, without a word of explanation, he stood up from his chair and walked away from the table.

Leta blinked. Apparently sharing a personal story with Fiearius was even more ill-advised than she thought.

“Where’re you going?” she called after him, feeling somewhat defensive, but Fiearius answered right away.

“To get the shot glasses,” he called back as he disappeared into the kitchen. “We’re gonna need ‘em.”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

It actually took two strong drinks before Cyrus even considered joining Corra on the dance floor. It was one more to make him actually do it. And when he did, it was less out of intent to join her as it was intent to convince her to let them leave.

There was some part of him, as he sat upstairs alone, that hoped she would eventually come back on her own. Maybe she’d realize she missed him or that dancing wasn’t that great after all or that she’d much rather fetch Cyrus and go somewhere else where they could talk. But predictably, Corra never did come back. She never had that realization. She didn’t want to go anywhere else. So reluctantly, Cyrus had seized the bouquet of flowers that was now falling apart and headed for the stairs, noticing vaguely that the floor was swaying.

Corra was not the easiest person to locate in a crowd. It took Cyrus all of eight uncomfortable minutes forcing himself through the sweaty mass of moving people before he finally laid eyes on a familiar flip of black hair. Delicately slipping between two skinny blondes even taller than him, he reached out to lay on her shoulder.

Instantly, Corra spun around to face him and after a moment of recognition, squealed, “Cy-cy! Finally! What took you so long?” She outstretched her arms to pull him into an awkward dancing hug. As she wrapped her arms around his neck, a bit of her drink spilled onto his back. A drink that he certainly hadn’t bought her.

And that was when he noticed the man standing beside her, giving him a death stare. He wasn’t particularly burly or tough, just an average local by the looks of it, but even the most average local could likely be successful in breaking Cyrus’ skull open for the right reason.

This guy seemed to think he had the right reason.

In fact, she was several steps behind, her back to him as she gazed down the hallway, her fists clenched at her sides. Cyrus had no idea what she was looking at. Confused, and suddenly weary, he stepped around and glimpsed her face: she looked lost, indecisive, pained even.

“Corra?” he asked tentatively, as Fiearius called from down the alley, “C’mon, little brother, we’ve got a date with the upper atmosphere!”

But Cyrus didn’t move. Neither did Corra.

“Corra, come on,” he pressed quietly, feeling truly alarmed now. He reached for her arm, but she jerked it away.

“I can’t!” Corra muttered quietly and then turned to him, her eyes wide and glassy. “We can’t!” she cried more desperately. Her chest was heaving with emotion. “The other prisoners. In the cells. They’ll do the same to them. They’ll die. We can’t just leave them — “

Of course, thought Cyrus numbly. Of course Corra had to rescue those people — they were imprisoned now, just as she had been once upon a time …

Cyrus watched, dumbstruck, as she rushed past him into the hallway back toward the holding cells. He hesitated, glancing longingly toward the exit; but just as quickly he realized he could not — he would not — leave Corra here.

Still, he’d had quite enough action for one day, he thought, wincing as he rushed after her. When he caught up, she was already hard at work at one of the metal doors, picking the lock of a cell that held a gaunt, pale man who seemed hardly able to believe she was there to free him.

“How can I help?” Cyrus asked hurriedly, feeling certain the answer would be ‘you can’t.’ But, overestimating him, Corra handed him an extra hairpin and, too distracted for further instruction, pointed at the next cell over.

“I don’t know how to–” Cyrus began, but regardless, tried shoving the pin in and out of the lock uselessly.

How was it that he — the engineer — couldn’t break these locks, but somehow Corra could? He watched, amazed, as she broke open the door, pulled it open and the man inside, looking shocked and laughing in disbelief, got his freedom.

With shakingly nervous hands, Cyrus wrestled with his own lock  — he even tried giving the bars a rough shake out of anger, which reminded him strongly of Fiearius — but then it occurred to him. He remembered what was in his other hand: a gun.

With a deep breath, Cyrus cocked the gun, closed his eyes, pointed his arm and pulled the trigger. The gunshot echoed through the whole hallway in a deafening ring of bullet against metal.

Cyrus opened his eyes carefully and peered down to find the lock exactly where he’d left it. Except only half of it. The door swung open as the cell’s occupant ran out.

Suddenly, another shot rang out. He jumped, but when he found the source (a pleased Corra smiling over at him innocently), he relaxed.

“Good idea,” she told him, beaming at him and firing one last time at the final lock. “That’s the last one, let’s get out of here.”

Cyrus didn’t even bother voicing his agreement. He just turned towards the door and ran, more eager than ever to never see this place again.

The only thing that stopped him was the heart-wrenching scream he heard just feet from the exit. Corra. Corra was — where was she?

Immediately, his breath caught in his throat and his eyes widened in horror as he looked back to witness Corra struggling furiously in the arms of a man twice her size. One of the guards had caught up to her, choking her, as she yelled, “Cyru–” before his hand clamped over her mouth, dragging her kicking, flailing body towards one of the cells she’d just liberated.

Cyrus did not consider himself particularly brave. He avoided conflict and he always dodged physical confrontation. But it took all of three seconds seeing Corra trapped in the man’s clutches for him to forget that he had no idea how to fight anyone. Without another moment’s hesitation, he barrelled towards them, his fist raised as he shouted, “Let her go!”

He swung his fist back, and then cracked it across the man’s face with more power than Cyrus even knew he had. He would have been shocked by his own daring if he didn’t immediately pull away and grasp his knuckles in pain: one thing his brother never told him about punching people was that it really fucking hurt.

He grimaced, but not nearly as bad as his victim: the guard stumbled back, releasing Corra as blood smeared all over his face.

Free and defiant, Corra righted herself and, without hesitation, unholstered her gun and shot the man in the leg. As he roared in pain, writhing on the ground, she looked up at Cyrus and laughed loudly in shock. Clearly, she didn’t think he had it in him, either. He laughed too, but it was a bubbling, nervous laugh, more out of relief than anything else.

“Okay,” she said. “Really. Let’s go.” But before they could dart away, Corra did something he never would have expected.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world, Corra stepped toward him, grabbed his shirt collar and pulled him in so that his lips clasped onto hers in in a forceful kiss that paralyzed him. His eyes widened, and then closed shut, his hands uselessly hanging at his sides as her lips pressed warmly to his. When she pulled away, a shaky gasp fell out of his lungs.

In a flash, she was gone: she was running down the hallway towards the door, but Cyrus could only stand there, dumbstruck. Warmth was spreading madly through him; he felt feverish with shock.

What the hell just happened? Had she really — ?

Cyrus never arrived at an answer. Dazedly touching his fingers to his lips, he felt a hand around his wrist and an impatient tug as Corra yelled, “Come on!” and dragged him out the door, heading back to the ship at last.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Cyrus had not recovered from his shock even an hour later. He felt like he was underwater, merely going through the motions of readying the engine for take-off, useless and distracted.

Abruptly, the engine growled at him, bringing him out of his daze. He stepped back and sighed. Now that the Dionysian’s systems were running and the ship was mercifully in the air, he didn’t know what to do. Dropping his wrench, he felt his legs wander back upstairs, automatically leading him toward the bridge. For what, he didn’t know. It wasn’t like he planned to ever tell his brother what had transpired. Cyrus was thinking now he would take that kiss with him to his grave …

Inside the bridge, Fiearius was slumped in his seat, looking sourly at Leta, crouched near him. She was tearing a bandage into strips and glaring as she tended to the cuts on his face.

“Can’t you do this later?” Fiearius was growling. “I have a ship to fly, you know.”

“And it’s only thanks to me you’re able to fly it at all,” she said bitterly, but while Fiearius opened his mouth to retort, this was when Cyrus tuned them out and dropped into the co-pilots seat, his mind miles away from Fiearius and Leta. Instead he was wondering: now what the hell was he supposed to do? Talk to her about it? Ask her why she’d done that? Or —

It took him several moments to notice the bickering had stopped. With a start, he realized both Fiearius and Leta had paused what they were doing, and were watching him curiously.

Puzzled and amused, Leta prompted, “Er, you okay, Cy?”

Slowly, Cyrus blinked his eyes. “Oh. Yeah, I’m fine,” he responded at last, though fine was probably the last word he’d actually use to describe himself. More like ecstatic, terrified, confused, anxious …

For a moment longer, Leta surveyed him through narrowed eyes, and Cyrus had the sudden paranoid sense she could see right through him. Girls had a sixth sense for stuff like this, didn’t they? Didn’t they? And she was such a good friend of Corra’s …

But after a short pause, all Leta said was, “Well, you look weird,” her voice muffled as she tore a bandage between her teeth and turned back to Fiearius.

He sighed in relief, but Fiearius was still eyeing him, like he was working things out in his head, a sight Cyrus always found unsettling. Fortunately, at the perfect moment, Leta hit the right nerve on Fiearius’ head and he jolted in pain.

“Ugh, stop,” he grumbled, glaring at her, though didn’t make any motion to actually make her leave. Instead, he argued, “Shouldn’t you be taking care of that,” he gestured to her injured leg, “Not this?”

“I already did,” Leta muttered passingly, tearing the bandage from her teeth. “Minor infection. Should be okay. Though we’re still out of supplies … ” she muttered dryly, and then abruptly, she pulled back and gasped. “What, you’re not actually — concerned about me, are you, captain?”

“If that’s what it takes to get you to go away?” Fiearius suggested dully. “Yes. Yes I am.”

Already tired of this, Cyrus adjusted himself on his seat and interrupted, purposely keeping his voice even and brisk, “On the note of supplies. We’re running low on a lot of things actually. Where are we headed next?”

Fiearius leaned back in his seat, ignoring that it interrupted the bandaging Leta was doing to his head. She bristled.

“I was just trying to figure that out actually,” he replied seriously. “Though I’ll admit supplies are second on my priority list right now.” At Cyrus’ look of confusion, he clarified, “Can’t buy supplies without credits. And all our credits…” His voice trailed off pointedly.

Cyrus was glad he didn’t finish that thought.. He knew he’d made the right choice in buying Leta back from captivity, but he’d expected Fiearius to at least blame him or Leta for how broke they were now. The fact that he didn’t was both surprising and welcome.

Maybe he’d gotten hit in the head harder than Cyrus thought.

“So job first, I think,” Fiearius said thoughtfully, leaning forward again, likely with the pure intention of annoying his relentless physician, who was edging around him to reach his wounds. “I’ve got a few leads. Little things. But I’ll reach out to some people,” he went on, “Try and get something bigger … “

Cyrus purposely didn’t ask for specifics  — he didn’t want to know what Fiearius’ idea of ‘something bigger’ was.

In fact, Cyrus felt his attention slipping from the conversation. Relieved as he was to have both Leta and his brother back safely aboard the now-flying Dionysian after the longest day of his life, it wasn’t them who occupied his thoughts in that moment. Half of his mind was still elsewhere on the ship, on Corra, who had disappeared like nothing unusual at all had happened today …

Traze made sure it was not. The man was practically giddy when he shouted, “– and now let’s meet — our challengers!” and threw his hand toward the opposite end of the ring. Operating on a slight delay, Fiearius slowly followed the line of where he pointed to see what he meant.

Not one man, but three of them, were pushed into the ring opposite him. Three. Three of them. One was tall and skinny, bearing the cropped ear of an ally; another was thick as a tree trunk with the facial tattoo of a local gang; and finally, behind them both, a burly, round man who had the scowl of a large, angry tiger.

“The most even match we could conjure for the Red Fury! “ cried Traze as Fiearius did nothing but stand there, staring dumbfounded. “But will even these skilled combatants have a chance against his rage?!”

Swaying to the side, Fiearius found it wasn’t alarm he felt. In his heavy exhaustion, he had no room for a charged emotion like that. It was strange, but he actually felt a touch impressed by what was being handed to him. Traze really could draw a crowd and make a fortune. He’d be worth far more to the proprietor when he lost …

Squinting his eyes, Fiearius tilted his head as he glimpsed a strange blur of movement in the center of the ring, and that movement was advancing closer. Was the fight starting? Already? Wasn’t there supposed to be a bell or signal of some kind? How else would he know? Although, come to think of it, the crowd was bellowing even louder than before …

That alarm he’d been lacking started to reach him now, circling and circling and finally landing upon him. He blinked his eyes and focused his unsteady gaze and suddenly, not a second too soon, swung his arms sharply like a club at the nearest assailant.

Knuckles made contact with teeth and with a surprising crack, the man stumbled backwards. Shrill screams rang from the crowd and for a moment Fiearius thought maybe this fight wasn’t as lopsided as he’d imagined. He staggered back, shocked at himself. Hell, maybe he actually could win this thing —

In a rush, white-hot pain clenched his stomach and all the breath flooded out of his lungs: the tall one, in a flash, had dug his fist into his abdomen, making him double over. Gasping for breath, Fiearius flung a leg sideways, bashing a knee.

These men must’ve made a pact, realized Fiearius, as he stumbled further backwards and they closed in like predators. A pact to kill him first. Well good for them, he thought lightly as a forearm closed around his neck, pulling him back, making him wheeze for air. Good for them, but not so great for him. He, who was about to be put down …

His neck was wrenched back as fists drove into his stomach. Coughing, Fiearius swung his head down, feeling the rusty tang of blood in his mouth, and just when he was wondering how the hell he was going to wriggle his way out of this one–

It stopped.

Suddenly, breath rushed into his lungs, sweeter than life. But why had they stopped? The lock around his neck loosened, the men were frozen and shocked, and Fiearius picked up his head to see what it was that was making the crowd gasp and stir like ants all around them.

Through the slits of his eyes, he thought he saw — but it wasn’t — it couldn’t have been Rhys barreling through the crowd, yelling with two shotguns over his head. And it definitely couldn’t have been the small voice of Corra screaming through the room, “Let him go or so help me God, it’ll be the last thing you do!”

He was hallucinating. Surely. There was no other explanation as to why he glimpsed the faces of his crew in the fray. Although why could the rest of the men see them, too?

Before Fiearius could even begin to unwind this mystery, the man who had him by the neck decided the show wasn’t over after all. Grasping Fiearius’ throat with renewed vigor, he pulled him back and before Fiearius could slip away, slammed his head against the metal bar of the ring.

Pain shot clear through Fiearius’ head and then, at once, he saw nothing: it was as if the floodlights in the ring were put out. His vision went black, his knees caved below him and with a thud of unsteady limbs, he hit the ground.

Sprawled on his back in the dirt, eyelids twitching, he felt consciousness flit in and out of his mind. His head was heavier than a boulder and every part of him ached with exhaustion. When he managed to squint his eyes, his vision swam; he saw only blurry, blown-out shapes …

And then he saw a mirage leaning over him. A very feminine, very attractive mirage with glowing skin and bright leaf-green eyes.

Was he dead? He had to be dead. Although, he doubted his personal afterlife would include anything as heavenly as this …

A lazy, satisfied grin started to spread over his face, but suddenly, that vision of feminine light and splendor started to — of all godsdamn things — slap his face.

“Fiear! Fiearius! Wake up!”

It was Leta. The angelic vision dissolved at once and he blinked her into focus, groaning in disappointment. Crouched over him, Leta was searching over his face worriedly, wincing in apology.

“Sorry it took so long,” she muttered, touching her fingers to the bloody cut in his hairline. Too tired to swat her hand away, he simply groaned in protest. “Meant to get you out of here before you got your ass beaten,” she added, to which he grunted.

“What are you talking about?” His voice was a tired mumble. “I’m a perfect image of victory.”

With that, a grin unfurled over her face. “C’mon,” she laughed. “Get up. You need to see this.”

With some difficulty, Fiearius pushed himself up to his elbows. Leta gripped his forearm and steadied him to his feet. And then he looked around them and saw how, exactly, she got here.

His mouth fell open. He knew his loyal crew had a capacity for mania, but he’d never seen anything quite as explosive as this. They were like caged animals, finally let out of the zoo to stampede. The basement was a sea of chaos, yells and gunfire as the crew took over, chasing Traze and his people toward the doors.

Rhys, Maya, Ludo and the two deckhands were running around, yelling happily and shooting bullets into the ceiling, sending patrons into a craze; Cyrus was hovering outside of the ring, looking torn between anxiety and relief; Corra was near him, guns out; Aiden wound through the room casually, looking around in thought as if he were inside a museum. And Traze — he just glimpsed Traze turn and dash out of the back door, looking thunderstruck.

Fiearius wasn’t sure he’d ever seen something quite as beautiful as this scene. He felt dizzy with pride as Leta untied his hands, officially freeing him. “Dov’ha tiar’te,” he sighed in awe, “I love you guys.”

At his side, he felt Leta grinning. “Didn’t think we’d just leave you here, did you?” she said, looking up and holding out a handgun for him. The weapon glinted in the light, and he took it, closing his hand around the grip. Leta lifted her eyebrows.

“You look really awful, by the way.”

“Yeah? Well you look….” He eyed her, and realized he recognized the hood she wore over her head. “Is this mine?” he demanded, flicking the fabric with two fingers. “I know we were in a cell together and all, but I didn’t think we were in ‘borrowing one another’s clothes’ territory.”

“Yeah, well, I’m keeping it,” said Leta waspishly, adjusting the hood fondly with one hand. “Consider it payment for saving your ass. Again.”

Fiearius barked a short laugh. “You say that as if I’ve never saved yours.” He tried to glare, but it faded toward exhaustion. Instead, he clasped her shoulder and shook it roughly. “I’m calling us even.”

They exchanged an exhausted smirk before he turned to enjoy the view of his rabid, roaring crew as they rampaged through the basement.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – –  – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Cyrus had never liked crowds. In this moment, he hated them for getting between him and his injured brother. People pushed and jostled past him, knocking into his shoulders. But even in his frustration, he had to admit the impossible: this half-assed plan was working.

He’d had never seen the crew act quite like this. Maybe they really didn’t get enough fresh air. If there was ever a reason to get the lot of them riled up and heavily armed though, rescuing the captain seemed as good of one as any.

And thank the gods, they’d done it, they had provided enough of a distraction. Fiearius was fine, or at least he was alive. Cyrus stopped on the edge of the ring, watching as Leta helped him to his feet and brushed dirt off his back. So he wouldn’t have to captain the ship alone after all, he thought as relief washed over him, powerful enough to make him his eyes shut in exhaustion.

And then he opened them quickly. Now, he was ready to get the hell out of here.

Turning back to face the crew running around, he yelled, “Hey! Hey!” and waved his arms, but his voice died in the commotion.  Frustrated, dropping his arms, he looked over to Corra standing nearby. She caught his eye and predictably found it much easier to shout —

“Everyone!” she barked, and eyes swung to her as she pointed toward the exit. “Move!”

Certainly not for the first time, it occurred to Cyrus that she would make a much better first-mate than he was.

“Thanks,” he muttered, smirking sheepishly at her as she gestured for him to follow her to the doors.

Around them, the crew finally slowed down and stopped terrorizing. Breathless and laughing and victorious, the group made their way toward the exit. Though perhaps everyone wasn’t ready for the fun to be over, Cyrus noticed, snorting when he saw Leta rolling her eyes and dragging Rhys by the collar of his shirt through the fray.

Hanging back, taking one last look around to ensure they hadn’t left anyone behind, Cyrus eventually did the same, but not before realizing he was now standing alone in front of a crowd of hundreds with nothing but a single pistol in his hand. His exit was understandably hurried.

Moments later, Cyrus reached to open the back door for Corra.

“That went pretty well, huh?” he said with a happy sigh, but then he realized Corra was not listening.