“Yeah,” Corra said, though her tone was truly anything but excited. “Yeah it’s been awhile.”

So clearly something was wrong. And Fiearius thought, based on the previous night, he could guess what it was. He’d told Leta she’d made a mistake encouraging his brother to take Corra out on a date. And apparently he’d been right.

Aiden caught his eye for a moment, then asked gently, “What’s bothering you, Corra?”

As soon as Aiden had asked the question, Fiearius could feel Corra’s eyes on the back of his head. This really wasn’t the time for this conversation and she must have known it. But Fiearius purposefully didn’t meet her gaze and it seemed that was all the encouragement she needed.

“I think…I think I screwed something up,” she muttered to Aiden, her voice brimming with hesitance.

Aiden must have sensed Corra’s reluctance to talk in front of Fiearius, because he slowed to a halt to let her fall into step beside him, looking concerned. Fiearius kept his eyes forward, but heard Corra say, “With Cyrus, I mean…I think I really screwed up this time.”

She fell silent for a moment before heaving a sigh and explaining, “Last week, when we were all rescuing the captain, I went back to free the other prisoners. Cyrus came too and–well it was a good thing he did. He saved me. And I was grateful and appreciative so–I wasn’t even really thinking–I kissed him.” She winced painfully and shook her head. “And you know what he’s like. Of course he took it totally the wrong way and, okay, it was my fault to begin with. I should have known better, but–”

Fiearius was almost tempted to say something himself. By the way this was unraveling, probably something she wouldn’t take so well. He could imagine the disapproving look in Aiden’s eyes already though, so he kept his mouth shut.

“Anyway, I guess it gave him the grand idea to take me out to dinner, which is sweet and he’s my friend so I couldn’t really say no and he was totally insistent this time that it was absolutely definitely a date and it absolutely definitely had to be just us. So I agreed and–” Now, she actually groaned. “It was just terrible. Not on purpose. It was just naturally terrible. And he knew it too and I felt bad because it was partially my fault so I was trying to cheer him up on the way home and–”

“And he took it the wrong way again,” Fiearius suggested under his breath, rolling his eyes. Corra being friendly, Cyrus being hopeless. How many times had they been through this? The story was so predictable he could have told it himself.

“Exactly,” Corra moaned, apparently not picking up on his irritation. “And I just couldn’t take it so I…left. And now I don’t know what to do. I love Cy-cy, of course I do, but I don’t love him. Not like he wants me to. But I don’t know how to do this anymore. I don’t know how to be his friend without breaking his poor little heart…”

A pause fell. Whatever Aiden had been expecting, Fiearius doubted it was this.

“Well … I’m miles from the authority on this sort of thing … ” said Aiden slowly. “But have you tried talking to him about it?”

“And tell him what exactly?” she sighed. “Sorry, Cy, you’re great and we get along swell and I want to keep spending time with you, but that whole romantic thing you have going on is getting tiresome, please stop.” She sighed heavily again. “He’ll hate me. Last time I was honest, he stopped talking to me almost entirely for a year. And when he did again? I thought he’d gotten over it, but nope. Apparently not.”

Suddenly, Fiearius couldn’t help himself, and he muttered bitterly, “Maybe he would get over it if you stopped kissing him and hugging him and touching him and barging into his room at all hours of the night and basically treating him like your little boyfriend all the time.”

The words hung in the air with a nasty sort of sting. Behind him, Corra stammered, her voice weak and sad, “What–I didn’t–I don’t–”

Fiearius went to reply, but found himself suddenly silenced with a look that he’d seen at least a hundred times before. Aiden was glaring at him, a shadow over his face, his eyes dark, for a stretch of long, cold silence that Fiearius wanted to shake off like a hovering fly.

Finally, after really letting him feel the regret, Aiden turned and said, “Corra, you should never feel guilty or ashamed of only wanting to be his friend. And it’s no one’s fault,” he added curtly, glancing pointedly to Fiearius again.

Fiearius was almost tempted to argue, but Aiden always had that mystical ability to inspire him into silence with a warning look. It was unsettling. And yet also surprisingly calming. With a mildly disgruntled grumble, Fiearius looked ahead again, deciding he was not in the mood to be part of this meaningless conversation about his brother’s love life anyway. Or lack thereof.

Corra was still quiet, her eyes down, when Aiden spoke again soothingly. “I know it wouldn’t be easy, but honesty would clear things up between you two. And some distance.”

Corra was too busy watching her feet to answer. Almost a minute passed before she murmured, “I don’t wanna hurt him…I wish he could just see. See that he’s being silly. That it wouldn’t work…”

“Unfortunately, that might have to be something that’s spelled out,” said Aiden, smiling, a note of regret in his voice. “You know how Cyrus is. He’s a genius, but … not always that smart.”

Fiearius could feel Corra just about to launch into yet another bout of despair when he spotted the number he’d been looking for and paused in front of a tall pair of gates.

“Can we finish this later?” he interrupted. “Need I remind you both we have a job to do, thanks.” He swung his hands towards the gates before them. “And what do ya know, here it is.”

Beyond the wrought iron gates, a tremendous rustic mansion, lined with sparkling icicles, sprawled over acres of snowy lawn and trimmed hedges. The estate looked like something of a painting, or the front image of a Concordia holiday card.

Fiearius couldn’t help but wonder who could possibly need a house this big. What were all those rooms even for? One thing was certain: Fiearius felt no guilt whatsoever about stealing from the owner of this castle.

And, wonderfully, neither did Aiden.

“He’s going to be very surprised to see me,” Aiden mused quietly as he straightened his jacket. “I haven’t spoken to him since he terminated me years ago.” Fiearius knew this embittered Aiden somewhat, but in this moment, there was amusement in his eyes. “But I think he’ll like enjoy my company when I so desperately plead for my job back …”

Fiearius couldn’t help but grin. “You crafty genius, you,” he commented, eyeing the front door. “Knew there was a thief in there somewhere.” Signaling Corra to follow him, he pushed open the gates to slip inside. Before slinking off into the shadows to wait, he looked to Aiden and said, “Remember. Make sure the front stays unlocked. Get him into the drawing room ASAP. Knock on the door’s the signal to leave. Got it?”

Fiearius stepped behind one of the hedges, pulling Corra with him. Safely hidden, he watched as Aiden approached the double doors calmly. A booming knock reached his ears, followed by a murmur of voices.

“Sanilac. It’s been far too long,” said Aiden’s voice, and Fiearius couldn’t help but feel proud at how well the man had perfected the careful uncertainty in his tone of voice. “Can I — I’m sorry to bother you, but may I come in?”

Cyrus sighed, watching as she started paging through the papers. “It’s okay. I’m not very good at auxiliary weapons calibration. We all have a weakness,” he admitted with a teasing smirk before leaning back on his hands and stretching out his legs in front of him. “So what were you up to last night while we were out?” he asked. “Riveting adventure, I’m sure?”

As she tucked the prints neatly together, she responded brightly, “Absolutely. I started a new novel.”

Although, truthfully, reading wasn’t exactly how she’d spent her evening … but for some reason she wasn’t sure if she wanted to tell Cyrus how she had. Or who she had spent it with. Then, immediately, she scolded herself. Why wouldn’t she tell him? She had nothing to be ashamed of.

“Also, I drank with your brother,” she added, dropping the neat stack of blueprints with a thwap on the floor. At once, Cyrus gave a start.

“You what?” he asked incredulously, his eyes widening. His penetrating stare pinned her in place.

“What do you mean, ‘what’?” she said back, feeling herself become defensive, almost self-conscious. “I was in the kitchen reading, he passed through and offered me a drink.” She decided against including they had also downed shots, made several drunken toasts, told long stories and that she’d actually woken up with a bit of a headache.

Clearly, Cyrus was having trouble processing this story already. His eyes narrowed, searching over her in alarm. “Why would you say yes?” he asked, perplexed.

“Whiskey,” said Leta. “He had whiskey, Cy. I never turn down whiskey. Why are you looking at me like that?”

His mouth was hanging open, and he looked fearful for her sanity. “Just…” he began after a moment, looking away from her. “Not…what I would have expected.”

“Hey, me either,” said Leta fairly. “Maybe he still feels guilty about the combat ring, I don’t know.” But even in her head, Leta felt that wasn’t quite it, and she found herself muttering, “He was all pissed off at Ludo, that’s why he was drinking. I just happened to be nearby … “

There wasn’t accusation in Cyrus’ gaze, not exactly. More like a guarded level of suspicion. And with that, Leta suddenly said, “Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.”

“I know my brother,” Cyrus replied at once. “It’s a little hard not to.”

Leta felt an unease crawl over her skin, slow and uncomfortable. Guilt twisted her stomach, even though she’d done nothing to actually warrant guilt. Except, perhaps, drink a little too much. After polishing off the bottle, she and Fiearius had saluted each other drunkenly and gone their separate ways to bed. Right before, there had been an odd, awkward moment when they brushed too closely together at the kitchen counter, but that moment had lasted only seconds; it was completely dismissible.

“He wasn’t coming onto me if that’s what you’re getting at,” said Leta after a short, sharp pause, kicking idly at the papers on the floor, scattering them back into a mess. “You would know by now if that’s what he’d done last night. Because he’d be dead.”

At that, Cyrus laughed. “Okay, okay, fair enough. Maybe don’t kill him. He’s kind of useful. But you have my full permission to beat him with a blunt object of your choosing.” He shrugged and eyed her briefly before cracking a mock grimace. “I still can’t believe you actually agreed to spend time with him though.”

“No kidding,” said Leta, snorting. “My defenses must’ve really been down … ”

Leta was glad the subject was dropped, senseless as it was. But even as the conversation faded, even as they started discussing Corra again, Leta couldn’t shake the odd sense of unease, nagging the back of her mind.

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

“C’mon, this isn’t the first time you’ve helped me steal,” Fiearius was saying, his breath exhaling a white cloud in the air as he fell into step beside Aiden, who shot him a good-naturedly dark glance. They were crossing down the icy streets toward the wealthy side of the city, Corra in tow. She lagged a few steps behind, unusually quiet and stony, which was odd, since Fiearius knew she loved this sort of job: pure, old-fashioned thievery.

Of course, Aiden did not. “Isn’t it?” he said, looking weary as he rubbed his hands together against the wind.

“When we met,” Fiearius reminded. “Don’t you remember?”

“Well, I try not to,” Aiden put in.

“I was on the run with a case of rather valuable documents I’d just lifted. Probably woulda been caught too if I hadn’t run into you.”

“Oh, now I remember,” said Aiden, but he laughed warmly. “I was standing on the sidewalk. You barreled into me, shoved the box in my hands and told me to run.”

Fiearius grinned proudly. “Did I ever thank you for holding onto that for me? ‘Cause thanks.”

“You didn’t, but you’re welcome. I got free ship passage out of it, at least … “

“Well this one’ll be different,” Fiearius promised. “Just gotta get into this guy’s fancy mansion, make sure he’s not paying attention, grab the shiny and get out. Gardién’s wife gets her necklace, he gets a whole ‘nother year to figure out the next anniversary theft and we get enough cash to make it to Ellegy and back.” Absently, he pulled a coin out of his pocket and started flipping it between his fingers. “At the very least,” he went on, glancing back at Aiden, “you’ll be more prepared this time. Speaking of which, how’s the distraction plan comin’?”

Suddenly, Aiden looked startled. “Plan? Wait now, I’m supposed to have a plan?”

Fiearius smirked, knowing full well Aiden was exactly the kind of person — unlike himself — who kept plans to each minute detail. He was certain Aiden knew exactly how to keep Sanilac Mauve in conversation as he and Corra snuck through his house and nabbed the necklace. After all, Aiden had the personal connection: years ago, Sanilac had fired Aiden from his teaching job at the university.

It was no wonder, then, why Aid agreed to help on this job.  Even good, honest people had a taste for vengeance.

The three of them continued down a sloped icy street, silent and thoughtful until Aiden looked over his shoulder. “Corra, why so quiet?” he asked, and then smiled. “You’re not nervous for this, are you? The captain’s plans always go so flawlessly.”

Corra looked up at him with round eyes, like a student caught not paying attention to the lecture. She stammered, “Oh yeah, no. I’m…I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Fiearius cocked a brow at her, curious. It wasn’t like Corra to be so silent nor was it like her to be so mopey and it definitely wasn’t like her not to take the bait on mocking him. With a worried glance at Aiden, he told her, “Thought you’d be more excited about this. Haven’t pulled one of these jobs in ages.”

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.