Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

At dawn, the smell of salt brine is crisp. Gulls screech, setting flight to pick at what grub was left unattended overnight. Waves lap, pushed by a breeze which persists through a cloudless morning. To Adam it's no less his home than his half-empty apartment in Boston.

However today his back is weighed down, all his life packed into two backpacks and a duffel-bag. Though familiar with the marina, he's perhaps more well acquainted with her waters than her ships. Expensive things, usually, and it's no wonder why. Million dollar apartments are not far from shore. A neighborhood quite a few tax brackets above Adam's pay.

The yachts all look the same, pristine white, as if they'd only just been delivered from a warehouse. Not a dent or scratch dare show face, and no barnacle in it's right mind would cling to the side of one.

It's all this which makes his target hard to miss. Painted in faded red cursive on the side of it's hull. The Pelican. It weighs heavy amongst the others in its company. Rust eats away at exposed metal, paint flakes off in droves—a school of white perch dart about, nibbling at the algae that clings to it. Old sun bleached tires rest strung along the sides in frayed rope. Some Frankenstein amalgam of bits and parts, scar-like seams mark many questionable welding jobs.

At the bow is the cabin and the wheelhouse, two stories tall and large enough that Adam is surprised it's able to stay afloat.

"I can't tell if you're impressed or disgusted," A voice pulls Adam's attention. His feet have carried him down the dock, right up to the ship—and a tall man.

The man's hair is yellow— a dark blonde matted in ages of neglect, not shimmering enough to be truly golden, and swept to one side as if a gust of wind had just blown through before Adam arrived.

He's staring somewhere past the top of Adam's head, meanwhile Adam is staring at his shirt.

"Do you work for the department of agriculture?" He asks.

"Huh?" The blonde man scrunches his face, then follows Adam's gaze, "Oh, no sorry. I picked this up in Maine the other day."

"Just a…fan of their work?"

The blonde shrugs.

"At least I'm not wearing flannel on an eighty degree day."

"It's light," Adam tugs at his own shirt, he's matching with the water in soft blues, "Thin—sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"—you wouldn't happen to be Adam…Chase?"

Adam's eyes grow twice as big.

"Oh my god I'm so sorry, are you Captain Denby?"

The blonde—Denby—smiles. His teeth are a bit crooked, his fullish lips pull thin. It's a strained smile, like he's being held at gunpoint, and for a moment Adam is worried he's said something wrong.

"I hope you aren't having any regrets, right about now."

"No, no, no god no. I'm so sorry—I had no idea—uh-yes Adam," Adam reaches out and plants Denby into a firm handshake, "Adam Chase. At your service. Which, by the way, for the record, I was admiring. Your ship is…"

"Unique?" Denby says.

"It's got character."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm just glad you didn't go running for the hills once you saw her."

"Listen, I'm in no spot to be picky. I'm just glad you accepted me for this position, really, I'm very grateful, thank you so much—"

"—don't make it weird."

"Yup. Yes. Sorry. Okay. So—"

"—Want a tour?" Denby steps aside. Adam pays extra mind to the feeling of his feet on solid ground, then finds a comfortable place to store the memory as he climbs aboard.

The deck is red. Lined with salt-stained steel, bright yellow cleats, and fibrous ropes twice the thickness of Adam's arms. Where on the pier Adam found the ocean's smell all-consuming, now it's in competition with a fishy stench that emanates from below. Enshrined in the very atoms of the ship, layers on layers, years on years. Adam grips the rails as he follows behind Denby, the cold metal happily clings to his skin and leaves behind a layer of grime on his palms.

"She's been repurposed," Denby says, passing a pile of yellow buoys, "Used to be an old commercial trawler, then I took up a gig tugging and got her fitted with a z-drive and some hitching."

He leans against the base of an industrial fishing dredge. He gives it a jostle eliciting a sound much like the gulls above them.

Adam flinches.

"Is that safe?"

"It's not an essential part of the ship is it?"

"I don't know."

"No, it's just an outrigger," Denby answers his own question, stands up, and starts walking towards the bow, "Remind me to teach you basic marine engineering."

He's led into the first floor; the quarters are much warmer than he expects. They're lined in orange oak, which glows in the light slipping through narrow windows. There are two rooms. Denby lets Adam ahead, the first room is a common area. A kitchenette that contains a gas stove, a sink, and just enough counter space to not be insulting, opposite which is a booth—the kind you might find in a diner from the eighties.

Squeezing through the commons reveals a place to sleep. It's barely comfortable enough for two people. Beds on either side of the room, a few wooden chairs and a plastic folding scattered about. Adam tosses the wights off his back, they make a thud as they hit the floor while he lets out a sigh. He feels at least twenty pounds lighter.

"What in the world did you pack?" Denby asks.

"All my equipment, you know, stuff for water sampling, snorkeling, sonar—"

"—did you rob Yale's marine biology department?"

"I practically am a third of Yale's marine biology department."

Denby laughs and shakes his head, leaning in the doorway.

"I'm guessing they'll miss you."

"Oh yeah, for sure. My advisor wanted to kill me I think. Only way I got her on board was by arguing the case for free research opportunities."

"Did she bite?"

"Well, I'm here."

"Touche. Wanna check out the wheelhouse?"

"I would in fact love that."

Metal grated stairs quiver beneath every step. Adam's knuckles are as white as the rails, he stumbles, the waves are no help to his balance. All the while Denby races ahead, his hands never leaving the pockets of his shorts.

"We run on solar," Denby says. Adam manages to pry himself from watching his feet, to the roof of the cabin where sits row of blue panels situated beneath the radar and the antennae. When Adam finally reaches the door, Denby is waiting, holding it open.

"Just for electricity, I mean," Denby continues, "The motor is still a gas guzzler but I'm working on it."

Adam stumbles into the wheelhouse and Denby shuts the door behind them. On all but one wall are windows creating a near 360 degree vantage point. There's one seat, one wheel, and a truly mind numbing amount of sensors and controls that Adam can't even begin to identify.

Tucked into a nook, is a single pillow and a few blankets atop a cot. Denby must see Adam eyeing it, and maybe he figures an answer is needed.

"I sleep up here, you'll have the lower cabin to yourself."

Adam scrunches up his face, the beds downstairs are at least facsimiles of an actual place to sleep. It can't be that Denby actually prefers to be up here.

"It's not that bad I swear," Denby takes a seat on his cot; it bends beneath his weight, "Any questions?"

"Did you set this up just for me, because I don't care if you sleep down—"

"—questions that don't include my sleeping arrangements?"

Adam purses his lips. He supposes, ultimately, Denby can do whatever he wants. It's his ship, after all. Speaking of which, Adam has yet to see a single soul except for Denby—it's a small vessel, but not that small.

"Where's your crew?" Adam asks.

"Don't have one."

"You don't have a crew?"

"Well, I guess now I have you."

"That's not what I—" Adam tenses, he's a marine biologist not a co-captain or a boatswain, or whatever the term is, "I have no idea how to do anything! I didn't study for this—"

"—I'll teach you," Denby shrugs, unaffected—god only knows how.

"What, on the fly? What if we hit choppy waters? What if we crash? What if—"

"—Chase, it'll be fine. I've manned this ship myself until now, if it ever gets too intense I know how and when to take the reigns."

Adam supposes he should've seen something like this coming when he penned the sign up form. Six months at sea with a total stranger, not the smartest move, but he's already committed. Already taken the time off and notified his school, already consulted with his advisor and told his parents. He's never backed out of a responsibility before, and he's not about to change that. What would anyone think of him?

Puffing his chest up and straightening his back, Adam nods.

"Okay. Fine. Then when are we leaving?"

"Now," Denby says.

Adam pops an anti-nausea pill, watching Boston grow smaller and smaller beneath the horizon until the water has consumed the city whole. They're left with nothing but the open ocean and the sputtering of The Pelican's engines. He's sitting, legs spread apart and feet planted as firm as he can get them. The further out they go, the more the waves rock the ship, the more Adam feels as if he's on a roller coaster.

Denby's full attention is on piloting the beast. They cut through the water, dragging behind them a thick white wake.

"You ever been on a boat before?" Denby asks.

"Of course I have," They hit a rough spot, and Adam gasps, clenching his whole body, "—I used to take the Staten Island Ferry to work, you know."

Denby laughs.

"That's a boat!" Adam says, "If you wanted a different answer you should've asked a more specific question."

"Okay, okay. Whatever."

The way Denby manipulates the controls, it's like they're an extension of himself. His eyes flick between sensors, he turns the wheel one hand over the other, smooth, steady.

"How long have you been at this?" Adam asks.

"Oh, not as long as it looks."

"Where'd you learn to sail?"

"Picked some stuff up here and there, had a few decent mentors."

Adam hums, not good answers, but they have only just met and he's quite occupied so idle conversation wouldn't be at the front of his mind. The water's gone from a murky greenish grey, to shimmering sapphire. A blue so bright it hurts to look at.

Adam decides rather than sit around, to make an attempt at getting some sea legs. Much as he'd love to pretend he came with them, Denby is right. Ferries are hardly good training for a smaller ship like The Pelican. He stumbles at first, drawing Denby's eye, who glances back from his driving with concern flashing across his face.

"Careful, grasshopper." Denby says.

Adam holds his arms out, the world is bobbing and swaying, his head is light, he's dizzy, yet he's not about to give up. That isn't a word in Adam's vocabulary.

"Okay, I think I've got it, see? Well, actually don't see, you're driving. But I got it, trust me."

Denby rolls his eyes.

"Now all you have to do is walk on deck."

"Right," Adam nods, "Right right right, easy. Not an issue. Not for me."

"No, of course not."

Adam would move but he can't seem to get his feet to follow directions.

"I simply cannot move," Adam says.

"You aren't bending your knees."

Denby cuts the engines and stands to join Adam, who wants right about now to recede into his shirt.

"You have to sway with the boat, you're trying to brute force it but you need to work with it, like this."

Without any warning Denby's hands grasp at Adam's waist.

"I am working with it," Adam argues, trying his best to ignore the growing warmth is his cheeks. Denby's hands are big, well kept for a working man, impeccable nails. His grip on Adam is unobtrusive—and yet Adam finds himself bothered.

"No you aren't," Denby says, " you're still tense—"

"—yeah because I feel like I'm about to fall over."

"You won't, trust me. Just relax your body and loosen up."

Adam takes a deep breath. He leans into Denby's grasp, smelling the salt in his hair and the layers of old sweat. Something industrial too, perhaps diesel or oil.

"Good, see?" Denby gives Adam a gentle nudge to one side following the tilting of the cabin. At first Adam stumbles, flailing, before Denby stops him.

"It'll take some practice but once you have the stance down it'll come quickly."

"God this is embarrassing," Adam buries his face in his hands. When he peeks through his fingers, he's met by Denby's stare. It's doubly infuriating that there's not a hint of mockery in it. Adam would prefer to be made fun of. Pity—or whatever it is that Denby is doing to him right now—is unbearable.

"How about we try the deck while we're idling, that might be an easier transition for you."

Adam wants to melt into a puddle.

"You don't have to baby me," He says.

"I also don't have to send my intern overboard on the first day."

"I can handle it, I promise. Look, see? I'm swaying, I'm so calm right now,"

Denby purses his lips, looks Adam up and down, then hops into his seat. He kicks the engines back on and brings them up to speed so fast that Adam falls forward, only barely saving himself a broken nose.

"What the fuck was that for? You could've warned—"

"There are going to be times where you won't have warnings," Denby cuts the engines again. He stands, and offers Adam his hand. Adam glares at it while Denby continues to speak, "There are going to be waves twice the size of this ship, these waters now are as calm as things are going to get outside port. Here's the thing, Chase, about this kind of life. You can't have any hubris. The sea doesn't forgive mistakes."

Adam looks between Denby's face and his hand.

"You could have just told me that," Adam, still fraught with irritation, pushes himself up. No assistance needed.

"Demonstration is the best teacher," Denby says, "So. Deck?"

The sun is blaring upon the water. With no clouds or buildings or trees to shield them from it's heat, the only thing to cool them is one persistent ocean breeze. Surprisingly, after a few laps about the deck, Adam finds Denby's advice is taking root. It's as if the whole world comes into view the second he can focus on something besides staying upright. His eyes aren't glued to his feet, instead he can look up and around, and he can wander to the edge and peer into the water.

Deep beneath the surface, rays of sun glow, certainly more vibrant outside through the dirty windows of The Pelican's wheelhouse. The world stretches for as far as the eye can see. They're alone, entirely and totally alone. No other ships, not a bird in the sky, and no fish beneath, impossibly serene. Yet Adam knows it's a trick. The ocean is never truly quiet, it only appears to be.

Far beyond where anyone can see, whalefall sits and feeds hoards of crabs upon the sea floor. Sharks pick at old blubber, hydrothermal vents bubble and burst in plumes on the Mid-Atlantic ridge, giant tube worms feed upon them and swarms of Dysommina rugosa make their daily commute in the mid-Pacific.

And a humpback whale—-wait a humpback whale?

"Denby look!" Adam says, pointing out just a few feet into the water. The coarse gray back of a whale arches to the surface, it blows at them a spray of water. Doubtless a calf, it's small, which means the mother must be somewhere close.

Denby joins Adam just as the whale calf dives down.

"Damn," Denby says, "Are you, like, a whale whisperer or something?"

"No! They feed near the east coast this time of year. Where's the mom? Do you see the mom?"

Denby runs along the edge of the deck searching for any sign of life.

"I don't see—"

He's cut off as the water shifts and suddenly a great shadow is cast over their ship. Practically on top of them, breaches the form of a mature humpback. It twists onto it's side, reminding Adam of a ballet dancer, astonishingly nimble for the size—easily the height of a small building. Fins nearly clip the edge of The Pelican, neither of them have time to react as it comes falling back down, the water explodes beneath it, pushing the pelican in a massive wave.

"Hold on!" Denby yells. The ship tilts, and Adam grips firm to the edge. At one point he feels as if they're at a ninty degree angle before the wave subsides and they're left drifting towards the calf. Adam falls back, once the adrenaline gives, he starts to laugh.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me!"

"Are you alright?" Denby comes racing over. Their clothes are soaked through, they must resemble a pair of wet cats. Nevertheless he leans back over the edge, grinning like a man whose just won the powerball.

The calf is returning to the surface, it swims just at the edge of the waves. Adam can get a nice long look at it, which brings to his attention something new. It's moving back and fourth, as if it can't go in a simple straight path. It almost looks to be floundering. Adam narrows his eyes. In all his years studying, he's never seen a whale move like that.

"Somethings wrong."

"Yeah we almost got flattened," Denby remains breathless.

"No no no, look. It's swimming asymmetrically. That's not healthy mobility for a calf that mature."

"You'd know better than me."

Adam leans forward some more, he feels something tug at the back of his shirt, and turns to see Denby holding onto him.

"I'm fine, I won't fall."

"Let's not test that theory."

Adam grumbles but doesn't protest any more than he needs too, he can't get distracted and lose visibility on this calf. The curiosity is eating away at him. That is precisely when he remembers he packed heavy.

"I'll be right back, don't let the calf get too far from us."

"Pretty sure that's not legal."

Adam bursts into the lower cabin. He races to his bags and rifles through them, it doesn't take long—thank his impeccable packing standards—to find the pair of binoculars he brought with him. When he returns on deck, the calf has luckily remained close.

"I can't start the engines until they're at least 100 yards away," Denby says.

"I know, just give me a second."

"You brought binoculars?"

"Yes, and look, they're coming in handy. So before you say I'm being over prepared—"

"—I have binoculars, you assumed I wouldn't have binoculars?"

"I didn't know what you would have—oh shit." Adam drops the binoculars around his chest and runs a hand down his face.

"What is it?" Denby asks.

"There's a net around it's right pectoral fin."

"That sounds not great," Denby puts his hands on his hips, "Do we report that to somebody or—"

Adam groans, his doctor once told him he'd benefit greatly from some blood pressure medication, and right now that's hard to argue with. He starts pacing, it's marginally more difficult to do on the open ocean than it is on land.

"We can't just leave it like that."

"Right. So we report it to some—what—whale authority? There's gotta be a whale authority," Denby says.

"There's NOAA, they have a hotline, but—"

"—but?"

"Ugh," Adam leans over and bites his lip, hands on his knees, "What if it dives and we lose it before they can get here? Humpback whales are getting tangled in fishing gear all the time, it's one of the biggest human-induced threats to the species."

By now Adam has begun to wave his arms around in big, demonstrative gestures. His enthusiasm—and anxiety—growing by the second.

"So they probably have a thorough protocol for this," Denby replies.

"They're probably swamped with calls in. Not just about whales! Turtles, and dolphins, and—who knows how long it'll take to get a real response!"

"Chase, I'm advising you to maybe not continue along this line of logic."

"I'm a good swimmer."

"Chase," Denby positions himself in front of Adam. They lock into a silent contest. It hasn't even been a day and already Adam finds himself using his horns.

The clock is ticking, with each passing second Adam sees the image of the poor tangled calf having it's fin strangled as it grows bigger than the net it's wrapped in. Circulation cut off. Vulnerable and in pain.

He pulls off his binoculars and shoves them into Denby's chest, running off to his bags yet again to grab a utility knife.

"Chase!" He hears Denby call after him, that doesn't stop for a second. Before Denby can do anything he takes a running jump off the deck and into the cold embrace of the Atlantic.

The world becomes muffled beneath the waves. His clothes were going to need a good round of washing before, therefore he's not concerned with ruining them. He holds his knife tight in a fist as he surfaces and starts kicking. Bless his muscle memory, the sea is certainly harder to tread through than his hometowns pool, but it's still water.

With each breath he takes, he sees the calf growing closer and closer, until his hand lands on something leathery. Adam swims over the back of the calf, mounting it. Even if it's a juvenile, it's still twice Adam's size, and could easily injure him if he were to make one wrong move. Best not slip up, then. His heart is pounding in his ears. He adjusts his grip on the knife and feels around to find the afflicted fin. The water distorts the calf and the net—yet he manages to get a good grip on the fibers.

It's then that Adam realizes if he's going to be quick about this, he's going to need a better view, one with his head below the water rather than above it. He cracks his neck and gets on with the mission, slips off the calf's back and dips below. The salt burns his eyes. He's swimming alongside it now, and from here he can see all the blurry threads of the net suffocating it.

It takes him a minute but by the end he's sure he's found the few places he needs to cut in order to get the thing loose. He surfaces again for another breath, taking the chance to assess how far he's swum. The Pelican is in the distance now, and Adam can't help but feel his heart leap into his throat. It's lot further than he assumed, and though he's sure he could make it back, the longer he clings to this calf, the more he risks stranding himself.

Denby is watching him. Adam shoots him a thumbs up as a sign of life, then dips back down to finish the job.

The first cut is a hard one. His knife slips, there's a layer of smooth grime on the rope that makes it impossible to get a grip on. Everything comes slow and arduous. It digs into his skin, burning as it slips between his fingers.

Finally, he makes it through, the net snaps nearly sending Adam's knife into his arm. Already it looks looser, but it's not ready to come off, not yet. If he tries to remove it now, it might tighten around itself again, he needs to create a bigger opening.

Unfortunately, he's not alone.

There's a bump against his leg, assuming the calf is turning, he surfaces again—his lungs are starting to scream at him anyways. Only once he's above the water does he see it's not the calf that bumped him, it's the mother.

Adam locks up, the one rule in nature, never approach a mother with a child, applies even in the depths of the sea.

"Hey, hey, hey," Adam says. The mother is looking at him, her eye is so massive that her pupil could swallow him whole, "I'm trying to help. I'm helping."

She doesn't move, trapping Adam between her and her calf. Getting crushed to death by a humpback whale is not Adam's idea of a good first impression, for a second he almost considers abandoning them. But he's come this far, and she hasn't actually made a move to attack him.

So Adam dips back down, careful to move with intention, and sure the mother has full view when he takes to the net again. The second cut is easier now that he's got the motion down and knows what to expect. It's only his shaking hand that gives him any hesitation, if he slips up at all, it's now the mother that is sure to do something about it.

One more breath of air, one more cut, and the net has finally loosened enough that Adam can sheath his blade and give it a sturdy tug. It pulls off the calf with no resistance at all, Adam swears he sees the little guy flex its fin as if it's stretching out and getting reacquainted with it's newfound freedom.

Adam flinches as the mother calls out, a low, billowing, call that shakes Adam's bones. It's haunting, not like anything he's ever heard before. The recordings they had to listen to in class pale in comparison, he's certain if they had been more accurate they would've shattered every window in the biology building. She bumps against Adam, and Adam steadies himself against her. It's stupid, whales don't understand things like this, they can't understand them, but Adam would like to imagine it's a thank you.

He surfaces, taking a long desperate gasp of air. He watches as the two swim off ahead of him. It's been a while since he's done this much swimming, but he still has to make it back to The Pelican.

"Told you I'm a good swimmer," Adam says. He's dripping water across the deck, net in one hand and knife in the other. He drops them both onto the floor, "In fact, I made the Winston-Salem Journal when I was captain of my highschool's swim team."

"There are about five hundred other things I was worried about before your swimming abilities."

"Okay to be fair, you have every right to yell at me. But I couldn't just leave them like that," Adam sits down on the base of the outriggers.

"I get it," Denby says. He shrugs, and Adam has to resist the urge to pinch himself.

"You aren't mad?"

"Oh I'm very mad. You disobeyed orders, did something very illegal that could've gotten you killed and me arrested—my boating license revoked—" Denby approaches with crossed arms, and Adam straightens up, sharpening his tongue, "But it was impressive."

"What?"

"You just saved a whale! A baby whale! You risked your life for that," Denby says, "That's goated."

"Oh…uh….thank you? You really aren't going to fire me or argue with me or—"

"Just don't do that again. Also, you're waxing the floors."

Adam leaps up, "Waxing the—you're basically asking me to swab the deck?"

"It needs to be done, and I'm going to be busy getting us back to port to make sure that mom didn't do any damage when she jumped near us."

Adam follows behind Denby, heading to the wheelhouse.

"I'm soaking wet! Can I at least dry off first?"

"Whose fault is that?"

"Just a second ago you barely trusted me to walk around while the engines were off."

"And look at you now," Denby spins around, smiling down at Adam from the top of the stairs, "Besides, you'll be on your knees most of the time. Gear is in the kitchen closet, chop chop!"

Chapter Text

There are few things Ben Doyle is loyal to in life. His job is not one of them. Of course, loyalty doesn’t matter so long as there's a steady paycheck, that's what keeps him limping back down the Harbor every day—ten am on the dot unless he’s been out drinking—to the dive bar he calls home for eight hours plus change. He could unlock the door blindfolded by now.

He takes his position for the day. It should be a half-hour before anyone shows face, which means he has a half-hour's peace where he can drag up a stool, hang up his cane, and count the till before anyone needs anything that requires him to walk.

Behind the bar, worm-bitten wood melds with the smell of mature whisky and the pot of coffee he set to drip. Ben barely gets the chance to enjoy it, because the door swings open before he can pour himself a cup. Just his luck, he supposes.

Ben drops his head, runs a hand over his beard, and glances back. Seabird. She saunters in, her long brown hair styled in artificial curls and a tan that would make Jersey Shore pale with envy.

“You’re in early,” Ben says. He pours his coffee anyways. She leans against the bar and pops the gum in her mouth. Her top is cropped far too low, Ben notes. 

“What're you gonna report me for it?”

“No but have you forgotten about the existence of restaurants that aren’t hooters,” Ben rests his Styrofoam cup on the counter, “or bras.”

“Perv,” she smiles, then she runs off to punch in her timecard. Ben rolls his eyes and wonders how that woman operates all day in heels that make her three inches taller. He sneaks a shot of bourbon into his coffee, he's going to need it.

“You know when most guys say they have three legs they usually mean something else,” the group of five large, very drunk men burst out into a round of roaring laughter. Ben is certain his dental insurance won’t cover the cost of all his cracked teeth. Orders tucked secure in his breast pocket, he makes his way back to the bar. His smile falls the second he turns, the only thing growing is a tension headache and some minor homicidal urges.

He hangs the order for the chefs and slams his head on the bar counter, where Seabird and Cutter have positioned themselves as far as they can from the side of the building that attracts problems. Convenient.

“Why do you guys always make me take the bad ones?” Ben asks. 

“You're a real charmer,” Cutter grins to expose a checkerboard of silver teeth, “All those drunk jawns wanna do is fight me, and you know how they get with ol' Seabird,” he winks.

Seabird bats her long, long lashes.

“I charm 'em a different way, honey.”

“I see, so you make the disabled guy do all the hard work,” Ben says.

“They givin’ you trouble?” Seabird asks, and kicks at Ben's cane. 

“When aren't they,” Ben waves her away. He hangs his cane on the brass rail beneath the bar and leans against the top, massaging his thigh. He doesn’t need to look as he grabs his painkillers from under the counter and pops one with a swig of something alcoholic, “I'm gonna need a few more drinks to get through tonight," He says.

As if on cue, a group of three men burst through the door. They’re already loud, which is never a good sign. Ben takes one look at them and deflates. Nobody needs to ask him to do it, he grabs some menus and gets back to work.

“And he tried to give me ten bucks for it. The bastard.” The first man—with a missing tooth, wrinkles on every inch of his face, and long gray hair—doubles over the table, as if he’s just said the funniest thing in the world. Ben approaches, serving his nicest fake smile.

“Welcome in, here are the menus, I’ll let you all decide what you—“

“Three of the draft dark,”  the second man holds up three fingers. Though, he only has three to hold. He speaks with a duck in his throat, raspy and nasally.

“Okay well that makes my life easy, doesn’t it,” Ben taps his cane against the ground as if to punctuate. He's hoping he can slip away without being dragged into anything—and he very nearly does.

“Hey hey hey.” three fingers yells after him,“You heard the news?”

Obviously tonight isn't letting him go that easy.

“Are we finally starting world war three or is Sunfish finally buying the harbor?” he asks.

“No no no, I mean about the sharks. The Whitetips.”

“Artie, let em go! He has a job to do,” The third man finally speaks— he's got a big beard and a yellow rain jacket, looking like a proper sailor.  

“Shut up Cameron, we’re goin' out tomorrow and you know what we’re gonna do?” Artie ignores his compatriots with the slur of someone who really shouldn't be served another beer.

“Well if I did, I think I’d need to take up a career as a clairvoyant,” Ben says. 

“We’re,” Artie points a finger at Ben, hard to tell if it's an accusation, it quite feels like one, “gonna bag ourselves a shark. We’re gonna be rich, absolutely filthy rich.”

Ben smiles and nods.

“Sounds cool, man.”

“We’re gonna—we’re gonna be able to buy the harbor. We’re gonna be the ones to do that.”

“Awesome.”

“We head out tomorrow,” Artie says, “Keep an eye out, you’re gonna be seeing our names in the papers.”

"Pretty sure shark fishing is illegal, but you guys have fun."

"What are you a lame cop? Just get us our damn drinks."

He should've kept his mouth shut. Ben resists the urge to—mind you rightfully—kick them out. He'd be well within his rights to say they're too drunk to serve, but hell if he's going home with another black eye. Rather, he leaves them to resume whatever it is they're planning. Best not test his luck right now.

"Three dark," he says, slumping over the bar.

Seabird glares over his shoulder.

"They seem fun," She says.

"First slur of the night."

While she pours the drinks, Cutter pulls out a spare journal.

"Still haven't beat new year's," He marks down a tally.

"Fifteen's gonna be hard, Cutty," Seabird places the last beer on a tray and slides it over to Ben, "Knock 'em dead."

Ben balances the tray on his arm, careful not to spill a drop.

"Hey, sorry about my friend there," Says Cameron once Ben starts divvying up the beverages, "Artie drinks like a hound, you know? Gets all excited about stuff, tends not to remember we ain't tryin' to yammer off to the whole fuckin' town."

"No hard feelings," He says. Before he can pull away, Cameron grabs his wrist and holds it down against the table. Ben gasps, stumbling.

"Don't you go telling anyone, now, right?" He speaks clearly, and low enough that nobody except the men at that table will hear him. Ben feels his wrist staring to bruise—something nasty to deal with tomorrow. He nods. The look on Cameron's face is one he can only compare that of a predator. Sharp, analytical. Toothy. Ben braces himself, sure he's about to have plenty more bruises to come.

Then Cameron releases him with no more than one word.

"Good."

Ben can't be happier when he gets back behind the bar and sees it's his lunch break.

"Make sure they're out of here before I'm back," he says, leaving his notepad with Seabird.

One of the sweetest things in life is nicotine. It's coats Ben's mouth, sticky but in a good way, not in the way he feels sticky after a shift. He watches the sunset paint the ocean red. Seamen are disembarking for the night, some final stragglers tying up their ships, unloading gear and boxes of fish that fill the air with a pungent stench.

The view is replaced by someones torso, and Ben looks up to see the frowning face of Maeve Dunnigan, a woman he's known for years and who he loves as much as he hates—though that goes for about everyone in this town. He already knows what she's about to say.

"Can't a guy have a bad habit or two?"

"You have five."

"Still in the single digits, could be worse," Ben smirks.

Maeve takes a seat beside him on the wooden bench, and Ben gets a chance to look over her outfit. Black tie formal, the sort of thing that belongs in FiDi—not at the docks.

"Meetings?" Ben asks.

"So many meetings," She drops her head into her hands, her hair falls over her face.

"What're they saying?"

"Sunfish put more money on the table, the union's been trying to push for the city to turn the offer down but—"

"—Jesus Christ, really?"

"I don't know! You're going to kill me for saying this—"

"—then maybe don't say it—"

"—it's not that bad of a deal."

Ben groans. Maeve is watching people walk past as if that's a good shield from having to meet his eye.

"Look, I love the harbor as much as you do, but you have to admit it would benefit from some renovations," she says.

"It would benefit from not being owned by the people causing global fucking warming."

"Oh come on, that's not fair—"

"Who are you and what have you done with Maeve?"

Maeve laughs, but Ben isn't sure why. He's barely joking.

"I'm not backing down," she says, "The union--we're going to stand our ground, that's never been an issue and never will be."

"So what's the issue?"

"The new deal is basically guaranteed to go through. They pushed that extra money, but they also dragged in a bunch of bureaucratic buzzwords—it's a mess. I'm only trying to make the best of what's to come."

"So you're laying down and taking it?"

"Is that what I said?"

"It sure sounds like it," Ben's cigarette is reaching the end of it's life, threatening to burn his fingers. Maeve pinches the bridge of her nose.

"Look at least some of the budget is going to be for conservation around the bay area, it's not all awful."

"I'm so glad Sunfish are throwing money at New York instead of the gulf oil spill they're still cleaning up."

"Ben."

"Maeve."

Maeve sighs and watches as Ben puts his smoke out on the arm of the bench—just before it can burn him.

"You know, sometimes it's okay to force yourself to be positive about things. Spending your whole life in a nihilistic misery about every wrong ever done, it's going to kill you."

"Yeah," Ben says, "Probably will."

Ben spends the rest of the night forgetting about his conversation with Maeve by working until his legs ache. The two additional shots of bourbon he takes don't hurt either. By the time he's locked up, the sun has set. It leaves the world in dim moonlight, a clear sky is all that's needed for the stars to take their place both high above and swimming in the waves below. A few night fishers are out, the water glows a ghostly blue where their lights shine; all they seem to be catching are cuttlefish.

On his way up to the A line, he passes a canvasser's table rife with pamphlets. From the corner of his eye he catches a logo—a sunfish—and stops in his tracks. It doesn't matter what cause they're trying to promote. It doesn't matter how much money is on the table, or where that money is going. Maeve is wrong, nothing good could possibly come of Sunfish buying the harbor. However, Maeve is also right. He sure as hell is one nihilistic son of a bitch.

Ben turns around and grabs as many pamphlets as he can in one hand, then shoves them into the nearest trash can.

"Dude, what the hell is your problem?" The canvasser, who must have just returned to pack up, comes running from down the way. He's a lanky kid, in a vest two sizes too big, with a face full of pimples.

"I don't know dude maybe ask the slimy fuckers you work for."

"Oh god," The kid groans, "Are you one of those Say No To Oil freaks?"

Ben grips his cane with white knuckles.

"No, but so what if I was? They have more of a moral backbone then you ever will."

"Okay man, whatever. Just let me do my job. I was literally leaving."

Ben looks him up and down, then sighs. What the hell is he doing? The poor kid is shaking, blanched white and dead terrified. He's not going to save anyone any trouble by harassing some random teen—least of all himself.

"Find a different job," He says.

Ben fumbles with his keys through the back alleys of Chinatown which smell of five spice and vegetables. Wires dangle across rooftops and neon lights flicker and buzz in languages he can't read.

Distant sirens are a familiar white noise. Idle chatter of shop keeps and chefs, sneakers squeaking against the wet ground as some kids play basketball, the rhythm of their dribbling like drums behind their laughter and smack talk. He drowns out the sour taste of exhaust with another cigarette.

Ben is about to shut the door behind him when he hears his name. He peeks back out to see the older man who owns the cafe below him waving him over.

"Mr. Huang?"

"Ben! Long day?"

"Yeah, yeah long day." Ben nods. Mr. Huang, from behind his back, reveals a take out container of steamed dumplings.

"Leftovers from today, here, take it."

"Oh, no. I can't-"

"Please, you need dinner."

Ben stares at the dumplings, they do smell very good and judging from the steam, they're fresh. Ben's stomach grumbles thinking about his empty mini fridge upstairs. The only things in his stomach are nicotine and alcohol. Ben licks his lips.

"Fine. Thank you Mr. Huang."

"You need to eat more."

"Yeah, I know."

"Take care of yourself, too."

"Thank you, yep."

"And stop with all that smoking, you have young lungs, treat them right."

"Okay, Mr. Huang."

"Go on, don't let the dumplings get cold!"

Ben is happy to leave before he can get roped into any more conversations. He sends off with another thank you and lugs himself upstairs.

His door has cracks in it's frame, and there are white marks along the old wooden floor where it's carved out a pathway to swing open. Ben sets his dumplings down on the tv stand. His old CRT hums with static and flies buzz around the overhead light as it flickers to life in a sickly yellow hue. Ben shrugs off his shirt and flicks to some random episode of The Bachelor. The mold on his bathroom ceiling looks happy to see him.

He twists the shower on and waits for it to get to heat, catching a glimpse of his face in the mirror, he looks gaunt. Like a corpse. His beard and hair are sticking out at odd ends, and his eye bags are nearing purple.

He's twenty three and he's dying of old age.

Ben steps out of his pants and rests his cane on the wall, setting his glasses folded upon the counter. Steam has started to fill the room, enough that if he looks down he can pretend he doesn't see where the scar that runs down his left leg eats away at his muscle and twists his skin in ugly awful patterns—those which remind him of the sound of spinning blades.

The hot water burns, it's almost boiling. Ben shuts his eyes, looks up, and lets it cook him until his skin is pink. Then when he goes numb he drys off and falls onto his mattress. The bed frame groans. So does he. He eyes the still-warm dumpings across the room, and figures maybe he can have them for breakfast tomorrow.

He falls asleep with the TV on.

Chapter Text

"We're all clear."

Denby wipes his hands off on his shorts. The sky is orange when Adam finishes waxing the deck. His back aches, his hands are sore, and his knees are wishing for a break. He's made each of these things known to Denby. Halfway to shore Adam caught on that it wouldn't do him much good to complain, and then he kept complaining.

"She missed us completely, everything's intact, we can take off at dawn tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Adam asks. He stretches, bones crackling. That's so soon, they only just arrived. The cool wind through his hair isn't refreshing after the fourth hour straight of it. He'd kill for a bath, or a shower, and any excuse to lie down.

"Or tonight, if you're that motivated," Denby scans the deck, all Adams hard work for the day, "You missed a spot," he points somewhere near the bow.

Adam jumps to his feet.

"I just waxed your whole fucking deck!"

"Not my whole deck, clearly."

"I thought you weren't mad at me! I thought you said it was—what did you say—goated?"

Denby crosses his arms as Adam storms over, peering down at him unfazed. There's amusement twitching at the edges of his face.

"You think this is funny?" Adam asks, "I feel like I'm dying."

"Means you're doing it right."

"Fuck you."

"Hey, I never said you can't take breaks."

Adam sputters, pointing a shaking finger at Denby. He wants to snap back, wipe that self satisfied look off Denby' face, but Denby is—much to Adam's contempt—unfortunately correct.

"Are you hungry?" Denby asks. It hits Adam out of left field. The guy doesn't seem to register that they're in an argument at all, or if he does he can't seem to care. Truth be told, Adam is famished. All that work on deck and all that swimming, he could eat a six course meal on his own. There are at least five mouth-watering places in Boston that come to mind.

"Yes," Adam says, grumbling away his irritation.

"Then if you aren't giving yourself a break, I guess I gotta mandate it. Go get dinner."

"You—" Before Adam gets a proper last word in, Denby has dissapeared into the wheelhouse. Doesn't matter, Adam yells after him, "You know, you didn't make it very clear if I got breaks."

Denby returns, shrugging on a dark windbreaker and running downstairs.

"I figured you'd be able to regulate your own workflow."

"Where are you going?" Adam asks.

"I get hungry too."

Right. He may have forgotten that Denby has also been working all day, while Adam has no idea how strenuous that work is—tinkering around below deck—it's still well past five pm.

"See you back on deck tomorrow morning," Denby says, escaping onto the pier.

Adam watches him go—left alone on The Pelican, his mind wanders. Did he really expect this to be easy? He signed up, apropos of practically nothing, with no experience. He's lucky Denby isn't actively malicious—he just seems a bit peculiar. Which is the least offensive thing to be said of any seaman.

Yet now the first day is inching to a close and it feels as if the only thing Adam has done is complain and argue. He can only wonder what the captain thinks of him—after all Adam isn't the only one meeting a stranger today. He supposes he at least owes his boss a good impression that doesn't involve breaking maritime law. So he does what he can, and chases after.

"Denby," Adam says.

Denby turns around, resembling a confused dog in the way he cocks his head.

Meanwhile Adam grasps at how to proceed, he knows very litte about Denby. There aren't many topics of conversation to broach. He's a quiet man who keeps to himself—for better or worse. Eventually, Adam lands on a question.

"What're you having for dinner?"

"Uh….I don't know, like, McDonalds? Why?"

"McDonalds?" Adam says, "You're in Boston!"

"Okay, and? Why are you so concerned about what I'm eating?"

"I live here! If you didn't have a place in mind, you could've asked me."

"I did have a place in mind," Denby says, "It's McDonalds."

"No no no, this is simply atrocious. I am taking you to dinner."

Adam threads his arm through Denby's, linking them together so he can drag the taller man along. Denby's voice trills high.

"What—hey! Hold on, where are we going?"

"Gio's."

Adam pulls Denby fast enough that he can barely fight it, not that he's really trying. There's no resistance besides the occasional stumble as Denby tries to keep pace.

"The best Italian place on the east coast—barring Little Italy, of course—but the best Italian you'll get in Boston by far. You usually need reservations. I dated the owners daughter freshman year. No hard feelings, she's lesbian. We're still friends."

"If she's a lesbian why'd you date her?"

"Well she didn't know that at the time."

"Wow that's—"

"—Not as bad as it sounds. Come on, come on, come on."

They race through the streets of Boston, at some point separating arms, Denby following Adam freely. They pass gaggles of people—classic Friday nights. Dressed fancy and laughing about the last New Yorker article, or covered in glittery makeup smelling like sugar plums and singing gaudy pop music at the top of their lungs.

The ground transitions from asphalt to cobble, red brick rises above them with ornate bay windows and suddenly the air fills with the smell of oysters and Italian herbs, king crab over creamy carbonara—Adam's stomach is demanding payment. The lights outside Gio's are warm, and there's already a crowd.

"Wait here," Adam says. He leaves Denby at the entrance, squeezing inside.

Lights are dimmed for dinner hours, candles flicker on every table between crystalline glasses atop white sheeted tables. Muffled conversation and clattering of cutlery brings the place to life. Maybe Adam is a bit underdressed for this, he's become aware of just how prim everyone else looks.

"Adam!" A familiar voice bellows. Adam turns around and offers a big, tight hug to his old friend.

"Mr. Romano!"

"Ay, I told you to call me Gio, brother. How have you been, I haven't seen you in an eternity. I'm not so young anymore, I could have a heart attack, you know. You leave for too long."

"I know, I know, I need to get around more," Adam pulls away. Gio's gray hair curls around the back of his ears complimented by a layer of stubble. He's dressed in his full chefs regalia, and a pair of thick square glasses.

"Francesca—Frankie—she wonders about you too. She'll be so happy to know you're well. You are well aren't you? This isn't a farewell visit?"

"No, no no, Gio. I'm fantastic, actually, I have someone I'd like you to meet, we were hoping—and I absolutely understand if you're too swamped tonight—but we were hoping to get a seat. We just got back from a trip out on the Atlantic, I'll tell you all about it, but we're starving and need someplace better than McDonald's,"

"Yes! Of course, bring her in, let me meet her!"

"Ahm- actually it's a him," Adam rubs the back of his neck.

Gio raises his eyebrows then gives an approving nod.

"Then get him in here!"

They get a table upstairs, one in a bay window that overlooks the water. It's beautiful, cozy—

"This is….romantic," Denby says, looking around the room. Yeah, that's the word for it. Around them other couples are giggling together, eating together, making heart eyes at one another. Adam shrinks down.

"I think he might've made it more intimate since I was last here, I promise I didn't—"

"—I don't mind," Denby shrugs, "Probably healthier than McDonalds."

"Were you seriously going to have chain food?"

"It's easy and quick."

"You travel all over the world and the only thing you eat is hamburgers?"

"Hey—don't knock my burgers. Plus, Eataly—"

"—Eataly?"

"Stop looking at me like that. I sail alone, I don't normally go anywhere this…fancy?"

"Okay, so street food," Adam sets down his menu, he doesn't need to look, really, he has it memorized, "That's quick, easy, usually very good and not all that expensive. I mean you can get a great Halal in new york for like ten dollars, which is basically the price of a Big Mac these days."

"Yeah," Denby says passively. He looks out the window, watching the ocean as if it has something for him. As if he's waiting for it to speak it's part in their conversation. Adam looks as well, almost expecting something himself. Another whale, perhaps, but even that would be a bit much for his luck. He then brings himself to look at Denby. In the dim lighting of the restaurant, his greasy hair could pass as slick. The light carves out his jawline in a way that makes him appear sharp and—where all credit is due—attractive. Adam catches that thought and swats it away.

Instead he comes back to what Denby said a few moments ago.

"Why do you sail alone?" He asks.

Denby side eyes Adam, the candle's flame flickers around his face. There's a twitch at the edge of his lips.

"I don't get along with people."

Adam frowns. Nice being a subjective term, it's hard to apply, but Denby's been nice enough. Not particularly off putting or difficult. Not someone Adam would label as 'hard to get along with', certainly. Himself, on the other hand…well, simply put he's aware that he's not the easiest charge.

"I'm sorry if I was a bit pushy today, I'm also pretty tough to get along with."

"Then that makes two of us. I'd cheers but uh—"

"—yeah we should order drinks."

Denby is swirling the last of his glass of pinot. Adam is finishing the creme brulee. They haven't spoken much—it's one of those meals, that when it arrives shuts you right up until your plate is licked clean. Denby eats faster than Adam, which is itself a feat. Adam has to remind him to slow down, enjoy the flavors, actually savor a proper meal. He even takes massive swigs of the wine like it's lager. Adam gets a Negroni from the bar that lasts him the entire meal.

It's at this point they slide back into the rhythm of conversation and Adam remembers the other half of his question.

"What changed?" He asks through a mouthful of sweet eggy custard. Denby swallows his wine and sets the glass down.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean why did you decide you need someone to travel with?"

"I didn't—that's not why I volunteered as a host. I don't need anyone."

"Okay so then…" Adam gestures with his fork in circles, trying to reel out an answer from Denby's wine-drunk tongue. He cheeks are flush pink, and he keeps running his hand through his hair, it's gotten progressively more unkempt as the night goes on.

"What if I just wanted to try something new?"

"Being a world traveler isn't exciting enough?"

"I mean," Denby rests his chin against his hand, "It's not as interesting as you make it sound. Spend a lot of time just…going. I try not to dock in one place for more than a few days."

"Clearly you don't prioritize food."

"I have better things I get up to."

"Like?"

"Working on The Pelican, taking odd jobs here and there to keep us afloat. I don't really think of myself as a world traveler, I just kind of go where the work takes me. Right now it's Boston, tomorrow, who knows."

"You really don't stop to enjoy any of it?"

"What's the point?" Denby asks, "I've got time, if I ever feel like I need to slow down I can."

Adam is about to ask who hurt him when Gio appears.

"How was the dinner?" He asks. Adam tries to ignore the half-lidded look Denby is giving him.

"Oh simply beautiful. Thank you so much, I know you're swamped this time of night, we really appreciate the seats."

"Anything for you Adam, and—Denby it was? You are a lucky lucky man, Adam here is a chef who rivals my own—"

Adam thinks he's about to die. Turn into a ghost. Cease to exist. Dear lord.

"Uh—um—-thank you?" Denby says.

"Here, I will bring the bill, half off on me, for young love," Gio wanders off leaving Adam in shambles and Denby awfully quiet.

"So," Denby says, prompting Adam to sink deeper into despair, "Guess I'm a lucky man, huh?"

"Jesus Christ I'm so sorry."

"To young love."

"I'm sorry, I should tell him—"

Denby shushes Adam—who by now ought to throw himself into the ocean.

"—Hey hey hey, it's getting us a discount."

"Okay to clarify I'm not—this wasn't—I'm not interested in dating you," Adam whispers.

"Neither am I but half off is half off."

"Good, good. Glad to clear that up."

"You know it helps not to bring your boss to a romantic Italian candlelit dinner on your first day though, right?"

"You were going to go to McDonalds!"

"So your next thought was—let's go on a honeymoon?"

"Oh my god I'm going to kill myself," Adam melts into his seat and finds the patterns on the ceiling rather hypnotic.

The bill can't come soon enough, and without asking, Adam foots the entire thing. A sort of last hurrah for his bank account given how much time he'll doubtless be spending at sea. Denby watches the entire thing as if it's his first time ever seeing a bill get paid, then, once Adam has tipped enough to functionally negate the half price discount, Denby speaks.

"I could've split that with you."

"I'm the one who insisted on coming here," Adam says. He tucks his glasses away in his breast pocket.

"Now we really do sound like a couple."

Adam rolls his eyes. He waits for Denby to shrug his jacket back on before they leave. Hoping to avoid any more awkward encounters, he dips out the back way—of course, it's never going to be that easy.

"Oh my god Adam?"

Adam stops, sending Denby nearly colliding into his back. At the foot of the stairs, is his ex girlfriend, Frankie.

"Heyyy, Fran," He says, curse his timing. He'd rather get roped into another conversation with Gio. Adam approaches, channeling the spirit of a deer running into oncoming traffic.

"Long time no see," She says, her gaze darts over Adam's shoulder, "Who's he?"

"Captain Sam Denby," Denby speaks for himself.

"Captain?" She quirks an eyebrow. It's pierced now, wasn't before—suits her well.

"I'm doing an at-sea residency internship, he's hosting me," Adam says. Shaking that fictional relationship Gio saddled them with isn't as satisfying as Adam thought it'd be.

"Wow that's…"

"Yeah."

"Long way from political science."

"Political science?" Denby asks.

"His original major," Frankie looks to Adam, "right?"

"That was—I was—it was a bad choice I made in highschool because I liked debate club and thought it would stick."

"Interesting," Denby says with the cadence of a detective clicking something into place. Adam has no idea what he could possibly gather from that bit of information—nor is he pleased by the idea that there's anything to gather.

"Plenty of people switch majors, it's completely normal," Adam says.

"You really haven't changed at all," She grins, "Good luck out there, I hope you find what you've been looking for."

Adam can't be happier to leave.

The street lights guide them back to port. At some point, though Adam can't exactly remember when, Denby leans on him. The wine must have really hit his system. He's more talkative than before, muttering sentences that Adam can't decipher. Things about the ocean, about the way waves rock a ship, about how the shape of a bow effects the way a boat can cut through the water.

They're waiting to cross the street when Denby finally grows quiet. Adam is afraid he's fallen asleep. Then he mutters a question.

"What'd she mean by that?"

"Hm?"

"She said she hopes you find what you've been looking for. What's that mean?"

Truth be told, the answer isn't an easy one, or a short one. Adam doubts Denby really cares, he's drunk and looking for something to distract him.

"Just some old conversation we had. Doesn't matter anymore."

"Why'd she bring it up, then?"

"I don't know," Adam says. The air is starting to smell like salt again, and he can hear the water. They must be only a block away, "Maybe she's been talking to Maeve again."

"Whose Maeve, is she another lesbian girlfriend?"

"No, no, she's just a friend. She works for the Harbor Union now, down in New York—the three of us used to hang out in undergrad."

He did like Maeve for a while, but Fran got to him first and by the time they broke up, he'd switched majors and Maeve was seeing some transfer student from Korea. Ships in the night, so they say.

They stagger down a flight of stairs, it's hard with Denby clinging to him, but they manage and soon enough they're a stones throw away from The Pelican.

"So have you found what you're looking for, then?" Denby asks.

"We're home," Adam says. Allowing that question to wash away in the water beneath them. The Pelican waits diligently, exactly as they left it. Denby squints up at it, and smiles.

"I love you."

"What?"

"Not you, her" He stumbles over and gives embraces the bow, pressing his face into the metal. Adam crosses his arms.

"You are so drunk."

"You're drunk," Denby waves him away, "Leave us alone, we're having a moment,"

"Goodnight, Denby." Adam says.

"'Night, Chase."

Chapter Text

"Hunting Sharks is illegal, right?" Ben asks.

His watch reads nine, the day is young, and already tourists in bright colors race their small screaming children down the boardwalk. Filling the air is the smell of ice cream and popcorn, all sorts of tooth rotting indulgences. It's hard to find any of that appealing between all the cheaply pumped in music and the clacking of roller coaster tracks. Ben squints to see Maeve beside him, the sun has decided to position itself right behind her head.

"Depends on the shark."

"Have I told you how much I hate Coney Island?" Ben asks.

"I don't think anyone likes Coney Island," Maeve responds as a cacophony of screams from above hail a passing run of the Cyclone.

"It's like the sounds of hell. Those are the screams of the damned."

"I'm surprised you don't find it nostalgic."

"Wow. Alright," Ben says, laughing, "Someone call the presses, she's spicy today."

They round a corner and find themselves approaching the parking lot of the New York Aquarium. A beige, inoffensive, and largely unsuspecting building on any other day. Today it's perimeters are swarmed with local and national news vans, crowds of confused tourists and eager enthusiasts—it's not hard to discern between the two given the enthusiasts all bear the immistakable mark of someone who would willing subject themselves to a thing like this on a Saturday. That being they all look as if they have nothing better to do with their lives.

Of course, Ben is also here.

"The presses beat us to it," Maeve pulls ahead. She walks fast in heels, and her tone flicks from casual to professional in the blink of an eye. There's a good reason she's in charge of the Union.

Around him technicians are dragging speakers to a pop-up stage near the aquarium entrance—the same direction Maeve has run off—presumably to start rehearsing. Sure he's sweating bullets under a clear sky and he's still got that headache from yesterdays shift, but Maeve is the closest thing he has to an actual friend, and well, friends support each other don't they?

They'll be able to laugh and talk shit after she's done with her speech. In the meantime, those dumplings from last night didn't taste too good when they got cold, so he should probably eat something. His bank account might be in the negative, but the ten in his pocket from tips the other night is enough to get him something from one of the vendors.

He settles on funnel cake and a soda, then finds himself a seat near the stage, hopping up on a concrete half wall and setting his cane beside him. He's close enough that he can twist around to see Maeve pacing, repeating words off a paper to nobody but herself. She seems so put together, Ben has no idea how she does it, shaking hands with bureaucrats—he'd would rather drown.

He scans everyone's faces but stops on a lanky man dressed in an aquarium windbreaker. Sharp nose, short dark hair parted to one side, curling at the end. He's clutching a clipboard, craning his neck to see over all the people.

Ben can't help help but think of what those men last night were saying. Shark hunting. They said something else, too, but the rest of Ben's memory is swimming in the drinks he finished the night with. What kind of sharks were they planning on hunting, exactly?

"Hey," Ben hops from his perch, "Hey you work for the aquarium, right?"

"Need something?" Aquarium guy asks.

"Which sharks are illegal to hunt?"

He squints at Ben, mouth hung open.

"Are you…joking?" He asks.

"I'm not hunting them myself, someone else is."

Just as Aquarium Guy is about to respond, the world bursts into sound. Someone has walked up on stage, and the crowd is responding.

"I'm so sorry, I have to go," Aquarium guy bolts off.

"No, wait," Ben gives chase, raising his voice to be heard over all the clapping, "I think someones doing something illegal! I just don't remember what species they said it was!"

"—Welcome, everyone! It's so good to see so many friendly faces today," The presenter is so loud it's not worth trying to be heard over her.

"I want to show some appreciation for the amazing people working the floor today. Thank you so much for making this event possible—"

Aquarium guy has disappeared, lost somewhere in the sea of people who are now giving another sweaty round of applause. Damn.

"My name is Allison, for those who don't know I'm the president of the New York Aquarium, and, well, I'll skip the rest of the formalities, I think we're all excited to hear about our good friends the Whitetips!"

Whitetips. Whitetips! That's it! That's what those guys were hunting. The stage takes Ben's attention, he's hanging on every word.

"It's been a while since we've seen them in our waters. Nearly ten years, in fact," Allison says, "I'm proud to say we're partnering with the harbor and her community to get to know these sharks, and catch up on what we've been missing. In just a moment we will hear from the head of the Harbor Union about how we plan on doing that—but let's just take a moment to appreciate how lucky we are that a critically endangered species has stopped by to say hi!"

Critically endangered. The world seems to freeze around Ben. Oh no. Oh no no no. Maybe he heard them wrong, maybe they weren't hunting this sort of whitetip. Thought, the bruise still marking his wrist says otherwise. Whatever that guy's name was—Cameron, maybe—he seemed spooked that they'd let slip their plan. Nobody doing some innocent fishing would be that paranoid. Rich, they said. They'd be filthy rich. Ben feels sick.

If it's any consolation, at least he's in the one place he can do something. Ben weaves his way—bumping enough shoulders for one lifetime—to a clearing against the barrier. There, Maeve is bouncing on the balls of her feet. The one person who could get Ben a fast track to someone important.

"Maeve!" Ben yells. Maeve swings around to look at him, her brow falls and her face scrunches up, surely not pleased she's being disturbed so soon before she's about to go on stage. Ben doesn't care, there are more urgent things than a speech that amounts to a bunch of back pats. Even Maeve would have to agree. Leaning over the security fence. It teeters, threatening to fall over.

"I need you to let me back there! It's important!" Ben continues. He's met by Maeve shaking her head. She runs her hand across her throat in her own gesture that Ben takes is a sign to ' fuck off and stop causing problems'.

"They're hunting the sharks! The whitetip sharks-" a large hand lands on Ben's shoulder. He's spun to meet the gaze of a disgruntled security guard who towers over him. Ah. Well.

"Hey bud, how about we step back from the fence?"

"I was just trying to talk to my friend Maeve she's—."

"You can talk to her when she's not in a restricted area."

"It's important, like really, really, important."

"Look, either you step away or I make you step away."

The guards grip digs into his arm. Steel eyes ready to take action. Before Ben can dare the guy to act on his threat, the heavenly voice of Maeve Dunnigan swoops in to stop him. Heavenly, of course, being a subjective term for a tone that sounds downright homicidal.

"It's okay he's with me—unfortunately."

"You sure?" The guard asks. Maeve has the look of someone who could freeze hell, and now that Ben thinks about it, he might have an easier time reasoning with the guard.

"I ask myself that all the time," she says. The guard lets go of Ben, allowing Maeve to drag him by his bruised wrist past the barrier. Unfairly rough with him, he might add.

"Are you fucking insane?" She asks, hissing with venom, "What is wrong with you?"

"It's whitetips. The sharks they said they were hunting for."

"Excuse me?"

"I think I may have bumped into a gang of shark poachers the other night at work," Ben says.

"So call the authorities! Why does this have to involve me?"

"It doesn't I—"

"—are you physically incapable of not causing problems?"

"I'm physically incapable of ignoring them when they appear, I'm sorry you aren't."

"It's not my job to stop illegal fishing! It's not yours either!" Maeve draws Ben's attention to the stage, "It's my job to do this speech, and to make a good impression on the fine people in charge of this aquarium. You know what doesn't look good? The guy I brought with me running around yelling about shark poaching at a shark event!"

Ben has very little patience anymore. He finds it perplexing that Maeve would even agree to speak at such an event if she seemingly doesn't care about the very animals the event is dedicated to.

"Did you not hear me?" Ben asks, "They aren't just shark poachers, they're targeting the whitetips."

"Then call the police."

"What're they gonna do? Shoot everyone and also the sharks?"

"Coast guard—whatever. This is an issue to take up with the authorities—"

Maeve is cut off as the speaker on stage starts to transition subjects.

"—and now we're going to hear a word from Maeve Dunnigan—"

"I need to go," She says, prodding a finger into Ben's chest she adds, "Do not get punched in the face while I'm gone."

"Aye aye."

Ben doesn't stick around to watch her go on stage. He doesn't stick around to hear her speech either. Rather, the second she's gone, Ben starts sniffing out anyone who might take him seriously. At one point he finds a shady spot to google 'who to call for suspected shark poaching' which, as anticipated, does nothing to help. Calling in a tip to the Fish and Wildlife Service is no better than throwing his warning in the trash. If the FBI can get hundreds of tips about atrocities before they happen and not do anything, then the FWS would need the will of god to be any better. The sharks will be gone and the poachers far into international waters before anyone gets around to his meager complaint ticket.

So he has very few effective choices left to him if he doesn't want to spend the rest of the day, hell, the rest of the month obsessing over this. That's when aquarium guy walks past again texting frantically, and a new plan stars brewing. If nobody else is going to be helpful, Ben is going to have to help himself.

Ben approaches, tapping aquarium guy on the shoulder. He pockets his phone so fast Ben can't get a glimpse of what's on it.

"Hey, sorry, me again-"

"-who let you back here?" Aquarium guy asks.

"Not important—where are the sharks right now?"

"The...ocean?"

"Ha ha, very funny. I mean specifically, where are they? How far off shore would you need to go to find them?"

"They're feeding usually around thirty, maybe forty nautical miles out in the daytime, hold on weren't you just asking about shark poaching?"

"Don't worry about it."

Ben runs off before anyone can stop him. That's all he needs to know to set his new plan into action.

Waking up at sea is a shock to Adam, no matter if he knows to expect it. He passed out while the room was dark, still in his clothes from the night before, and awakens with light beaming onto his face. It warms his cheeks the way the sun used to do on late summer mornings when he was child. Sleep sits on his eyelids, calling him to say in bed just a few minutes more. Yet his clothes are starting to absorb the smell of the ocean, and his nausea is threatening to come back. He should get up.

The first order of business, then, is to take his medicine, brush his teeth, and see where Denby has sailed them. From the looks of it not anywhere specific. The waters are clear, white puffy clouds dot the sky, no sign of trouble on any horizon. Adam fans himself with his shirt, and heads upstairs. They're idling, so clearly Denby is up to something.

"What's on the agenda today?" Adam asks, entering the wheelhouse. Some clattering comes from an open closet near the back. Miscellaneous parts spill out, as does Denby.

"Actually, I rescind that question. What are you doing?"

"Inventory?" Denby says from the floor.

"Okay, well, I was thinking I could try and take some audio samples today—I brought the submarine microphone kit, I can hook everything up, I just need figure out a few good locations—what?"

Denby is looking at him not with a smile yet still with amusement. It sparkles in his eyes. He jumps up and takes his place at the helm.

"Maps are in the closet, help yourself. If you can chart out a route I'll sail it."

The thing is; Adam doesn't know the first thing about charting routes. Not practically. He knows how to read a map, he has to, in order to understand the language in his field, but he's never actually tried to chart anything before. He supposes this must be another one of Denby's lessons—when he turns to grab said maps he realizes that's not the part he should be worrying about.

"This closet is a fucking disaster."

"I have a system."

"Is the system tossing everything in and hoping for the best?"

"No. It's a good system, the maps are somewhere in there, you'll be able to find them."

"This is simply crazy. I cannot fathom how you find anything in here at all," Adam kicks past a bucket half-full of opaque water, he knocks his shoulder past some hanging tools and loose wood scrap. Nails and screws lay loose—he wouldn't want to be in here barefoot. It already physically hurts to look at.

That settles it—if Denby wants to challenge him, he's going to accept that challenge with grace and determination. Adam cracks his fingers, time to get to work.

Organization is relaxing. That is—for Adam he can lose himself in it. He keeps his shirts color coded, his socks each folded into matching pairs, the files in his laptop are the dictionary definition of impeccable. So no matter how much of a nightmare Denby's little closet it, it's nothing compared to the power of a little focus and a pot of cheap coffee. Each time he steps away to pour himself another cup, he catches Denby glancing back at him.

It takes nearly an hour. He's sorted the supplies, cleared the floor, and dusted for good measure. He steps back to admire his handy work, at which point Denby joins him.

"Now this is a system," Adam points to each part as he talks, "You've got your construction supplies, your tools, your cleaning supplies, your navigation—isn't this much better?"

"It was fine before," Denby says.

Adam's phone starts ringing before he can start yelling. He's not received any calls since he left shore, everyone who could conceivably seek to call him knows he's away and busy. So he's curious who could want something from him. To his surprise, it's the one person who he didn't tell—albeit he didn't tell her because they haven't formally spoken in months.

Maeve Dunnigan? Adam hums, why would she be calling him?

"Sorry I have to—"

"—go ahead," Denby nods at the door. Outside, Adam is thankful the air is stagnant, he can hear Maeve loud and clear.

"Are you busy this week?" She asks.

"Hold on, first of all to answer that question, probably? Secondarily—why are you calling me?" Adam pauses, realizing how rude that sounds, "Sorry, it's just that we haven't talked in ages. I mean, honestly, I don't mind it's nice to catch up."

"I have something I think you might be interested in—are you still on that marine biology kick?" She asks. It sounds busy around her, and is that carnival music?

"It's not a 'kick'—where are you?"

"Coney Island. I'm waiting for a friend to show up, he's coming with me to this talk I'm giving. Where are you?"

"Uh—" good question. Adam is forgetting he can't just answer that anymore. Sam's satellite connection is only good for phone calls, "Somewhere on the Atlantic, I think."

"Like the ocean, like the sea?"

Adam leans against the railing to stare into the water. A few fish scurry past while a moon jellyfish bobs on the surface.

"I'm doing an internship."

"Oh, wow! Good for you, Adam! That's really neat—so you're, like, properly doing research?"

"I'm trying. What was that thing I was gonna be interested in?" He asks, tapping out a rhythm with his fingers. The last of that coffee is hitting him.

"We've got whitetip sharks just off the coast of New York."

Adam perks up, a grin grows across his face.

"No way."

"Yes way, some divers spotted them a few nights ago, we just got formal confirmation. The aquarium is kicking it into high gear—that's actually what I'm speaking at—but I just figured you'd be interested in maybe stopping by. We could grab drinks or something too, if you have the time."

"I would adore that. That would be beautiful. I can probably get there by tonight."

"That's perfect."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, should we dock in the harbor?"

"Be my guest, I'll clear a spot for you," Maeve says, then he hears someone call her name.

"Who's that?" Adam asks.

"Ben, maybe I'll introduce you. He's um...he's interesting. I'll see you tonight."

"See you tonight," Adam stares in stunned silence at the water until he can register what just happened. Forget charting a course. The only place Adam needs to be right now is New York City.

Chapter Text

"I need to borrow your boat," Ben says. It's not a question, not a request, a demand. At this point Ben is over being told no. He didn't cool off between the subway ride from Coney Island to the harbor , in fact, the unbearably stuffy heat of the subway only served to fuel the fire in his chest.

Plus, he knows Cutter would lend his boat over any day. Exemplifying this, Cutter tosses his keys over first, an only then asks,

"What for?"

"I'm intercepting an illegal whitetip shark poaching ring."

"Oh," Cutter, who was previously occupied helping someone unload their fishing gear, scratches his head, "Well good luck?"

Ben waves goodbye and makes a mental note to treat Cutter to lunch someday. The old sailboat is exactly where it's always parked. Three down from the boat painted like a can of Campbell's soup and two down from the edge of the pier. About thirty feet long and a mast with height to match.

Just as Ben leans down to untether it, he hears someone call out. If Ben still had a drop of religion in him, he'd think he wronged someone. Or maybe that these damn sharks are supposed to go extinct.

"Hey! You!" It's the man from the aquarium. The young one with black curls who he'd been harassing. Ben blanches, readying himself for just about anything.

"You followed me?" Ben asks. He supposes he's not hard to lose, what, with his bright colors and his cane, but nevertheless it isn't reassuring that he managed to be tracked across town.

"Are you heading out?" He asks back.

"Evidently, yes."

"Can I come?"

"What?" As if this couldn't get any worse.

"Look," the man from the aquarium is starting some sort of emotional monologue, Ben can tell from the sickening sincerity in his tone. What did he ever do to deserve this?

"I'm just some assistant technician okay? Nobody takes me seriously, but the second we announced those sharks to the public I knew something would go wrong. Someone's trying to poach them?"

"They told me last night," Ben holds up his bruised wrist. He receives a sympathetic grimace, though sympathy has never been a thing Ben is keen on receiving.

"Everyone ignored me when I tried to tell them to stagger the release of information," the man from the aquarium says, "I know what it feels like to be taken for granted, and I'm really sorry for earlier I was very busy, but I'd like to come with you. If I help stop this—."

"Yeah, yeah, you wanna get some recognition."

Aquarium guy shrugs.

"And save the sharks, of course."

"Of course," Ben agrees.

"I'm Joseph by the way," He holds out his hand, which Ben looks at but doesn't take. Rather, he returns to untying the boat.

"Ben."

"Nice to meet you, Ben."

"You said they were up to forty miles out?"

"Nautical miles, yeah. I stole a map from work and marked it out," Joseph fumbles with his backpack, and rolls out a glossy map with smudged black lines tracing areas of the water surrounding New York, "This is where they feed in the daytime. If your poachers are looking for sharks they'll be around these areas."

"It'll take us about five hours to get that far," Ben hopes Joseph has packed snacks, or at the very least came knowing how long this would take, because if he has to deal with someone complaining for hours on end, there's going to be a missing persons report involved.

Joseph nods, unfazed. Good. If Ben were to take a page from Maeve's book, he might try to find the virtue of a two person crew. Many hands make light work, or whatever it is they say.

The key starts the outboard motor, the sails catch the wind, and soon enough the Harbor is far behind them.

"So, what's the plan?" Joseph asks once the last of the tallest buildings in Manhatten are gone. The waters are a dark greenish-blue that waft a musky scent. The suns light doesn't glitter, rather it's swallowed by the depths. Kelp and seaweed caress the hull. The wind flaps through the fabric of the main sail and the jib, keeping them moving at a steady pace. Four more hours at least.

"We head out to the feeding grounds," Ben says, one hand resting on the main sheet, the other on the winch, trimming as needed to keep dead downwind.

"Then what?"

Ben opens his mouth to answer but nothing comes out. Truth be told he hadn't thought that far. The idea, now, of encountering a bunch of shark poachers in nothing but a cruiser is, put lightly, extraordinarily stupid. Knowing Cutter there's probably a weapon hidden somewhere on the ship, but it's a wonder as to where and if it'll even be of any use.

So Ben shrugs. He'll improvise, and if he gets his ass kicked, well, he's had worse.

"Aren't you armed?" Joseph prods on, much to Ben's annoyance, "You don't know what those guys could be willing to do. You didn't bring a gun?"

"A gun?" Ben squints, "No I don't even have a license to own one."

Joseph goes quiet and looks at his hands. Now that he can actually think about what he's doing, maybe taking a complete stranger was a bad idea. Ben's gut twists around itself. He's sailing into a dangerous situation and dragging an someone down with him. Joseph doesn't deserve that, he has a life, he has aspirations. He's someone people would miss.

Ben's already outlived far too many people better than he.

"I should head back," Ben says, "You shouldn't be here."

"No, no no," Joseph stands up, "Please, I need this, it'll be fine. We'll be fine."

"I have to do this alone, I'm sorry."

"No, Ben, please, you have no idea how much this means to me," Joseph continues, "If I do this—If I stop a shark poaching ring—I'll be taken seriously for once in my life!"

Ben swallows his doubts. Josephs eyes are wide and watery. He really does look desperate, and he's hugging his bag tight, shaking. Somewhere in the back of Ben's mind a tiny alarm bell is going off. Nobody sane should be this ready to throw themselves into the line of fire for their career. Even a soldier has their hesitations before stepping into a warzone, and Joseph is no militant. Truly he can't be much older than Ben, and there are a million other ways to make your name than by going on a suicide mission.

Ben licks his lips.

"Why don't you try something less danegrous?" Ben asks.

"I have," Joseph says, "I've tried everything I can but half the time I'm not even given the chance to prove myself. They just assume I'll mess up."

"That's stupid."

"Yeah."

Ben drops his head and sighs. He digs his nails into his thigh, letting them chew at the scar on his leg. The chances of something horrific happening again are one in a million, he reminds himself, one in a million.

"God fucking dammit."

"Are you okay?" Joseph asks.

"I'm Fine," Ben says, running a hand down his beard, "I'll try not to get you killed."

Joseph smiles. He looks Ben up and down, they've still got a long ways to go.

Two hours have passed, and Ben is beginning to feel it. It's not rough work per say, but after two hours of keeping balanced against the increasingly choppy water, Ben's leg is sore his, hands ache from the sheet tugging at his palms, and the sun has surely burnt his neck.

"How're you holding up?" He asks Joseph. Joseph nods. He's been quiet since their scuffle earlier, staring at Ben in a way that crawls under his skin. He has to admit, he's still rubbed the wrong way by Joseph following him all the way into harbor. The further out they sail the more jumpy Joseph seems to get.

"First time being this far offshore?" Ben asks.

"Huh? Oh. No, I've been on a few research vessels, why?"

"You're shaking."

"It's just cold," Joseph answers far too quick. The winds are getting harsher, sure, but it's not really cold. The sun is still working overtime to ensure that. Of course, Ben has always had thick skin when it comes to temperature. That's hardly a way to gauge it.

So Ben trots below deck and, grabbing an oversized jacket, holds it out to Joseph who looks up at him in confusion.

"What-"

"-I'd prefer you not freeze to death before we get there."

"Oh…thanks," It practically swallows Joseph whole, but it does the trick.

Ben sighs. While he's at it he should probably look for that weapon, just in case. Cutter keeps a stash of tools in a hatch on the deck. He knows from the few times he's been out with him on fishing trips. Ben kneels on the floor, back to Joseph. He pulls up the hatch, as expected it's mostly wrenches and old frayed knots. Nothing useful. He might have to search the cabin.

Then Ben hears a soft click from behind him. He sits up, and something cold and narrow presses into the back of his head.

"Hey, Joseph," He says. There's not a doubt in his mind what lies behind him.

"Close the hatch," Joseph's voice cracks, though demanding and sturdy, beneath his stone facade is a soft underbelly. He's still a scared young man, but now he has a gun trained on the back of Ben's head—which to Ben is a lot worse than if he were confident.

"Raise your hands where I can see them."

"Joseph, man, you work for the aquarium."

"Yeah you think they pay me shit?" Joseph kicks Ben's cane across the deck.

"Typically people don't work at aquariums for—"

"Shut the hell up."

Ben snaps his mouth closed. Touche. Ben's knees sting, he's waiting, braced for a shot that isn't coming. Why hasn't he been killed yet? He wants to turn around and look, yet neither does he want to test his luck.

"Was anything you said true?" Ben asks.

"Why do you care?"

"I just want to know how badly I got played."

It's hard to hear, but Ben's sure Joseph laughs.

From the left comes the rumbling of another boats motor. It disturbs the water around them, not sounding much bigger than Cutter's old girl. It pulls alongside them. Aboard are three very familiar faces. The three men from work—his so called shark poachers.

"Joseph what the hell, you're crazy!" That's three fingers—Ben remembers now, Artie his name was.

"You work with them?" Ben asks.

"Hey, that's the fag that served us the other night," Artie clearly hasn't changed much. Does that still count towards Ben's tally of nightly slurs? The other two men join Artie in gawking at him as if he's some animal at the zoo.

"You're the one who spilled the beans, Artie," Says the guy with a missing tooth, "Cameron tried to kill you for that."

"Shut up Jimmy," Artie says, growling deep, "Joseph, kiddo, nice work on the catch, eh?"

"What do we even do now?" Joseph asks, sounding frantic, "This got way out of hand."

"Pop a cap in his ass and dump the body overboard," Jimmy says.

Ben shuts his eyes and bows his head. It's not exactly like he didn't see this coming. Joseph jumping him wasn't in the cards, but such is life. He takes a deep breath and savors the air—what a way to go.

Except…he's still alive. They're all just sitting around, waiting.

"So uh…any day now," Ben says.

"Joseph. Come on, he goes back to shore and he starts yapping his mouth to every tom, dick and harry," Jimmy says, "We can't leave a witness."

"What about—what about the boat? The coast guard will find the boat with all his blood on it—" The barrel of the gun shakes against Ben's head. It's not particularly reassuring.

"Then we burn the damn boat, we got any gas cans, Cameron?"

Ben hears some footsteps and then a distant voice.

"We got a few."

"We got a few. See, all's well that ends well, now kill the fucker and let's get out of here."

Ben hates each second of this with the very fiber of his being. He'd rather be dead. If Joseph doesn't pull the trigger his heart is going to give out—or maybe he'll die of old age or throw himself overboard to save them the trouble.

"Okay but—" God fucking damnit, "—what if we don't kill him."

"Oh come on, Joseph," Artie manages to articulate exactly how Ben is feeling.

"Look I didn't sign up to kill anyone okay. Sharks is one thing, people's another, and he seems—well he seems like an asshole but he's nice enough."

"If we let him live, we're screwed." Cameron says.

"We could…" Joseph sounds less and less sure of himself by the second, Ben has to wonder at what point he'll throw in the towel, "We could tie him up?"

"Tie him up?" The older men let out a round of cackling laughter, "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"No! It's—will you just listen? We can leave him out here, the coastguard are gonna find a boat burnt or not and it's gonna be reported. All killing him will do is up the charges and make us more at risk of a manhunt," Actually that's pretty sound logic, Ben thinks, and not just because it means he won't have a bullet in his skull. Joseph continues, "If we keep him alive, we can lay low, we can cross the boarder and be fine. By the time anyone rescues him out here, we'll be halfway across the world."

It doesn't much sound like a fun way to spend the afternoon, but it's a compelling argument, and judging by the contemplative silence that follows it, the older men are actually considering it.

"Oh whatever," Artie says "you got any rope?"

Being tied up isn't much fun when the people with the rope wanted you dead five seconds ago. He's thrown into the cabin, attached to the far wall, and left with a rag tied into his mouth. Ben's not sure why that part is necessary, there's not a lot of people around to hear him if he screams. Joseph seems apologetic the entire time. Shooting him looks that are begging for reassurance, as if he wasn't just holding a gun to Ben's head.

If Ben had the ability to speak he would've criticized their knots, all of which were either too loose or too tight or too messy—and they call themselves sailors. Maybe that's why they gagged him. He'd gag himself too, though, if it were up to him, he would've shot himself before they got to this point.

He winces as they tighten a rope that digs into his leg, forcing it into an awkward angle.

"Oh does that hurt?" Artie snorts. Joseph shoots him a dirty look, and Ben has to wonder how he even got into this business. He really doesn't seem like the criminal type—unless they don't make goons like they used to.

"There," Artie says. The two of them stand back, almost admiring their handiwork, "Are you happy? Can we go?"

"Yes," Joseph nods, then mouths an apology to Ben. Seriously. What? Ben rolls his eyes and watches them leave. The rag in his mouth is already starting to taste chemically and fuzzy. His whole body is sticky. He can just make out the bright blue sky through the door, and without air conditioning, he's as good a literal cooked goose. He's already starting to sweat out his own body weight.

Here's hoping someone finds him soon.

Chapter Text

It's been ten hours. Today is the first day Adam's spent entirely at sea, and he'd like to say he's managed it quite well. He's occupied himself finding other things to tidy up—Denby for all his worth can't understand what an optimized storage system looks like. Then once he's too annoyed to keep bothering with that, he pivots to take count of his diving gear.

If he can manage it, he'd love to head down for himself to get a good look at these sharks—or shark, singular. Whitetips are fairly solitary creatures, the chances of there being more than one are limited. If he's unreasonably lucky, there could be three or four if they're feeding on common ground. Unfortunately, no matter the population size, that will have to wait for tomorrow.

As of now, the sun is starting it's decent. By the time they dock, it'll be time for dinner. He'll be meeting up with Maeve. Maybe getting introduced to whoever this Ben guy is. Truth be told, they didn't actually say all that much last they spoke. After she moved to New York her life became a black box to Adam. He wasn't lying when he said it'd be nice to catch up.

Adam does a loop around the deck to catch some fresh, crisp summer air—not so shaky on his legs anymore—then pops his head into the wheelhouse.

"What's our ETA?"

"We'll be docking in at around seven. Two more hours to go."

"Awesome," Adam hopes Maeve is still up for dinner that late. He could call her to check, but there's another question that's been eating away at him. He's not going to be docking alone, and it would be rude not to offer, "Do you wanna go to dinner with me?"

"Again?"

"Oh no, no, no, no, no," Adam blushes, last night was…interesting, to say the least of it. He still has a knot in his stomach when he thinks about Denby glowing in the candlelight, and he's not eager to recreate that feeling. He is not going to catch feelings for his boss—who, mind you, he is spending six months in close quarters with. He would simply lose his mind. For the sake of his sanity and his integrity, that's going to remain a shut box.

However.

"Maeve invited me to grab drinks and I was going to see if she wanted to get dinner instead, and I figured, you know, since you're like a part of my life now—"

"—Again, you say that like we're dating."

"No I don't."

"Part of your life now?"

"You're going to be one of the only people I interact with on a daily basis for half a year—I'd say that constitutes a lot of my life, actually. I'm being very generous. Whatever. Do you want to join me or not?"

"Sure, I'd love to meet Maeve. She sounds…sorry who is Maeve again?"

"Old college friend."

The ship swerves, sending Adam tumbling into the wall. Adam yelps as his shoulder hits at the wrong angle. A shock runs up his collarbone.

"Sorry," Denby says, grimacing, "What the hell…"

"What was that?"

"I don't know,"

Denby's thrown the ship into idle, and is staring out the window at something just in front of them. Adam, after giving his shoulder a few rotations to ensure everything is in its right place, joins him. There's a sailboat. An empty, drifting sailboat.

"Is that normal?" Adam asks.

"Nope," Denby answers, "Not this late, anyways. Doesn't look like anyone's onboard either. Lights are off in the cabin."

"Should we…check it out?" A shiver runs down Adam's spine. Something about this feels off. Maybe it's the eerie way the stark evening shadows shape the cresting waves. Maybe it's the lonesomeness of a ship adrift without an owner. Whatever the case, he gets the unshakable feeling there's more to this iceberg lurking just out of sight.

"I don't know," Denby's hand is hovering over the communications system. His radio at the ready, "We should call it into the coast guard for sure."

"But we should check if it's actually abandoned first, right?"

If there is someone on board, it would be silly to call in an abandonment. Denby takes a second to answer, clearly considering this as well. His eyes never leave the ship. It's only a few feet ahead, floating where the wind desires to carry it. Eventually he makes up his mind.

"Yeah, we should."

Denby cuts the engines making Adam the first out the door. He strains to see into the cabin, maybe someone simply fell asleep. That would be a much nicer reality than the many alternatives running rampant through Adam's mind.

"Do you think it's safe?" Adam asks once Denby has come down.

"It's a small vessel, chances are it got loose and drifted out."

The way Denby says it, it may as well be a daily occurrence. Yet there's an analytical look on his face, as if he's puzzled by such a sight, that gives away the hole in his explication. Even he doesn't really believe that's what happened here.

The other ship is close enough that Adam can step across onto her deck. Sure, he was eager to leap into the water and save that whale calf, but that's different. He knows how well he can swim. Here, Adam knows he can't fight to save his life, and he's not bouncing off the walls to see anything horrific.

"Well?" Denby probes him, "Do you wanna take a look?"

"Why me? Why not you?" Adam asks. Denby is supposed to be keeping him safe, isn't he?

"I need to stay on The Pelican in case we need to move, unless you've suddenly learned how to sail."

Ah. Well, that's hard to argue with.

"What if—" Adam eyes the strange boat, apprehensive to make any move, "Do you have anything I can use to defend myself?"

"Are you asking for a firearm?"

"No! Like a blunt object, I don't want to kill anyone."

"You've got that knife you used to cut the whale free."

Adam pats down his pockets and is about to say no when he remembers he tossed it somewhere on deck. Kneeling near a pile of nets, Adam untangles the knife and tucks it away on his person.

"Better?" Denby asks.

"A little. Okay, keep an eye on me, if you hear me scream please feel free to come help."

"Again, I can see the whole ship from here, it's not a big ship."

"I'm being prepared, you're the one whose supposed to be all neurotic about safety."

"I'd argue so far the word neurotic only applies to you."

"I have a knife right now."

"And I'm shutting up."

Arguing has become Adam's natural state around Denby, for whatever god forsaken reason. He needs to focus. The gap between their ships is small, and the waves occasionally push her to bump against The Pelican. Despite this, the brackish and darkened water doesn't look very friendly—Adam has no intention of falling in.

He times his step with the waves so that he may not risk falling at all. It's quick, easier than he assumed it'd be, and soon enough he's boarded.

"See?" Denby says, "You're fine. Is there anyone on there?"

The cabin is dark. He can't see a thing inside, and certainly isn't going to offer himself blindly up to anyone lurking in the shadows.

"I don't know. There's a flashlight in one of my bags—the blue one—can you grab it for me?"

Denby leaves, and for a moment Adam is alone, floating on a strange ship in the setting sun. It's almost relaxing if not for the looming dread.

"Catch," Denby returns, tossing a flashlight in Adam's direction. It's not the one Adam packed. It's much bigger and much heavier.

"This isn't mine."

"Yeah, I have flashlights," Denby says, "Seriously, you did not need to pack half the things you did."

"I already explained this I didn't know—whatever. Look, if I get murdered and this is the last conversation I have, I'm personally becoming a ghost pirate and sinking your ship."

"Oh man, a ghost and a pirate? That's like, pretty awful."

"Shut up."

Adam clicks on the light, it's blindingly bright. He blinks to adjust to the beam of sun he's got in his hand.

"Jesus, Denby, what do you even need this for?"

"Lots of things. Including you, checking for signs of life."

Adam rolls his eyes and moves ahead, keeping the light at an angle so he can actually see. Down the steps and into the cabin—he treads on his tip toes, careful not to make too much noise. To be fair, if there is anyone inside they're well aware of his presence by now.

Adam's eyes adjust, and then he screams. A body is bound and gagged, tied against the wall. Well, there goes any chance of a normal evening.

Adam can't stop staring.

It's rude, he knows, but the guy's unconscious so he can't really judge Adam. His dark brown curls are matted to his head in old sweat. When Adam first saw him, he thought they'd have to call in a murder. He was ghastly pale, seemingly far past his due date, but to Adam's relief, he'd managed to find a steady pulse.

Now they've got a stranger in the second bed downstairs, and a sailboat hitched to the back of The Pelican.

Adam re-dampens the cool rag he's keeping on the stranger's forehead. Denby deduced heat fatigue—what with temperatures reaching the high eighties today, being stuck in such a small compartment means being cooked alive.

An hour and a half until they reach land. So much for dinner plans, until they can get the stranger to a hospital Adam is playing nurse as best he knows how. He can only wonder what happened to get the stranger tied up in the first place. That is until he starts to rouse.

A gentle groan escapes his lips, his eyes flicker with life, and Adam snaps to attention.

"Whoa there," He says, soft as he can be, "Take it slow."

"W'th'fuck—who're you?"

"I'm Adam. My associate and I found you, here, I can get you some water—" Adam leaps up.

"Mmm'we need t' follow 'em."

"Follow who?" Adam asks, returning with a bottle.

"Th' sharks."

"Okay, buddy, let's just relax. You probably got real bad heat stroke down there. Here drink something."

"No I need t'…god damnit. Joseph, I'm gonna kill you."

Adam purses his lips. The guy is delirious, that much is apparent, which isn't the greatest in terms of symptoms. He needs to hydrate—it would also be nice to determine if there's any cranial injuries.

"Hey, listen. I need you to tell me your name? Do you know you name?"

"Of course I know m'name," The stranger grimaces, and grabs his left leg.

"I'm gonna need your name."

"Ben."

"Okay Ben. Can you drink this for me?"

Ben doesn't answer. He's too busy clawing a hole in his thigh. Another groan escapes his lips—there's something else here besides simple heat stroke. His eyes are screwed tight, breaths coming out is short gasps. Pain killers, maybe that will help. Where does Denby keep painkillers?

Adam runs through the bathroom, the closet, the cabinets. Finally, he finds a little red bag and in it, plenty of pills. Basic acetaminophen, but better than nothing.

When Adam returns, Ben is muttering to himself.

"Fucking 'tie him up' my ass. Just put a fucking bullet in my head, come on."

He really doesn't know if this is the kind of person he should be helping—but neither is he leaping to get on Ben's bad side.

"Here," Adam hands off a handfull of pills, he doesn't count how many. Ben grabs every single one and the water. He chugs down the bottle as fast as he can bother to swallow the pills.

"Never," Ben sits up, pointing at Adam, "Never let them convince you that living is easier."

"Okay. Why don't you lie back down—"

"Where's my cane?"

"Your—huh? Your cane? I don't—there wasn't one with you when we found you—"

"—they took my cane?"

"Ben, please."

"I'm laying down," Ben says, grumbling. He shuts his eyes and takes deep breaths—in and out through his nose. They fall into silence. Adam lets Ben regulate himself, gladly, just as Adam regulates his own jittery hands. He doesn't keep track of time, it must be a while, but eventually Ben's face relaxes, softens into something less intense.

He blows one final breath out of his mouth, then transitions into a whistle.

"Sorry," Ben says, "Thanks for the medicine."

"Yeah, of course."

Ben cracks his eyes. They're a dark, deep blue with a glint of wit behind them. The glassy blanket of pain still persists, but it's distant.

"What was your name?"

"Adam."

"Adam. You sail alone?"

"No. Denby's the captain I'm just—"

"Co-captain?"

"Intern."

Ben snorts. A smile flicks across his face, he laughs slow and articulated, in such a way that feels intentional.

"Damn, they've got interns on boats now?"

Adam can't help but smile along. The levity is welcome, something about Ben is infectious and Adam's not going to fight it. It's the first time tonight he's felt remotely normal.

"Yeah I guess that does sound pretty strange."

"That's crazy. Back in my day, those were called deck hands."

"How old are you?" Adam asks, it's hard to tell. He looks young, yet there's a weight to his gaze. Somewhere in those eyes is a man much older than his skin.

"Twenty-three Gregorian years. It's also the year 2025, and the current president is…a mistake," Ben says, "In case you were wondering about any brain injury."

Jesus, Ben is actually younger than Adam. By quite a bit, too. What the hell was he doing out at sea alone?

"You seem lucid enough now, but I appreciate it," Adam says.

"Always thinking ahead, that's me."

Ben has gotten marginally quieter. His soft-spoken affect almost manages to make Adam forget he'd just been talking about killing people. Dare Adam say his roundish cheeks and pouty cupids bow make his seem endearing. Still, Adam's leg bounces. He shouldn't let his guard down.

"What happened?" Adam asks.

"I like to engage in rope play with the sea."

Adam frowns. It would be funny if he weren't so busy fretting over every possible bad outcome.

"Tough crowd. Okay," Ben says, "I got got by some shark poachers."

"Are you serious?"

"No, I'm Ben."

It's such a fast, flat affected response that it sends Adam into a fit of laughter. Yeah, that got him.

"Okay wow, so that's the level we're on," Ben says, not helping.

"Wait, wait, wait, what were they even trying to poach—most Sharks around the Atlantic are free game, especially this close to shore. Except maybe—"

"—Whitetips."

Adam's blood runs cold.

"They were going for the whitetips?"

"See, now if everyone else could look just as horrified as you do, life could be a dream."

Adam runs a hand through his hair, and leaps to his feet. He needs to pace, he needs to move, to think.

"This is bad," Adam says, "This is very very very bad. Catastrophically bad."

So much for that brief respite, Adam's heart is beating out of it's chest. Now it's his turn to freak out, and while he knows it's not helpful—most certainly not for poor Ben, who can't do much about it anyways—it's not as if it's undeserved.

"Whitetip sharks were hunted to near extinction—population drops of ninety percent in some cases."

"What are you some sort of marine biologist?" Ben asks.

"Yes!"

"Are you also going to hold me at gunpoint?"

"Wh-no? Absoloutely not? Why on earth would I do that?"

"Just checking. Can never be too sure around these parts," Ben sits up, stretching his leg, "So can we turn around and go after them?"

A flood of cortisol runs through Adam. On one hand, Ben is injured. He needs medical attention and nobody on this ship is qualified to provide it. There's no question they need to get him to shore. On the other hand, if the poachers catch even one shark, there goes the whitetip population in New York. The aquarium wont have the chance to tag them, or study them, and a small group of people get sickeningly rich off blood money.

Adam grovels into his hands. It happens all over the world, every day. He should just let it go. Yet he can't bring himself to do it. To accept the label of cowardice.

"I hate this. I hate this so much."

"Are you okay?"

"You're the one who nearly died," Adam says, his voice strained, "We need to get you to a hospital."

"I'm alright, the longer we hesitate the more likely our poachers are halfway to Timbuktu."

"They aren't our poachers! There's no we! I'm going to kill myself, I need a second."

"Okay, okay, look. I'm lucid. I'm not actively dying, I can even stand—" Ben wobbles up, noticeably favoring his right leg. In fact, he's practically balancing on it, "—see? Fine. All good, nothing to worry about."

"What's wrong with your—" Right. Cane. They took his cane. Adam shuts his mouth before he can be any more offensive.

"Got in a sick motorcycle accident—I apprenticed with Evil Knievel."

"You're too young for Evil Knievel."

"But doesn't that sound cool?"

"No—look, you can stand…kind of…but you were still trapped in a sailboat for god knows how long. You need to be looked at."

"I'd say you've been looking at me quite a bit."

"By a doctor."

"You don't have a doctorate yet?"

"I'm twenty five!"

"Wow that hit a nerve—"

"—Ben sit down. Now."

Ben does as told, thank god. Adam's tension headache is growing by the second. He pinches the bridge of his nose. Then he sighs the deepest sigh known to man.

If there's a chance they can intervene in the poaching of these sharks, Adam would take it in a heartbeat. He wants in the fibers of his being to turn this ship around, but what are the chances they'll actually find anything and what are the chances that Denby lets them?

"They could be anywhere. It might be a complete waste of time—time we could be spending getting you help."

"I'm beyond help."

Adam puts his hands on his hips and shoots his most disapproving look Ben's way. Neither say a word more as Adam attempts to corral his thoughts into something workable, and Ben seems to be doing the same—though to Adam a more appropriate term would be scheming.

"An hour and a half," Ben finds his argument first, "Just give it an hour and a half. We can cover a lot of ground in that time, if we don't find anything than we can head back to shore."

"It's going to take us an hour and a half to get the harbor in the first place."

"Then make it three—I'm not going to suffer in the span of three hours."

Adam chews the inside of his cheeks. Okay, so, maybe. Maybe he's considering it. Maybe he really won't be able to forgive himself if it turns out that the poachers are nearby, and they do get away right under his nose.

Maybe he has the chance to make the change he wanted to make when he pivoted to marine biology in the first place.

"Fine," Adam says, "Let me check with the captain."

Ben fist pumps the air.

"Fuck yes. Adam I could kiss you."

Adam is going to pass on that. For now.

Chapter Text

Leaving Ben alone is not the smartest thing Adam's ever done. The second he's climbing the stairs, he remembers the kitchen is where all the knives are kept—not that he assumes every stranger he meets is a serial killer, but Ben was quite adamant about killing someone.

"How's he doing?" Denby asks as Adam shuts the door.

"He's awake."

This gets Denby's full attention.

"And you left him alone?"

"We need to turn around."

"Whoa, whoa, hold on. Where's this coming from? He still needs medical intervention—"

"—I know that. But something's happened, and I think we can afford a few hours delay to look into it."

"I think that's a bad idea," Denby says. Not that Adam expected anything different. Just moments ago he'd been arguing on behalf of Denby's point—to be fair it is an senseless proposition. Yet when Denby challenges him, Adam is a bull against a red cape. All he wants to do is dig his heels into the ground and charge.

"You haven't even seen him, how can you make any judgment?"

"Because he was trapped in an oven for eight hours at least? Chase, this is crazy."

"Well, why don't you hear me out," Adam says, pacing, "He brought to my attention a very important issue that is worth a diversion, I would say."

Denby nods, as if to say 'go on'.

"Apparently he was tied up by a gang of shark poachers looking to go after the whitetips that have drifted into town."

"Those were the sharks you wanted to see? The super rare ones?"

"Critically endangered—"

"—No yeah, I remember your whole speech. I…yeah…I don't know, Chase. This still feels like a bad move. We have no way to defend ourselves, it might be easier to just alert the coast guard," Denby says.

The first lights of the city are starting to appear. Twinkling monuments against a darkening sky. A layer of clouds have rolled in from the east, it would be nice break from the unrelenting heat if it were day. Now they only threaten to blot the moon out of the sky.

"Why can't we do both? Just a quick look around, just to see, that's all I'm asking. Three hours, then we can dock and get Ben help, and I'll let it go."

Denby doesn't respond for a while. Adam keeps waiting for some sort of answer, even if it's negative. He could continue arguing all night long if he needs to. Yet Denby's mouth remains shut.

"Say something," Adam prods him, "You have no idea how bad this is going to be if they get away, we may have the chance to do something about it, to stop them before they flee the country and get upsetting rich—"

"—Two hours, nothing more. Do not try to pull anything."

"Aye aye."

The second they're not barrelling towards harbor, Adam is in panic mode. Fundamentally it's no different, they'd be as likely to run into trouble if it were any other night, yet the notion that they're actively seeking it out is enough to send him into overdrive. He's bouncing off the walls of the lower cabin. Ben doesn't seem nearly as phased by the risk of it all—then again he'd gone out by himself with nothing but a sailboat, this must feel like a whole militia to him.

"How much coffee have you had today, and should you maybe stop drinking it?" Ben asks.

"A pot this morning—I'm fine."

"You look insane."

"How are you not freaked out by this?"

"You were all in like, five seconds ago."

Adam groans. He did ask for this, to be fair. He may have been a bit blinded in the moment by his insatiable urge to argue with Denby, and he really would be remiss if he passed up the chance to stop this poaching ring. However, now he has the time to actually reflect on how dangerous what they're doing could be, and his body reacts accordingly—complete and utter blind anxiety.

"Are they armed?" Adam finally thinks to ask.

"Joseph had a gun, but I doubt he's a good shot. I doubt any of them are, they weren't even that good at tying knots."

"Okay, okay, okay, cool, cool, cool." Adam's voice goes squeaky—not cool. Very much not cool. He paces faster, it feels as if his heart is going to leap out of his throat. He leans over the sink, "No big deal. I'm totally okay being shot at, this is so fine."

"Do it for the sharks, Adam. The sharks can't use guns, imagine how crazy that would be."

"It would in fact be crazy if sharks could use guns. I would say I'm very glad they can't—what are we even talking about dawg?"

"I don't know but you've gotta take a breather."

Adam nods. He grabs a water bottle and splashes his face, then focuses on Ben's presence. It's nice to have another person down here—he's sure if he were alone he'd be inconsolable. Then again, they wouldn't be doing this if not for Ben.

"You're right, I'm sorry," Adam says.

"Nah, it's okay. Sometime I forget the average person has a survival instinct."

There's something about the way Ben talks that puts the world into perspective. He's sat, cracking jokes like it's any other night. Even if he's just woken up from being near to death, he smirks and keeps his wits about him.

It's as if he knows everything is going to be okay—and it seeps into the world around him. Adam absorbs it like a sponge.

He blows out a long breath, and takes a sip of water.

"Once I had a guy try to shank me," Ben says.

"What? Why did he do that?"

"Well, I was in a holding cell—"

"—why were you in a holding cell?" Adam asks. There are about ten layers to every sentence this guy speaks.

"I got arrested protesting a gas pipeline—long story—anyways I guess he was compelled by god to try and kill me."

"Were you okay?"

"Yeah. He missed. Then I got released on bail," Ben shrugs, "Crazy stuff."

It isn't until Ben moves on to talking about some old girlfriend he had, that Adam realizes he's able to sit still.

"So this Captain Denby—"

"—what about him?" Adam asks. They've been talking for quite some time now. Long enough that Adam's gotten comfortable on his own bed. He may have just met Ben, but unlike anyone else he's ever spoken to, something between them clicks. It's not hard to talk to Ben. Not hard to laugh at his sarcasm, not hard to bounce off his jokes.

"Do you like working with him?"

"I've only known him a few days," Adam says, "He seem fine."

"He's not a destitute freak?"

"He's a freak, absolutely. I'm not so certain destitute is how I'd describe him though."

"Well, you gotta be one or the other if you're a captain—that or unapologetically misanthropic."

Adam refrains from pointing out that Ben, thus far, has in his own ways hit the mark on all three.

"Would you like to meet him?" He asks instead. It only feels right, Denby hasn't spoken to Ben at all, and perhaps he should. Adam's grown fond of him in a weird sort of way. He almost wants to ask if Ben can stick around—but it would be a waste of breath when he already knows the answer.

"Might need help with that," Ben sticks out his leg. Right, no cane.

"You can lean on me."

Adam offers before he can register why he does, or what that entails. Even Ben seems taken aback, hesitant to accept, he raises his eyebrows.

"Are you sure?"

Well, he's locked in now. No use backing out.

"Might be nice to get out of the cabin for a bit," Adam says. The heating is running a bit too high. The windows are sealed shut. Ben can't possibly be that comfortable, not after his stint in the sailboat.

"Yeah, I could do with the fresh air."

Right on the money, Adam smiles.

Ben is much heavier than he looks. He may be shorter than Adam, but he's by no means as fragile. It takes some adjusting to find a position that allows both of them to move without the imminent threat of toppling over. Adam is fighting his thin arms and thin muscles to keep Ben upright and Ben is fighting his own leg.

Eventually they get there and are able to walk outside. It's jet black. That much is barely conveyed by the thin windows of the cabin, but on the deck it's a chilling sight. The sun long since gone, the moon obscured by clouds. The only light for miles are the lights of Denby's ship.

They're flooring it, Denby must be eager to cover as much ground as possible, the wind bites at Adam's cheeks and whips at his hair. The Pelican's motors tear through the water loud and angry—near deafening. He squints, the sea is darker than the sky.

That's when he registers Ben is laughing. While this must feel great for him—it's not so pleasant for Adam.

"Come on," Adam says, "Let's get inside, I'm freezing."

Climbing the stairs is a feat. They aren't wide enough for more than one person at a time, so Adam drags Ben up—Ben doesn't seem to mind. He's too busy basking in the cold night, for which Adam can't blame him.

The door to the wheelhouse flies open, and they stumble inside.

"Any updates on whatshisname?" Denby asks.

"My name's Ben."

Denby turns to look at them just as the door slams shut, sending a burst of wind that ruffles their already wild hair. Adam is certain the both of them look in complete disarray. Windswept and gasping with stupid grins plastered on their faces.

"Chase," Denby draws out his words, "Is everything okay? Why is he up here?"

"Well, look, I can explain, just—"

"—I wanted to see you," Ben cuts Adam off. He wants to be upset, but it saves him the pain of answering to Denby, who look as if he's just sucked on a lemon.

"Why?" Denby asks.

"I dunno. Adam said you were a freak—"

"—I did not—"

"—I wanted to see for myself. It's boring down there. No offense but you could use some feng shui. Maybe a rug or something."

Denby rolls his eyes.

"Don't make me turn this boat around," He says.

"Homebrew or did it come looking like something out of a Mary Shelly novel?"

"Little bit of both," By god, Adam actually sees a smile tease Denby's lips. Ben pushes away, limping to peer over Denby's shoulder. Adam follows suit.

"You know, I didn't call you a freak—" he begins only to be cut off.

"—Chase, I'm trying to focus," Denby says.

"So Ben can insult you all he wants? I'm trying to be courteous!"

Adam purses his lips and resists the urge to bang his head into a wall. Denby doesn't offer an answer, so Adam keeps talking.

"Well, whatever. I'm actually the one working on this ship," Adam says, "I spent the entire day organizing your mess-"

"-which I didn't ask you to do."

Adam is speechless. His mouth is hung open, there's no way Denby just said that.

"Wow," Ben interjects, there's something vindicating about the astonished chuckle he gives, "Are you guys okay?"

"No. I'm not okay, Benjamin. Thank you for asking. I think I'm going to commit an act of mutiny."

"Can I help, I've always wanted to dangle someone off the side of a ship."

"Nobody is dangling anyone anywhere," Denby says, "Not if we want to catch your so-called poachers."

"Fine, but for the record you have no right pretending like my work isn't of value—"

"—woah, woah, wait."

"Don't you dare interrupt me—"

"Chase," Denby says, he holds up his hand, tone harsh. Harsher than it perhaps needs to be, but it shuts Adam right up. He draws their attention out the window. Just ahead, something floats upon the water. It's lights dim, it can't be bigger than twenty feet in length. It could be anything. Maybe just some random fisherman out past sunset. Adam leans forward to get a better look. The cabin has gone silent.

Adams heart drops when he sees Ben's reaction—recognition.

"I think that's them," Ben says.

The crackle of gunfire shatters the air before Denby can react. All three of them duck as a bullet lodges itself in the front window.

"Yeah," Ben says, "That's them."

Chapter Text

"Pan-pan, pan-pan, Pan-pan, all stations this is The Pelican," Denby says into the radio, "We are at four-zero degrees two four decimal eleven minutes north, seven three degrees three seven decimal two one minutes south. Over."

Adam is trying his best to keep up with all the jargon—a lot happened in a small amount of time. He and Ben are on the floor while Denby drifts their ship, circling the poachers. A few more shots were fired off after the inaugural, but none ever hit where they could feel it.

"This is United States Coast Guard Sector New York, New York—" oh thank god. Adam deflates, at least help is on the way, "—State the nature of the emergency. Over."

He braces as they do another sharp turn, Adam's never known how nimble such a ungainly ship could be. Denby dances The Pelican as if they're in some sort of courting ritual, an unearned elegance—just a few days ago Adam would have thought it daft to ever call sailing an art. It's impossible, now, to call Denby anything other than an artist.

"Shots fired, we've intercepted some shark poachers and they aren't happy about it. Over."

"You got visibility? Over."

"Yeah, we're circling them now. Over."

Denby's voice is steady, as are his hands. His eyes are locked forward, there's not an ounce of him that's focused on anything other than keeping them alive.

On the opposite end of the bell curve, Adam is getting queasy. His focus is on keeping his stomach upright, and staving off a brewing panic attack.

"Please don't throw up on me," Ben says. It must be obvious, then.

"I won't—Denby whats it look like out there?"

"They're trying to make a run for it."

"—Coast Guard to Pelican. What sort of weapons do they have? Over."

Denby, for the first time since they've started this standoff, looks away from the windows.

It's a glance to Ben. A question, though unspoken.

"Single pistol. Probably nearly empty by now," Ben says, "that I'm aware of."

Denby iterates Ben's answer into the radio. Just as hes about to get his response, another shot rings out. Adam flinches, he can't help it, he's never heard a real gunshot before now and they're much louder than the moves would have you believe. A second later, the cabin goes dark.

"Shit," Denby says. The motors are still rumbling, but that's about all Adam can tell.

"What happened?" Adam asks.

"Must've nipped the panels' connection to the capacitor. Our electricity's been cut."

"Your boat is electric?" Ben asks in palpable disbelief.

"Solar powered," Adam says, "We can still move though, right? You said the motors still run on fossil?"

"Yeah but I can't see a thing out there."

Sure enough, as Adam rises to peek out the windows, he's met by a solid wall of black glass. They could be at the bottom of the Mariana Trench for all it matters. A shiver runs down Adams spine.

"What now?" Adam asks to no response. It's haunting. Even Denby is at a loss for what to do.

"We have to keep moving right?" Adam continues, the silence is unbearable, "They could get away—worse they could board us."

"We can't. If we move we risk running straight into them. They've turned their lights off as well."

Ben gasps, and Adam wonders if he's finally getting spooked by this whole ordeal. It's taken long enough.

"But we can't stay still." Adam says. Surely he can do something to help them. Find some way to reconnect the electrical systems—whatever that means.

"What other option so we have?" Ben asks, "Its solar. If the batteries are shot, we can't just turn the sun back on."

Though they're drenched in trepidation, Ben's words shoot a spark of inspiration through Adam.

"No, but I think we can settle for second best."

The one issue with Adam's plan is that it's incredibly ill-advised. More ill-advised, arguably, than simply sitting still. If he were a sane man, he wouldn't be trying this.

Yet they've gotten this far, the coast guard is on their way, and Adam can feel these poachers slipping out of his grasp.Its infuriating enough to propel him on deck in search of the one thing that could get them back on track.

Denby's dumb super unnecessarily bright flashlight. The one he left in the cabin of Ben's sailboat.

Idiot. He's an idiot. He should have brought it with him, but he had been preoccupied with rescuing Ben. So he left it and now he's standing at the stern of The Pelican, blind as a bat, attempting to find a way back onboard the sailboat in tow. To speak nothing of the poachers that may be lying in wait.

"Denby says what the fuck are you doing?"

Ben yells after him, half in the wheel house and half out.

"I'm getting his flashlight from your ship—hold on."

Adam feels for the rope they used to hitch Bens boat, and finds it taut, extending out into the darkness.

"He says that's stupid and you're going to get yourself killed," Ben continues, "and he also says you look like if a stick bug and a chihuahua had a baby."

"What?" Adam does a double take. That doesn't sound like Denby at all.

"Maybe I'm editorializing. He for sure thought it in his head."

"Yeah well you look like if a box of crayons had suicidal tendencies."

Ben laughs loud enough for it to carry over the waves. Adam needs to focus. He needs to find a way to bridge the gap. The longer he spends out here the more he risks being shot.

The night, for better or for worse, remains undisturbed. Maybe their attackers did slip away under cover of darkness. Speaking of which, it would be vastly easier if Adam could see what he's doing.

"Ben, buddy, I'm gonna ask a huge favor of you," Adam hates the idea of making Ben run around without any support —however, that isn't going to turn a two person job into a one person job. No matter how hard he tries.

"Shoot."

"I need you to grab my flashlight. It's in the blue duffel bag downstairs, can you do that?"

Just a little bit of light will do Adam well. His beam isn't nearly as bright as Denby's—it won't get them back moving—but it will get him a better look at the distance between The Pelican and Ben's ship.

That is if Ben ever actually responds.

"Ben?" Adam calls out again, "Yes or no, can you do that?"

"This?"

"Shit," Adam leaps out of his skin. Ben's voice is inches from his ear. A light clicks on illuminating Ben's face from below, his features painted in sharp shadows.

"Point it at the boat," Adam says. His flashlight just barely reaches the bow of the sailboat which rests about ten feet back. Inky waves conjure all sorts of nightmares lying just out of sight.

"Cutter is going to kill me if we wreck her," Ben says.

"It's not yours?"

"No, do I look like I make enough money to own a boat?"

Adam isn't going to dignify that with an answer. He can't afford to worry about the state of the damn thing anyways. Ben is the one who decided to take it for a joyride into a life-or-death scenario.

"Well?" Ben prods.

"I'm thinking."

"Think faster."

Adam wants to pull his hair out. He's not got enough upper body strength to pull the rope in and shorten the distance. The waters are dark, cold, and hopefully still—though perhaps not so fortunate in this case—shark infested. Swimming isn't an option either.

He's going to have to risk it and jump.

"If I fall, tell Denby not to turn the engines on under any circumstances."

"Please don't die."

"Thank you for that vote of confidence, buddy. Really makes me feel better."

There's some leeway—the deck is big enough he can get a running start, and they're slightly taller than the sailboat. Backed up, Adam considers how disappointed his mom would be if he were to go missing at sea—and how many questions he wouldn't be there to answer. He needs to make this. He braces, takes a deep, long breath in…

Then he jumps.

And tumbles onto the sailboat, he lands on his side, knocking the wind out of him—nevertheless he's alive and dry.

"Oh my god," Ben is cackling, which in turn gives Adam's newly sore ribs a run for their money, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Adam wheezes, "Oh fuck, that hurt."

"Do you see the other flashlight?"

"Give me a second."

Adam pushes himself up, slow so that his chest doesn't scream at him. His glasses landed somewhere ahead. Ben's light doesn't reach onto the deck. All he has is the residual glow to guide him. He searches the floor until his fingers wrap around something long and cold. Not his glasses—something else…a cane.

Adam smirks. He stumbles to the bow and holds it up so Ben can see.

"Catch."

It lands in Ben's free hand.

"Adam, you're amazing," He says, planting a drawn-out kiss on the thing, "I am never letting you out of my sight again."

While Ben is relishing in that recovery, Adam gets back to work. He finds his glasses near where he found Ben's cane, and finds Denby's light having not moved an inch from where he'd left it. The second it weighs down his hand, a relief washes over him. They aren't going to be sitting ducks much longer. They may not have heating, or radio, or anything else—but they'll have light.

"Hey, watch this," Adam calls. Once Ben's eyes are on him, he clicks the flashlight. Suddenly, even the darkened water glows under a stark, pale glow. An explosion of light which truly does feel as if the sun has been captured in a bottle.

Ben shields his eyes, squinting.

"You weren't kidding about that, I think I've been blinded."

"I never kid, Benjamin."

"So how are you getting back?"

"Shit."

Making that jump again isn't a feat Adam is sure he can repeat. The Pelican is too tall, and he's not got enough space to build up speed. Perhaps it should've occurred to him before he jumped the first time that he's going to need to do it twice.

"You didn't have a plan for getting back, did you?"

"I panicked, okay? Can you try and pull me in?"

"I have the upper body strength of a small rodent, Adam, that's not happening."

Adam throws his head back and lets out a pained groan. He rubs his face—absolute idiot.

"You could try sailing it closer." Ben suggests.

"I don't know how to do that!"

It's hard not to feel a little bad for yelling, all Ben's trying to do is help. Discomposure has never been Adam's strength—certainly it isn't where he operates his best.

"Oh god," Adam sounds truly pathetic, "I let them get away. I could've done something, I could've been faster. Fuck, I'm sorry, this was an awful idea—"

"—Adam—"

"I shouldn't be doing this. I shouldn't be here. I don't know anything about boats, or the ocean. I'm a fraud—"

"—Adam, hey—"

"—and now I've fucked it up major style. God I'm such a fucking idiot. I can't even save some stupid sharks—"

"ADAM!" Ben yells, and that's enough to force Adam to a screeching halt. A verbal slap to the face, as it presents itself. Adam wipes the tears off his cheeks, biting his lip to keep it from quivering. He's not quite sure when he even started crying.

Ben keeps going.

"Look at me."

Adam does, though he feels as if he were a dog about to be put down.

"I'm right here. I know how to sail that ship, I can just tell you how to turn the outboard motor on, and we can close that gap, okay?"

"But-"

"-if I hear one more self-loathing word out of your mouth I'm cutting this rope and abandoning you at sea."

Adam snorts. He's an absolute mess of ugly laughter, and probably looks downright miserable.

"Okay, okay," He says, then breathes out a long sigh as if to exhale all his anxiety, "What do I need to do?"

Chapter Text

The water erupts into noise. It's not a gentle, purring engine, rather it puffs and chugs and coughs at him, smelling of exhaust and burnt plastic. Adam is shaking, he hasn't stopped shaking since he realized he'd need to drive the damn thing. He'd be fine staying put, but once Denby kicks the engines back on and starts drifting, the small sailboat in tow won't be nearly as nice to sit in. Plus, someone needs to hold the light while Denby drives. Ben could, but Adam would prefer it be himself. Ben's starting to look worn out. His voice strains as he calls over the water.

"Cutter's pretty bad with maintenance, sorry."

Nevertheless, the engine is on. It's roaring, and it's ready to move. He's hooked up to the deadman's switch—Ben instructed him on it. Arguably the most important part of this whole ordeal. It means when he jumps ship, the engine will shut off automatically.

Now he actually needs to go forward. Thread the needle. A mortifying idea, considering if he gives it even the littlest bit of push, he could send himself rocketing straight into The Pelican's stern.

"So, two things," Ben says, "This steers with the tiller—"

"I have no idea what the fuck that means," Adam wishes he read up more on sailing terminology before he took this job, because frankly everyone sounds like they're speaking a different language.

"It means it's going to react very fast to whatever you do."

"Oh. Great. You're telling me this now?"

"Would you rather me tell you after you crash the boat?"

"Okay, fine, whatever," Adam says, swallowing a bout of seasickness—or maybe it's just regular sickness at this point, "What's the second thing?"

"Second this is that you need to flip it into forward gear—there should be a gidgy—"

"—what the fuck is a gidgy?"

"You know," Ben pauses, sputtering over his words, "A gidgy. A thing, a switch."

"That's really not helpful."

"It looks like a gidgy."

"I don't know what a gidgy looks like, Ben!"

"It should be on port side—I mean left. Your left."

Adam is going to strangle Ben. He looks aimlessly for anything that could be reasonably dubbed a 'gidgy'. Whatever that means.

"Is it the little switch here?" Adam asks. His fingers brush against something on the left side that could be a gear switch. Maybe.

"Adam there are literally, like, two or three switches on that thing. One of them is the right one. The other one adjusts the tension on the steering—just flick in forward and see what happens."

"Well 'Gidgy' isn't the most descriptive word."

Adam grits his teeth and pulls the switch forward. Nothing happens.

"When you have that down, all you need to do is grab the stick and twist. You shouldn't even need to steer but just incase—it's inverted. You pull port if you wanna go starboard and you pull starboard if you wanna go port."

Port means left, which means starboard must mean right…right?

He twists the stick as slow as he can. It doesn't seem to matter, the thrust propels the ship forward, nearly sending Adam flying off the back. He scrambles to screech back into idle.

"There you go!" Ben sounds happy at least, but Adam is frozen in place. It was vastly more powerful than he anticipated, with very little room for forgiveness. The shaking has gotten worse, and he can hear his heart pounding in his ears. There's no way he doesn't mess this up.

"I can't do this," Adam's voice cracks, "I can't—"

"—You're doing great. You're psyching yourself out, it's not that bad, I promise."

Adam holds a hand over his mouth as if that will catch the breath he's losing. His lungs are tired from the constant hyperventilating—and his eyes are tired from the vigilance.

"Shit," Ben says, "They're coming back."

Sure enough, another motor joins in the cacophony of noise. It's distant, but getting closer by the second. Adams heart leaps into his throat. He was certain they'd made their escape—strategically, it would be smart. They have no reason to come back just to kill them unless they're looking to tie up loose ends. They must have caught their shark.

"Come on Adam, you need to move!"

When Adam was young, he learned what fight or flight meant in health class. He never understood it—and always assumed his instinct was flight. He's never been a fighter. Now he can staunchly say he's in the third, magical category of freeze.

Damn if that isn't helpful. His arms and legs refuse to work enough to restart the motor. His night-long panic attack has just hit it's wall. Even Ben talking at him isn't a good distraction anymore. There's something slithering around his neck, constricting it. Tightening down until he's left wheezing, and his vision tunneled.

Ben believes in him. Ben is waiting for him. Denby is too, they both are, they both need him to do this. To suck it up if not for a few more minutes. Adam screws his eyes shut.

"Pull it together, Chase," he mutters to himself.

He rips off the proverbial bandaid, twists the throttle, braces himself, and hopes whatever happens, he can justify the medical bills.

"Jump!" Ben yells, Adam strains to hear him over the noise. He leaps to his feet, the deadman's switch snaps, cutting the engines just in time for him to book it across deck. He takes a blind leap forward.

Somewhere amongst the chaos comes another gunshot. Adam barely registers it as he lands solidly upon The Pelican—and Ben.

"Oh my god I'm so sorry," Adam says, frantically pushing up. Ben's face is scrunched—being landed on can't be pleasant.

"Look where you're jumping next time."

"I have the light we need to get going—oh my god you're bleeding!"

A trickle of red flows from beside Ben, it stains his rumpled Hawaiian shirt the same color as the deck.

"I am?" Ben looks down, frowning. His eyes move past the blood, and up to Adam, "Au contraire, I think you're bleeding on me."

Adam traces Ben's gaze, to see a thin wound on his side. It's cut through the fabric of his blue flannel. Blood flows steadily from it, dripping onto Ben.

Adam doesn't even feel it. Not the littlest sting.

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh. You got shot."

"I didn't feel a thing—"

"—that's called shock."

Perhaps the shock is also to blame for an odd sense of calm that overcomes him. Or perhaps it's simply the relief of no long being stuck on that sailboat. Either way, Adam's head is clear, and he's not about to wait for that to change.

"We need to get back upstairs."

He runs, dragging Ben along with him. They duck beneath another missed shot, Adam double and triple checks he hasn't been hit again—all the sudden movement has his wound burning something awful. A hot searing pain burrowing into his skin. Adam gasps as they race upstairs. His legs are wobbly, threatening to give out.

He tumbles into the wheelhouse, Ben at his tail.

"Adam got nipped," Ben says before Denby can react to the sight of them covered in blood. He's pulled out a second radio, one not connected to their main battery--the wheelhouse is a mess of wires and trinkets. He's, thankfully, been talking to the Coast Guard this whole time. 

"We're coming to you, over and out," Denby hangs up the speaker, the tail end of a conversation Adam hopes means something good.

"I have the flashlight," Adam says through gritted teeth. He presses one hand against his still bleeding wound. In his other, the ticket to their rescue.

Denby, however, looks horrified. He races over and pulls Adams hand away.

"There are paper towels in the closet," he says. When nobody reacts he looks up at Ben, "Go get them?"

Ben moves much faster with his cane—and thank god for that because quite quickly Adam is bleeding all over Denby's makeshift bed.

"I did you one better," Ben says, he holds up a bright red case, "First aid kid."

"Huh. I didn't know I had one in there."

Adam rolls his eyes.

"Of course you didn't," he says, "See what happens when you keep things neat and tidy?"

Better than any shot of morphine is the look on Denby's face. Being right has never felt so sweet.

While Ben preps some gauze and bandages, Denby leans down, analyzing Adam as if he were a nothing more than a body. Denby rests one hand in Adams thigh, his other daintily traces the exposed skin around Adams wound. His breath hitches.

He's uncomfortably warm. May that be his body reacting to the injury and nothing else.

"It looks like it must've just grazed you," relief floods Denby's tone. His shoulders drop as he lets out a sigh.

"Keep pressure on it—Ben I'm going to need you to hold the light."

"Aye aye," Ben says. 

"Wait, no I can--" Adam is about to protest but the sharp look from Denby shuts him right up. Denby grabs the flashlight from Adam's loose grip and hands it over to Ben.

"Go. Now."

"Is there anything I can do?" He asks. Nothing feels worse than sitting in the sidelines. 

"You need to sit still," Denby says much to Adams chagrin, "Keep pressure on the wound, wrap it tight."

The doors slams shut behind Ben, leaving them alone while he takes his position at the bow.

Denby readies himself, hands in position to restart the engines. Distantly, the sound of the poachers circling keeps Adam alert.

He ties off his bandages and hobbles over to Denby's side. They constrict around his ribs, stealing air from his lungs—but he's not bleeding all over himself anymore. It's as good as it's going to get.

Denby spares a glance up at him. There are words not yet spoken that sit behind his eyes. Adam is sure he sees Denby about to say them, when the world outside bursts into a wave of light. Ben is there, beneath them on the foredeck—he's holding up the flashlight and leaning against the rail conjuring in Adams mind the image of an old pirate ship's figurehead.

"Good man," Denby says just loud enough for Adam to hear. He kicks the engines into top gear, the entire ship shakes to life. Adam grips the back of Denby's chair, and soon enough they're back in business.

They escape the circling poachers, drifting back around to face them. Adam wishes he could be a fly on the wall to see the looks on their faces. At the same time hes acutely aware of Ben's position. He's put a big, bright target on his back. Practically standing under a sign that yells "kill me!".

Denby seems to note this as well, because he doesn't stop or slow down. Neither does he move in a straight path. He's not making it any easier than it already is to hit Ben—if that is what they're trying to do.

"They're making a run for it," Adam grins like a madman, they must've finally run out of ammunition, "That's right shitheads, get fucked!"

Denby pushes forward in pursuit. In every capacity The Pelican is faster. Denby is careful not to clip them, though a vindictive part of Adam would love to see them sunk.

"How far do we chase them?" He asks. Inevitably one of them is going to run out of fuel, while Adam suspects it'll be the smaller of the options, he's not keen on being properly stranded.

Denby need not answer, because one second later, the lights of a coast guard ship shine straight down their bow—intercepting them and their poachers. Everyone draws to a screeching halt. Denby smiles.

"About this far, I'd say."

Adam barrels outside. He makes a beeline to Ben. Denby has finally come down from his high tower as well. He's the only one of them who knows what to tell the coast guard—Adam would have no idea where to start.

"Are you okay?" Adam asks, he grips Ben's arms, looking him over for even the slightest blemish. Apart from being thoroughly tousled and pale as a ghost, he appears intact.

"That was the coolest thing I think I've done in a year," Ben swoons, then he moves to pet Adam's bandages, "that's gonna be a sick scar."

Adam only realizes they're hugging by the time Ben has pushed himself into Adam's chest. Some mix of adrenaline and elation flooding out in the form of physical affection. He pats Ben's back, they're both awfully sweaty and the dried blood certainly isn't pleasant. Ben's panting, leaning his weight into Adam.

"We did it," Ben says, "Denby, you too, get over here."

"No thank you," Denby stands away from the hug as if he's afraid it'll lunge out and bite him.

"Come on, group hug, get."

"Nope."

"I personally am fine with this," Adam leaves Ben with one tight squeeze before they separate, "Frankly I have no desire to hug him."

"See, he understands me," Denby says. Ben pouts, he shuffles his way over to Denby and despite his resistance pulls him into a hug anyways. Denby doesn't return it, he stands there looking uncomfortable until Ben releases him.

"I'm going to go talk to the coast guard now," Denby slithers away before he can get dragged into anything else. They watch him go—hopping from The Pelican and over to the poachers boat which by now is swarming with law enforcement. Ben narrows his eyes.

"That was the worst hug I think I've ever given."

"Yeah that looked pretty bad, buddy."

"Oh my god wait," Ben's face lifts with a spark of devious inspiration. He follows Denby's path, so too does Adam, if only to keep an eye on Ben. The small boat that had been terrorizing them is much less scary once they board it. A simple motorboat with a sub-compartment for fish and nothing more.

Ben saunters past everyone to leer at the poachers as they're being loaded—arms locked in handcuffs—onto the coast guards ship.

"Hey assholes," Ben bats his eyelashes at them, the smuggest expression in the universe plastered on his face, "Miss me?"

"Wait," says the only one of the group who looks under fifty, "I'm sorry Ben—"

"—shut the hell up, Joseph," Says one of the other ones, "You fucked up. We should have shot him when we had the chance."

"Rot in hell," Ben says, sing-song with a smile. He gives them a dainty wave. Just before the one names Joseph can be pushed into the cabin—he yells.

"Check the fishwell! Ben, I promise I'll—"

The door slams shut. Ben and Adam share a look. Did they just hear what they thought they heard? In tandem they turn to look at the hatch in the floor of the poachers ship.

Denby is standing right beside it. Now that they're paying it mind, Adam can hear something sloshing around in there.

"Denby—"

"On it," Denby says. He kneels down. Everyone's attention has turned to him, they all wait with baited breath as he clicks it open. Adam and Ben inch forward, peering inside. It's full of water, and shining a light inside reveals a shark. A live shark. The tips of it's fins spotted white.

It swims in circles, clearly stressed. Cramped inside a tiny hole in a boat. Ben gasps.

"Is that—"

"A whitetip."

Adam can hardly believe his own eyes. Never in a million years did he expect to be seeing one tonight, let alone this close. It might be the only whitetip shark in the waters around North America—and it's here. Right in front of him. Alive.

Adam kneels down beside Denby.

"Look at those patterns, she's beautiful."

"She?" Denby asks.

"She's big—females are usually bigger than males."

Denby smiles, his eyes shimmer with curiosity. They share a look of silent, mutual appreciation.

"Hey guys," Ben says, "Sorry to crash the party, that's a pretty cool shark, but I'm gonna need someone to catch me."

"What?" Adam snaps to attention. Ben's starting to slur his words again. Before anyone can react, Ben collapses—passed out cold with a thunk against the hollow floor.

Denby grimaces.

"Oh right. He did have heat stroke."

Chapter Text

Ben is going to be fine. At least, that's what the medics on board the coast guard's ship said. After Adam got a few stitches and some far more professional looking bandages, he and Ben shuffled back onto The Pelican. Just overexertion, they said. All the stress and adrenaline of the past few hours wore off and Ben's health caught up with him. He'll need a good nights rest, and to take it slow for a few days, but he'll recover.

They dock in the harbor just after eleven. Adam tries to catch some sleep—Ben is managing just fine--he knocked out like a light the second he hit the mattress--but Adam has no such luck. He's at the whims of every little shift in the waves as they sail. The rocking of the cabin isn't so calming, the hum of the engines is an unwelcome drone.

Despite all the excitement being over, his body still seems to think he's in mortal peril. His heart is still racing, as much as he demands it to slow down. He adjusts, turning to look from the ceiling, to across the room at Ben, and tucks a hand under his head in the hopes that his body will get a hint. It's time to rest.

Nope.

He stays that way until they arrive in New York. When The Pelican eventually falls silent, Adam then can't get past the noise of his own brain. He lies there waiting and waiting and waiting. Then, he gets bored of it. His whole body protests the idea of getting up, but if he isn't going to fall asleep on his own what use is it continuing to lie there.

Ben is at peace, the most calm Adam has seen him since he met the guy. His mouth is hung open ever so slightly, he's snoring but it sounds as if he's purring.

"How do you do it?" Adam asks. He keeps his voice down, he's more asking the universe than anyone in particular, and it would be cruel to wake Ben. He's not ashamed of anything he did today—in fact there's a buzzing sense of pride. The shark they rescued got shipped off to the aquarium. It'll get a thorough look over, then it'll get to go on living it's life.

Adam did a good thing. A great thing. A fantastic thing.

But he still can't sleep.

So he walks outside. It's warm out there—lukewarm, that is. Not quite cold not quite hot, somewhere in between. It's tranquil. The waves aren't angry like they are on the open sea. The lights in the wheelhouse are off. Manhattan towers behind him, alive and active but the sound doesn't reach. Out here, on the shore, the world falls into a mute slumber.

He disembarks. Maybe a walk will do him some good, it's always helped on restless nights, which he has no lack of. He stumbles as he hits the pier. The ground is solid, stable. His legs don't quite know what to do with themselves. He finds walking in a straight line takes some consideration—he's too used to over-correcting now.

"Having some trouble?"

Adam looks up. It's Denby, he's coming back from inland looking more exhausted than ever.

"Where'd you go?" Adam asks.

"Had to finish talking to the coast guard." Denby takes a step forward, "Where were you going?"

"On a walk."

"This late?"

"Couldn't sleep."

Denby's eyes soften—they do that half-lidded thing like they did at the restaurant, which god Adam can't stand. There's something tugging at the corners of his mouth, too. A smile so feint it would be easy to miss were Adam paying any less attention.

"Want some drugs?" Denby asks.

"Excuse me?"

"Sleeping pills," Denby tosses a bottle Adams way. They're in the wheelhouse, he had dipped into a drawer near the controls. Adam wonders if Denby, too, struggles with rest. The pills are a prescription in his name. Ramelteon. He supposes that's enough of an answer, though it feels strangely intimate to see. He's peering into some part of Denby that the man would never speak of himself.

"Just one should do you," Denby says as he hands Adam some water. Adam gets a glimpse of his blood stained upon Denby's 'bed'. He cringes, downing the pill.

"Sorry about bleeding on your stuff."

"How's your…"

"It's fine," Adam runs a hand along his side, "They gave me some stuff to keep it numb when they put in the stitches. Don't think it's worn off yet."

Denby hums. He leans back against the controls and crosses his arms. That fond look on his face hasn't changed, Adam feels obligated to say something but he's too delirious to land on anything. Turns out, he doesn't need too, Denby caves first.

"You did good today."

"Oh I don't—"

"—just accept the compliment," Denby sighs, "I'm sorry I got us into that mess."

"You? I'm the one who pressured you into it."

"And it's my responsibility to keep you safe. I made an impulsive call today. I don't know why I—" Denby rubs his face, "I'm usually better about that."

What is going on? Why is Denby being so…normal? Is he? Or is Adam used to the energized version of Denby he sees during the day? 

"Are you saying I'm just that persuasive?"

"You are…" Denby chuckles, somewhere between exasperated and amused, "something."

A warmth creeps up the back of Adams neck. He shrugs. Not quite sure what to do with himself. He wants to ask Denby why he did it. What did Adam say to push him over the edge. Was it an act of moralism, or something else? 

"Do you think you'd ever consider another crew member?" Adam asks instead. He figures he may have an easier time pulling that answer out of him as opposed to the others.

"Is this your way of asking if Ben can stay?"

"No. Well…maybe. Not unless he wants to," Adam shrugs, "You have to admit, it was easier with three people."

"You don't know a thing about Ben."

"I didn't know a thing about you a few days ago." Adam refrains from pointing out that he still doesn't really know a thing about Denby, except now that he takes sleeping pills.

"We will be spending weeks out there alone. You won't be able to just walk it off if you have an argument."

"Then we won't argue."

"You'll be stuck in a confined space—"

"—it's cozy down there—"

"—with a complete stranger—"

"—you're a stranger as well, I might argue—"

"—why do you want this so bad?"

Adam stops to think about Denby's question. Maybe because when he was lying there in the cabin with Ben across from him, it just felt right. Maybe because in one of the most crazy, stressful, life-threatening situations Adam has ever been in, Ben kept his head clear. Maybe because, truth be told, if all Adam has is Denby—whom mostly speaks in contrarian—for the next six months, he's going to go insane.

"I just think it would be nice."

Denby sighs.

"We should sleep on it," he says. Adam has no problem with that, especially as the medicine is starting to hit his system.

It takes Adam a minute after laying down to slip into unconsciousness. 

"Maeve!"

"Adam!"

Midday comes around quick, especially since Adam woke up not an hour before he left. He shot a text Maeve's way letting her know they've finally docked, then another longer text apologizing profusely for the delay.

She's changed. Quite a lot, actually, and Adam wonders if he's changed so much as well, or if that's just a Maeve thing. She dresses right, her clothes ironed and crisp. Her hair styled shoulder length, curling at the ends. She looks professional. Older. Well traveled and well educated.

Adam has borrowed an oversized shirt from Denby but his pants are still the same as they have been the past few days. Denby's hand-me-down is long enough that it covers the blood stains. Adam couldn't even shower, he has to keep his dressings on for a while, avoid wetting the stitches in his side.

"Sorry again about ghosting, we ran into some trouble last night."

"Ugh don't even worry. I was so wiped after that event at the aquarium, all I wanted to do was go home and sleep," Maeve pulls Adam into a hug. He flinches as she puts pressure on his wound, and feels a bit bad as he can't possibly smell good. Maeve smells of a shampoo that makes Adam jealous.

All around them, Saturday afternoon noise bustles through the harbor. The Pelican isn't far. It's lost, though, in the crowds of fishermen, tourists, families spending their days out on the water, people docking in and pulling away. The air reeks just as strongly of the ocean as it does of sunscreen.

"How'd that go, by the way?" Adam asks, they start walking, Maeve takes the lead. This is her territory, her world. Adam loves it—New York is a great city—but it's not his city. Not his people. Perhaps one day he'd consider settling here, making it his own. That day isn't today.

"It was fine. Ben was right, it's just a bunch of administrative garbage. Stuff to appease the politicians. That's my job though. Someone needs to do it."

Huh. Adam expected a little more enthusiasm—not to mention there's that Ben name again. A name which now has a much different association to Adam than it did before.

"You don't like your job?" Adam asks.

"I do! I love it to death, sorry. I've just been a bit stressed recently. It's felt more and more like I'm fighting an uphill battle, especially with all this Sunfish stuff," She combs a hand through her hair, "You don't need to hear me complain, though. How's the internship been?"

"Oh, it's been great. Denby is interesting, I saved a whale and intercepted a poaching ring—"

"—you what?"

"It's a long story."

Maeve frowns. She looks lost in thought.

"What is it?" Adam asks.

"No, nothing. Must just be going around—Ben mentioned something about shark poachers the other day."

Adam stops walking just as they're about to pass a group of seagulls swarming someones forgotten lunch. It has got to be a coincidence, right? There's no way Maeve's Ben and his Ben are the same Ben. That would be simply crazy.

"Where is Ben? You mentioned you might introduce us." Adam asks.

"He ran off after my speech—god knows where. He's always running off. I tried calling him this morning but he's probably still asleep. I'll see if I can wrangle him for a dinner meetup or something."

Oh. Oh no.

"So, this is going be a very weird question," Adam says, he leans against the railing which divides the main walkway from the edge of the water. Maeve cocks her head to the side, "Probably a long shot but…Ben wouldn't happen to be about yay high, walks with a cane, chronically sarcastic?"

Maeve's eyes light up.

"You've met him?"

Adam has ought to buy a lottery ticket or something. He refrains from devolving into surprised hysterics, instead he takes in a sharp breath and smiles.

"Yeah, you could say that."

On their way to The Pelican, Adam retells the entire story of his night. Of rescuing Ben—much to Maeve's horror—and of stopping the poachers. By the time they reach the now familiar sight of Denby's floating junk pile, Maeve has a much better idea of where her friend has been off too. She doesn't seem very happy about it no matter how many times Adam emphasizes he's okay.

Voices carry from the ship as they approach. Denby and Ben.

"This connects over here," Denby says, "It should twist around—I'm gonna need my soldering kit."

"Damn that was a good shot."

"Don't praise the guys who tried to kill us."

"But that's kind of exceptionally cool—oh hey Adam!"

Adam and Maeve have climbed on deck. From here, they can see Denby on the roof of the wheelhouse, Ben just below on the balcony. Loose wires and electrical components fall out of open hatches in the wall. Ben does a double take upon registering there's two people looking up at him.

"Maeve?"

"You have got to be the most hard headed person I know," She says, hands on her hips. Now this is more familiar to Adam, "Did you seriously get heat stroke?"

"I'm fine now—wait wait wait, what are you even doing here? How did you find out about that?"

"Adam told me."

"That clarifies nothing."

"Adam told me."

Ben narrows his eyes, trying to work out a puzzle, before something clicks into place and his jaw drops.

"This is that Adam?"

"That Adam?" Adam asks. He didn't even realize he could be a 'that' sort of person.

"Yes. This is that Adam," Maeve says.

"Okay, hold on, if I could interject," Adam holds up a hand, "What have you been going around telling people about me?"

"Nothing! I just mention you sometimes, you were a big part of my life for a long while. It's unavoidable," Maeve says.

"Ben," Denby calls from the roof, "Soldering kit please."

Ben gets a move on, disappearing into the wheelhouse before Adam or Maeve can do much about it. For every question Adam has, Maeve doubtless has ten more. What are the chances?

"Small world," Adam says.

"Tell me about it."

Denby peers down at them. He pulls out a wrench and furrows his brow.

"I thought y'all were heading to lunch."

"Clearly we had more important things to take care of," Adam groans, "Maeve, Denby, Denby, Maeve."

"Pleasure to meet you!" Maeve yells up at him, saluting, "Thanks for keeping my friends alive."

"Any day."

Denby hangs over the side and twists something with the wrench, he's in a tanktop, leaving very little to the imagination in terms of his muscles. Adam licks his lips.

"How much do you know about him?" Maeve asks.

"He's safe. You just thanked him for keeping us alive."

"I'd like it to stay that way," she says, "You know, running off for six months with a complete stranger is practically asking for trouble."

"He seems fine."

"You never answered my question."

Adam sneaks a look up as Denby holds a screw in the corner of his mouth. His long hair flowing in sleep-tousled wicks over his face. He can't truthfully give an answer, not one that will satisfy Maeve at least.

"Do you even know where he's from? How old he is?" Maeve asks.

Thank god for Ben—saved by the bell—he comes sauntering out with a tool box in hand.

"My hero," Denby says, notably with the enthusiasm of someone watching paint dry.

"So Maeve," Ben turns his attention downward, "Did he tell you that I was right and that I'm awesome and everyone should always listen to me? Or was it all about how I got heat stroke."

"You get to gloat about this for one hour and then I'm cutting you off," Maeve rolls her eyes.

"And what an hour it will be."

"Ben can you help me with this?" Denby pops up again. He waves Ben over, who much to the apparent surprise of Maeve, obeys without question.

"Don't have too much fun without me," He says before he's pulled away.

"Why don't I show you around," Adam says. Hopefully that will quell any of her doubts.

Maeve is scrutinous as she looks over the cabin. She opens every drawer, checks the beds, and acquaints herself with the space in such a way that Adam is concerned she might be considering asking to come on board.

Not that Adam would mind. Maeve is lovely, of course. He'd be remiss to think she'd be a bad roommate—after all they'd roomed together in college. She cleans up after herself, is never loud after dark, respects his space and his things.

"So it's just the two of you?" She asks.

"Denby isn't keen on other people."

It's not a lie. He's not technically being untruthful. It's just…maybe not as nuanced an opinion as Adam would give to anyone else. Denby, after all, is willingly working with Ben—and no matter what he tries to say, he did still offer to host Adam for six months.

"Why'd he take you on, then?" After all this time, Maeve can still see right through him.

"I don't know," Adam leans against the stove, "Sounds like maybe he just needed some extra hands on deck."

Maeve doesn't believe any of what Adam's saying, he knows this because he doesn't either—-and Maeve has always been more decisive than even he. She takes a seat at the table and looks around the room one more time. Then she sighs.

"Okay, I'm sorry but this seems like a lot, even for you."

"Maybe we've both changed."

"How'd your parents take the news?"

"They…" Adam licks his lips. He examines his nail beds and sucks in a sharp breath, "They're supportive. Yeah. They think it's great that I'm getting out here."

"That's not the news I'm referring to."

"They're okay with all of it," Adam says, chewing the inside of his cheek.

"Really? They didn't disown you?"

"Nope."

Somewhere inside Adam is an awful guilt—and the hope that if he tells the same lie enough times, it'll become true. He needs a distraction.

"About lunch—"

Chapter Text

It's far past noon by the time Adam manages to wrangle Ben and Denby down from the roof, and then they all have to land on a place to go. They pick Ben's job—a dive bar called Blackfish—it's cheap, Ben can hook them all up for free. Plus, Adam is curious to see where Ben actually works. After all the stories he's heard, he anticipated something more interesting than bartender.

It's not horribly boring, to it's benefit. The sign outside is faded and chipped. Ben leads them in through a heavy wooden door carved in intricate images of fish—past the bar to an inconspicuous corner booth. The underside of the table is covered in old gum and the cracked glass lampshade above them imitates something fancier. Around them, people laugh and chant and tell lively stories with their hands. Not the sort of place Adam would usually find himself.

Ben slides in beside Maeve, and Sam beside Adam. There's nothing on the menu that looks particularly enticing, Adam doesn't even drink before five. He should fuel up before they head out next, Denby's rations are nothing short of pure calories—if he wants to get by he needs to take real food where he can. If 'real food' is even the right thing to call what's served here.

"So," Adam is the first to speak. He's already landed on fish and chips, it's the only thing here that doesn't make his stomach turn, "How'd you meet Ben?"

Maeve glances up from behind her menu. Her mouth twitches down.

"My job," She says, "Back when I got put on field cases."

Adam remembers that. It was back when they still spoke, just after undergrad. It's not a question of why Ben needed a union case worker then, that much is self explanatory by his very demeanor. He might have needed all the legal help he could get. No, that isn't surprising at all.

"And you became friends through that?" Adam asks, that is the part which confuses him. Maeve is a professional, she wouldn't let herself have any sort of personal relationship with a client. Not even when they did mock trails together.

"It was a long case," she says. Her voice cracks. She hides it with a sip of water, but even that can't conceal the way she can't bear to look at Ben while she talks. Adam wants to press further, but Maeve takes the opportunity to ask Denby a few questions of her own.

"What got you into sailing?"

Denby's eyes flick between Maeve and Adam. This has got to be the worst conversation Adam has experienced in his life. He's melting into the sticky leather seats to escape it.

"Uh…I just picked up some of the skills and it kind of spiraled from there. Why?"

"I dunno," Maeve shrugs. She folds her hands together and leans forward, again Adam sees the ghost of the passionate Maeve he used to know. The Maeve who could walk into a faux courtroom and command the space as if she owned it. The Maeve who could wipe the floor with the best of what Harvard and Brown and Princeton had to offer.

"I just figure, well, ships like The Pelican are really expensive aren't they?" She asks.

"Can be," Denby answers.

"How did you afford it?"

"Maeve! I'm so sorry—" Adam rubs his face.

"—it's alright," Denby says with a slight smile, he folds his hands right back at her and cocks his head to the side, "I got some help, if that's what you're asking."

"From who?"

"A friend of mine."

"What's his name?"

"Why are you so suspicious of me?" Denby asks.

Maeve quirks an eyebrow.

"I'm only making conversation."

"Do all your conversations come off as interrogations?"

"Guys," Ben uses his fork and glass to put an end to their bickering. The shrill clink is enough that everyone looks to him, "I don't have anything smart to say. I'm too fucking tired and hungry for any of this. What are we having?"

Adam can't be more relieved when their food comes. It's an easy excuse to tell everyone to shut the hell up and stop being weird. Of course, that doesn't last very long. Once the drinks hit their systems—and there are no lack of drinks—there's no holding back the floodgates. Luckily, it seems alcohol is a good lubricant for something less venomously confrontational.

"So he has mercy on my soul and bails me out and we book it back to our ship—" Denby says, retelling some story Maeve managed to pull out of him, "I think hells yeah. I did it. I'm good. No. Months later it turns out I've been banned from Singapore. Which I only find out when I'm denied entry at the customs office next time I dock."

"So they like actually banned you from the entire country?" Ben asks, words slurred as if they've been shoved in a blender, "Like the national convention got together to say fuck you in particular."

"It's not unusual considering the circumstances," Denby says, "Actually, I'm lucky Singapore is the only place I've been banned from."

That statement raises a few questions from everyone. They all start to talk over each other, each drunk in their own way—though none can compete with the five empty shot glasses in front of Ben.

Denby holds up a hand, then points at Maeve.

"You mentioned you worked on cases for the harbor?"

"I did, yeah," Maeve has ought to be the most sober, second to Adam who hasn't had anything to drink besides hot tea.

"That includes the last two years?"

Maeve chuckles. It's light and breathy, she appears to be gauging how to respond. She shuts her eyes and presses a thin smile across her lips.

"You wanna ask me about The Eden don't you?"

That name sounds familiar but Adams not sure where he's heard it before.

"I'm sorry, everyone probably asks you about that—"

"—no it's fine," Maeve says, "Honestly, not so much as they used to. Once the news cycle moved on, people kind of forgot about it."

Sam cracks a mozzarella stick in half—oddly that seems to jog something in Adam's memory. The connection clicks into place.

"The Eden, correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't that the ship that got bisected?"

"By an oil tanker, yeah," Denby nods, mouth full, "Foggy day—zero visibility. They were pulling up anchor and then—" He makes a motion with his hands. Cleaving an imaginary boat in two, "Sunk. Whole crew got pulled under by the current of the propellers. Didn't stand a chance."

"Wait, no I remember this!" The more Denby talks the more it comes back to Adam, "I remember seeing your name in the New York Times and thinking, well, I should probably call you about it," He points at Maeve.

"You actually worked that?" Denby asks.

"I was a consultant for the families of the deceased—Sunfish were putting up a fuss about paying them for wrongful death."

Adam can't be prouder. Maeve is certainly a far better person than he for doing something like that, even if it is her job. She may have changed, she may be a bit more traditional, a tad more disillusioned, but damn if she doesn't get things done.

"Those people are fucking ghouls," Adam runs a hand through his hair, "I simply can't imagine how awful that was—"

"—who wants drinks? I could use some more drinks," Ben speaks for the first time in a long while. The grip he has on the table is much that Adam is afraid he might break his fingers. Then, before anyone has the chance to respond, he stumbles up to make his way back to the bar.

Maeve, once again, can't seem to look at him.

"You've had a lot there buddy," Adam says.

"I'm not passed out yet. Last call, who wants some?"

"I'll join you," Much to Adam's surprise, it's Denby who takes the offer. He slips past Adam and together, the two leave him with Maeve. Ben notably far less coordinated though insistent on leading.

"What was that?" Adam asks. He has a lot of other things he desires to ask, but he'll stick to what's simple for now. Maeve runs a hand across her face. There are bags under her eyes that Adam didn't notice before—and she's finally looking at Ben, though only when his back is turned.

"He's trying his best," she says quietly, "I keep having to remind myself of that."

Denby is smiling. Occasionally, even laughing. Ben is running his mouth about something and soon the two are hitting it off. The words miss Adam, but he doesn't need to hear them to see the way Ben leans forward into Denby's space and Denby pulls away but not so much as he usually does.

"I asked Denby if he'd like another crew member last night," Adam says, "He said he'd think about it. Could be nice to have a third person on board, someone who can keep the spirits up."

"I thought he doesn't like people."

"Well, that's what he tells everyone."

Ben is nodding along to Denby's rambling now.

"I know I was harsh on him earlier, I just want to make sure you're safe," Maeve says, "Honestly he seems nice, a little strange but not in a dangerous way."

"So you're finally okay with my life choices?"

Maeve laughs.

"I'd put a pin in it. You all seem to get along really well, and he did keep you safe through that whole poacher thing. I think Ben is actually kind of similar to you. He's…" Maeve pauses to collect her thoughts. She seems to be studying the two of them as they attempt—and fail—to make their way back over without spilling anything, "I love him dearly, so I hate to say it but he might actually need something like this. I'm afraid he's—"

"—You guys are never going to believe what I found behind the bar," Ben runs into the table, and Denby plops into a seat. They both reek of hand sanitizer—it's dizzying.

"Everclear, bitches," Denby laughs, while Ben slams a bottle on the table. Ninety-five percent is what draws Adam's eyes first. Then the swig that Ben takes from it—mouth to bottle, no measurements at all.

"Are you trying to speedrun liver damage?" He's starting to understand Maeve's exasperation. He can't imagine being the only person responsible for keeping Ben off the brink of self destruction.

"My liver can handle anything," Ben's speech sounds less and less comprehensible, Adam has to take an extra second to decode it, "I'm gonna live forever."

Adam and Maeve share a concerned look, the first time since they've met up that he actually feels to be on the same wavelength as her.

"Okay, I think maybe we should head back for the night, Denby?"

"Aw man, I wanted to see Ben get alcohol poisoning."

"How about none of us do that, and instead we drink some nice, crisp water and go to bed," Adam says, "I personally think that sounds great."

"You'll never take me alive," Ben makes a meager attempt to get away, but he's not exactly the most nimble on a good day. Adam stands and grabs him by the shoulders.

"Nuh-uh. You're coming with."

"I'm not even—hic—I'm not even drunk, you're a fascist pig. This is like—this is just like 1984."

"Big brother says it's time to lay down," Adam guides Ben outside, he's trailed by Maeve and Denby.

"I'm gonna stage a coup."

"You do that," Adam fights the urge to smile. This isn't funny, and he's not enabling it. Not one bit. It's not even dark yet. The sun is low in the sky, but it's yet to cast it's spectrum across the sky or the sea. The only evidence it's past mid day are the shadows, long and thin.

They walk along the edge of the water, allowing Adam to run one hand along the metal rail. The other wrapped around Ben to keep him upright.

"You know, I have a friend who was in a coup once," Denby joins them, "He's a pirate."

"Do I even want to ask?"

"Are you guys kidnapping me?" Ben is practically melting, "I have an apartment."

Adam checks with Maeve, she shakes her head.

"The Pelican is closer, you can head home once you're sober."

"Maeve, they're kidnapping me."

"They're right," She says, to Ben's whining. Hard not to feel a bit flattered when Maeve agrees with you. Adam smiles at her, and she smiles back. Yeah, he missed her a lot.

They reach The Pelican in relative calm. Denby has raced ahead, Maeve squeezes Ben between her and Adam—speaking of which Ben has calmed down now that his state of inebriation has lost it's spark. He's more drowsy than anything, but he'd prefer that to the accusations of abduction.

"It was nice seeing you," Adam says. Denby has already clambered inside—he's left standing on the pier.

"You know, we could meet up tomorrow," She responds, "I'm probably going to need to grab Ben, anyways. Unless you have something else in mind for him."

Adam watches as the wheelhouse lights click on. Denby is getting ready to retire for the night. What was Maeve was going to say before they had to leave?

"You're his friend, it wouldn't be fair of us," he says.

"That's why I want him to go."

"What?"

Maeve seems content examining her shoes. She stuffs her hands in her pockets. Ben's purring lets her and Adam know he's fallen asleep against Adam's side.

"Ben is troubled," That seems underselling it, but Adam isn't about to say that, "I'm not asking you to take on a charity case, but I think being landlocked has made it worse. He's fallen into this routine and it…Adam it terrifies me. If he keeps going like this he's on a collision course for—"

"—yeah, I see that."

Adam gets it. He really does, perhaps more than Maeve even realizes.

"I'm only saying—if that was you asking for my blessing back there," Maeve purses her lips, "I think I could make do knowing he'll have a better life out there."

Adam considers Maeve's words. He considers the man leaning against him. These past few days have felt as if they've lasted years. It may perhaps be their bonding over collective trauma, whatever it is—Adam knows it's where he needs to be. He tries to picture leaving port with Ben, but none of the images look quite right.

"I'll see what I can do," he says.

Chapter Text

Ben jerks awake. His head is killing him, drool sticks to the side of his mouth. Wiping the delirium off his face, he sits up. His bedroom is moving, tilting in a motion all too familiar.

Wait a second. This isn't his apartment. God, he must've gotten really shitfaced if he doesn't remember falling asleep on a boat. At least he can assume he had a good time. The moon shines in, its light lands on the bed opposite Ben. There, lies Adam. Fast asleep.

He's still on The Pelican. That seems to jog his memory—fuzzy visions of walking down the pier, Adam guiding him to bed, Denby talking way too much about shipping logistics. Somewhere deeper he hears Maeve saying something that makes his heart stutter. He doesn't remember what, by that point he must've been nearly asleep.

He slips out of bed, taking his cane from it's place hung on the bed frame, careful not to wake Adam as he makes his leave. His watch reads midnight, though he's not tired. He's going to need some help getting back to bed—good thing he has plenty of options at his apartment.

The subway this late is nearly empty. Only a few stragglers heading home from late nights in FiDi or party goers seeking out the next speakeasy. Ben's attention is stuck on an ad—some person smiling about Zoom-based therapy. Who can even afford therapy these days? He's fine sticking to his self-medication, thank you very much; things Maeve doesn't approve of.

The neon lights of Chinatown are the only sign of life on earth. An intersection of calm and unnerving. Storefronts are gated up, even the small park overlooked by his apartment is silent. He counts the creaking stairs until he's home.

It's not worth turning on the light—his headache would protest too much. Rather he flops into bed, face down. Temptation urges him to pull the bong out but washing it would be too much effort and his grinder broke some time ago. So he turns to face the window and lies there, watching the lights of an occasional car pass through the cracks in his brittle plastic blinds. Their wheels sound like waves. He counts how many go by until he blinks—and suddenly it isn't night anymore.

When did he fall asleep again? He can't remember ever doing so, yet sunlight pools in and the sounds of a bustling street call up to him. They're accompanied by a rather obnoxious knocking. Ben squeezes his eyes shut and pulls the covers up over his face. The knocking continues—despite his best efforts to block it out. He groans. What, are they doing construction or something?

"Ben! Wake up!"

Oh. God fucking dammit. Ben sneers at the door from over his sheets. It's Maeve.

"I'm sleeping," Ben yells back, "Leave me alone."

"I need to talk to you."

If he doesn't respond, maybe she'll eventually go away. Whatever it is she needs to talk about can't possibly be more important that his rest. He was just kidnapped, after all.

"Ben, I'm serious."

"And I'm tired. Have mercy on my soul."

"If you open the door I'll buy you coffee."

Well, now. That changes things. Ben pulls down the covers, he shouldn't give in. He's fallen for this old trick one too many times—the downside to being friends with someone who could lock the devil into a bad deal.

He sighs, and drags himself to the door, no better than a mouse stealing cheese from the same trap over and over.

"It's open," he says.

The door shuts behind Maeve. It punctuates Ben's fate. A 'talk' which almost never means anything good for him.

"Are you okay?" She asks.

"That's your opener? You already know the answer."

"I'm just being polite."

"You woke me up and bribed me to break into my house."

"I don't think a single word in that sentence was true."

"You did bribe me."

"Okay, well," She crosses her arms, "You're very easy to bribe."

"Is there a point you're trying to get at here?"

"You should leave."

Ben narrows his eyes at her? What? Does she think he's going to fall into another depressed slump?

"Leave…my apartment?"

"Leave New York."

It's too early for this. There are a million ways to interpret that statement, none of them are very kind towards Ben. All he can do is stare and wait for Maeve to elaborate, which she does rather quickly.

"I love you, Ben. It's really hard watching you be like this," She gestures around at Ben's apartment to make a point that Ben doesn't quite understand. His apartment is fine—maybe a bit messy and rough around the edges but for what he can afford, he sees no issues. It's better than a hotel room.

He leans against the TV stand.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Do I need to go over the bullet points?"

"No. You're going to say I'm drinking myself to death, and I'm clearly miserable, and I hate myself and everyone around me, and you're afraid I'm going to throw myself off the Brooklyn Bridge. Right?"

Maeve remains silent. A frown tugs at her lips. She looks at Ben with that god awful thing called pity and it makes Ben want to break something. Pity is the last thing he's earned, despite how much it's given to him.

"Is that why you ran off the other day? Because if so, you almost got what you wanted," Maeve says.

"But I didn't. I never do—I'm cursed with existence, apparently."

"See this is what I'm talking about," she says, "I can't do this anymore Ben, I can't be five places at once trying to keep you from killing yourself. I have a life, and a job, and other friends, and I turn my back for one second and you've sailed off to be held at fucking gunpoint."

"Why do you care so much? I'm not your case anymore. Why don't you just let me—"

"—don't you dare finish that sentence," Maeve glares daggers into him, he's grown skin thick enough to parry it but this time it pierces deep. Makes his stumble if only for just for a second.

"You're still my friend. Of course I care about you. Adam is going to give you an offer today, and I want you to accept it," she says.

"An offer, what kind of offer, what are you talking about?"

"To go with them. On The Pelican. To travel, and see the world and—"

"—absolutely not."

"You are never going to be happy in this shitty apartment at your shitty job, Ben!"

"But you think that boat is gonna be so much better for my mental health?"

"You smiled more yesterday than in the entire time I've known you," Maeve says, "It's like you're afraid of being happy."

"You know exactly what I'm afraid of."

Maeve groans.

"It's been so long. I know what happened is messed up but at some point you need to move on—"

A bitter rage runs through him. How dare she even say something like that?

"Move on? I need to move on from what, Maeve? Go on, say it," He narrows the gap between them, daring her to make eye contact. Her shoulders tense, she's taken a sudden fascination to the floor.

"You can't even look at me when you think about it," Ben says, "What gives you the fucking right to tell me to move on? You weren't even there, you didn't have to hear them screaming—"

"—okay I'm sorry," Maeve's voice cracks as she bites back, "You don't need to—I've listened to your statement. I just want you to live up to the potential I know you have."

"Fuck you. Tell Adam I said no, and do not follow me."

Ben grabs his cane and slams the door behind him.

Calvert Vaux is one the many nice green spots in Brooklyn. It's no Prospect Park—and it takes Ben a while to get there from Chinatown—but it's his own. The one place he can go to shed all his issues and simply be. Something about where it sits at the edge of New York, wedged just before Coney Island, makes it feel isolated. Secret.

The water reeks of something foul, mucky and metallic. Algae coats the rocky beaches in slick green sheets, clinging to boulders, while windswept grass grows on the edges of small clifftops along dry, yellowed dirt. Shade is conservative, the area dotted sparsely in trees—the further Ben walks the more derelict structures peek out from beneath the waves. Ships left to rot. Wood barges overtaken by roots and bushes, mold clambering up the sides fighting with moss and termites. Splintering pillars of long gone piers, a few of which are host to osprey nests.

He takes a seat on a boulder with a view towards Staten Island. The distance is enough that it feels as if he's staring out at the open sea. A flock of terns take flight when Ben approaches, they were picking at the stones on the edge of the beach. Now they drift off inland flying over the trees to find something else to eat.

He must sit there for a long time. He never checks his watch, but the suns shifts it's position in the sky, and the wind changes quite a few times. He shuts his eyes while it ruffles his hair. Northwesterly—no more than five miles an hour.

"Nice spot you have."

Ben jumps, startling. He whips around to see…Denby?

"Very zen of you," Denby says. Ben is still trying to figure out how Denby knew where to find him, when the captain approaches and takes a seat at his side. He leaves just enough room so that their shoulders don't touch.

"Did Maeve send you after me?" He asks.

"She said you like to sulk out here."

"God that is just like her," Ben shakes his head, "I tell her not to follow me and she sends someone else to do it."

Ben waits for a response. Nothing comes. Denby is staring at the water, he can't seem to care if Ben is beside him or not. The anticipation fades after a few minutes of this silence, when it becomes apparent Denby has no intention of talking at all. Ben considers asking him why he's even here if not to try and beg him to come along. He'd rather keep the peace.

A stray thought passes through—he could get used to this. It enters his mind as a heron skips across the water. He could get used to the idea of returning to the open sea. Of doing that alongside Denby and Adam, both of whom he—as much as he wishes to deny it—does actually like. Denby knows what the word quiet means—he's smart, and funny, and a respectable captain. Adam reminds him of Maeve—but less neat, less put together. Without all the ugly baggage. The chance to befriend someone who knows him as something more than a tragedy.

He could quit his job and not look back. Never deal with a single drunk asshole again, except perhaps himself.

The heron leaves, Ben let's it carry that thought away, and he forgets it ever was to begin with. He's fine here. He has people he knows here. He has a bed, and a steady income, and things to drown his thoughts if they get too loud. He's comfortable here.

"Are you going to say anything?" Ben asks. He figures it's been long enough.

"Do you want me to?"

No. Not really, but it is weird how he's just sitting there. Ben would like to rip off whatever band-aid he needs. Denby is the first to speak again.

"Chase was going to come talk to you but I figured he'd be a bit intense."

"Yeah, probably."

"I'm not here to convince you of anything."

"So why are you here, then?"

Denby bows his head. His hair flutters in the wind.

"I'm making you an offer."

"I already said no—"

"—eight pm. Tonight. I'm leaving for Dubai. It'll take a month to get there."

Why is he telling him this if he knows Ben isn't coming along? What's his plan here?

"If you've made up your mind then it doesn't matter. If you have even the littlest doubt," Denby says, "I'll be at the harbor."

Then he stands, and he leaves without so much as a look back. Ben sits dumbfounded. What the hell was that? It takes until the wind picks up to blow him out of his stupor. Not long after is when he decides to leave.

He treads through a lightly wooded peninsula, knowing well he's going to be worn out the rest of the day. At least he isn't so angry any more. Maeve was just looking out for him—perhaps in an insensitive, deeply upsetting way—still it came from a place of love. Ben is going to up that bargain to two free coffees once he gets back , as payment for this mess.

He's snapped from his thoughts by a screeching. It's high pitched, painful, Ben winces. It's coming from deeper in the trees, a panicked, erratic call that almost sounds like laughter. He's the only one around that he can see—the screeching certainly doesn't sound human.

Ben steps with care towards the sound. The closer he gets the more he can make out. Something struggling in the brush—leaves being tossed about, branches snapping, the beating of wings—and there it is. Hung from a thin, near invisible fishing line, a tern. It's wrapped tight, tangled in a nearby tree.

It flaps it's free wing around, screaming as it writhes, struggling to free itself—a motion which only serves to tighten the line more. Ben springs forward, he rests his cane against the base of the tree, and grabs the tern in both his hands.

"Ow—dude—hey I'm nice. Quit it."

It takes a few pecks at him, but subsides into shock after a few seconds in Ben's grasp. It's dark eyes stare at him, terrified. Poor thing. He has no knife to cut it free, and even if he did he has no empty hands to use it. Ben leans forward, and tentatively bites down on the wire. A few stern tugs and it snaps, cutting his mouth and setting the bird loose—sort of. The wire is still bound around it's body. Ben stumbles back, nearly falling straight on his ass.

He takes one look at the bird, the wire digs into it's flesh leaving thin red marks beneath white feathers. One of it's wings is caught too, tethered in a way no wing is meant to bend. Here he was thinking he'd have a normal night.

He googles local wildlife rescues as he waits for the subway. The bird sits on his lap, it never stops looking at him. Not even when the subway car shakes them. Not even as they run up the stairs. Not even as Ben tucks it tight against his chest as he foots it through Queens.

Honestly, it's a rather cute thing. He can feel it's racing heart beating against his hand. It must be so scared. He thinks he'll name it Christoph.

"It's broken for sure," The vet says. A small clinic—but the only one open and accepting wild animals, "Got a few lacerations as well but those are easily cleaned up."

"So he'll be fine?" Ben asks. The tern is laid on an exam table. Everything in here is sterile and white. The lights buzz, they make everything look sickly—and saline burns his nose. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears a rhythmic beeping. A machine forcing air into his lungs through a tube that tastes of plastic. Ben locks that memory back up. This isn't a hospital. Not for him, anyways.

"Just in a bit of shock, is all. Lots of things going on, aren't there little guy?" The vet tickles Christoph's chest. He just stares at them with the same blank look. The vet turns her attention back to Ben, "We'll wrap him up, keep a monitor on him. What we're most concerned about right now is that wing. If it's a compound fracture it'll never be able to fly again."

Ben knows the bird can't understand a word of what's being said. Yet he looks terrified. Locked in a mute panic as the people around him discuss all sorts of awful things. Only sparing a glance his way to look forlorn, but they aren't the one's with a broken wing.

"Well if it can't fly—"

"It would need lifelong care. There are a few facilities in the area which specialize in that—but for lack of false hopes, they get to capacity quite fast. There's unfortunately a good chance euthanization is the kindest option for it."

"Euthanization?" Ben scoffs, "No, what if I take it? I can handle it."

"You'd need a license—"

"—but you can't just kill it."

"Again, there are a few steps before that. It could be just fine."

"It has a life. It had a life. Out there, in the wild. It was free and happy. That fucking fishing line wasn't even supposed to be there. It's not fair."

Ben feels tears prickling at the edges of his eyes. Why is it this damn stupid bird that's doing him in today? If it had just taken a different flight path, stayed in it's nest that day, seen the fishing line sooner and moved out of the goddamn way it would still have it's wing.

"Sorry-I—" he covers his mouth and shuts his eyes. The lights are always too bright in hospitals. The noise of the machines too loud. So many alarms, so many footsteps, so many voices.

Moderate hypothermia. 200 ccs heated saline. Shit, he's coding—asystole on the—

Ben takes a deep breath. The room has gotten a lot colder.

"I'm sorry," He says, just a whisper.

"It's alright," The vet is far too kind to him, she smiles thinly, "Take your time. I'm going to prep him for the x-ray, we can email you updates, if you'd like."

"No," Ben says, "No it's fine. Just—do what you need to do."

He leaves as fast as he can, his leg is killing him.

The hum of his apartment's overhead is an obnoxious drone. There are too many bugs skittering around in all the cracked drywall and the crevices between his hardwood floors. The windows hold a layer of dirt and dust upon their glass. It's cramped, and sticky and Ben hates it.

He hates all of it.

He screams into his pillow, as loud as he can muster and until his throat runs dry. He wants to rip his heart out and stomp it into the floor until it stops beating—or until he stops caring. Whichever comes first.

Once he can will himself together into some form closely resembling a human, he rolls out of bed and drags himself into the bathroom. Where he turns on the shower and avoids looking at the mirror. He's better off not knowing.

In the meantime while he waits for the water to heat, he digs through the mess of clothes piling in his closet for anything close to comfortable—and a towel.

Something clatters to the floor, it must've come loose from one of his jackets. He picks it up—it's a little toy sailboat turned into a key-chain. It fits in the palm of his hand, the plastic is sun-bleached and dirty. On the bottom, nearly washed away entirely, a name.

Zoey

Ben stares at it. He stares as his room fills with steam. As his knees ache and he starts to sob. Recently he's been dreaming. In his dreams he's surrounded by blue, wind in his hair, a horizon open and endless. Most people dream of flying when they want to feel free, but Ben isn't a bird. A broken wing can't stop him.

Oh, Fuck it.

"I don't think he's coming, Chase."

"Just one more minute—"

"—I told him eight, it's five past already."

Adam leans against the railing, peering out to watch the harbor. Each person who passes by, he hopes has a cane. Or a pair of retro glasses, or a beard or—well, he hopes he sees Ben.

But Ben hasn't come yet. Adam is still waiting.

"This is time sensitive, we need to be in Dubai by next month which means we need to leave now."

Adam look up at Denby. He's ready to jump into the wheelhouse and whisk them away, though not much happier about it than Adam is. His face is plastered with more of a frown than usual.

Adam sighs and drops his post. He follows Denby inside.

"Look, he clearly has his convictions," Denby says, "I don't think it's any statement on you or me."

"I just think If I had talked to him I could've convinced him."

Denby scrunches his face up, he takes a seat at the wheel and kicks on the ignition.

"Or scared him off," Denby says.

"You're the one who scared him off, clearly."

The Pelican pulls back, shredding water. Then Adam sees it.

"Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop!"

Denby throws them into idle and the ship lurches forward. There, just turning the corner, a figure is approaching them at speed.

"Huh," Denby smirks, "You were saying?"

"I retract any previous statements about your personableness—I love you."

"Thank you."

Adam races out onto the deck, leaping to the pier which thankfully is still within a reasonable distance.

"Ben," Adam comes to a stop just before him. Ben has a small backpack on, a worn sailboat key chain dangles from one of the zippers. He's panting—though so is Adam.

"Sorry, A-train got held up. I hope I'm not too late."

"Never."

"So…Dubai?"

"I guess Denby has something important he needs to do—here let met carry that for you—"

"—it's alright, I've got it."

They hop onboard, Adam offers Ben a hand with the gap.

"So what changed?" Adam asks as they make their way to the cabin.

"I just didn't want to go to work tomorrow."

Adam laughs. He sneaks a glimpse of the wheelhouse, and sees Denby smiling back at him. Next stop, Dubai.

Chapter Text

"Ocean man, take me by the hand lead me to the land, that you understand," Adam dances around the deck of The Pelican. Wind in his hair, sliding with the rocking waves, "Ocean man, the voyage to the corner of the globe is a real trip—dun dun da dun—"

"—you should be nominated for a Grammy."

Adam jumps, his heart fluttering as he swings around to face Ben, who's leaning against the cabin. He hasn't bothered to change out of his pajamas yet—black shirt and pants dotted in little fish. The sun is young, a few albatross glide in the company of puffy white clouds, their calls compete with The Pelican's rudders.

"You think?" Adam smiles, pulling the mop handle up to his mouth and crooning into it, "The crust is elusive when it casts forth, to the childlike man."

"Yeah, that's great," Ben says.

"I made coffee."

"I saw. What would I do without you?"

"Well, you'd simply have to make it yourself," Adam tosses the mop into it's bucket. He casts his eyes up to the wheelhouse. One of those albatross land on the roof, catching a cheeky rest, preening itself.

"I can't do that. I'd just sleep all day," Ben says.

"That doesn't sound very nice—I'm heading up, I'll be right back."

"Can I bet fifty dollars, you're going to ask why we're going to Dubai again?"

"You don't have fifty dollars," Adam calls from the stairs.

"I will if you accept the bet!"

Adam shakes his head, stifling a smile.

Inside, Denby is sipping from a steaming thermos. Adam catches a whiff of something nutty and warm, he must've brewed his own coffee. He's got an ancient pink iPod hooked up to a speaker playing pop music—which takes Adam off guard, Denby doesn't seem like a pop-music type of guy—but he's tapping his foot along with the beat to a song that's probably charting top fifty.

Nonetheless, there are bags under his eyes. That tracks, when Adam woke up at four, they were already in motion. God knows how long Denby's been awake.

"What's our ETA?" Adam asks.

"Only a few more days if all goes well. Did you finish with the deck?"

"Actually, no. I'm here to once again humbly ask why the hell we're going to Dubai?"

"And I'm going to say the same thing I've said each time—it's a fun little surprise."

"I'd argue that by virtue of us having to travel for one month to get there it isn't very little at all."

Denby shrugs, making an indecisive noise.

"It's fun and it's a surprise, don't you have work to do?" Denby asks, "Or fish to study, or something?"

Adam crosses his arms and blows a puff of air out his nose. Fine, whatever it's not like he was that curious anyways. He stomps back downstairs, sure to let the door slam on his way out.

"So, can I have that fifty or—"

"He is such an asshole," Adam bites his lip, "It's a fun surprise—ooohh—I'm surprising you!"

"Was that meant to sound like Sam?"

"Sam?"

"You aren't on a first name basis with him?"

"It's only been a month!"

"A whole month, yeah."

"What if I threw myself overboard right now."

"We could do it together and make it romantic," Ben says, "Like Romeo and Juliet but more wet and worse."

Adam rolls his eyes but can't wrestle the grin off his face as he pushes past Ben and into the cabin. He needs more coffee if he's going to survive this. Ben follows him.

"Two sailors, both alike in dignity, in fair Dubai where we lay our scene," Adam recites—who ever said middle school english wouldn't come in handy. The coffee is lukewarm, it's been a few hours but it tastes no different. Adam's learned to stomach it. Maybe he can convince Denby to swing by Italy and pick up a Moka pot. The Baileys on the counter stares at him. Ben brought it along. Nobody has any say in the matter of Ben's habits, but it was telling that his backpack turned out to be fifty percent alcohol by volume.

"They poison themselves right?" Ben asks. Ironic.

"Well, Romeo does. Juliet stabs herself."

"I feel like you're more of a Juliet," Ben slumps into the booth.

"This could be true, but to be fair it would be very easy to poison me."

"Easily poisonable Adam Chase."

"Well, here, okay—I have never done drugs—"

"—first of all that's crazy. You're just out here rawdogging life? Second of all how does that equate to easily poisonable."

"—it means I don't have a tolerance."

"Do you think the world is like Princess Bride? If you microdose enough cyanide you're immune?"

Adam explodes into a hearty laugh, prompting Ben to keep going.

"Wouldn't that make you harder to poison? I feel like shit all the time. If someone put, like, Anti-Ben juice in my coffee I'd just assume it's a regular Monday."

"Have you, perchance, considered taking proper care of yourself?"

Ben pulls a cigarette out of his breast pocket and uses it to gesture at Adam.

"I'd rather be locked in a room full of hungry leapords," he twirls it around, "You've seriously never tried anything?"

"No. Why would I?"

"You're in college."

"I'm on a boat."

"So? Let loose, have fun, Do you want some of mine?"

"Some of your—you brought drugs with you?" Adam's voice raises an octave. He sets his coffee down, eyes wide.

"Yeah? Just some indica."

"Benjamin we are entering a foreign country! That is drug trafficking!"

"It's like two ounces, calm down."

Adam pulls at his hair. He is not about to be arrested in Dubai for fucking drug trafficking of all things.

"You need to get rid of it before we hit port. I am not doing a stint in an emirates prison."

"You wanna help?" Ben asks, accompanied by a sly wink. If that is an invitation, Adam has no intention of taking it.

"No absolutely not. Under no circumstances am I smoking your stupid weed."

Adam is smoking the stupid weed. On the record, it wasn't his decision and frankly he wouldn't do it if not for his much stronger desire to avoid legal trouble in Dubai. Off the record…Ben can be really convincing, and he was, admittedly, a little interested.

"This is like a hundred dollars worth of weed you're making me go through," Ben says, "You owe me."

He takes a long hit off of his messy joint—he'd rolled eight of them and barely made a dent in his stash. They're halfway through the second one and Adam is beyond light-headed. He watches, hypnotized as Ben breathes out a massive cloud of white smoke, then passes it to him. They're leaning against the railing, watching the sunset cast vibrant colors across the water.

"You're the one who packed two whole ounces of it"

"I go through that in a few months."

"That's simply insane," Adam takes as long a breath as he can, tasting of bitter mint. That is, as it turns out, a massive mistake. The smoke coats his throat fast—leaving him coughing uncontrollably, his chest aching while he leans over the side, spitting into the water.

"Nice one," Ben says, he pats Adam on the back.

"How do you do this?"

"Not by trying to go for any world records, for one."

"I wasn't trying to—" Adam devolves into another coughing fit. When he can finally recover, his voice is strained and a vague dizziness settles over him, "—fuck this sucks."

"Only a hundred and nineteen more to go."

"A hundred and nineteen?" Adam is fairly sure he's going to die, "There's no way."

"We just need to lock in."

"I'm locked out. I'm locking out, right now."

"Well don't do that," Ben finishes off the roach and stamps it into the deck, wasting no time he helps himself to a third. His lighter flickers with the wind. Adam can't do much but watch. Speaking real words takes so much effort—everything takes so much effort. Adam chooses a point on Ben's face and focuses on it. His face is very nice to look at.

"You're staring," Ben says. He's so soft spoken, the words are as light as a feather, "Kinda rude."

Adam laughs.

"You look good."

"I know, I'm irresistible."

"What are you two doing?" It's Denby. Adam catches his breath, he wants to freeze and panic but he's too gooey for that. He can't be bothered to be anxious right now.

"We're trying to smoke a hundred and twenty-one joints in three days—wanna help?" Ben holds out his roll to Denby, who furrows his brow.

"Why?"

"Adam thinks we're gonna get arrested in Dubai."

"Doo-bye" Adam repeats, drawing out the syllables, "They will arrest us. It'll suck."

"Considering they're still trying to pin down the Teagan's, I don't think our smidgen of drugs an issue," Denby says, "Also you realize they won't search out ship when we port, right?"

"Don't they?" Adam asks.

"No. They know me, they never search."

Adam turns to Denby. So, he didn't have to get himself egregiously high? There's a million questions about why the Dubai port authority know Denby well enough not to search him, following up on those would require a level of brain power Adam doesn't currently posses. His expression must be funny enough because Ben bursts out into hysterics. Meanwhile, Adam lowers himself down to the floor. It's comfortable and cold, refreshing when he presses his cheek against the metal. He shuts his eyes and groans.

"I'm so sorry," Denby says, holding back a laughter of his own, "Why was your first instinct to smoke all of it at once?"

"I'm not throwing away a hundred dollars worth of weed, are you crazy?" Ben asks. Adam is going to hit him if he can muster up the energy. As it stands, he's a human puddle.

"I'm gone," Adam says, muffled by the floor, "I'm not here anymore. I'm dead. Goodbye."

"How about you do that in a bed?" Denby's suggestion sounds fantastic. Only one problem.

"My legs don't work."

Ben snorts.

"You're telling me?"

"Oh fuck you—-you did this to me."

"You could've said no."

Adam lets out a weak, frustrated scream.

"This sucks."

"Alright, come on," Denby, in one fowl swoop, pulls Adam up and tosses him over his shoulder—a firefighter carry. Adam is certain he's going to throw up, pushing down a wave of bile that threatens to get all over Denby's back.

He's never living this down. They duck into the cabin and Adam braces as Denby tosses him into bed. It's a welcome relief, if not a bit disorienting. Fingers knot in the sheets, the fibers feel rough and over defined. A weird texture that tingles Adam's brain.

"You're so strong," Adam says. His brain may be fogged over but he's got enough clarity to take a sharp eye at Denby's biceps. Denby blushes. Or, at least, Adam thinks Denby blushes. It could be the way the light shifts around the room—which has yet to stop spinning.

Denby sighs, reaches down, and brushes the loose hair off Adam's face. His fingers leave a shocking sensation against Adams skin. He can't decide if he wants more of it or not. Denby doesn't spare any words as he leaves, though he does spare a glance, eyes shimmering with affection.

Once Adam surpasses his vertigo, he's able to fall asleep to the sound of conversation just outside the door.

"Land ho!" Ben yells.

"I personally think the land is respectable and intelligent, you're being reductive!" Adam says, yelling in return.

"Hoes can be respectable and intelligent, Adam. That's pretty sexist of you," Ben saunters across deck. They must only be half a day from port. Distant buildings tower on the horizon, a skyline unfamiliar to Adam though deeply enticing; he's never approached somewhere new from anywhere but miles above it. Watching the city grow closer and closer—there's something magical to it.

"I might argue that calling me sexist in this context is in and of itself a problematic convention, but I digress—"

"—oh don't use your big college words on me," Ben says, twirling his cane.

"As if you weren't quoting Moby-Dick at me literally yesterday."

"I have a spiritual connection to Captain Ahab, what of it?"

"You understand why that's a deeply concerning thing to hear you say?"

"As opposed to my usual?"

"No, you're right. Everything you say is deeply concerning."

"There we go. That's what I like to hear."

Adam leans over the rail in an attempt to get a better view. Ahead are a scattering of ships—small and big, old and new. The first signs of civilization they've encountered in their long and lonely journey. He has no idea how Denby did it before. They went an entire month without seeing hide nor hair of another person. Adam at least assumed they'd sail past someone, but no. The ocean remained theirs and theirs alone the entire time.

It must get maddening. Perhaps that's why Denby changed his mind—then again, he seems like the person to seek it out. It was a shocking balance, getting used to his schedule. For most of the day Denby hides away in his wheelhouse, he only ever comes down a handful of times, and doesn't usually say much or stay for very long.

"What do you think the surprise is?" Adam asks. Denby still hasn't caved on that front—no matter how hard Adam has begged.

"What if he's killing us?"

"Why would he do that?"

"I dunno. He seem like he's killed someone."

"No he doesn't."

"A little bit he does."

"For the record, you think this and you intend on sticking around?"

Ben shrugs, smirking.

"I think it's exciting."

Adam has no idea why expected anything less.

Their approach into the city occurs around five pm. Despite this, it's still incredibly bright out and the closer the get to shore the more the heat and humidity bears down on them. The air is stifling—it's literally, physically harder to breathe and while Adam is sure he'll get used to it, it's such an intense and sudden shift. Relatedly, he's sure he'll need to pick up some heavy SPF sunscreen. He's already sweating bullets as he clambers down from raising the Q flag and the courtesy flag—as dictated by Denby.

The city is tall. Far taller than even New York. Buildings tower into the sky, twisting in unique shapes and architectural wonders. Almost all are made of large glass windows which reflect the sun's light and the stark blue sky. Beneath stretch picturesque white beaches—as if plucked from the dictionary definition of what a beach should be.

What boats are circling shore remind him of the ones at the Boston marina—only larger. Massive yachts, decked out in things nobody in their right mind needs. Things only meant to host parties and classless ways to blow all your money in one night.

They sail past, sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the well curated aesthetic of overwhelming wealth that has become immediately detectable. Adam is in awe of it—though it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Ben, apparently, even more so.

"This is like the land of the tax avoidant," He jokes. Well—not really joking if it's true.

"Maybe he's taking us to a crazy rich person party."

"If Sam is secretly a billionaire I'd extort him."

Adam rolls his eyes. Maeve did mention how expensive The Pelican could be—although now that looks like chump change in contrast to what's around them.

They pull into Port Rashid, passing multiple cruise ships to squeeze between yachts twice their size. To the right, one boasts a full EDM concert setup on it's deck. The other has a literal water slide.

"Now that's just silly," Adam says.

"I bet if I acted crazy enough they'd give me their money."

"That's not how that works."

"Art of the deal, Chase," Ben leans back and produces a pair of sunglasses from god knows where, "You act crazy and people will just give you what you want."

"Alright," Denby claps. He's on the balcony, donning a loose shirt and shorts, a red bandana holds his hair out of his face, "Welcome to Dubai. Give me your passports right now."

"We're going to need a rental car, you know."

"I can't drive," Ben says, swallowing the swing of gin he took 'for the road'. He returns the near-empty bottle into the kitchen cabinet—beside to two more, unopened.

"Not anymore, you can't."

"Never could."

"You don't know how to drive?" Adam shoves his wallet in one pocket, the keys to the cabin in the other, "But you can sail."

"Learned one, not the other."

"Why would you learn how to sail and not how to—"

"—doesn't matter now. Even if I knew," Ben taps his leg, "Unless you wanted to play roulette on if the break pedal works."

"Touche."

Alcohol is Ben's baseline for existence, something Adam has had to learn. Even if he isn't actively getting drunk. A sip here and there, at least once or twice a day to ration out for the month. Ben's the sort of person, it turns out, who would rather be caught dead then asking God to grant any serenity, courage, or wisdom.

So Adam turns his attention to a more reasonable concern. One that doesn't involve ripping the hair off that dog. What the hell is there to do in Dubai? His mind blanking. He doesn't get around that much, travel has never been something he's done with any frequency. Dubai is so new and different and big—he had so long to prepare and it still takes him off guard.

While waiting for Ben to finish getting ready, he flicks his phone on. It's a nice day out, there are a lot of beaches.

"Why don't we drive up to Al Mamzar, that looks pretty."

Ben responds from the other room.

"Whatever you wanna do."

He comes out in one of his eyesore shirts, neon pinks and blues and purples, big, squared off rock star sunglasses, and a sunhat.

"Let's go to the beach, beach, let's go get away—"

Adam leads them out into the blaring heat. Excitement bubbling through him, a whole new world ahead of them.

They're sitting on a bench overlooking the beach. The water is a crystalline turquoise, the sand a pale white. Palm trees sway and bass-heavy music is a backing track to volleyball tournaments, a few brave sunbathers are laying in a UV index miles above Adams comfort zone. Behind them, man in a kandura pulls a well dressed woman into a Lamborghini. One of five he's seen in the past hour. The air is thick with the smell of oud and sunscreen, the salt of the ocean itself doesn't quite reach though it does underlay everything near the bay.

"I'm fucking starving," Ben says. It snaps Adam out of his stupor, and reminds him how long it's been since his last proper meal. Denby's rations are less than impressive, an unfortunate necessity of the job. Adam would kill for a vegetable—or anything not compressed into a brick of pure nutrients.

"Well, let's see—I wonder if we could ask someone where a good restaurant is?"

"You be my guest," Ben says.

"Preferably you'd come with me."

"No."

"I thought you wanted to extort people. Why don't you think of this as extorting information?"

"That's the weirdest thing I think I've heard you say."

"It's not weird! Generally speaking I'd trust a local before I trust google or yelp or whatever. That's a reasonable assumption."

"If you can find someone 'local' to Dubai on this beach in less than five minutes, lunch is on me."

"Well, my dear Benjamin, be prepared to spend some money."

"My wallet quivers in anticipation."

It's been fifteen minutes of searching—three conversations about the blockchain, two about investment banking, and two about travel—when he finally gives up. Not a single person he spoke to was native to Dubai. Plenty of 'I just moved here' or 'I'm just visiting' or 'I've been here for a year and it's alright'. Zero 'I was born here'. Hell, he couldn't even find a single person who had been living in Dubai longer than five years.

"Why does nobody actually fucking live here," Adam drags himself, defeated, back to Ben, "And how did you know that?"

"It's Dubai. It's, like, the expat capital of the world, especially around this neighborhood—you're the one with a degree, how come you didn't know that?"

"My degree is in marine biology not geopolitics."

"Yeah yeah, did you find us a place to eat or not?"

"As a matter of fact, three people recommended the same Indian place so I can safely assume it's at least alright."

"I could go for some Indian."

Adam had zero expectations going in—not in a bad way, he simply knows very little about Dubai, that much exemplified by Ben's little dare. But he certainly didn't expect everything to be so…well…smooth.

When Adam pictures Indian food, he imagines the cramped old hole down the street from his apartment owned by a dad and his two sons--where they always greet him by name and their cousin is always doing school work in a dimly lit corner.

This is a far cry from any of that. Tall windows look out upon the water, a cedar balcony hosts tables outside that Adam objected to on the principal of not getting sunburnt. They're sat inside on carved wooden chairs adorned in plush blue cushions. Warm colors decorate the space in art that's intricate, impressive, but mass produced. Their food arrives plated perfectly, and they're handed expensive silverware in thick white napkins. Nobody pays them much mind, though Adam catches a few sneers directed their way.

It makes sense, everyone around looks as if they make six figures. Even the waitstaff are dressed to impress. Adam and Ben, on the other hand, just disembarked from a month at sea. Perhaps they aren't upholding that social contract so well. Adam tries to pay it no mind—even if it makes his skin itch. It reminds him all too much of his life at Yale.

"Maeve told me you were a foodie in college," Ben says. Speak of the devil.

"I'd say I still am," Adam takes a bite of his curry. It then occurs to him that if Maeve was talking to Ben about his college self, then she may have divulged some other information. Something more personal than just his taste in food, "What else did she say about me?"

"Worried I have embarrassing secrets I could use to blackmail you?"

Adam's heart skips a beat.

"Do…you?"

"My memory isn't good enough for any of that," Ben waves away that concern, thank god, "Your dirty little secrets are safe."

"I don't have any secrets," Adam says, is the room getting warmer? Ben narrows his eyes, looking straight through him.

"We all have secrets."

Ben cant possibly know what's on Adams mind, but it feels as if he does. Then Ben smiles and leans back like nothing happened. Maybe by some virtue of fate, Ben isn't referring to Adam, but alluding to himself instead. Hell, even Denby. He ought to have his fair share of secrets, though with his level of privacy what constitutes truly secret is itself, well, a secret.

"There's nothing wrong with that," Ben says, "It's fine to keep things to yourself."

"Sure, but we need to trust eachother."

"I trust you."

"I'm not really talking about us."

It's easy to recall Maeve's apprehension with Denby. She was right to be skeptical then—she was right about a lot of things, and while Denby is on some level a trustworthy person, there's much to be said about what he isn't.

"Sam kept us alive out there," Ben says.

"Where's he from?"

"Why does that matter?"

Adam chews the inside of his cheek. Ultimately, he supposes it doesn't. He could be from Colorado, Washington, New York, or Cincinnati and it wouldn't change anything, but it would give Adam a fuller picture. Perhaps Ben doesn't see the point in it—and perhaps neither does Denby, but to Adam it would make a world of difference.

"Where are you from?" Ben asks.

"North Carolina, you?"

"Baltimore—you're from the south? Actually, nevermind, that makes perfect sense, why am I surprised?"

"How does that make sense?"

Adam doesn't reckon he sounds southern—any accent he may have had got lost after high school.

"You have the energy of someone who was a choir boy at a cute little church."

"What does that mean?"

"Listen, the other option was conservative youth pastor. So—"

"—conservative youth pastor? Are you fucking nuts?"

"A certain man by the name of Jesus Christ would protest your language, young man."

"Well, good thing I don't care."

Ben cocks his head, analyzing Adam as if he were a specimen in a jar. It makes Adam squirm.

"North Carolina and you aren't religious?"

"That's such a goddamn stereotype, not everyone from the south is a devout christian," Adam bites his tongue, keeping the rest of that sentence from slipping it's way out. Unfortunately, Ben catches it. Tricky.

"But…"

Adam sighs.

"But I did used to be, when I was really young."

He remembers Sunday school, and attending sermons with his family. He remembers church food drives, and his first sip of communion wine. He remembers saying grace over dinner, over the top Christmases with real trees and yule logs and nativities. In some ways, nostalgia creeps in where the few good memories lay.

"What killed it for you?" Ben asks.

"I guess I just grew out of it."

Any other answer, and he'd need a lot longer than just lunch to explain.

"What about you?"

"What about me?" Ben asks.

"Baltimore. Did you like it there?"

Ben looks out the window, frowning.

"It could've been worse."

They spend the rest of the day traipsing around the streets of Dubai. Given their late arrival, there really isn't that much traipsing to do but Adam would at least like to claim he tried.

As the moon swaps places with the sun, the city lights glow white and cold. Sleek, modern, refined and spotless. High rise windows fill with flashing blues and greens and reds—parties Adam anticipates cost quite a bit to gain access to.

They walk along the water. Adam takes it slow for Bens sake but they make good time. Block after block watching passing boats and the vibrant nightlife of the city. It's cooled off, now it feels like an average summer morning on the East Coast instead of a sweltering oven. Unfortunately the humidity hasn't let up much.

"There's the real port," Ben points ahead, stretching out into the water—a dry docks. Massive cargo ships and a single Russian ice breaker loom beneath ever taller cranes. They move shipping containers up and down; an entirely different world to his own. Just one of those ships could easily crush The Pelican without so much as a second thought.

"Talk about industrial," Adam says.

"Did you know the propellers on cargo ships can be up to thirty feet in diameter?" Ben asks, "A hundred and eighty rotations per minute but enough to drag you in and chop you to bits."

That seems exceptionally gruesome, and the distant tone of Bens voice suggests his mind might not all be here.

"You alright?"

"Yeah."

"Let's head back, hopefully Denby didn't run off too long with our passports, right?"

"Right."

Adam shudders. Something about the dead look in Bens eyes and the flat, monosyllabic response churns Adams stomach. He doesn't want to think about what that means, so he focuses on getting back to home base.

Denby is waiting for them on deck when they get back. He's got one hell of a farmers tan going—and a redness on his cheeks and nose.

"Haven't you heard of sunscreen?" Adam asks.

"Here's your passports. We're all checked in," He says, casually ignoring Adams question. Ben takes his and then barges past them, into the cabin.

"What's with him?" Denby asks.

"No idea."

Adam follows Ben, and to his surprise, so does Denby. They find Ben slumped over the kitchen table, pushing himself into the corner of the booth. Adam slides in beside him, and Denby across from them. It's the first time all three of them have properly sat together. There's something familial to it, perhaps it was Adams upbringing—dining around the table, family game nights, all American traditions.

This is not that, but it's the closest he's had since a few Christmas's past. Warm butterflies fill his stomach—the tension isn't the same. He's not waiting for his dad to compare him to his brothers. For his mom to ask him how his grades are, or what awards he's won recently. He's not waiting for someone to correct his posture, or tell him his hair is too short, or complain about the clothes he chooses to wear. That instinct is hard to beat. Hes still sitting up straight. Shoulders tense. Tugging at his shirt. This will take some getting used to.

"Where'd you go?" Adam asks.

"Customs office took up most of my time. Ran to Jumeira afterwards."

"You ran?" Ben asks. His face squishes into an exaggeration of disgust.

"I gotta keep up my Strava reputation. It's a burden I carry."

"That's simply crazy to me," Adam says, "It's so humid. I'm surprised you didn't drown."

"What did you guys get up to?" Denby asks.

"I don't think I'm past your Strava reputation," Ben says. Neither is Adam, this is the first time Denby has volunteered any information about himself besides the obvious. His little story about being banned from Singapore was censored as if it were a top secret CIA document. That, at least, makes a little sense. Adam can see details of that being too personal to share over a drink with people you barely know. Strava, however, now that is something Adam could pry on.

"Yeah, are you like a Strava influincer?"

Denby shrugs. His nothing answer irks Adam to no end. It's not as if it's a deeply personal question. Why is that whenever Adam attempts to learn more about Denby, he shuts it down, constructing an impenetrable fortress around anything resembling an identity?

"How many Strava followers do you have?"

"I'm not answering that."

"Well, whatever, I can just download the app and search your name."

"I'd prefer you not stalk me."

"I live on your ship!"

"Boys, boys." Ben interjects, his usual demeanor seems to have returned. Any evidence of his attitude before is gone. He rests him hands on the table between Adam and Sam, "Why don't we play a little game."

Adam knits his brow.

"What game?"

"It's called Take No Prisoners. It's like truth or dare but worse."

"Why on earth would I play that with you?" Adam knows for a fact that Ben wouldn't show much mercy.

"It's a chance for us to bond as ship mates. I used to play it all the time back when I—" Ben pauses then shakes his head, "—it's like tradition."

"For you, maybe."

"Alright fine, what about you?" Ben turns to Denby.

"How do you play?" Denby asks.

"Everyone playing gets to ask another player one question. It can be anything, and the other person has to answer earnestly."

"Okay, and if they don't want to answer?"

"Then they say Take No Prisoners—and the person asking gets to do whatever they want to them."

"That sounds…"

"I once had my head held under ice water for a minute," Ben shrugs.

"Jesus," Adam says, "That's actual torture."

"Okay I'll play."

Dumbfounded, Adam's jaw drops. Is Denby actually agreeing to this? He has the audacity to slip Adam a sly wink. Goddamnit.

"Okay fuck it, whatever I'll play too," Adam crosses his arms. He's not about to let Denby outdo him. Not with that attitude. Denby would probably forfeit instantly anyways, if he thinks Strava is too personal of a dig. Adam is simply going to be better at opening up, they'll see.

"Fantastic," Ben folds his hands together as if he's some sort of evil supervillain, "I'll go first, Adam Chase how's your relationship with your parents?"

Adam sputters, he expected some sort of build up, but Ben's played this enough to know better. Either Adam answers or he's at the whims of someone whose baseline is waterboarding.

"It's fine. I call them on occasion."

"That's such a sweet way of talking about your own family," Ben says.

"Well what more do you want? I graduated valedictorian, earned a full ride merit scholarship to Yale, won my state swimming championship and a national mock trail competition and they still found something to criticize about me."

Once the words are flowing they don't stop.

"I don't think they're ever going to be happy with me unless I find the cure to fucking cancer or something."

"Yes that is exactly what I wanted you to say," Ben says, "That explains a lot."

"Like what?"

"It really does," Denby agrees.

"I have no idea what that could possibly say about me. Whatever, it's my turn anyways."

"Okay shoot your shot," Ben hands the stage over to Adam. It's a choice between two people neither of whom are the poster child for emotional vulnerability. He has to pick something that would warrant an interesting answer, but not something so far as to make him conjure up some weird punishment.

"Denby, how many fucking followers do you have on Strava?"

Denby purses his lips, clearly deliberating. Adam tries to make himself big, straightening up and staring Denby down. It is, of course, entirely performative. Adam has no idea what he'd dish out if Denby doesn't answer. Certainly not anything involving ice water.

"Three thousand five hundred."

"Three thousand?" Adam yells.

"And five hundred, don't forget the five hundred," Ben says.

At least Denby is humble about it. How did that many people even come to follow him? Is he some secret niche microcelebrity? Is that why he doesn't want them prying into his personal life?

"How?" is all Adam can think to ask.

"I thought you only got one question."

"You gave a one word answer."

"But I gave an answer."

"That's not fair at all. Ben—"

"—he did answer," Ben says.

"It's just fucking Strava! Stop being so…ugh."

"Okay fine," Denby leans back, "I travel a lot. I'm usually posting from a different country every time. I guess enough people found that interesting."

"You were defensive over that? That's nothing! I thought you were going to say you, like, have a secret marathon running second life."

"I did run an ultramarathon not too long ago."

"Why do people even do that. Netflix is right there. You don't need to hurt yourself." Ben says, grumbling.

"It's about endurance," Denby says, "and it feels good. For me, at least."

"Oh, ha ha, It's your turn."

"I didn't mean—okay. Uh. Ben…" Denby takes his time considering his question. Adam, too, waits with baited breath. He wonders if Denby is going to choose the obvious—or if that's a blatant dead end.

"What did you do before you worked on the harbor?" He asks. Simple. Safe.

"Like as in for work or just in general?"

"Uh. Let's just say work."

Ben chooses his words carefully as he responds.

"I was at sea."

"What position?"

"One question."

"If I had to elaborate on my Strava—"

Ben mutters something. Adam and Denby lean in.

"What was that?" Denby asks.

"We didn't have formal positions, but I was trained in navigation."

"Why'd you quit?"

"That definitely falls under a second question," Ben says, then yawns and melts into the seat, shutting his eyes. It reminds them all of the time, and just how long they've been awake. Denby rubs his face.

"Alright, everyone be up tomorrow at eight."

"For your stupid surprise?" Adam asks.

"It's not stupid," Denby says as he makes his leave, "You'll see."

Then he's gone and Adam is alone with Ben.

"That wasn't ominous in the slightest."

"Are you still awake?"

Adam turns his head. Across the room, Ben is lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. The moon shines on his face. All is quiet save for the water outside and the occasional car, it's been a few hours since Adam has started to try and sleep, and unfortunately the answer is

"Yeah, why?"

"Were you actually valedictorian?"

"Is that hard to believe?"

"No," Ben returns Adams stare, placid with a underlying sadness, or perhaps it's just the way he speaks that gives such an impression, "I'd be bragging constantly. I mean I'd find ways to work that into every conversation."

Adam laughs away the pang of grief that strikes him.

"I don't know, that was a while ago."

"I dropped out of college."

Adams heart jumps into his throat. Somehow that doesn't surprise him.

"Oh. That's alright."

"After three months."

"How did your parents take it?"

"They were nice. Too forgiving—I didn't deserve that. Maybe if they'd been as hard on me as yours were on you, I would've turned out less fucked up."

"I think you turned out just fine," Adam says. It's not entirely a lie. Somewhere in there is a noble soul. One who risked his life for the life of one meager shark. One who likes to make other people laugh, who likes to help and do good even if the world has not been good to him. Even if he wants to come off as careless. In a lot of ways, it doesn't really matter. They're both laying here in a boat off the coast of Dubai.

"There's no way you actually think that, but thanks. You did too, you know."

Adam sighs, if only that were as true as he'd led everyone to believe. For as much as Adam whinges on about Denby and his walls, Ben is right. Everyone has their secrets.

"I could be better," he says.

Chapter Text

The streets are buzzing with activity. Ben and Adam tail Denby as he weaves them through the chaos—not a single spot near the shore is left unoccupied. It's nine in the morning—took them an hour to get up, get ready, and arrive at the much anticipated surprise. Even now as they walk through the midst of it Adam has no idea what lies in wait. Something big, given they're far from the only ones here to experience it.

Adam has gathered at least a few things from his surroundings. Firstly, they're on a beach. Well—sort of on a beach. There are barriers preventing anyone from entering the water and the crowds stretch far past the sand. People are set up along the coast for at least half a mile. They're all waving various flags. British, American, Emirates and Indian.

As they approach what must be the center of it, Denby manages to push them through to a spot where they can have a clear view of the water. Immediately what grabs Adam's eye is the massive artificial palm-tree shaped archipelago. Palm Jumeirah—Adam had done some preliminary research that morning, hoping to be more prepared today than he was before.

The second thing that catches his eye is a pattern of bright orange buoys that dot the water, and a pop-up pier with modest cranes lowering down some odd-looking boats. They're small, almond shaped, with a ski-like structure to them. The bows angle up and there's a central cockpit where presumably one or two people may sit.

The shallows are partially blocked in by massive stone breakwaters, together it all creates something that looks suspiciously similar to a race track.

Before Adam can ask about anything, the crowds erupt into thunderous cheering. On the edge of shore are a few people in jumpsuits. Red, white, green, with professional harnesses and helmets. Suddenly Adam has a good idea of what might be going on.

A few helicopters circle overhead. Denby leans down to be heard over the noise.

"You're about to see the fastest powerboats in the world," he says, "Welcome to the Class 1 World Grand Prix!"

"Molinari and Rossi are a great team up but Rossi can be way too headstrong," Denby has been talking nonstop for the past half hour. While they await the teams to actually board their boats, Adam and Ben have learned more than enough about C1 racing for one lifetime.

"Why are there all two of them?" Ben asks.

"Oh, okay so this is interesting. They're duos. One person controls the steering the other is on throttle. It's an insane amount of trust but it means they can reach the fastest speeds of any aquatic vehicle in market. A hundred sixty miles per hour. It's crazy."

"Uh huh," Adam nods.

"Dorado is frickin' stacked this time. They have Khare, she's like one of the best. Massive daredevil, literally top of every single league she's ever been in. She's partnered with Conner on the steering. He's goated—"

Adam has never cared about sports a second in his life. Sure, when the Red Sox were on, he'd keep tabs on the score, and he went with his ex-girlfriend once to a Celtics game. He can rally behind a good competition, anyone can, but ask him to name the best quarterback who played with the Patriots, or what the deal with the Knicks is and he'd be lost.

It's not changed now that Denby is the one raving about it. At least it’s a new crumb of information, Denby is into that sort of thing—good for him. Once they start up it might be exciting, but for now, the idea of waiting around in sweltering heat is indignant and uncomfortable.

"I'm gonna go grab drinks," Adam says. There are quite a few people with bottles of water, chai and coffee. He could go for a pick me up that isn't brewed by the drip machine of The Pelican.

"Oh, get me something," Ben must have the same idea. He'd offer for Ben to come along, but Denby has locked him into a conversation—which Adam is inclined to call a lecture.

He finds a cafe easy, there's no lack of them surrounding the bay. The business owners must pay out of their ass to have a location this good. Unfortunately it also means there's no place without a line out the door. Once he eventually reaches the relief of air conditioning, it's too late to save himself the sunburn.

He's peering around the person before him wondering if he should get a pastry while he's at it, when fast enough that Adam can't react to move out of the way, a man in a black jumpsuit covered in branded patches races past. He's carrying four coffees, and with no free hands to spare, he bumps into Adam. Not hard enough to spill anything but enough to make him stumble. Something clatters off his belt and to the floor, he doesn't seem to notice.

"'scuse me, sorry" The man says in Irish accent. He's got on a pair of aviator sunglasses and a blue mask. Black hair spotted with shades of grey.

Adam leans down to pick up what he dropped. It's an ID card.

Class 1 maintenance crew. Huh. He looks about twenty years younger in his photo. Oskar, his name is.

"It's okay, you dropped your badge." Adam hands it over. The man takes it and without so much as a thank you, he speeds off. Leaving before Adam has the chance to ask him about his work, or if he's heard of manners before. Probably quite busy considering how soon they are to the start of the race. He doesn't have time to worry about that, he's almost up to the counter.

"You took long enough," Ben says. He snatches the iced latte from Adam and takes a massive gulp as if it's the first thing hes had to drink in years.

"A thank you would be appreciated, those lines took ages to get through."

Ben manages to pull himself away long enough to speak.

"Thank you, I love you."

Denby is too engaged in the pre-race prep to pay either of them any mind. Adam sneaks a look at the pit crew. They're all wearing those black jumpsuits, but there's not anyone like the man who bumped into him in the cafe. He's about to mention the encounter, when the racers start lining up to board.

"There she is!" Denby points, "That's Michelle Khare."

Her hair billows behind her as she runs, well conditioned and shimmering. A wide toothy smile that crinkles the edges of her eyes when she bears it. She goes along the barrier handing out high fives like candy. There's a symphony of people chanting her name, she passes the three of them and gives one to Denby, who looks positively enchanted. She doesn't stick around to see his reaction, running off to finish what amounts to a pre-victory lap before taking her place beside a gaunt and lanky man with short silver hair. He hasn't bothered with any of that dog and pony show. In fact, Adam is sure he glares at her.

"That's Ethel Connor," Denby says upon noticing where Adam's attention lies. Connor is a sharp man, in the physical sense at least. He holds himself tall and straight, and with a seemingly perpetual frown made deeper by the lines around his lips. He’s jittery and itching almost compulsively at his arm. 

"He looks fun," Ben says.

"He's old guard. It's part of what makes him so good—he dominated the 2016 World Grand Prix, literally nobody could touch him."

"Does Khare seem scared to you?" Adam asks. The second Khare stands beside Connor her entire body language changes. She hardens up, her once natural grin pulls a little too wide, as do her eyes. She's waving vigorously, ignoring Connor as best she can.

Denby hums, cocks his head, then frowns.

"Well, the Dubai-Abu Dhabi sections of C1 are some of the most largely attended. She hasn't been in the game that long, she might just be nervous."

Adam nods along, if anyone were to know, it would be Denby. He's probably projecting, the idea of rocketing across the water at hundreds of miles per hour makes Adam's head spin. Even if the sportiness of it misses him, he's got to admit, in isolation it's a crazy thing to do.

The crews and their ships are given one last look over by maintenance before they board. Cue the sound of heavy-duty motors. A growling, roaring noise which makes the water shiver and the sand jump.

It sends a skip through Adams heart, instinctively he covers his ears. They pull out from the wet pits. Khare and Conner's boat—a golden pattern marked with a painting of a mahi-mahi on it's bow—falls right in the middle.

The teams do a few warm up circles around the buoys closest to shore, the pace boat—which Denby gleefully explains leads everyone into position—pulls ahead and soon, lined in formation, the race is ready to begin.

Everyone waits with bated breath.

A green flag flies.

The teams take off, ripping up the water and filling the air with a high pitched buzzing. As they get up to speed, they begin to skip as a stone would upon the surface.

Khare and Conner instantly pull ahead. Drifting tight turns at high speeds, flawlessly outmaneuvering every other team.

Loop around the buoys.

Right, then left, then right again.

They finish the first lap a full minute ahead of the rest. Adam can see why Denby likes this so much, though as the next lap begins Adam takes more interest in the people around him. Khare and Connor are still, predictably, in the lead. He suspects that wont change.

There's a group of people waving American flags not far from them. It feels so odd seeing it flown all the way out here. Adam inadvertently makes eye contact with a man further back. He's in a black baseball cap, which he's tucked to nearly cover his icy blue eyes. He's pale, with a scar on his top lip. The look he shoots Adam sends a shiver down his spine. Adam turns away, still feeling the man glaring at the back of his neck. Neither Denby nor Ben notice anything awry, but Adam's nerves are starting to tingle. Something smells off here, even if he can't put his finger on what.

Or, maybe it's his jumpy imagination looking for something more to entertain him. Focus has never been Adam's strong suit.

Back with the race, someone has started gaining on the leading team.

White with orange stripes and a Swiss flag. They weave between their opponents, pushing forward until they pull ahead of Khare and Conner.

"That's Neptune," Denby leans down and speaks loud to be heard over all the noise, "Never won a single race, they're doing surprisingly—"

He's cut off as Khare and Conner swerve. It's sudden, a complete change of pace.

They hit the massive wake of Neptunes ship, spinning out just as they pass the breakwater. Having lost all control of their steering, they careen straight into the boulders with an ear-splitting blast.

Adam jumps, gasping.

"That's not supposed to happen, is it?" he asks. A sickly black smoke pillars into the sky. The wind carries the smell of burning plastic to shore. Adam exchanges a horrified look with Ben, who is biting his bottom lip.

Bright red medic boats are already racing to the scene. The rest have slowed to near complete stop.

"No," Denby says, "No it's not."

Chapter Text

"They're alive," Denby says. Relief washes over Ben and Adam. A constant anxiety persisted after the crash—one marshaled by the idea of having witnessed two people die. It was an ugly crash, and while plenty of people stuck around to ogle the remains, Adam and Ben wanted nothing more than to find a quiet place to talk. So Denby dragged them out and found them a small cafe to hide in, which he may have been here many times more than he let on, his route was too perfect, and he never had to check for directions once. They've squeezed into an inconspicuous corner, Ben is working on his second iced latte of the day, while Denby remains glued to his phone.

What wafts around them— coffee, cinnamon, and cardamom,—puts Adam at ease. Such warmth abounds in those smells, aided by the few other people inside making quiet conversation, which is occasionally drowned out by the sound of a grinder and hissing steam from the espresso machine.

"What happened?" Adam asks, leaning over to peer at Denby's screen.

"Don't know yet, they're still investigating. Probably just an accident."

He recalls the look on Khare's face before she boarded her ship. The odd man behind them in the black cap. Would it be too much to suggest something else? Occam's razor would take Denby's side.

He sighs.

"How often does something like this happen?"

"Almost never, not anymore," Denby says, "Offshore racing used to be a lot more dangerous but they kept killing people so safety regulations got put in place. Probably the only reason they are still alive."

This grabs Ben's attention.

"I think it would be more fun if there were no regulations, I'd pay to watch that."

"Ben, my dear friend, I think you'd love to live in a little place called ancient Rome," Adam says.

"If I lived in ancient Rome, you know I'd be at the Colosseum."

"Well, hopefully we can make it to Abu-Dhabi," Denby says, "Sounds like Conner is still in the game but Khare needs to trade off. She won't be able to make a full enough recovery before the next race."

"I'm sorry, are we following them around?"

Adam can tolerate one go of this but he didn't sign up to be a Class 1 roadie. Or would it be 'shippie'?

"Only for these two races. Abu-Dhabi is nice, you'll like it."

"May I kindly opt out of attending?"

"You don't like C1?"

"I think I understand why other people like it."

"That's a nice way of saying you don't like it."

"Yeah, well, I was hoping I could be nice about it."

"I think it's interesting," Ben says, "If every race involved someone nearly dying it would be better."

"We've established your stance on blood sport," Denby leans back and crosses his arms, "Fine, neither of you need to attend, but we are still going to Abu-Dhabi in a few days."

Adam can deal with that. He'll prepare, look into nice places to eat and things to do on the way there. A fun vacation, not that he hasn't been having fun here. Mostly, he's hoping to keep his mind off the crash. He's always had a hyperactive brain, his parents had to give him plenty to do as a child if they wanted to keep him out of trouble. Trouble, now, it would seem, has an inexorable way of finding him. Whether that's his own doing or not—he'd have no right to determine. All he can observe is that he's not got five extracurriculars, work, and school anymore. He's got Denby and he's got Ben, neither of whom are themselves particularly good at avoiding trouble.

"I'm gonna explore a little bit," Adam stands up, "Anyone is welcome to join me."

Denby takes the offer, but Ben remains put.

"I could go for walk—what about you Ben?"

"If I have to stand in the sun for one more second I'm going to burst into flames like count Dracula."

Adam doesn't mind window shopping—the internship isn't paid, and in the wake of this running around, he's spent nearly every penny to his name. The marina mall is a maze of skylights and electric blue ambience. Unabashed capitalism is excusable when it keeps Adam distracted. An excess of options has him dashing from one place to another with Denby sticking back, taking his time.

"This dress looks absurd," Adam says, gesturing to a pattern that breaks every rule of fashion he's aware of. At no point does he wait for a response, moving on long before Denby can catch up enough to form his own opinion.

"You can slow down, you know," Denby says, while Adam peers over the mezzanine.

"They have a Daiso here."

"Okay, what—"

"—oh look a game store!"

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Adam bounces on the balls of his feet, lips pursed tight. That doesn't last very long, "Okay, what if it wasn't an accident?"

"You're still thinking about that?"

"Of course I'm thinking about it! How are you not?"

"Everyone is alive, accidents do happen. As safe as the sport is now, it's still high speed racing. It's bound to have risks."

Adam groans and taps out a rapid beat on the railing. Why has his brain decided this is todays main issue? He's not going to let it get the better of him. Denby saw the same things as he. So did Ben. If neither of them are concerned he certainly shouldn't be.

"Yeah, sure. You're probably right."

"So is that the end of that?"

"Why don't we check out that game shop?"

Adam runs off again. Denby isn't far behind—however he stops short as they approach their destination.

"Oh wow those are neat,"

The shop next door displays a wall of miniature model ships. A magnet—or trap—designed seemingly to entice Denby entirely. Sure enough, it's as if Adam has ceased to exist.

"I'm going to go look around in here," Adam says.

"Uh-huh, yeah, have fun."

"You too."

Between this and his love for The Pelican, Adam is starting to think Denby is boat-sexual. He shudders at the thought, and wipes his mind clear of it. Might as well leave the man to his interests.

Perhaps it's because Adam is actively trying to keep his mind busy, that he allows someone to explain Settlers of Catan to him for ten straight and painful minutes. He's more attracted to the far end of the shop, where lies the word games. Scrabble, crosswords, knockoff variants thereupon. If he had any money left to spend, he'd consider getting one to keep on deck.

Eventually, once he can break away from Catan, and the enthusiastic person giving their all to advertise it, he searches to find an English language Scrabble variant buried amongst a vastly multilingual stock, though playing in Arabic could be a fun way to pick up a new language.

"What'cha looking at?"

Denby is staring right over his shoulder, he's positioned himself such that it's bizarrely intimate. Resting his cheek nearly upon Adam's, if he is aware of it, he makes no effort to show it.

"Did you have enough of your model boats?"

"I got one."

Denby holds up a small box. On it, an image of an icebreaker. Some assembly required.

"Do you have superglue?" Adam asks.

"Did you find any when you reorganized my whole ship?"

"We're stopping by a crafts store then, I guess," Adam picks up an English scrabble box. Nostalgia is such a silly thing, and yet, "I used to play Scrabble with my family all the time. It was like a holiday tradition, too. Everyone would try to beat me."

"Did they?"

"I read the dictionary front to back multiple times at age ten."

Denby opens his mouth to say something, but apparently thinks better of it.

"You can make fun of me, I'll kick your ass at any word game."

"Bet," Denby grabs the Scrabble board from Adam and has checked out before Adam can ask what it is he's doing.

"You didn't need to—"

He hands Adam the receipt, such generosity and Denby thinks nothing of it.

"—and turn down the chance to see a master at work?"

"Okay well, I haven't actually played in a while."

"Oh, now you're backtracking."

"I'm not backtracking. I—thank you."

"No problem. Let's go find some glue."

Ben isn't there when Adam and Denby return to The Pelican. Odd, considering Adam assumed Ben would be keen to relax as soon as humanly possible. Predictably, Denby's first stop is the wheelhouse, and Adam's, the cabin.

With a good few hours left of daylight and a newfound peace that comes of a still sea and nothing better to do, Adam pulls out his laptop. It is the first thing he does, with little hesitation or second thought to the matter of research. He tracks down as many news articles and interviews as he can about Michelle Khare. Then about C1. Then about Ethel Connor. Enough tabs open, that all the icons are squished together. He's no need for any particular order, he'll get through all of them eventually. In some capacity, he's hoping it will assuage his concerns. If he finds nothing than he can be rest assured everything is normal, and fine, and he's making a mountain out of a molehill.

Nothing pops out immediately. It's as Denby said, Connor is a veteran of ten years, more if you count his time in American inshore racing, while Khare has only been around for three. Any interview reflects that. Connor answers questions slow, with care, and meticulous detail. His voice is droning and nasally and he boasts an accent stuck somewhere in the Atlantic. Adam struggles to keep his attention on a word he's saying, though he's sure what he is saying is interesting to those who understand it.

That's not an issue with Khare. Much like she was at the beach, she's fast, eclectic, energetic. Far more Adam's speed. Her smile is wide, forced but in the way all made-for-tv smiles are forced. She's clearly the more media-trained of the two, though it's nothing like what Adam saw just before the race.

However, after this point he stumbles across something peculiar. Perhaps nothing, a drop of rainwater in the ocean so to speak, but impossible to ignore.

The first two years of interviews are relatively banal, they alternate who answers, and though their styles and personalities clash, there is an apparent mutual respect particularly from Khare. Nobody is stepping on anybodies toes.

Then, apropos of seemingly nothing. It changes. Starting last year, Adam is hard pressed to find a shared interview at all. The ones he does find are stifled and awkward. Khare doesn't look at Connor, except out of the corner of her eye. She's leaned away from him, laughing a little too hard at things that aren't that funny. There is where he sees it again. That smile, the one from the race today, which he can say for certain now, is nothing less than fear.

Something happened last year. Something that may or may not relate to what happened today. In any case, there is precedent for his theory—which is not what he was hoping to find.

"Honey, I'm home."

Adam looks over top his screen. Ben has finally arrived.

"Where have you been?" Adam asks.

"I ended up hitching a ride with a guy who dune surfs."

"You hitchhiked?"

"It's cheaper than a cab," Ben slides into the booth, radiating residual warmth while a thin tan has taken hold on him, "What're you looking at?"

"Interviews."

Adam chews his finger, narrowing his eyes at the screen. Maybe if Ben sees it too…

"Did Denby actually get you into offshore racing?"

"No. Look, does she look upset here?"

"She looks—hm," Ben cocks his head, as if trying to rotate the image. It has the consequence of Ben's head resting on Adam's shoulder, and by extent leaning most of his weight upon him too.

"Hm?" Adam asks, glancing down at Ben.

"Wow that's some crazy body language, and I think body language is usually bullshit."

"I know, right. Look, here too, and here," Adam flicks through the evidence he's gathered. Even going so far as to scrub through some of the videos so Ben can see just how long it goes on for.

"I hope she's alright," Ben says.

"She was in a crash today, I'd say she's not doing the greatest."

"You think…it was intentional?"

"I've been thinking that, I just didn't have any evidence to justify it."

"This isn't really evidence either, except of Connor probably being a creep."

"I don't know," Adam groans, slumping down, "This sucks."

Even if she were in trouble, it's not as if he could do anything about it. Before much else can be said, an alarm rings through the air. Adam's phone, shit, has it been a week already? He flicks away the notification before Ben can lean over and read it.

"What was that?" Ben asks.

"Nothing, I'll be right back," Adam dismisses himself and escapes to the bathroom.

Chapter Text

"Ugh I should've taken Claratin before this," Adam wipes his nose. The Dubai Miracle Gardens are a sight to behold. Technicolor flowers in full bloom blanket the ground in valleys of patterns and massive hedge sculptures. They're beautiful, the floral smell is overwhelming, and plumes of pollen are sent into the air at the slightest breeze.

"Why did you choose to come here if you're allergic?" Ben asks. They're walking side by side, taking their time as they cross the dirt paths that curate the experience.

"It's one of the top ten things to do in Dubai."

"What about the Burj Khalifa?"

"Have you seen the ticket prices?"

"It's Sam's money."

That morning, Denby had loaded them with wads of AED to last them the day, despite Denby expressing no desire to accompany them—much to Adams confusion. Apparently he has better things to do. It was nice, if not a bit strange. Truth be told, the thought of being all the way up the Burj Khalifa makes Adam dizzy. Why every city in the world decided their top attraction would be "How Tall Can We Make A Building And Charge People To Go Up It?" is a mystery to him--who still hasn't climbed the height of the Empire State Building. 

"Well, yes, but I'd like to spend it smartly. I'm just not interested in going up a very tall building."

"Some may say it's the tallest building."

"I don't care, you're welcome to go by yourself."

"Adam Chase are you afraid of heights?" Ben asks as they pass an airplane covered tip to tail in white flowers.

"No! I just don't see the point, I'm not afraid of anything."

"Uh huh."

"I'm not!"

They round a corner and are met by a path covered in heart-shaped arches, blossoming from them are flowers in red, white, and pink. 

"How romantic," Ben says.

Adam suddenly finds his shoelaces very interesting. He drags himself along, then Ben nudges him, forcing him for look up. Petals flutter down from above, catching them in a flirtatious shower. Much as Adam adores a good date, clad with sappy things and cliches that would make romance novelists shudder, that is not what this is meant to be.

"Well, I didn't know—"

"I'm joking," Ben rolls his eyes, "It's weirder if you get flustered about it."

Adam sputters. He's not flustered, only cautious.

"They're strict about that here, aren't they?"

"We should hold hands, pretend to be dirty sodomites."

"Ben! No."

"Why not?"

"That's so disrespectful."

"To what? The sodomy laws? Are you pro sodomy laws?"

"No. Well, I mean, I'm not really in a place to make any judgments on it. I don't want to be culturally insensitive."

"Culturally insensitive? Do you hear yourself?"

Ben reaches out trying to grab Adams hand. Adam bats it away, whispering,

"I am not holding hands with you."

He looks around for good measure. Nobody seems to notice, and they're nearly out of the tunnel of love anyways, thank god. At the very least, he has an excuse as to why his heart is racing so fast.

"Fine. Whatever. Sam would do it."

"No he wouldn't, he didn't even want to hug you."

"Damn. I really thought that would work."

"What would work?" Adam asks.

"You're always trying to outdo Sam."

"No I'm not."

"Yes, you are. Look at us already having our first couples squabble."

"Will you stop that?"

"No."

An iced coffee would make Adam feel a lot more human. His mouth is dry and while water does sound nice, he's not had caffeine yet, which is why he and Ben have found their way to a cafe near the gardens. It's chic, modern, and its vicinity to a tourist attraction means it's bursting with people. Plenty of natural light pours in through tall glass walls, the scent of greenery outside nearly overpowers the coffee thought it's a lovely sight as vines curl and drape around the exterior. 

They find a spot to sit, outside under cover of striped umbrellas, between a woman in a pink head cover, designer sunglasses, and a cast around her arm—and a group of loud British teens debating the tier rankings of cereal.

Ben has a drink that is ungodly sugary, Adam a quad shot latte, plus a plate of Lokma to share. Adam hadn't been that hungry, but wafting from the kitchen, the smell of sweets tipped him over and Ben insisted, rather convincingly, that they pick something up to eat.

"What do you think Sam is up to?" Ben asks. Adam responds with a shrug, he flips out his phone and scrolls Gulf News, past headlines about the Teagan crime family, and debates about Indian passports, rather gravitating towards any updates about the incident from the other day.

"Khare is out of the hospital," Adam says.

"You're still on that?"

"Sorry, sorry, you're right, I shouldn't."

Best to be present in the moment. 

"I'm not saying you shouldn't be, I'm just surprised."

"Well, I'm more surprised nobody has questioned Connor yet. I mean it was a steering malfunction. He was the one steering."

"They haven't questioned anyone?"

"Too busy doing damage control, I guess."

"So they still think it's an accident?" Ben asks, sipping his drink, making a slew of faces that end in something resembling satisfaction, "That is so sweet."

"Yeah you got like five pumps of syrup—they said the investigation is turning up accident but the details are so vague."

"So you think Connor is behind it?"

"I don't know. There's something weird about him though. You have to admit—you saw it too."

"Hes an odd cat, for sure," Ben says, "but that doesn't mean he'd sabotage his own team. Let alone while he's in the boat."

"Yeah that part doesn't make much sense to me," Adam taps the table.

"A real puzzle."

Ben reaches across and steals one of the Lokma. His eyes light up the second it enters his mouth.

"That's so fucking good."

"You just love anything sweet."

"This is true. But I also love you, and you're very bitter."

"I-"

Was that meant to be a compliment? Love? Is he going insane? He doubtless looks like a floundering fish, the way his lips are flapping with nothing said.

Ben sneaks another Lokma while Adam is busy restarting himself. He shakes his head.

"Pot, kettle," he lands on. Ben frames his chin with his hands, grinning.

"I don't know what you mean, I'm a little angel."

Adam chuckles, and helps himself to some of the food. Better to have a mouth full than to risk saying anything he'll regret.

There are no seagulls circling the shore—he's become used to the crying calls, but it's not winter yet--which means they've yet to migrate and Adam is left watching doves. They pass a group of partygoers on their way down the dock. Loud and obnoxious, dressed in flashing rave gear and those novelty glasses everyone thinks look cool. 

A few of the yachts parked are starting up for the night, neon lights shining, lasers flashing. Sound checks in action. Not far now, The Pelican parked amongst them, silent. 

"Remember when Sam got white girl wasted," Ben says.

"Which time?"

"There was more than one?"

"He got very drunk off wine the first night we spent together."

Ben throws his head back, cackling.

"Oh my god. That's crazy."

"It was my fault," Adam says, as they walk not quite so straight, legs worn and tired from the day, they bump against each other, "I'm the one who insisted we go out, but to be fair, his dining regimen is concerning."

"You got Sam drunk? Naughty naughty." Ben wiggles his eyebrows.

"First of all ew, second of all ew, third of all—"

"—ew?"

"Took the words right out of my mouth."

"May I bring to the table, he's smoking hot?"

"Benjamin!" Adams jaw drops. 

It's not untrue, but Adam would never say such a thing out loud, that it would seem is Ben's job. The longer that Adam stays with Denby, the more he's come to accept that Denby is a fine looking man. If he were younger and in undergrad, or perhaps more Denby's type--he suspects the man is painfully straight--he might have less self-control. It's odd to think that way about someone you live with, let alone someone in charge of you, all Adam's loves have been fairly vanilla in that sense. Girls he met in class, boys he ran into in coffee shops. Meet cutes and a normalcy Adam suspects he's incapable of these days. 

"I'm just saying, if I had the chance, I'd pounce on him like a—"

"—I'm going to cut you off before you indict yourself and me in the process."

"Jealous?"

"Absoloutely not."

They're almost back now. The lights in the wheelhouse are off—Denby must still be out. Maybe he is actually getting white girl wasted, Adam wonders if he has much fun talking to strangers while drunk. Denby, self proclaimed recluse, doesn't seem the type. 

"Excuse me."

Someone calls from behind them. Adam and Ben spin around to see a woman—the same woman from the cafe earlier. Pink head covering, designer sunglasses, arm cast. Something about her sounds familiar, Adam tries to put his finger on it, meanwhile she's approaching at speed.

"Did you follow us?" Adams heart leaps into his throat. Shit. Are they about to be in trouble? Did they do something bad?

"Yes, I'm so sorry, I overhead you talking at the cafe—"

The second she speaks again, Adam recognizes instantly where hes heard her voice before. Ben stands behind him, gaze flicking between the two of them waiting for an answer.

"You followed us all day?" Ben asks, tugging at the back of Adams shirt, "That's fucking insane."

Before anyone can get any more on edge, Adam has the right mind to step in. She's not here to hurt then, he assumes, though he can't say why she is here. 

"Ben, no it's—"

She takes off her glasses and shrugs down her head covering revealing a black eye and long unkempt brown hair. 

It's Michelle Khare.

"I need your help," she says, "I think someone's trying to kill me."

Chapter Text

"I figured, I mean, you sound like you'd believe me. Nobody has believed me, everyone thinks I'm crazy," Michelle says.

They've led her into the cabin, offered her a fresh cup of tea and the best energy bars The Pelican's pantry has to offer. She actually seems to like them—athletes, Adam may have been one himself but he's not that desperate.

"Did you go to the police?" Adam asks, eliciting a scoff from Ben, who is leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed.

"When you travel as much as I do there's never enough time to launch a proper investigation," she sighs, pursing her lips, "I've tried to gather evidence buts it's never good enough to warrant anything. I can't call interpol, that's like—hydrogen bomb versus coughing baby—"

"Sorry that's like what?"

"Hydrogen—whatever it's a joke. My point is, nobody will vouch for me, I have circumstantial evidence at best, and by the time anyone finds anything substantial we're already off to the next race. I need someone to help me get my foot through the door."

"You need backup."

"Yes, thank you, exactly!"

Adam contemplates this. He has to admit it's vindicating to hear. All this time hes spent mulling over this odd obsession only for it to turn out he was right. Now, however, he's confronted by the responsibility to actually do something about it.

Footsteps from above punctuate those thoughts. They all look up.

"Sam's back," Ben says.

"Who's Sam?"

"Someone who is going to flip out if he sees you," Adam rubs his face. This is all so much, not unlike the incident with the poachers, he has the free will to turn Michelle away. To tell her it's not their job to be her personal private investigators. However—and it's a heavy however—he's gotten what he asked for. He can't just tear his hair out over Michelle being in danger only to turn his back once it starts effecting him directly. To tell her to her face that they're unwilling, after all this—Adam would bury himself in a hole to be rid of the shame.

"He never comes down here unless we ask him to," Ben shrugs, "Don't worry."

True, Denby doesn't have to know. It would be easy to hide a stowaway on The Pelican, which should be more concerning to Adam. Only one problem.

"We're supposed to leave tomorrow night," Adam says, "I will say, we might have to tell him if we want to stick around and help."

"Be my guest," Ben gestures at the door.

"Why do I have to do it?"

"All I'm saying is I like it down here. You're welcome to do whatever you want."

"You're insufferable."

Ben blows him a kiss before he leaves.

In the wheelhouse, Denby is hunched over the controls reading from a folded bit of paper. A letter, if Adam assumes correctly.

"What's that?" He asks, for the first time ever Denby actually startles. He jumps from his seat and shoves the paper into the same drawer as his medication.

"Nothing to worry about right now," he gains back his casual demeanor quite fast, Adam tucks that odd scene away for when he's not so occupied with the Michelle issue. Charting course, he realigns and decides to start simple, ease them into the big reveal.

"How was your day?"

"Fine."

"Just fine?" Adam asks, "What did you get up to?"

"Shopping around for spare parts, went on another run, you?"

"Ben and I went to the miracle gardens."

"Those are garjus, but so sinus-ly challenging."

"Yeah, I think once is enough for my allergies," Adam braces as he attempts, to the best of his ability, to serve the news to Denby gently, "What would you say if I said that I met Michelle Khare?"

"You met Michelle Khare?" Denby's jaw drops, his voice goes high.

"Hypothetically, hypothetically."

"Hypothetically," Denby speaks at a mile a minute, "I would say that's insane and I'm mad you got to meet her when you don't even like C1, also did you get her autograph yes or no?"

Adam bites his lip.

"In theory, I can do you one better."

"Better? How?"

"Well, Denby, say she's downstairs right now with Ben?"

"You're joking."

"I really wish I was."

Denby moves so fast Adam has to jump out of the way—then think quick enough to follow along. Maybe he should have started with the fact that she's not here on recreation, now is not the time to fanboy.

"Denby, wait! She's in trouble right now, she's asking for our help, please don't freak her out!"

Upon returning to the cabin—nearly barrelling straight into Denby's back—Ben and Michelle have sat across from one another, Michelle cracking up at some joke he must've told. All Adam can do is crane his head over Denby and mouth an apology in advance.

"Oh. My god," Denby says, "You weren't joking."

"I said I wasn't—"

"—how the fuck is—what is—how—you're Michelle Khare."

Ben snorts.

"Keen observational abilities, Sam."

Denby is pulled out of his stupor, to scrunch his face at Ben, then to Adam. Stunned and wordless, until he can finally craft a question.

"Did he just call me Sam?"

"I fucking knew it,"

He should've figured Ben would lie about something like that. Was he doing it just to get on his nerves? Adam storms forward, prodding a finger into Ben's chest, his intimidation tactics may need some touching up, Ben doesn't bat an eye. Rather, he's quite smug.

"You can be on a first name basis with anyone, so long as you know their first name," he says.

"That's, bar none, the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

"Guys!" Michelle slams her hands on the table, grabbing everyone attention and drenching the cabin in anticipatory silence. Once everyone's eyes are on her, she continues, "First of all, I always appreciate a fan, don't even worry your little head about it. Second of all, I have no idea what thing is going on here—"

She waves her hands around, gesturing vaguely between Ben and Adam,

"—I don't know if I want to know, it seems kind of crazy. Third of all, can we maybe, pretty please, address the fact that I am in mortal peril?"

What impressions must they be giving so far? It may be that Michelle will decide they aren't fit to help her after all. Adam certainly wouldn't trust the three of them to get anything done, at this rate. He quiets, and nods. He and Denby slide into the booth, perhaps any mention of mortal peril will drag them back on track.

"I want to start," Denby says, "By letting you know that I think you were robbed in 2023, and the call on that final race was bullshit."

No such luck. Adam will have to do it himself.

"Okay, so you mentioned you gathered some evidence? Would you mind sharing what that is?" Adam asks. He'd love if after this he never had to think about offshore racing again. At least in part to spare himself the second-hand embarrassment of Denby's fanboyisms. Michelle takes the opening handed to her, face darkening as she recounts her story.

"Last year, we were traveling around for the Grand Prix and I stumbled into something I shouldn't have," she begins, "I had just gotten a new phone, right? So I didn't have a phone case yet and it's black so it's easy to mistake—what I'm trying to say is I accidentally grabbed someone else's phone instead of mine after a race."

"Okay, what does this have to do with anything?" Adam asks.

"It wasn't locked, and I didn't notice until someone called. So I picked up thinking it was meant for me. Before I could even speak, the person on the other end started talking about a deal, and shipments, and drop locations—it was very cloak and dagger. That's when I asked who it was."

"How do you know this wasn't just, like, merch or something?" Denby asks, reasonable assumption.

"You should've heard this dude. He was all 'ooh we have to secure the load, the payments in the bag'."

Michelle's voice drops into an impression. Gravelly, deep, and with an accent that sounds butchered but distinctly Scottish? Or maybe Irish or British—somewhere in the region at least, her accents could use some work. She squares her shoulders too, mocking up a sense of toughness.

"Also," She adds, "After that is when all the bad stuff started happening. So it's gotta be that, right?"

"Bad stuff? Like what?" Denby is invested now, hard to blame him. If Adam were to be approached by any of his celebrity heroes, he too would help them in a heartbeat.

"Accidents, food poisoning—lot's of food poisoning, actually—people following me, watching me—"

"—okay this does sound a little crazy," Ben interjects.

"I know! I know it does, that's why I've had trouble actually getting people to take me seriously. But I nearly died yesterday. I'm so lucky all I walked away with was this cast, but that luck can't last forever. I don't want to die, you guys, and I'm tried of having to constantly watch my back. Please I am begging you right now."

"What about Connor?" Denby takes the words right out of Adam's mouth. It's a question he's curious about for a multitude of reasons, the odd interviews being one part, the other being the aforementioned crash. He was the only other person there with her, surely he ought to have some stake in it. To everyone's surprise she shakes her head.

"He's been acting weird lately but he's my partner, and he's a nice guy, really. I know he looks all angry and mean, but trust me he's a sweetheart—usually. I mean, not recently, but I think he's just going through a rough patch."

"Really?" Adam gawks, "But you look so…nervous around him."

"Yeah because he's had such a short fuse for the past year. He's normally very patient but I don't know—he…I mean it's not really my place to say but for the sake of transparency" She lowers her voice, leaning in as if she's afraid someone might pop out of nowhere and overhear them, "He lost his daughter a few years ago, and never really got the chance to recover from that. He has every reason to be a little snappy with people."

"Oh my god, what happened?" Adam asks. It's at this, that Ben intakes a sharp breath.

"The Eden."

Everyone turns to look at Ben, who has grown grim. Such an expression makes them all fall silent. His tone deepens, staring at Michelle awaiting a response. Adam can't help but think—this is the second time that accident has been brought up—and Ben never seems to take it well. That, and the odd exchange between him and Maeve back in New York, leave him to wonder.

"Yeah, how'd you know?" Michelle asks, cocking her head.

"Jay Connor, I thought the name was a coincidence," Ben says, with all eyes still on him, he clears his throat, "It was in the memorial. I read the news."

Somehow, Adam is finding it hard to believe that's the whole story, though he's not sure what else it could be. There's grief in Ben's eyes, the kind unmistakable as anything else. All ten of the crew aboard that ship died, the only name Adam can recall off his head is that of Captain Zoey Irvine. Perhaps Ben knew one them, it hits him suddenly that he's yet to learn Ben's last name, perhaps he was even related to one of them.

That thought passes as Michelle pulls him back the subject at hand, though Ben keeps the sour look upon his face, and sinks into his seat, trying to becomes invisible. 

"He was torn up about it then, obviously, then the year anniversary hit and I think he finally started to process it—whatever, I've just been extra careful around him, I promise he's not so bad."

"But he was steering when you crashed," Adam says.

"See, this is what I mean, I think someone tinkered with the controls, they locked up on us. It wasn't his fault."

"They didn't find anything wrong with the ship," Denby says, at everyone's attention he shrugs, "I also read the news."

Michelle groans, appearing utterly defeated.

"And that's exactly why nobody will help me! They're so good at covering their tracks, I promise you, please, I just need a little bit of help here and then I'll be out of your hair."

It's difficult not to have sympathy for her, after all, she sounds very sure of herself, and what positivity she has, isn't in the slightest begrudging. When she talks, she talks with the passion of someone who deserves more than an overlooked assassination scheme.

"I'm in," Adam says, with little thought. He's been obsessing enough the decision practically makes itself. Ben shrugs.

"Might as well."

That leaves Denby. Perhaps this is where his impulse control will finally clash with Ben and Adam's virtues.

"What is it that you want us to do, exactly?" He asks. He hasn't said no, then again, it's probably smart to test the waters before making a decision. Adam regrets not being the one to ask that question first.

"Once I have something solid I can approach law enforcement with it, and let them call the shots. But it needs to be something good. They need to be able to hold us here, stop us from traveling so the investigation can actually reach a conclusion."

"And that evidence would be…"

"I don't know what it would look like," Michelle retreats into herself, sheepish, "I just know that it exists. Probably. Maybe. Look I can at least give you a place to start."

That gets Denby more interested. He nods, a go ahead for Michelle to continue.

"There's this party tomorrow night. Everyone is going to be there. It's in the hotel my manager booked us. It's the perfect chance to do some snooping."

"How will we get in?"

"I'll vouch for you. Just wear something nice and act normal. Nobody will care, they'll be too busy getting drunk."

Denby chews on that, as does Adam. He didn't pack a suit, though he's sure there's no drought of designer menswear they can buy, come morning. A party that big, and they'd be practically invisible. It's risky, but it's not illegal. He can tell Denby is starting to crack, and he's sure it's in part due to the temptation of attending an official C1 afterparty. Any fan would swoon at the thought.

"Just a quick look around," Denby says, "I'm not putting anyone in danger, if things get slippery we're out."

"Thank you!" Michelle says, squealing and jumping from her seat, "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

Here's hoping that stays true.

Chapter Text

Adam has only been in a menswear store once. It was with Maeve, when he had to buy his first suit for a mock trial competition. They'd both been utterly and completely lost. It was only the kind mercy of the gentleman working there which helped them figure out the awkward sizing for Adam's form. He wore that suit until it's last thread of dignity gave out and he couldn't justify using it anymore. Then, he settled on business casual and never stepped foot inside a tailors again. That is, until now.

Ben and Denby at his side, he assumes he has a decent chance at finding something vaguely good looking, and then escaping without too much fuss.

Denby struts ahead, leaving Ben and Adam in his dust. It smells of leather and cologne, the lights are bright enough they make Adam want to sneeze and it's uncomfortably quiet. The carpet muffles their footsteps, while they're far from the only people inside, any conversation is kept to a whisper.

"Denby seems to know what he wants," Adam says.

Ben makes a noise of disgust.

"Everything is here is so boring. Look. Black, brown, black, gray, black—"

"—did you expect neon red?"

"Now that would look good."

Maybe Ben isn't as experienced as Adam has been hoping. At least he won't be able to spot Adams fledgeling approach to style.

"I mean come one, how am I supposed to vogue out in this?" Ben pulls on the sleeve of a neutral gray suit-jacket. One that looks as if it belongs to someone in middle-management at a firm that ends in "and sons". Adam turns up his nose. Ben has a point, that is too stale. As are all it's twins surrounding it.

"Maybe, like, I dunno, one of these?" Adam approaches a wall of black tie tuxedos and prim, ironed white button downs. This is more up his alley, while the discontent on Ben remains.

"Reminds me of funerals," he says.

"What, not prom?" Adam bites on a grin, picturing his brothers embarrassing prom photos in a tuxedo two sizes two big. He used to make fun of him ruthlessly back when they spoke. Of course, his own outfit didn't fit him too well either.

"I didn't go to prom."

"Why not?"

"I've always been a hopeless cynic, Adam. Some things never change."

"You aren't hopeless."

It pains Adam to hear Ben talk about himself like that. Admittedly, Ben is a decisive person but there's much to love about him still.

"Well dating in high school is overrated anyways," Adam says, "I mean, my prom date was…you know what never mind."

"Nope. We're talking about this now," Ben stands in Adam's way. This is not a conversation meant to happen here, of all places, "Who was your prom date?"

"Take no prisoners."

"What?"

"I'm not answering. Take no prisoners."

Adam would rather take whatever Ben dishes out, hoping this is enough to distract him. That, it turns out, is something he immediately regrets as Ben leers at him, a devilish smile tugging at his lips and an evil twinkle in his eye. Then, Ben is grabbing him by the wrist and dragging him to the changing rooms. A warmth creeps up the back of Adam's neck. Knowing Ben, such a move is anything but innocent. Images float through Adams mind, those of being cornered by Ben in a small space, pressed against the wall—no. Nope. He ought to scrub his brain with bleach, he shouldn't be thinking like that. Ben wouldn't be that gutsy…right?

"Get in," Ben commands him.

"If this is anything weird, I have to remind you we really can't get deported right now. We have to help Michelle—"

"—trust me and get in the damn changing room."

Adam shuffles inside and Ben pulls the curtain shut. At least they aren't squeezed in here together. Adam is hesitant to ask what's next, somehow convinced that if he stays quiet Ben will forget he exists. There's some rifling around outside, the sound of clothes hangers screeching up against metal, plastic clattering together and the ruffle of cloth. Then, footsteps. Adam tenses, ready for anything.

"What size pants do you wear?" Ben asks.

Not what Adam was expecting.

"Thirty-two?"

Moments later and Ben has tossed a pile of clothes into the changing room. A white shirt, black blazer and matching pants. Honestly, it could be worse.

"Let me see how those look on you."

"That's it?"

"No, that's the first part, now get dressed."

Ben's authoritative voice is impossible to say no to. After he shrugs off his shirt, he becomes acutely aware that at any moment Ben could pull back the curtain and peep in. Anyone could. It's functionally irrational—well, perhaps the Ben part isn't—but he's so used to being on guard about his body that it's impossible to shake. Even when he has nothing to be afraid of anymore.

He changes quick, just in case.

The outfit looks…good! Again, Adam was expecting Ben to pick out something embarrassing, or silly, or, well not practical. The creases fit perfectly, the material doesn't rub against his skin in any bad way. The cuffs are sharp, and the color is a dark navy blue, almost black but not quite, in a way that brings out his eyes.

"Oh, wow," Adam says on seeing himself, he turns, examining various angles. All of them nice.

"Get out here."

Ben whines. Is this meant to be a punishment for him or for Ben? He throws the curtain aside and presents what Ben has created. With a sharp eye, Ben observes him as an artist would. His head tilts and he furrows his brow, running a hand along his beard in thought.

"Give me a twirl?" Ben asks, and Adam complies. It's light and airy, comfortable as the fabric flows around him. When Ben gives a wolf whistle, it sends Adam reeling. He tugs down on his shirt, flushing red. Suddenly he feels licit, exposed despite being fully clothed. The expression on Ben's face—which before seemed perfectly innocent—is now seasoned with a side of hedonism that is, frankly, insane.

"Ben!"

"I am a fashion genius."

"What even was the point of this?"

Adam is beginning to think Ben has motives beyond simple fashion.

"You're wearing that to the party tonight," Ben says, dismissing Adam's worries, "I got to pick your outfit."

Adam looks at himself, it could be worse. Actually, it could be a lot worse. Ben has a surprisingly good eye. If it weren't for his apparently picking something suited to clearly to less wholesome interests, Adam would be happy with it. He still could be, if he ignores Ben's hungry stare.

"Was the whistle really necessary?" He asks.

"Can't a man love his art?"

Ben approaches with a wry smirk, guiding Adam back into the changing room, and leaving with a firm smack on the ass. Adam yelps.

"I'll go find Sam and tell him you picked something out."

Responding is a bit of an issue, given Adam is too busy telling his body to calm the hell down. He catches a glimpse of his pink face in the mirror, eyes wide and smile peeking out from under his hand. He bites his lip, come on Chase, pull it together. He has to keep himself under control, Ben is just trying to get under his skin. He of all people surely understands the difficulties that come of sharing such a small space with another person for a whole month. There's not much privacy, not many opportunities to…de-stress. If he's trying to get Adam worked up, he doesn't need to try very hard, and he knows that. Once Adam's heart stops beating so fast, and his legs stop feeling so weak, he's able to get changed.

Denby and Ben are waiting diligently in line. Denby's picked out something for himself already in a questionable baby blue color. Maybe the most unconventional option offered here. Even Ben is eyeing it with scrutiny. Adam keeps himself standing straight, over performing and fighting off indecent thoughts with a broom.

"Aren't you getting anything?" Adam asks, seeing Ben's empty arms. Ben's wardrobe consists of three Hawaiian shirts and a few pairs of shorts—all he could fit around the other 'paraphernalia' he brought with him. Priorities, or whatever he might claim as a functioning alcoholic. Adam knows for certain none of it is up to par for the event they're meant to be at.

"I have plans that I cannot share with you right now, because the haters will sabotage me."

"What haters?" Adam asks, "I'm not a hater, am I a hater?"

Ben just shakes his head and smiles. Whatever that means, it's too late now. Denby has already grabbed the clothes right from Adam's arms and walked up to pay. He supposes he'll find out tonight, when Ben shows up. If his earlier styling is anything to go by, maybe Ben has a good idea.

"You still have your question," Ben leans over to mutter in his ear. It sends a chill down Adam's spine, a little too close for comfort. At first, he's lost as to what Ben means before he recalls why Ben picked his outfit in the first place.

"What did you do instead of prom?" He asks, that's the only thing at the top of his mind, and Denby is almost done checking out so he ought to make it quick. Ben lowers his voice even more, barely above a whisper.

"I sat alone at home, I played Pokemon, and I broke into my dads liquor cabinet and made myself a dirty Shirley."

Adam pictures it. A young Ben, whatever that looks like, tipsy in his room curled up under warm lights and warmer blankets. Something in him wonders if they'd have been friends back then. Probably not, Adam's always been a pedantic know-it-all, even to his teachers. Ben sounds like the type of kid who probably would have hated his overachieving guts. Still, he wishes for nothing more than to walk into that picture of a young Ben and give him a hug. Tell him he's worth something, and have Ben tell him he doesn't have to work so hard. Adam would have killed for a friend like Ben in high school.

"That sounds nice," Adam responds. Denby has finished, it's time to get going.

They split up sometime before two. Ben runs off to craft whatever outfit he has in mind, Denby with little more than the bat of an eye hands off a credit card with the stipulation that Ben not max it out. An amount of trust even Adam wouldn't award the guy, but that's just him. Doors open to the party in five hours, they agreed to meet Michelle a little early so they could hash out a plan. That leaves less time to wait around and be nervous.

Adam decides, after ten minutes of pacing and pulling his hair out, to go upstairs and talk to Denby. At least be in the presence of a person who can take him outside his thoughts. They may be formally invited, but infiltrating an exclusive party is a massive leap into the unknown. It's impossible to be normal about. What if someone catches on? What if Adam makes a mistake and messes it up for everyone?

Upstairs, Denby is finishing up a rep of pushups. He's got something playing on the radio, not music, some British panel show, apparently about Wikipedia or something.

"Uh, sorry to interrupt?" Adam holds his foot in the door, maybe now isn't the time. Denby flicks the radio off, drenching them in silence. He's in his tank top again, it's loose fitting and like before Adam finds himself staring in all the ways he really shouldn't. He whips himself on the back for even considering it, time enough has been wasted on Ben—he can't just jump to Denby because he hasn't gotten off in a few weeks.

"What's up?" Denby wipes some sweat off his brow, and Adam feels crazy. There's a dreadful warmth in his stomach, he wants nothing more than to push it away, yet it persists.

"Adam?"

"Uh-yeah, sorry," Adam sucks a breath in through his teeth and keeps his legs pushed tight together, letting the door shut behind him, "I was just getting antsy down there alone."

"It hasn't even been an hour."

"I'm not antsy about Ben. It's the party—I didn't go to a lot of parties in college. I mean I went to meetups, and gatherings, and like, one Christmas party at my job—"

"—but not a party party." Denby hums, thoughtfully, "I see."

"I just don't know what to expect."

"Well, if my memory serves me well. Lots of drinking. Some drugs. Sex—"

Adam short circuits. The image of Denby, breathless in the bathroom of some college rave is intoxicating. Was his hair as long back then as it is now? Would it have flowed messily over his open mouth? Would his hands feel good pushing down on Adam's head as he—

Jesus Christ.

"—you know, party things."

Adam needs to shower. Ice cold.

"Cool, cool, cool."

"Not that you need to partake in any of that," Denby clarifies, "The start is the hardest, then people get into it and nobody really cares if you're being weird or not. Make conversation, you'll be fine."

"So you partied a lot in college?"

"I don't know about a lot, I did go to a few."

Adam has caught lightning in a bottle. Denby is actually answering his questions, and fairly straightforwardly too. Maybe in a good mood from meeting Michelle, or maybe antsy about the coming night, it's hard to tell.

"What was your major?"

"Oh, nothing important," Denby says, and there it is, the wall at which he seemingly arbitrarily decides it's gotten too personal, "I never ended up using it anyways."

Knowing Denby it could be anything inconspicuous, what with him determining being a Strava micro-celebrity as off limits until pushed. Telling where the line actually starts and ends is impossible.

Denby leans back against the controls, looking at the ceiling and catching his breath. It's identical to what Adam was just imagining, which is when he decides this isn't doing anything to lower his blood pressure.

"I should go do…things," Adam says. Denby nods him away and restarts the radio. They're talking about Churchill now.

Racing downstairs, Adam starts up that aforementioned cold shower. As he undresses, flashes of Denby's flustered face keep pushing their way back to the front of his mind. Adam's hand has found it's way down his side and pressed between his thighs. He gasps, screwing his eyes shut and bending over the sink, he imagines the hand doesn't belong to him.

Denby is behind him, breath hitching against the back of his neck. Pressing his weight into Adam and pinning him against the vanity. He's kicking Adam's legs apart and teasing him with his fingers.

Adam gets more forceful, more needy. He bites down on his free arm to stifle a moan that nobody is around to hear. If Denby were to eavesdrop on this Adam doesn't know what he'd do. The shame isn't strong enough to combat his want. Every inch of him needs this release, if he stops now he'll be in a state the rest of the night.

More sinful thoughts slip into his mind. He rocks his hips. His fingers—Denby's fingers, slide against him. Shock waves roll over him, it's consuming his mind. All he can think of is Denby groping him and feeling every inch of his exposed body. Seeing all his blemishes, his scars. Denby's eyes could be as violating as his hands.

"Slut," he says to himself, but it's Denby's voice that comes out.

He's close, gasping, whining, gripping the edge of the sink with white knuckles. His heart racing.

"Fuck," Adam moans, shivers wrack his whole body, a flood of tension and euphoria followed by his legs nearly giving out. He rests all his weight against the wall, catching his breath and letting total relaxation wash over him. Yeah, he really needed that.

Unfortunately, it doesn't last long. Adam's eyes flick open again with horrific clarity. He just masturbated to his fucking boss.

Chapter Text

Adam doesn't want to go out the door. It's an hour until they're supposed to leave and he's not about to flake on this just because he's a horny idiot, but that doesn't mean he's happy about it. Eventually he'll get over himself, and maybe in a month or two he'll even be able to look Denby in the eye. Adam adjusts the fit on his shirt, giving one last look over his outfit. Ben's handy work is no less impressive—speaking of which, Ben has yet to return.

As much as Adam is concerned about that, he's grateful he's been able to sulk and stress in lonesome over his…moment of weakness. He doesn't want to fuck Denby. He doesn't want Denby to fuck him. It would cause too many issues, to much drama. It's not practical, it's unethical, and Ben would never ever stop making fun of them. So maybe he got ahead of himself, he can just pretend it never happened and move on.

Except, Denby looks stunning. Adam stops in his tracks as he's walking onto deck. There, at the foot of the stairs, he stands in his baby blue suit. Where in the shop it had looked gauche, now, hugging the frame of Denby's well defined form, it sings. Denby's fluffed up hair is actually taken care of, with all the grime washed away, it shimmers a pale gold.

"Did Ben come back?" Denby asks, spotting Adam.

"You look amazing."

Nice, Adam. Smooth. Not weird at all.

"Thanks. Did Ben come back?"

"No, I don't know where he went."

Denby sighs and runs a hand through his hair and dammit it drives Adam insane. If only he were as good at compartmentalizing as everyone else of this god forsaken ship.

"Did you call him?"

"A few times, and I texted."

"We can't wait for him," Denby says, "The party is in an hour."

They promised Michelle they'd be there tonight, plus the matter of Denby's credit card, and the very real possibility that Ben got himself into a world of trouble. From the mute concern in Denby's face, Adam can tell they're reaching a similar train on thought.

"Look, I can go to the party and you can hang back—"

"—absolutely not," Denby says.

Adam has no idea why he bothered even suggesting it. Obviously Denby is over the moon about being invited to an after hours exclusive with his heroes. Of course, it's because of this that Adam has zero trust in the captain to actually do what they're meant to be doing. Investigating Michelle's alleged assassination attempts. His excitement might overpower his ability to ask any good questions. Adam has no skin in the game, plus, many hands as they say.

"Alright fine," Adam says, "let's just go."

Unspoken is the hope that nothing awful has happened. With their luck, though, Adam is going to keep his phones ringer on.

The Burj Al-Arab is the tallest hotel in the world. 'Tallest' being a term thrown around liberally in Dubai. Situated on an artificial island just off the shore of Jumeirah, it reminds Adam of a sail—it's arced shape a distinct part of the skyline. Another monument of egregious wealth that Adam is beginning to grow sick of. For what time he's spent here, he's grown to find everything wrapped in an artificiality that he can't shake. Not helped by all the research hes continued doing, the more he learns about Dubai, and just how it's earned that wealth, the less time he wants to spend here. Perhaps too little too late for that now, he at least wants to see through to help Michelle.

Small boats drift beneath the bridge connecting them to the mainland. That bridge seamlessly gives way to a roundabout just before the front entrance. A man in a valet suit approaches, and Denby rolls down the window.

"For the event?" The man asks, "May I have your names?"

"Denby and Chase?" Denby responds. The man checks a tablet, then turns to speak with another valet. For a fleeting moment, Adam is terrified they're about to be denied entry—nothing is objectively illegal about what they're doing, but it feels as if they're committing some sort of fraud. When the valet returns, he's smiling.

"Welcome to Burj Al-Arab, Mr. Denby and Mr. Chase. May we take your vehicle off your hands for the night?"

Thank god. Adam releases his held breath.

The night air is refreshing. Stars twinkle against a clear sky, a full moon showing face. It's a snug fit for the building, only feet away lies the shoreline, darkened waves lapping at the sand.

"Michelle said we can just go in, right?" Adam asks. This entire situation is a distant other world of luxury cars, multi-million dollar networths, a life so lavish and rich that even the word 'rich' doesn't seem to encompass it. They may look as if they belong, and they have a formal invitation, that doesn't mean any of it comes naturally. At the very least their dress affords them the privilege of invisibility. Where once Adam was used to odd looks, now nobody bats an eye as they push through the revolving door, and into the hotel lobby.

Crowds of people await. The lobby is painted in vibrant blues, golds, and reds, adorned in a carpet full of swooping vine-like patterns. On the opposite side of the room are escalators up, the tall ceilings make everything feel massive, and Adam in instantly made to feel tiny.

Predictably, Denby is alert. Hes pointing out people—names that Adam thinks sound made up. He's not doing a very good job of coming off as 'normal'. The only face Adam is looking for is Michelle's, and they find her fairly fast. Or, well, she finds them. Pushing through, she waves with a smile plastered wide on her face, fit with a black tuxedo, bow tie and all, silver eyeshadow completing the sleek look. There, following her, much to everyone's relief, is Ben.

"Hey you guys! Thank you so much," she pulls Adam into a tight hug. Denby backs away, shaking his head when she offers. It's more Adam's concern where Ben ran off to, and why he didn't think to keep anyone updated.

"Where the hell did you—"

He stops in his tracks. Ben looks nothing short of stunning. Donning a red suit, beneath which is a floral button up that's pattern is somehow both eclectic and satisfying. His hair is combed back, slick with gel that smells outwardly masculine in a way that doesn't quite fit him, but is nonetheless intoxicating. Adam looks him up and down—that probably answers a lot of his questions.

"Read it and weep," Ben strikes a pose, then reaches into his breast pocket and hands Denby back his card, "You'll be wanting this?"

There's a stutter of hesitation before Denby registers Ben is addressing him.

"Oh—yeah, thanks. You look swanky."

"Swanky?" Ben scrunches his nose.

"Yeah! Like, stylish. Good. I'm complimenting you."

"Do I look swanky?" Adam asks, realizing Denby never complimented him.

"Well, Ben picked out your outfit, so if I insult you it's technically insulting Ben, so…you look good, yes."

"Excuse me?"

Adam has never wanted to strangle anyone more. He's got to be doing this on purpose.

"I feel like you aren't being very fair."

"I'm being perfectly fair."

"If Ben didn't pick this outfit would your answer change?"

"I dunno depends on if you picked a good outfit or not."

"But if it's the same one—"

"—you look fabulous, Adam." Michelle interjects.

"Thank you Michelle, you also look great. See, that's how you compliment someone."

"I was—it was still a compliment! I said you looked good!"

"I'm not arguing about this anymore," Adam holds up a hand, "We have something we're supposed to be doing."

With that, everyone's attention is turned to Michelle.

"Okay, so, I made spreadsheets!" Michelle says, with the cadence of a person announcing an engagement. She gleefully reaches into a pocket and pulls out some folded bits of paper, which she then disperses amongst them. Sure enough, unfolding them reveals a chart of names, each marked and notated with various symbols and words.

"What…does this mean?" Adam asks, it's borderline indecipherable, a level of neurotic even he struggles to compete with. Michelle, to her credit, isn't deterred by Adam's confusion. Rather, she actually seems excited by it. Clapping her hands together, her grin widens.

"This is a list of all the people who could be behind my situation," She lowers her voice, scuffling close until the four of them are in a near-huddle. Adam glances around, hoping they don't look too conspicuous, thankfully everyone is busy in their own groups, and more people are pouring in to obscure him as just another face.

"Sam, you're a diva, you probably already know who all these people are—"

"Isn't Lewis your manager?"

"You can't trust anyone," Michelle says, staring Denby down, "If I want to get to the bottom of this once and for all, then anyone whose been in my vicinity the past year is a potential threat."

Adam is starting to understand why everyone thinks Michelle is insane. Frankly, even he thinks Michelle is insane, but if he were in her position he has no idea what else he'd do. Nobody resorts to excel spreadsheets and profound paranoia unless they truly need to.

"You need to be with me on this," She continues, "I know you're a huge fan, Sam, but you need to look at everyone on this list as if they're a killer."

Denby frowns, but doesn't retaliate. Adam certainly won't question her. She's the one whose been at the receiving end of this for a full year.

"Where do we start?" Adam asks.

"Dinner under the sea."

Fish watch through tempered glass, looking down upon the dinner guests as they file in. Adam makes eye contact with one, which promptly hides away in one of many crevices contained within a private ecosystem. A floor to ceiling aquarium acting as a centerpiece to a rotunda. On the outside of which are tables encircling the display. Draped in white cloth and donning fine dinnerware, embedded with shimmering gold accents and boasting forks weighted in pure silver. 

Adams never seen anything like it, nor has Ben, who is staring up at the tank with a grimace. It is, however, interesting that Denby has barely spared a reaction beyond a satisfied hum. For someone living such a humble day-to-day, Adam expected him to be more shocked, or out of place. Yet he carries hismelf comfortably amongst scene, as if it's second nature.

“The Aperol spritz sounds good,” he says once they’ve been sat—the table pressed right against the glass of the aquarium. Adam peers in, watching an eel slither between cracks in an artificial reef.

Michelle keeps checking behind her, watching everyone around, bobbing her head, imitating a meerkat. Is this how she’s been all year? It’s no wonder she’s so worn out. Constant hyper vigilance is a nightmare, Adam would know.

“Are you alright?” He asks her, while Ben and Denby engage in a passionate discussion about the various types of alcohol. 

“Sorry, yes. I’m fine,” she smiles. There’s a pause long enough for it to feel awkward, before she continues, “You know, I’ve gone skydiving before. The kind with the wing suits? That was less scary than this.”

Adam recalls everything he read on Michelle. A few alluded to a past of valiantly unthinkable stunts but none went so far as to elaborate on what that meant. 

“Maybe we should stick together,” Adam says. He glances at Ben—who by now is trying to explain different mixers to varying degrees of success. Adam's not just suggesting that for Michelle’s sake.

“What if we split up into two groups of two so we can cover more ground?”

That works as well. So long as someone has eyes on either Michelle or Ben the entire time. Adam has equal concern for their well being, considering one of them is the subject of repeated attempts at murder—and the other is Ben. 

“I’ll stick with Ben,” Adam says before any alternative option can be floated. He’s not budging on that. Ben perks up when he hears his name, gaze flicking between Adam and Michelle.

“I’ll be with the Sam then,” she says, “Go team!” 

“Wait, what are we talking about?” Denby hovers his hand as Michelle attempts to grab it. Minimizing as much physical touch as possible, a cheer so awkward it's painful to look at.

“We’re splitting into teams to cover more ground while staying safe,” Michelle explains, “Adam called dibs on Ben.”

Ben bats his eyes, blowing a kiss in Adams direction. Mortified, Adam recedes into himself. Did he really have to do that in from of Denby? If his embarrassment wasn’t already enough, for some ungodly reason Denby actually seems to take it seriously. He furrows his brow trying to unravel the gesture, and for a terrifying second Adam is convinced he’s about to ask if they’re in a relationship. 

Adam wouldn’t be nearly in such a miserable state if not for his earlier self-indulgence. He doesn’t want Denby, yet there’s a visceral knot in his gut at the thought that Denby might assume he's taken.

Thank god for Michelle. She keeps him from having to think about what that means.

“There are two optimal options here,” she says, “Mostly everyone is gonna be at the hotel bar after this—but my manager is also hosting a private yacht ride around the bay.”

“If you got to dibs Ben then I get to dibs the yacht.” 

Denby pounces—if anything it’s not disproving the boat-sexual theory.

“I have no problems with this,” Ben says, nodding sagely. The words Ben and Hotel Bar are not words that combine well in Adams mind. Hopefully he’ll be able to keep things on track.

“Fine, whatever.”

“Fuck. Yes.” 

“Wait we need like, team code names,” Michelle says, leaning in.

“Why would we need those?” Denby asks.

“So that we can sound cool, duh. Also to stay covert, on the down low.”

“What, like, Team…Badam to team…Samchelle?”

“You think mashing our names together is inconspicuous?” Adam asks. It’s a wonder how Denby has made it this far.

“Stealth isn't Sam’s strong suit,” Ben says, “We can be team Molerat.”

“I’m not being team Molerat, that’s an awful name.”

“We’re team Molerat now.”

“No we aren’t. I refuse this on principle.”

“What principles do you have agains molerats?”

“Can we be team 'Michelle and Sam are Really Goated'?” Denby asks.

“That’s not even a good attempt at a name!” 

Adam probably sounds like hes trying to shatter the aquarium glass. To Adams dismay, Michelle's enthusiasm grows.

“Team MASARG.” She gasps.

Adam buries his head in his hands. 

“Please we have to be something better than Molerat.”

“I'd love to be a molerat," Ben says, "They get to be naked all the time.”

“I don’t want to be naked with you, Ben.”

“Why not?” It’s Denby who asks this, and it’s that question which short circuits Adam. He sputters turning a shade of red the crabs would be jealous of. 

“Yeah Adam, why not?” Ben asks.

Jesus fucking Christ.

“Can we maybe please just scrap the team names?”

“No! Please,” Michelle says, dragging out her whine. Her pouty eyes are hard to argue with.

“Okay then it’s decided. Team Michelle and Sam are Really goated—“ Denby says, Michelle interjecting.

“—MASARG for short”

“Right," Denby continues, "And you guys are team naked.”

“No the fuck we aren’t—look I’m fine with molerats now, can we go back to mole rats?”

“Too late.”

Adam swears, he is going to kill someone before this night is over. 

Chapter Text

"M—what does that stand for?"

"Michelle."

"A—what does that stand for?"

"Uh…And?"

"S!"

"Sam."

"Michelle and Sam!" Michelle throws her arms up in the air, miming letters with unbridled enthusiasm, "What are we?"

"Really goated?" Sam says—he's not quite sure why he's still going along with this, but Michelle has an infectious way of dragging you in. She's significantly more cheery in person than she comes off in all her press tours, which is saying something because in her press tours she has the energy of a caffeinated cheetah. He's not usually partial to that sort of person, but somehow she's endeared herself.

They're walking around the back of Al-Arab to a private dock where waits the yacht. He does love a good hotel bar, but it's a lot of people and a lot of noise. Not enough water, too land locked for his tastes. The swaying rhythm of the sea is an assurance that he's alright. Without it, his feet don't know what to do. There was never an option for him besides the yacht.

"Really goated!" Michelle says, jumping up and down.

"Were you in cheer squad or something?"

"Cheer captain, thank you very much," She says, "Let's go Mustangs! I did get bored of that and started doing Soccer instead, but the drills, Sam. They stick with you. They're like little bug burrowed into your brain."

"Ew."

Sam shuts his eyes and relishes in a gust of wind washing over his hair. On the rare occasion he has to brush it out, it's refreshing. If it weren't so impractical and generally pointless, he'd do it all the time.

"Did you do any sports?" Michelle asks. That reminds him, he ought to make time for a run tonight.

"Yeah."

Michelle stares at him, expecting something, Sam isn't sure what. He answered her question.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"What sports?"

"Oh," Right, that. Memories abound—crisp orange autumns, brick-lain buildings, chapel bells and the smell of myrrh. Sam takes a deep breath in, washing his mind with salt. None of that matters anymore, "I wasn't good at any of them."

"So? Wait, can I guess? You did…football. No! You were on a swim team—"

"—Chase was on a swim team."

"Ugh, Sam! Come on, give me something to work with here, we're supposed to be on a team. Team MASARG."

He hesitates before he answers. It's a stereotype he's not beating, but the last thing he wants anyone to see when they look at him, is the person he used to be. He's changed, he's not that person anymore, yet a reputation can be hard to shake, especially one so strong and unforgiving.

"I did Lacrosse, but like I said, I sucked at it."

"Lacrosse? Ooh la la, fancy boy."

She nudges Sam in the side. It's playful, or he assumes it to be. She's smiling and her tone is loose and silly. Still, he can't help but feel a pang of shame. If he could, he'd erase everything he was before he left for sea. Water off the down of a ducks feathers, now. They approach the floating dock, and queue up to board. 164 feet, 2016 Christensen Trideck. Easily in the multi millions. Strung along the outer railings, rope lights that dance in neon colors. One blink, and they're already at the front of the line.

"Michelle," A man leans over, Sam hadn't seen him standing there—too busy examining the make of the hull—but he must be greeting people as they enter, "How are you? I thought you would be recovering in your suite, such a dramatic accident—and your poor arm—"

It's Lewis, her manager. In such odd lighting, it took a moment for Sam to register him, but his British accent is very distinct. He's a southerner, speaking formal queens. Grew up in London, privately educated, the sort of man who carries himself with a silver spoon where all can see. Sam remembers when he was just getting his break in the industry, though he's old enough that his black hair has always been speckled in gray. Lewis grips Michelle's hand and looks her in the eye, brows knit together, mouth pulled down.

"—Lewis, I am doing amazing. Don't even worry, a little broken bone ain't gonna hold me down."

"That's the Michelle I know, and er—" he looks up at Sam.

"This is Sam. Sam, this is Lewis, he's my manager."

Sam is about to interject, given he's already familiar, but he stops himself short of giving up the goat immediately.

"Right," he says, careful to censor himself, "Nice to meet you."

Now is about the time it hits him, that he should tap into that deep seated personality of his, and present not as Sam Denby the ship captain, but Sam Denby, the sociable partygoer.

He straightens his posture, puts on a pleasant face, and holds out his hand. Despite the sting of skin against skin, the handshake is tolerable. It's been a long while since he's had to bite his tongue about it. Suck it up and pretend. A nauseating familiarity to the routine that, in this case, might serve him well.

"A pleasure," Lewis gives him a shallow bow.

Before they can be questioned any further, Michelle grabs Sam by the wrist and drags him away. He pulls out of the touch as fast as he can, though is sure to follow close on her heels until they're within the warm walls of the second deck.

Inside, it's the definition of lavish. Clean, white, a mid-century imitation of baroque. Waxed wooden walls that glisten in stark crystalline lights, carpeted floors, a bar with marble counter-tops. It's a far cry from the modern aesthetics of the Al-Arab. Sam is curious to know if the ship is fitted with auto-cruise. Something in this price range ought to be.

The water through the many windows is a dark navy blue, waves cresting small for now.

"It's just a quick round about the bay," Michelle leans over beside him, "If you start getting overwhelmed—"

"—I've done this before, I'll be fine."

Fine has always been a relative term. Half of him is jittery, eager to pounce on the idea of being in a room full of people he's only seen and admired from afar. The other half of him is crawling with upsetting nostalgia, dredging up memories he'd rather leave locked beneath the waves. He can keep it together, if there's one thing he can appreciate of his past, it was learning to keep a straight face and smother his emotions.

"Team MASARG?" He asks, holding out his hand discreetly.

Michelle smiles back at him, she hovers her own hand over Sam's sure to keep a gap between them.

"Team MASARG."

Adam looks down upon the water and watches as an ant-sized yacht takes off from it's port. Cast in dim warm lights of the twenty seventh floor bar, the walls and ceiling glow in shades of gold. Gleaming reflective surfaces adorn the space accompanied by dangling crystalline bead curtains and a large windows, of which make everything below seem small. Faux-vintage musk comes as a result of muddling incense, cologne, and smoky bourbon.

Ben has taken to the bar instantly, to the surprise of nobody. He's not much focused on gathering intel, as he is on making the most of this free ride to drinks they otherwise could never justify affording. Adam's got himself a negroni, the glass is cool to the touch, large ice keeping his drink fresh as it slips down with a spritz of orange from the slices laid neatly atop it.

"I don't think we've met before."

Adam pulls himself away from the world outside, and meets the eye of the tall, sharp man known as Connor. If from afar he seemed grim and bitter, here he manages to make a warm room turn cold. His eyes are a stark gray, his lips thin and puckered. He's breathing slow and heavy.

"No we haven't."

Reality settles over him, sneaking into the party was one thing, dinner with Michelle another. Twenty-Seven floors up, speaking face to face with someone who could easily see if he doesn't belong—that is a harrowing experience. Burrowed somewhere deep within him, he pulls out a dusty old box from his Yale days.

"I'm Adam," he holds out his hand, "I'm a good friend of Michelle's. Really sorry about what happened the other day—"

"—not a problem, we're both alive."

"Which I am very glad about—do you know what happened yet?"

Perhaps not the greatest attempt to be subtle, but if there's an opening Adam may as well take it. He analyzes Connor's face as he responds. Not a twitch.

"No. We haven't been told anything yet."

He's got one hell of a poker face. Ben, by now, has slunk away from the bar and is hovering behind Connor, listening in. Adam catches Ben's eye over Connor's shoulder, it's a sly look, radiating some plan Adam hasn't vetted yet. Hard to ignore, but the makes an attempt when Connor asks Adam a question.

"Forgive me, Michelle hasn't mentioned you before, where did you meet?"

Oh damn. Now's the time for all those improv classes to kick in.

"Well she's busy and she gets around, you know. I actually met her in Highschool."

"Really?"

Ben chokes on his drink, shooting Adam a pair of wide eyes as if to say 'what the hell are you thinking?' Adam wouldn't be able to give a good answer, his mild panic has him going with whatever first enters his head.

"Yes," Digging a grave has never been so easy, "We were on the same…track team?"

"I never knew she did track."

Shit. Shit. Shit.

"Well, you know, she did so many things back then."

"She was quite the jack-rabbit from what I've heard," Connor nods.

If there's a breath of relief coming, Adam holds it. The one thing he can count on—a hyperactive knows when they see another hyperactive. Michelle was perhaps more well achieved than even he was at that age. With the silence growing, Adam tosses in another line of bait.

"You've only been working together, what, three years now?"

"Three years to the day, quite soon."

"Must be hard to keep up."

Connor frowns.

"And why's that?"

Ben mouths 'you're blowing it'—as if he's being any help. Adam purses his lips, making his disdain brief before he sputters out a response.

"I didn't mean—I was referring to her energy. She's a lot."

"I was joking with you, I'm aware of her quirks, and I appreciate them. My age is not so subtle anymore—it's nice to have someone youthful to keep me motivated."

Huh. At his words, the tension in Adam's body releases. Curious, he shows no signs of truly disliking Michelle. She may have said he could be trusted, but she also said not to trust anyone, and Adam was prepared to find that her loyalty to Conner had blinded her to some sort of hidden scheme. But no, so far she's right. Connor seems to have just as much respect for her as she has for him.

"Is it going to be hard working with someone else now that she's out?"

"Here's to hoping it isn't."

Connor holds up his glass, to which Adam responds with his own, before they each down a sip. From behind him, there's movement, then Ben is walking away, nodding for Adam to follow along.

"It was nice talking with you," Adam says.

"Likewise, will I be seeing you in Abu-Dhabi?"

"Absolutely," Adam lies out his ass, as he has been. Somehow that feels like biggest lie he's told thus far. He slips off into the hall, where Ben awaits him. It's quieter out here, and Adam has to keep his voice low. Anything louder and it echoes—whatever they need to discuss, it's not something he wants overheard.

"What's up?" Adam asks.

"Come with me."

Ben keeps walking, guiding them further from the bar. Their footsteps click against the marble tile floor. It's so ungodly loud, Adam winces.

"Why? Where to?"

"Shhh spoilers."

Ben clicks the down button on the elevator with his cane. Something tells Adam whatever Ben is doing, it isn't good. The elevator dings and Ben steps in, holding the door for Adam who doesn't take it.

"I'm not going unless you tell us what we're doing."

"Just a little bit of recon, get in."

"What does that mean?"

"I'm going even if you aren't, you know? Just being courteous and inviting you."

Adam groans and rubs his face. He slumps against the far wall of the elevator and Ben lets the doors shut. No better is he than a dog on a leash, at this point.Adam trusts Ben will get himself into trouble, with out without him there, and he'd much rather be around to minimize the destruction, than clean up what's left after.

Floor twenty. The elevator hums to life.

"Did you talk to anyone at the bar?"

"I don't need to talk to people."

"That's literally the entire point of this."

"People lie, Adam," Ben flicks out a keycard from his pocket, "The best way to actually find things out, is to go into their rooms while they're busy getting drunk."

"Excuse me, what?"

The elevator dings. Ben walks out as fast as he casually can, speeding ahead down the twentieth floor hallway.

"Benjamin!" Adam runs after him. He should've known. Once he's caught up, he grabs Ben by the shoulders and holds him in place, "Give me the card. Now."

"No."

"Yes. Give it here," Adam attempts to grab it from Ben, who wiggles his way free and holds it up. An action not much effective given Adam is taller than him. Still, Ben manages to dodge each of Adam's attempts at stealing the card.

"Will you just—Ben stop—Ben!"

"You wanted to investigate this."

"I didn't want to break and enter, that is entirely different."

"It's not breaking and entering. It's just entering. I'm not breaking anything."

"Give it—ugh—hold still!"

Ben ducks under another lunge, grinning far too much.

"No."

"I swear to fucking god Benjamin, I'm going to kill you."

"You can't even touch me."

That does it. Patience be damned, Adam snaps forward, grabbing both of Ben's wrists and pushing him up against the wall with a hard thud. Ben's eyes go wide, his mouth falls open, they're close enough Adam can smell the whisky on his breath.

"What now, punk?"

The sound of footsteps answers before Ben can. Both turn their heads toward the far end of the hall—someones coming and the two of them most certainly aren't supposed to be here. While Ben might be comfortable flippantly lying to hotel officials, Adam has no such desire.

Ben leans in to whisper the obvious.

"We're gonna get caught if we stay like this."

The picture they're painting isn't a very innocent one, Adam can attest. Begrudging in his release, he allows Ben to wiggle free, with little other option if they want to remain undetected. Each of them walks as fast as they can, as quietly as they can, until they come to room 3522. At which point, Ben slips the card in and the door makes a gentle click.

He grips the handle, looking at Adam. The footsteps are coming closer, though they show no sign of urgency.

"Oh whatever, just go in already," Adam says, hissing.

They push their way into the room, and let the door lock behind them.

Chapter Text

There is nothing Sam can appreciate more than the comfort of his own ship when in the belly of another. Sure, he may not have the luxuries and extravagances of a vessel such as this, a wet bar and an endless bottle of champagne, but it is nonetheless his own.

He's sat talking with people all night, and found himself slipping naturally back into a person he so desperately hates. He ignores every friendly shoulder pat, every slight off color comment. These are not the same people he's used to interacting with in such a scene, at the very least most of them are athletes and he can usually fall back on his own knowledge to carry the conversation.

He wouldn't say he's learned much useful. Not compared to Michelle, who seems to have been making the rounds about the first and second floor with a vibrant determination. Nothing is going to get in her way, and Sam can appreciate that.

He takes a sip of his champagne. Dry, bubbly, fruity.

"How long have you known Michelle?"

Sam turns his head—it's Lewis. He's slid into the stool beside Sam with his own glass of Redbreast 12,.

"A couple years."

Sam is able to answer quick, because all night he's had time to refine his story. People ask about him, not out of suspicion but rather genuine interest, even if it's hard to see it through the looming specter of a potential assassin. Sam keeps his head straight and crafts a narrative, jotting down each new fact he delivers until he's someone else.

"Mmhm, I have never heard of you."

"Well, we aren't that close. She just wanted a plus one and I happened to be in town."

"Still a tad spooked, I suspect," Lewis says. It's so straightforwardly out of place, that Sam has to register if he's heard correctly.

"Why would she be spooked?"

"Well, you know, this is her first time being forced out of play for a grand prix. It's always difficult for young drivers."

"Right, but you make it sound like she has something to be afraid of."

Lewis narrows his deep brown eyes and takes a sip of his drink.

"What was your name again, Sam, was it? Where did you and Michelle meet?"

Now that they've spoken, Sam understands why Lewis is on Michelle's list. His slow, smooth accent, enunciation, and general way in which he carries himself all lend to an air of scheming. Of course, it's confounding the idea that a manager might intentionally sabotage his team. There's no easily determinable motivation to do such a thing, though he supposes the point of this conversation is to find something that might stick.

"We met at the 2023 Grand Prix."

"Ah, her first and only loss, perhaps you're bad luck."

Sam purses his lips.

"I hope not."

"All one can do is hope."

"Have you decided who's gonna be taking over for her?"

"No, not yet. Unfortunately on such sort notice, it's quite difficult to find a replacement driver. Especially one who works well with Connor."

He finishes his glass, then reaches around the counter to pour himself another. Sam knows a thing or two about finances, he knows even more about the sort of money raked in by offshore racing. They're no Formula one. Not a chance the funds went to all of this alone, especially not between all the other expenses involved in keeping a team afloat. That has been a matter eating away at him since he first arrived.

"I didn't know you made this much money off racing."

Lewis hums.

"It's astonishing really. We get all sorts of brand deals. Sunfish, Chevron, McLaren—the engineers, not the cars."

For the first time, Sam counts his blessings that he can act dumb. He knows without a doubt that Lewis is lying. Brand deals are good, sure, but they're not nearly enough to cover the cost of operations by themselves, let alone a party like this. Even Sunfish spends a fraction of a fraction of it's corporate budget on advertising.

"So you're staying in the hotel?" Sam asks.

"On this Yacht, actually."

"How much is that?"

"It isn't polite of me to say, now is it?" Lewis smirks. Sam will just have to look it up later, but nonetheless it sounds expensive, and for more than one night it would easily add up. Sam would love to see the records on that, more, he's starting to wonder if the odd influx of funding has anything to do with whatever 'deal' Michelle overheard last year. With all his understanding of C1 lurking, he lays a second trap.

"Sorry to pry, but I'm curious, what was the biggest brand deal you got this year?"

"You seem awfully interested in our finances, for someone who knows very little about what we do."

"I'm in consulting, it's a habit."

"Are you perchance advertising your services?"

"I think it's apparent you don't need them."

Lewis takes it with humor, his guard slips.

"Sunfish offered us quite the amount for a few years worth of sponsoring. They nearly suggested we change our name, however I have an affection for Dorado."

Sunfish. Obviously they'd be here, getting their mitts dirty. It's impossible to escape them. Even the name makes Sam want to crawl into a hole, but he ought to put those personal grievances aside for now.

"I notice you didn't give a cash amount."

"Again, I hesitate to speak openly about me and my teams assets with someone I've only just met."

Best not push it. As badly as he'd like to, if he continues down this line of questioning, he's sure to prickle the hairs on someones arm.

"That's fair," he says, then he dismisses himself, sure to keep his excuse simple and covert. Lewis watches him leave, it isn't until the wind is whipping at Sam's hair that he allows himself to relax.

Upstairs, the private quarters, down below, another common space. All around the murky darkened ocean hugs them. To Sam's surprise, Michelle is at the top of the stairs just outside the private quarters.

"Find anything?" Sam asks, having climbed up to join her. The view of the skyline from afar glitters in weighted darkness. Lights swim, reflecting in the water. With no sun bearing down, the cool air is a refreshing change of pace.

"Not much," she says, "Neptune apologized a lot, that was the most interesting thing—oh actually wait."

From her pocket, she pulls a card and shows it to Sam. It's an ID for one of the pit crew, Oskar. Young looking kid with black hair and a round face.

"I found this in Lewis' room, Oskar must've dropped it while he was in there."

That reminds Sam, he has a question he needs to ask Michelle.

"Do you know how Lewis afforded all this?"

"Brand deals, right?" Michelle shrugs, pocketing the ID again, "That's what he told me."

Huh. Assuming Michelle is more focused on the sport than the admin behind it, Lewis could get away with lying to her—and everyone else—to their faces. Sam frowns, that means thus far, it's likely nobody has questioned it.

"Are you sure that's true?"

Michelle lowers her voice, eyes growing wide.

"You think he's got a different source of income?"

"I think he's lying about something, which isn't enough to accuse him of attempted murder, but it is suspicious."

He quiets as a few people push past from the door to Lewis' room, laughing far too loud and stumbling down the stairs with little consideration for the space they take up. Apparently, not an inch of this ship is off limits—which unfortunately lends credence to Lewis being a normal guy. If he had anything to hide, he'd at least have the foresight to lock his room. Still, curiosity eggs at Sam. Since when has a little snooping ever hurt anyone—asks icarus.

"I have to go use the bathroom, I'll be back in a second."

Lewis' private room isn't much different from the rest of the ship, save a bed that's despite everything has remained untouched. It looks to be that most people are helping themselves to the second bar, full of top shelf liquor that Lewis surely doesn't mind being taken, again, he's the one who left the place open.

It's pristine. No sign that a person may actually be staying here, not even any luggage or a single bag—framed perfectly, a scene from a movie, not a real place. Sam is tempted to find it suspicious, but he's primed for that. If he weren't already considering Lewis a suspect, he'd have no qualms with it—god knows he himself is afoul of the sin of minimalism.

His excuse to leave wasn't all blowing cotton—he slips into the restroom, locking the door behind him. A brief break from all the noise. It smells of potpourri, a lavendery thing that itches deep into his nose, which instinctively wrinkles. Much like the bedroom proper, it's nearly perfect, save the corner trash can holding some crumpled tissue and a package of old prescription brown color-contacts. The medicine cabinet has a few orange bottles with names too convoluted and long for Sam to remember, and black hair dye. A complete bust. He suspects even if he were to waste the night checking every nook and cranny, he'd not find a thing out of place.

If Lewis is hiding something, he's sure to hide it well. Hopefully Ben and Adam are having an easier time.

"Holy shit."

The room is gigantic. Adam is used to seeing modest hotels, the sorts of which are chain brands with very little personality beyond a chocolate on the pillow and a bible in the bed stand. Here, though, the room glows in vibrant lapis blues, swirling golds, and boasts a height of two stories, with windows to match. Stairs lead up to the bedroom, meanwhile a mini kitchen, bar, and livingroom rest below. If this were an apartment in any city, it would be a six figure one.

"Shh," Ben presses his ear against the door, listening as the footsteps pass them by. Muted through thick wood, the sound of someone's voice. Adam strains to hear it, snippets of a one sided conversation—a phone call perhaps.

"Got the—didn't recognize—no I—well yes," the footsteps pause in front of the door, and Adam immediately starts looking for hiding spots. This time, the words carry clear, "I would rather get it over with sooner, before we find more trouble. You know mum is gonna gut us if we keep fucking it up."

The accent is distinct. Irish. A thin, raspy male voice, it sounds as if he's just recovered from a bad cold.

Adam nods to the closet nearest the kitchen. It's big enough to fit the both of them. Ben shakes his head. Fine, if Ben wants to get himself killed or arrested, then Adam isn't going to stop him, but he won't remain a sitting duck.

Thankfully, they don't need to worry, soon enough the footsteps continue on, as does the voice.

"I'll see about dealing with them—worry—not a problem."

Both Adam and Ben release a breath.

"You are a fucking idiot," Adam says, he dare not speak any louder than necessary. Though the other man is gone, he isn't raving to test his luck.

"Well we're here now," Ben shrugs, "Might as well take a look around."

With the fresh idea of someone lurking in the halls outside, Adam is fine with the idea of sitting put for now. At least until his heart rate slows enough that he can hear himself think. Ben drifts first to the kitchen, throwing open the fridge, empty save for some leftover containers.

Adam turns his attention upstairs, the bedroom is usually where all the scandalous things are kept. Not that he thinks Connor has anything particularly scandalous about him. He seemed, honestly, quite normal if not a bit disillusioned.

He creeps upstairs, never so thankful for carpet to muffle his steps. The bedroom is, as predicted, just as lush and spacious as the rest of the room. In fact, Adam is sure it's singularly the size of his entire apartment.

The bed is made, luggage tucked into the open closet with a single black pea coat hanging. It's all very neat save a credit card lying on the bedside table, and some half rolled up dollar bills.

Adam checks the drawers first. Apart from a Qur'an which would be in every room, they're empty. Next Adam thinks to check the closet. He doesn't touch the unopened luggage, he'd have no idea how to repack it in a way that doesn't expose him for having been here. Rather, he checks the coat pockets. Easy, simple.

A lighter, some nicotine gum, and a receipt for a corner store. A light brownish powder rubs off on Adams fingers, stuck to the paper of the receipt. Adam wipes it off on his pants, only then does he stop and look at it again. His brow knits, it looks almost like flour?

Reaching back into the pocket, he finds a small plastic bag, which upon retrieving, is full of the stuff. His heart drops, if it's what he assumes it to be, it cant mean anything good.

A knock punctuates Ben's entrance, he raises an eyebrow at the bag in Adams hand.

"Please tell me this isn't cocaine," Adam says. Somehow, he figures if anyone would know it would be Ben. Then, before he can react, Ben grabs the bag from him, dips is finger in and rubs a smattering of the powder against his gums.

"That's not coke," Ben says, pulling a face, "That's heroin."

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"You asked."

"I didn't ask you to try it!"

"Well it was that or snort some."

Ben shakes his head, reeling as the brief high hits him immediately. He grimaces,

"Oh that's not good heroin either," he says, "That's gonna suck."

Adam doesn't even want to know how Ben can tell the difference. Rather he focuses all his concern of the other issue at hand.

"So Connor's on heroin."

"It would seem."

That would explain a lot. His odd behavior recently being one, the crash being another. If Connor was high while piloting the ship, it would only make sense if he lost control. Maybe it wasn't a targeted scheme at all, maybe it was an unfortunate symptom of something else. A blind eye from management, a spiraling father drowning his grief. As if this couldn't get any more rough, from downstairs comes the sound of voices near the front door. Adam locks up. It sounds like two people, one of them definitely Connor.

"I'm terribly sorry," he says, "I'll pay for any replacement fee."

"No need," says the second voice, "Have a nice night Mr. Connor."

Adam and Ben share a look, shit. He grabs Ben by the scruff of his red suit jacket and pulls him into the closet, and for good measure slaps a hand over Bens mouth, promptly shushing the noise of protest it elicits.

Adam's heart is beating out of his chest, so too, he notes, is Ben's. They're pressed so tight that Adam can feel each breath Ben takes, both against his chest and the palm of his hand. Ben is warm, his weight is welcome to keep Adam from hyperventilating. Some form of pressure therapy, he assumes.

Ben taps the jacket, reminding Adam of the other issue with their plan. Hiding in the one place someone stashes their drugs is not smart. If Connor comes up here to relax, this will be the first place he looks.

The TV comes on downstairs confirming they may be safe for now. Adam cracks the closet door, looking for any way to escape without being noticed. There on the other side of the room, through glass doors, a balcony.

"Do not move," he whispers.

Then, each step calculated to ensure it doesn't make a sound, he sneaks from the closet. His ears on high alert for any sign of Connor coming up. No such sign is to be heard, and Adam is able to make it outside without a problem. That was the easy part.

Adam swallows a wave of nausea as he peers over the edge. It is a sheer twenty story drop onto hard ground below, and with each room being two stories tall, the next balcony down is nowhere near safe enough to reach. Neither is it possible to climb up.

"We could go over," Ben says from behind him, and Adam nearly hits him. Jumping so much, he has an out of body experience.

"I told you to stay put," Adam says, hissing.

Ben points to the side of the building.

"There's a ledge."

Sure enough, a narrow decorative ledge hangs on the outer wall, connecting this balcony with the next adjacent one. The rooms are as wide as they are tall, the distance between them vast, but it's enough of a foothold to unfortunately be possible to traverse.

"I'm not doing that," Adam says. There's got to be a better way that doesn't involve shimmying his way along the side of a building.

"Why not?"

"There's no way of knowing if that room is occupied."

"Why did you come out here then?"

Adam whines into his hands. Because it is the only other exit they have, besides the door downstairs.

"I don't know, why did you decide to break into Conner's room?"

"We found evidence, that's huge. I am getting things done."

"You're trying to kill me."

"I'll go first—"

"—no!" Adam yanks Ben away from clambering over the railing. In the process he makes the mistake of looking down again, and shuts his eyes tight, vertigo overtaking him, he gulps.

"You're afraid of heights."

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are, you are so afraid—"

"—I am not afraid of heights, Ben, I am afraid of standing on a half foot of ledge over a twenty story drop. That is perfectly reasonable."

"Are you not afraid of the guy downstairs who may or may not have homicidal tendencies?"

"Fuck, I hate this so fucking much and I hate you for dragging me into it."

"Just watch me first and follow after," Ben says, nice and slow, "You'll be fine."

Adam white knuckles the railing while Ben steps over. His movements are calculated but jerky, at any second Adam is braced to see him stumble and fall. Correct as he may be in his determination of their only exit route, it is still going to take some fines to use. Ben presses himself firm against the wall, sliding bit by bit, meticulous in his footing, his jaw clenched tight. It surely cant be comfortable with his leg.

Eventually, though, after many moments of tense silence, Ben makes it across, clambering to the safety of the other balcony.

"Is anyone in there?" Adam asks.

"Lights are off."

At least that much has been confirmed. When Ben waves for him to follow along, Adams legs lock up. He keeps his eyes pinned ahead on Ben, desperately hoping Connor decides to leave at the last second, and he can just walk downstairs like a normal person would.

"Adam."

"I know, I know, just give me a second."

"We might not have a second."

This is just like that stupid sailboat. Adam needs to suck it up and rip the bandaid off. If that isn't enough, through the crack in the french doors, Adam hears the TV turn off.

Connor is coming upstairs.

"Fear is the mind-killer, Adam."

"What?"

"You know, like Dune?"

"Yes I know Dune, will you shut up and let me think."

Actually that's not such a bad idea. Adam isn't a huge dune fan, but back in college when he would have panic attacks, Maeve had a motto for him inspired by the mantra. It helped, by now Adam has forgotten most of it. The original however, is impossible to forget. Quietly, Adam mutter to himself.

"I must not fear."

He steps over the ledge, feeling dizzy and breathless. Don't look down. Don't look down.

"Fear is the mind killer."

He squeezes himself so hard against the wall his back aches, and the metal and glass dig into his skin. Up this high, even the muggy Dubai air is a frigid wind that stings the tips of his fingers. He can't let them go numb, if he loses any tactility, he's fucked.

"Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration."

Connor opens the door to the bedroom just as Adam slides out of sight of the balcony. Adam keeps his eyes shut, feeling his way forward, taking small, careful steps to the side. Just as he saw Ben do. One ear listening for if Connor comes outside.

"I will face my fear."

One step.

Pause. Breathe.

One step.

"I will permit it to pass over me and through me."

One step—his footing slips against the edge, the tip of his toe tasting freefall, as dread drops through his entire body. He gasps, and reels back as fast as he can, back to the safety of his narrow ledge. He's fine. He's safe. He's breathing so erratic his lungs ache.

"You're doing amazing," Ben says, but the crack in his voice betrays his words, "Just a few more steps."

"Where the fear is gone there will be nothing."

Did he skip a line? Does he care?

One step.

"Only I will remain."

Adams hand brushes against a railing. Then, Ben's hand falls atop it, something solid to assure him he's just one last step away. Adam, as fast as he can muster, throws himself over and onto the other balcony. Ben catches him, his legs giving out.

"Holy fucking shit." Adam needs to lie down. His stomach is doing flips, his heart pounding in his ears.

"See? You're fine. You're full of desert energy."

Adam laughs. Then he keeps laughing, adrenaline fading into buckets of relief.

"Yeah, buddy. We've got so much desert energy."

"Great, let's get the fuck out of here."

Chapter Text

Adam has never felt more solace in his life than when the elevator dings for the lobby. Long after they'd snuck through that darkened suite, images of all the floors below them kept Adam in a state of perpetual vertigo. Shooting off a few texts to team MASARG had him busy enough as Ben held his free hand, dragging him back to sweet, solid ground. He's run out of energy to chastise Ben for how risky that was, or how stupid it was, or any other number of adjectives Adam could use to describe it. The dictionary in his head is in shambles.

He's lucky, at least, to have a few moments to catch his breath in the clear night air before Michelle and Denby arrive off their trip around the bay. Both are windswept from standing on the open deck, but neither show any signs of being bothered by it.

"Are you okay?" Michelle asks.

"—just peachy," Ben says.

The audacity is damn near unbelievable. How can he do all of that and shrug it off like it's nothing? Surely Ben has to have something misfiring in the wires of his brain, some fear receptor that's been short circuited.

"We nearly died."

"No we didn't."

"We were twenty stories up, you made me climb the fucking wall."

"You could've stayed in the closet."

Michelle clears her throat, grabbing everyone's attention. Near eleven, reads the watch on her wrist as she brushes her hair back.

"Maybe we should take this to the The Pelican?"

People are walking past, a few lingering in groups similar to theirs. While none appear to be listening in, to say it's too close for comfort in an understatement. Any words they speak easily could be dropped in upon by ears not intended to hear them. Private walls are a welcome suggestion.

"I'll grab the car," Denby says. He moves quick to abandon them for the valets, which leaves not much to speak about without risk of being overheard by the wrong sorts. Even if they are certain it's Connor who is the source of the problem, it's impossible to tell if he's working alone.

Michelle is doing her best to hide how devastated she is. Through the facade she holds together of presentability— which at this point seems perpetual, burned into her muscles as if she's a record—cracks are beginning to show.

"What about you? Are you alright?" Adam asks, lowering his voice

"I'm fine."

The insistence is forced, frantic. Pushing through gritted teeth, it would be hard to lie any worse than this, yet Adam has no desire to harass her. If she doesn't want to talk about it here and now, he's not about to insist that she does—she's already been through enough, considering. She's hugging herself tight, her eyes reflecting a simmering resentment towards everyone around them that previously has lied dormant.

By the time Denby pulls up, they're all more than ready to escape. The drive back is silent, though that silence speaks for itself. Ben is picking at his nails, staring out the window at the moons reflection in the water. Michelle—in the passenger side seat—is slumped down, melting. The first of which Adam has seen her display posture that isn't perfect.

Adam chooses to focus on the sound of the traffic around them, and cracks a window to take a deep breath of exhaust fumes and the sea. If any food were offered he'd reject it, and what dinner he had isn't sitting quite right. From the corner of his eye, he catches Ben massaging his temples.

The pelican waits diligent as ever. Much as Adam would rather fall into a bed and allow the thin mattress to hug him to sleep, there's still a conversation to be had. Seconds after Adam steps out of the car, Michelle lets out a guttural scream towards the water, which comes from a voice buried deep in pent up frustration.

None have any idea what to do, they all share equally wide eyes.

"That motherfucker," she says, turning her heel to face the group, "How long has this been going on?"

A pause occurs, where nobody knows if what she's asking is meant to be answered, but as it drags on Adam feels obliged to speak up.

"I don't know—"

"—I trusted him. That's the whole fucking point, we have to trust each other," Michelle runs a hand through her hair, "Does Lewis know? Did all of them know? Were they letting me get into that ship with someone under the influence every single time?"

"It could be the reason you guys crashed," Denby says, "Not to dismiss your assassination theory, but, if this this a habit, I think it's more likely he took something before the race."

Her hands come up to cover her face while she takes a seat at the edge of the pier. For miles outward the water is dotted with a diversity of ships and gentle waves. They lap at her feet, and still between the three men behind her, none have a clue how to help. Which for Adam is infuriating beyond belief. They were supposed to help her, he supposes they have, but it isn't fair that they leave her to fend for herself now. So he takes a seat beside her, leaving Ben and Denby to watch.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"You don't have anything to be sorry about," She responds, taking a deep breath in and blowing out into the night air, "I knew it was going to be bad, I just didn't want it to be him."

When their eyes meet, Michelle's are red around their rims.

"When I first joined the league, I'd worked my ass off to be respected. I'm the youngest person to ever go pro, and one of the only women in the sport at all, and Connor was—he wasn't perfect, obviously, but he was a good mentor, and a good friend."

"You looked up to him."

Adam recalls the admiration in early interviews he'd watched.

"I did. I think—I don't know but I think he sort of saw me like his second daughter. Then…then Jay died and—god it feels like I barely know him anymore."

"It's not your fault."

"I know," Michelle says, squaring her jaw, "But it's my job now to make sure nobody gets in that seat beside him in Abu-Dhabi. I'm not letting them risk anyone else's life."

It's an honorable idea, from an honorable person, but Adam can't help thinking it's not true. That is the job of her manager, Lewis, or the authorities, but not her. To say anything would be foolish of him, Michelle's hardened face shows no room for dissent. Denby can't see it, and he makes his opinion known.

"You need to be smart about it," He says, "Why don't we go to bed, recoup some energy then see how we feel tomorrow?"

Adam expects Michelle to bite his head off, thankfully after a moment to contemplate the suggestion, she nods her approval.

"You got a place to stay?"

While they deliberate a plan for the rest of the night, Adam mulls over the evidence in his own mind. Beneath warm lights in the Pelican's cabin, he jots notes down on his laptop, curled into the booth with Ben at his side. Michelle is pacing a hole in the floor, and Denby is whipping up another pot of coffee that fills the room with a bitter chocolatey aroma.

"I think it would be safer if you stayed here, you can have my bed for the night," he says.

"No! Sam, that's very sweet but I'm more worried about what would happen if Connor notices I'm missing."

Adam bites his lip, this whole time since they got back, it's been indisputable that Connor is at fault. Hes the only one with any evidence pointing his way, so why does this puzzle feel incomplete? There are so many lose ends, so many questions still unanswered that even if Connor were the one behind Michelle's problem, Adam would be lost as to why.

Sure a guy can have a drug addiction but killing over it is a whole different story. Would Connor really live with blood on his hands to save a career that clearly isn't making him very happy anymore? He already lost one daughter, what sense would he have in killing the next closest thing he has?

"It might not be him," Adam says, for prosperity.

"We found heroin in his room," Ben retorts.

"So? That's not a confession, it's bad, but it's not murder."

"It's hard drugs."

"Which you rubbed on your gums—if our metric for guilt is whether or not someone is using then does that make you a murderer too?"

Silence on Ben's end—save the darkening of his eyes.

"Ya'll," Denby stands at the end of the table, looking over the both of them, "Adam does have a point, we're jumping to a conclusion based on very little, but Michelle didn't ask us to solve this for her, she just asked us to find something she can use to get the proper authorities to open an investigation."

"I wouldn't complain if you did figure out who's at fault," Michelle says.

"And that's Connor," Ben says, "He's got motive, means, and opportunity, how much more do you need?"

"A lot, actually," Adam says, "None of those things are sufficient to prove guilt in a court of law. You need proof beyond a reasonable doubt, and all of those things can be circumstantial."

"So what? It's him, we know it's him—"

"—why are you so set on it being Connor? Where is this coming from?"

"Because he's obviously suspicious, probably used his payout from Jay to fly off the wagon—"

"Ben!" Michelle gasps. That does seem a touch too far, Adam frowns. Dragging his dead daughter into it is just cruel.

"What is it with you and The Eden?" Adam asks, after everything tonight, the last thing he can tolerate is Ben's attitude, "Did you have family on board? Can't stand seeing someone else drowning themselves in substance abuse? Or maybe you just don't want to admit you have a problem too. Is that why you're being such a bitch?"

The dreadful silence that follows Adam's outburst makes him nauseated. Instantly, he regrets ever saying a thing.

"I'm sorry I—"

Then Ben starts to laugh. His smile bears sharp teeth as he chews on his lower lip, staring at Adam somewhere between violence and affection.

"Take no prisoners."

"Fuck you," Adam mutters. There are a hundred things he wants to do to Ben right now, but prying eyes watch carefully. He catches a glimpse of Michelle's confusion and Denby's intrigue. At Adam's word, Ben raises an eyebrow.

"Is that a statement or a request?"

"It's a—" his Adam's apple bobs at the thought of Ben's soft, hairy form undone beneath him. An evil little voice is urging him to cash it in. He has to resist, they have more urgent matters at hand, and in front of Denby, Adam would combust.

"No. Just please shut up."

Ben nods, he keeps his mouth pursed tight and as told, doesn't speak a word. Returning to his laptop, Adam runs through the list he's made.

"I should mention I saw some things at the race."

That gets everyone's attention.

"What things?" Denby asks.

"When I went to get coffee I ran into one of the pit crew, I couldn't see him face, he was wearing sunglasses and a face mask, and seemed like he was in a rush."

Michelle shrugs.

"Pit crew are always in a rush—is that it?"

"No, when we were at the barrier, there was someone behind us," Adam says, "He was in a dark cap and he had this look—I don't know—maybe I'm crazy but he was really suspicious."

Adam can tell Ben wants to say something, probably a witty comment about how none of that is anywhere near proper evidence. If Adam wants to wax poetic about reasonable doubt, then sure, seeing two vaguely suspicious people in the vicinity of the race isn't exactly a golden ticket.

But it's sat with Adam all this time, he's unable to shake the feeling that it matters, that there's more to this than meets the eye. Some iceberg lurking beneath the surface. Michelle speaks for everyone when she responds.

"I love your dedication Adam, but it's okay. It sucks that Connor has been lying to me all this time, you don't need to pretend like he's innocent."

"I'm not pretending, I'm telling you, what if there's more than one person involved?"

Michelle shakes her head.

"Who else could it be?"

"I don't know," Adam shrugs, "Maybe someone's working with the Teagans."

"That's insane," Denby rubs his face, "You may be reading too much of the news"

"You mean the Teagans as in that crime family?" Michelle asks.

"They've been smuggling through Dubai for years after leaving London," Denby says, "Biggest testament to the power of the Irish mafia, even evaded Interpol last year, god knows how."

"That would be a massive leap."

Michelle isn't sold, clearly. Neither is Ben, whose punishment of silence is actually looking like torture. Frankly, even Adam thought it was an insane thing to suggest, but for lack of any other options, he may as well throw it out there.

"It doesn't matter now," Denby says, "Michelle is in danger either way, she can't stay alone tonight."

"And if I stay with you guys, someone might notice I'm MIA and get suspicious. I have to get back to the hotel."

"Then someone is coming with you," Denby says.

"I can go," Adam leaps at the opportunity. Not just for a brief chance to sleep somewhere comfortable, but for the chance to get away from Denby and Ben. Both of them seem uniquely programmed to get under his skin right now—perhaps a symptom of that little demon in his brain painting elaborate and elicit portraits.

Maybe putting some space between himself and them will force him to reset back to normal. 

Chapter Text

Under cover of darkness he ferries Michelle back to the Al Arab. Michelle's suite is large enough to room four people, so Adam will fit in just fine. Meanwhile Ben and Denby hang back at the Pelican. They plan to meet tomorrow morning, in what is amounting to a handful of hours.

The good thing is, by the time they arrive, it's late enough—past the zenith of the moon—that nobody is around to see them. After the elevator doors open punctuated with a ding, Michelle sticks her head out looking either way down the eerily vacant halls.

"We're all clear," she whispers, ushering Adam ahead. A sense of deja vu overcomes him, marked by the same blue carpets, the same gold accents, the same lingering smell of cleaner and perfume. Connor is most likely asleep by now, yet as he passes the door he'd broken into just hours ago, he holds his breath like a child passing a graveyard.

He's mortified when they stop one suite over, and Michelle takes them into the very same room through which he and Ben had escaped.

"I am so sorry," Adam says, the moment the door shuts behind them, "We may have slipped in through your balcony."

"That's sick," she says with a yawn and a stretch, "I didn't get to tell you that earlier, but you and Ben are, like, so cool."

"I'm not dating him."

Adam has no idea why those words leave his mouth. They push their way out and before he can register to stop them or change them, they've made Michelle turn and furrow her brow.

"I mean—" Adam sputters, "I mean, it seems like you might think I'm dating Ben and I didn't want you getting the wrong idea. Not that it's even important. Really, I'd say it's not anyone's business but—"

"Woah, woah, woah, Adam."

"Sorry I—"

"—I'm lesbian."

"Oh!" Adam nods, then he realizes he might be coming off strong, and his face goes pink, "Oh…no I'm not—I wasn't—I mean you're nice but, I wasn't suggesting anything."

Michelle releases a breath, chuckling.

"I think both of our brains are very fried right now."

Adam would have to agree, he's never wanted to lay down more in his life. The couch is calling to him with promises of a cushy sleep—the first he's had in a month. Even if it isn't a bed, it's more than what The Pelican offers him. With not an ounce of humility, he flops into the embrace of throw pillows and velvet.

"If it's any consolation, I think you're infinitely cooler than everyone," He says muffled into the fabric, then turning to look back at Michelle—who is standing at his feet watching curiously—he continues, "I was a complete wuss up there."

She rolls her eyes.

"Yeah, but that's like real bravery. Doing something even when you're scared of doing it."

She's only entertaining him, Adam knows, though her words carry with honesty, someone with Michelle's reputation, with her skill and prowess, her gold-medal sportsmanship and popularity, could easily see someone like Adam as below her. Somehow she speaks to him as if they're equals--baffling. 

"You aren't scared of all the stunts you do?" Adam asks.

"I have an entire team of people whose job it is to make sure I don't die, you had Ben. Gonna be honest, I don't think I'd be able to do that."

"Now you're just saying things."

To think he's got any leverage on her is absurd. Yet she looks at him as if he's missing something obvious.

"You need to give yourself more credit," she says, then she yawns again, "And we need to get some sleep."

Adam can't argue with that.

Ben is awake. As he has been since Adam left.

He's been pampered, grown far too comfortable sleeping with another person in the room, that now the lack of Adam's breathing interspersed in early morning darkness is just another thing keeping him up.

Ben doesn't want to care about Adam. He doesn't want to care about Sam either—but you spend enough time with someone and no matter what, they grow on you, cling to you as would a barnacle, and try as you may to scrape them off, it will never work.

He tosses onto his side. Adam is fine, he's with Michelle, safe in her egregiously large suite at the Al Arab, probably sleeping better than he is. Sam is upstairs in the thing he calls a bed, that really resembles a bit of cardboard and a blanket. It was easier when he didn't care, when he could throw himself at risk and ride the tailwinds of adrenaline—the closest thing he gets anymore to feeling alive without taking something.

On any other day, he wouldn't have batted an eye at that balcony, at the drop, at breaking into someones room. Yet halfway through when Connor came back, Ben found himself—for the first time in a very long time—afraid. Not afraid for himself, not afraid for the state of their mission, but afraid for Adam.

If he were to loose Adam…Ben doesn't even contemplate that idea. As if the mere thought of it will bring it to fruition.

So he lays alone in his bed, parrying away thoughts of disaster, his eyes keep guiding themselves to Adam's side of the room. All his stuff in a pile beside his bed—now would be an opportune moment to snoop, but another strange thing overcomes him.

He doesn't want to. God willing, he actually trusts Adam enough to not go rifling through his things behind his back. Ben is horrified, when did that happen? When did he start getting all soft?

It's no use resting his eyes now. Light floods the room from the overhead, which he's clicked on as he slips his bare feet across the cold wooden floors. Adam's bed smells like him, a mix of the usual musk and his cheap cologne that Ben has told him is a shit brand, but which he continues to use regardless. He brings the sheets up to his nose, and takes a deep whiff. Adam will be back, it's just one night. Is he really that codependent? Jesus fucking Christ.

He keeps going, the night air outside gives him a slap in the face—enough to jostle him to his senses. It's the small hours of the morning, when even the fish are still asleep, and he's not tired.

"Good morning," Sam says. He's perched above Ben on the wheelhouse balcony, peering down with a curious look on his face.

"What time is it?" Ben asks.

"Half past three."

"Did you sleep?"

"Not really, you?"

"Nope, are you going to?"

Sam shrugs, he's looking out, not to the ocean, but towards Jumeirah. Towards Adam.

"He's fine," Ben says, "He'll be alright."

They both know this. Yet here they stand.

"You could've gone instead."

"I can't leave her," Sam pets The Pelican, "'sides he probably wants a break from us."

Ben laughs, digging his palms into his face. Sam isn't unlike himself in many ways. A funhouse mirror of what Ben could be if he were only slightly less disordered and slightly more pragmatic. Ben can only wonder what that means, if Sam's motivations are alike to his own—or if there's something else driving him.

He's more than earned the right to keep his mouth shut about it—as has Ben earned the right to keep his heart at the bottom of the sea.

"You wanna…come down here tonight?" Ben asks. Partly, he would love the company—a sentence mortifying in it's own right. Partly, he figures Sam may too

"I shouldn't."

"It's your ship, you can do whatever you want."

The look Sam gives him is kind, forgiving, and maybe a tad salacious. If Ben were implying anything, he didn't intend it. If Sam were responding, he doesn't make his wants know aloud. If either of them were planning on acting, neither does.

"I'm going on a run."

"At three in the morning? You're crazy."

"Gotta keep up that Strava streak."

Sam would do anything besides intimacy with another person, he can respect that, but why does the alternative has to be running? Only psychopaths run this early. Whatever, Sam is already down the stairs and off the ship by the time he's thought of a witty retort. If he's going to have to sleep alone, he'll manage.

He falls back into Adam's bed and wraps himself in all the blankets, forming a tight cocoon of Adam's scent. It takes forcing his eyes shut for him to come anywhere close to a restful sleep.

When Adam opens his eyes, it's still dark out. Ambient light drifts through the windows, casting the distant city's soft glow upon every corner. His own breathing is loud, so is the hum of the fridge, and the ticking of a clock nearby. He cranes his neck to see, two-thirty am. He's only slept for a few hours.

In some attempt to lull himself back into rest, he shields his heavy eyes with his arm and curls into a ball. No such luck, he's coiled in the familiar grasp of insomnia, awake now and that's how it's going to stay. May as well flick on a light—not the overheads, just the side table lamp which is adorned in the vinelike patterns everywhere in this hotel.

His phone's light is blinding. He puts on his glasses and squints to lower it to something more reasonable. There's no news, no texts or calls, or social media updates. He's familiar with how isolating it can get at this hour, when everyone else is asleep. The last text he sent Maeve was from when they first came to port, she responded with a thumbs up emoji. The last text he sent his brother was an essay of an apology which he still hasn't responded to. The last text he sent Ben was some stupid joke just before he went to bed.

He opens Denby's contact. His texting style is perplexing. One word unless absolutely necessary, most responses are reaction emojis, even if they don't make much sense, he just sort of uses whatever he feels is appropriate. He one responded to a text asking if he wanted food brought back to The Pelican with a cactus. Adam's moderate texts look like a novel in contrast. It's easier to convey something complicated over the form of text, with the privilege of not having to look at someone in real time. Cowardice, is what some might call it. Adam considers it an investment in his own security.

There's been a lot going on, so much that he hasn't been able to mull on the earlier events of that day. Now he has nothing to keep him from obsessing. Does he like Denby? As a friend, as an employer, sure. Yet he easily pictures Denby's grave before he pictures him settling on land. All Adam's previous partners wanted to get married, maybe have kids, buy a home and get a stable job. They had aspirations about their lives, they wanted a normal that Adam, at least back then, couldn't ever give them.

Now, hes tossing and turning over Denby, for whom the same could be said. Denby will move on, it's inevitable. He can't stay in one place for too long, always drifting, always somewhere else, Adam loves it—but in ten years, hell, even five, will he want to keep living his life like that? This is a world for the young and rambunctious, either you outgrow it, or the waves swallow you before you can get old enough to quit.

He suspects Ben and Denby are alike in that way. A pang of premature grief hits Adam—is he the only one of them who plans on making it to thirty?

He hovers over the keyboard, sleepless though he is, his brain remains muddled in fatigue. Usually words come fast to him, naturally to him, his old associates in mock trial used to tell him he could be a real weapon were he to engage in filibuster. That well has been drained, he types out the same word then deletes it five times over while he tries to work out what should come next.

Hey Denby

No, that's too casual

Hello Denby

Too formal

Hi

Too curt.

Adam pauses, chewing on his lip, staring at the blinking line that asks him if he wants to try again. He shouldn't. This late, and this worn out, he's not thinking right. There's little Adam can put into words that wont sound absurd. All he wants to do is tell the truth, if he's lucky Denby will understand and Adam can make his leave without any hard feelings. If not—he has to face the facts. Denby could never love someone who lies as much as Adam does.

A noise interrupts his brooding. Connor. His voice drifts from the hall. He's just left his room, if the slamming door is anything to go by. Adam puts his phone down—it's apparent immediately that Connor has no interest in paying Michelle a visit, thank god, however it is no less perplexing that he's heading towards the elevators. Where is he off to at this hour?

It is Adam's job to stay put and keep Michelle safe, but if he's being honest with himself Michelle doesn't really need him. Her muscles rival Denby's—she's fit, he's only here for emotional support. It is, however, also his job to remain undetected. Adam would be risking a lot to step out and trail Connor.

Except.

He is sleepless, bored, and the other option is sitting here thinking about Denby. Frankly, he'd rather make himself useful, he's never done anything half-assed before, and if they're about to accuse Connor of attempted murder, which he's still hesitant to do, then they ought to have as much solid evidence as possible.

So he waits until the sound of footsteps is distant enough, that he may slip out the door to Michelle's suite and follow in Connors path. By the time he turns the corner to reach the elevators, Connor is long gone, and Adam would have no clue as to what floor—that is, except the Burj Al Arab has a particular feature about it that plays to Adam's hand. An atrium. Spanning the height of the first eighteen stories, if Adam were to head down he could peer over the ledge and try to spot Conner from above. It's a risk—but so is being out and about at all, if anyone spots him he'll have no excuse as to his presence.

Running down a few flights of stairs is enough to really wake him up, that, and the adrenaline which is now coursing through him. He continually checks behind him, around him, a meerkat peeking it's head up in frantic desire not to be caught by the hawk.

He deposits himself onto the eighteenth floor, as far up as he can manage from the lobby. Sound might struggle to carry but it's the safest option. Connor—as Adam had been hoping—has gone down to the ground floor. Adam keeps himself hidden behind the nearest wall with a vantage point over the balcony, such that if Connor were to look up, Adam could easily hide himself.

It's hard to make much out—and soon enough vertigo overcomes him again. Each balcony is a rounded pattern that repeats down and down, a dizzying kaleidoscope. Fear is the mind killer, he digs his feet into the ground. Connor is pacing the lobby, one end to the other, as if a tiger in a cage. It's not unexpected given his habits, but it is bizarre. What's he doing?

The answer comes in the form of a man. He steps into the building, the two meet, and then just like that they split, Connor is heading back to the elevators, and the man is leaving. If Adam were to draw any conclusions he'd assume Connor just got his next fix, but he's too far up to see what happened, and as predicted he couldn't hear a thing. The lobby, such an open and exposed space, is an odd place to choose for an illegal trade. It casts a level of doubt on that assumption, but Adam has no other explanation for what he just saw.

Adam purses his lips, what a waste of time. He's about to run back upstairs, when the elevator beside him lights up. Shit, someone is coming. Adam looks around for any spot to hide, and opts to slip back into the stairwell, leaving the door cracked just enough to see out. From the elevator comes two people. The first is a short man with black hair speckled in gray, the second a taller man whom Adam instantly recognizes. That is the man who was standing behind him at the race, he was the one with the piercing gaze that made Adam feel nervous. The one with a scar on his upper lip.

What is he doing here?

"I'm telling you, they're getting impatient," he says, and Adam nearly gasps. That voice, he remembers that voice as well, it was the one outside Connors room. Adam slaps a hand over his mouth to keep himself quiet, all of him vibrating with an antsy excitement.

"And I'm telling you, I'm handling it," the other man responds. His voice too, is familiar, though Adam can't place a finger on where he's heard it before. He's Irish as well, smooth spoken and more formal than his compatriot.

"You were handling it with the drugs in Montenegro, and that worked just great," Silver hair says dripping in sarcasm, "Same as how you handled it in Moscow, and in Attaka—"

"—would you fuck off and stop nagging me about it?"

"You've been handling it for the last two years, the sponsers have been nagging on mum—that's why she's gotten tired of you."

"You're just jealous that my plan worked out. Who got us the deal in the first place? I did, so let me do my job."

"You aren't doing your job! That's the whole point, you leave your phone lying 'round for anyone to answer, go partying and haven't even held up our end of the bargain, and now I'm gettin' called in to clean up after your mess."

"And look how that turned out," the black haired man sneers, "You're just as shite as I am."

"They got lucky, is all. If they'd have spun out a second later—"

Adam's blood runs cold. They're talking about Michelle and Conner. They round a corner, and Adam has to make a choice. Follow them, or run back to Michelle's room.

Adam doesn't have much time to decide, if he wants to keep up pace he's going to have to make his choice now. That choice is to follow. This is the closest any of them have come to an explicit break in the case, one that could actually hold water. Imagining the looks on everyone's faces when he tells them what he's heard is euphoric, he might actually impress Denby. He keeps himself at a distance between them, sure to always have a spot to duck and hide if they were to turn around.

"—give me a fuckin' break Eoin, why don't you head back to Jebel Ali and finish packing?"

"Cause word of mouth told me the girl had company tonight."

The black haired man falls silent. Now Adam has a name for the silver haired one. Eoin.

"You having me watched now?" Black hair asks.

"What was blondie sayin' to you at the bar?"

"Nothing."

"Art, we are gonna be strung up if the sponsors have to bail our arses out again."

"If he's with Interpol, I'll deal with it."

So black hair's name is Art. Art and Eoin. The more they talk, the more Adam's heart drops into the pits of his stomach.

He has enough information to break away. It's not worth overstaying his welcome. Fear sparks through him, this is much, much bigger than any of them have assumed. 

In his panic and flurry of thoughts, he's blind to the potted plant near his feet, which he promptly stumbles over. He's lucky to catch himself on the palms of his hands, be it that's the extent of his luck. The plant comes crashing down near him, loud and obvious.

Adam scrambles to get up, but he's not fast enough.

"What do we have here?" Eoin asks, crooning, all Adam can see of him are his pointed black shoes. That is, until he threads his fingers through Adam's hair and tugs him to sit up, drawing tears out of his eyes at the sharp sting on his roots.

Adam gasps.

"I was just heading downstairs."

Through watery eyes, Eoin is staring down at him, arbitrating his answer, while Art is hidden behind him looking mortified.

"I swear I didn't know—" he tries to say, but Eoin stops him.

"Shut up you twat. I'm taking over this job now, all of this. Get the car ready," Eoin kneels down to come face to face with Adam, "Tough luck."

Chapter Text

Dawn strikes The Pelican with a new days heat, and not a drop of good rest. Ben awakes to the sound of his ringtone and an empty bed across from him. Upstairs there are no footsteps, the coffee pot-for the first morning since Ben has begun traveling with them-remains off. While there is a level of inherent freedom that comes with the silence, it is nevertheless unnerving. He expects to hear Adam's singing, or muttering to himself, or the sound of Denby above, or the motors below. None of that. It is unequivocally the loneliest Ben has ever felt on The Pelican.

That's right, his phone. He picks up fast seeing it's Adam's caller ID. Meanwhile he sheds the formal wear he fell asleep in, that has since dug red lines into his skin. Much as he loves the style, it's stiff and reeks of fake personality.

"'lo?" He answers, voice gravelly.

"Ben? Oh my god, okay, hi—"

"—Michelle?"

"Yes. Sorry, um, Adam left his phone here."

"Where'd he go?" Ben asks.

"He's not with you?"

If Adam isn't here, and he's not there—Ben isn't about to start catastrophizing, he's got a thin enough string of patience as is, given the revelation about Connor. He understands drug use as a coping mechanism more than anyone, obviously, yet it remains a betrayal. Not just to Michelle. There's no doubt the only reason he can afford his habit is because of the money awarded from the lawsuit against Sunfish. Jay would be pissed, but she's not around to feel it, instead he has to be pissed on her behalf.

"No," Ben shrugs on one of Adam's sweaters. It's a little big on Adam, but it fits Ben snug, a faded Yale logo adorning crimson red.

"Oh, uh, maybe he went to grab breakfast and just forgot—here I can bring it back to the ship—"

"—no need, I'll be there in a second."

The wheelhouse is empty from the looks of it, he peeks in to confirm. No sign of either Sam or Adam, as he assumed. Denby has a red and black model icebreaker sitting atop the controls—that's new. Everything else is as it was the night before.

Hopping Dubai public transit is a nightmare, car-centric infrastructure and all, but he needs to get to the Al Arab somehow. Beneath him, a dark spiral is forming, what if something happened to Adam?

God forbid. For Adams sake, but also for the sake of the poor sod who'd be begging for a mercy Ben doesn't have. He keeps a tight hold on the flimsy string that has him dangling over a fall he won't come back from.

His leg is bouncing the entire way to the hotel. Fingers tapping out a beat that makes him look the way Adam usually does. You never realize how attached you are to another person until they aren't around. Adam may very well have escaped off to grab coffee or something of the sort, as risky of a move as that is when he's meant to be hiding himself. Yet it is that very risk which gives Ben doubts—for him to leave his phone, too, none of it bodes well.

Michelle welcomes him in through one of the side doors, and unfortunately they have to walk up a few flights of stairs to get to the nearest elevator which is out of sight enough for them to take. It's not even past eight and Ben's leg is already aching.

"Did he leave the room at all?" Ben asks, they're walking down the hall to Michelle's suite.

"All I know is that I was asleep, then I woke up and he was gone."

"No note? Nothing?"

"Nothing. You don't think— Connor wouldn't—"

Second by second Ben can feel himself slipping. If Connor did something to Adam…Ben is going to make his daughters death look tame.

"How long has it been?" Ben asks, maybe if they wait, maybe if they hang on just a little longer then Adam is going to come running, apologizing profusely, as he does. Everything will be fine.

"It's been hours."

Motherfucker.

"Maybe we need to pay Connor a visit."

His intentions must be apparent because Michelle doesn't jump in the idea immediately. Her hesitations show, she looks at Ben as if he's about to explode.

"Just to talk?" She asks

"Just to talk."

Connor's room is one over from Michelle's—Ben thought he recognized this hall but every hotel has halls that look the same, even million dollar ones. A few seconds after Michelle knocks, Connor opens the door. Dressed in a shirt and jeans, he looks marginally less intimidating than he did the other night, that too and his sour expression softens upon seeing Michelle, and as his eyes pass over Ben, he does a double take.

For a moment, Ben is afraid that look is recognition—how Connor would know his face is beyond him, they didn't even meet at Jays funeral service, but it's not entirely out of the question. That's dismissed by the first words to utter from his mouth.

"Good morning Michelle, who is that?"

"This is Ben he's—"

"—wheres Adam?"

The longer they wait here the more impatient Ben gets. He wants to tell Connor everything he knows, he wants to clamp his sharp teeth down on his neck until he tastes blood.

He wants Adam. 

"He's looking for a friend of his and we were wondering if you've seen him," Michelle says.

"Adam…I believe I spoke to him last night at the bar, isn't he a friend of yours too?"

"He is yeah, just hasn't turned up this morning"

"And is that odd?"

"Alright fuck this," Ben pushes into Connors room, his blood boiling, "The fuck did you do with him? Did you kill him? Lock him in a closet?"

"Excuse me?"

"—Ben what are you doing? I said we were just here to talk," Michelle grabs Ben's wrist, tugging him back, but he doesn't budge. He wrings himself free, glaring daggers at Connor. As if talking was going to get them anywhere. Something crawls beneath his skin, an impatience that with each passing pointless bit of small talk becomes sharp and ruthless. They're wasting valuable daylight, priceless seconds while Adam could be dead in a ditch somewhere.

"I can talk. Do you want me to talk about how you're a junkie endangering your teammates? Or about how you've been trying to cover your tracks by killing Michelle?"

Connor flinches, it's a sign, circling as if a shark smelling blood in open water, Ben snarls, going in for the kill.

"Do you think you're making Jay proud? Do you think she'd still love you like this?"

"Keep my daughters name out of your mouth," Conner snaps. He takes a dangerous step forward, one with a venomous look in his eye. If this keeps going Ben is prepared to fall back on his days of working at the pub. He curls his hand into a fist, digging nails into his palm to keep from actually hitting anything—or anyone.

"Guys please—Ben," She steps between them, "Please, just chill for like a second."

"Adam is missing, I'd like to know where he is."

"I would too but this is not how you do that!"

Much as Ben wishes to push the envelope, she's right. All he's doing is putting Connor on the defensive, making him more likely to deny any involvement at all. Confusion and hurt scrunch Connor's face—if he's got Adam's blood on his hands, he's doing a good job of hiding it.

"I've got no idea what he's taking about Michelle," Connor says, "What is going on here?"

"I'm really sorry."

Michelle bows her head, not in shame, but to make herself look small. Ben would loathe to be in her position, and he is a twinge ashamed of having put her there. This is her mentor, after all, such a conversation about his habits should not come of him barging in here with a vendetta. Her pout is downright nuclear.

"I know about the drugs, Connor."

"I don't—what—"

He looks between the two of them, stunned into silence. At this, Michelle doubles down, albeit with a kindness that only she could muster in the face of something so objectively upsetting.

"I'm going to give you an opportunity to explain it, but…why didn't you tell me? I could've helped you, I'm you teammate."

There's real hurt in her voice, propelled by a terribly nativity and the most sickeningly forgiving attitude. If it were Ben, he'd rather someone slap him across the face and tell him to get his shit together, than ever look at him the way Michelle is looking at Connor. Bed would wither under the guilt. Connor nearly does. He leans against the back of the couch, unable to meet Michelle's eyes.

"I shouldn't have ever started," he says, "After Jay died I was in a terrible spot. Something like that…parents aren't supposed to outlive their children. I assumed I'd sooner die in an accident than her, and when news reached Montenegro we still had to finish the tour. I had no time to grieve."

Michelle approaches him, sympathy radiating from her that is undeserved. Simmering inside of Ben is the urge to argue. You had time to grieve, you just prioritized you career over your family for the hundredth time, as Jay always said you did. You'd rather be out of your mind on drugs than think about your own daughter. Ben keeps his mouth sewn shut, Jay's voice buried beneath his own as Michelle continues to comfort him. 

"I was there, you could've talked to me."

"You were my apprentice, it was my job to keep it together for the both of us. What mentor would I be shouldering you with all my troubles—let alone something as dreadful as grief."

Ben's grip tightens around his cane. A slew of words sit on his tongue, ready to strike, but he holds them back pursing his lips tight to keep from spilling them.

"So you started using?"

"I promise it isn't as bad as you think."

"It's heroin. You're meant to be in peak mental capacity—did we even lock up out there or did you lose control of the ship?"

"I would never endanger you, Michelle. I was sober that race, and every race before that. I swear to you. I've even tried to quit, many many times, but—"

"You need help," Michelle says softly. A statement with no judgment, and Connor actually agrees.

"I do," he says, "and I promise you I will get it. I'm so so sorry."

They hug, and Ben wants to puke. He could be lying, everyone always lies when they say they'll get help. Michelle is a deer being lured into the maw of a wolf, but she'll kill him if he so much as suggests that.

Then Connor looks up, remembering Ben is still in the room.

"I have no clue where your friend went, and I hope he is okay, but I didn't see him after last night and for the record, it is none of your business what Jay would think of me. You know nothing about her."

"I know she'd want you to be better."

In Connor, he sees a woman with a sharp jawline and a tattoo of an anchor on her arm, who signed her name with just her first initial, and could bench half the crew. There's that funny feeling, grief. She has her fathers eyes, and the longer Ben looks the longer he thinks it's not Connor staring at him.

"If you didn't see Adam today, then where did he go?" Michelle asks.

Most people have gathered downstairs at this hour. Light shines in through the lobby windows, the open space a hustle and bustle of regular business. Ben makes himself small and unassuming as Michelle guides them out front. Palm trees dance in a slight wind, Ben fans himself using his shirt. With Connor sufficiently spooked by an interrogation that brought them no closer to any answers, and Sam still just as MIA as Adam, frustration is too inoffensive a word to describe what Ben is feeling

How is that they could be wrong? Who else could have any reason to target Michelle? Nobody, right? It's got to be Connor, he's just good at acting innocent, preying on Michelle's idealistic desire to forgive and forget.

"If it isn't Connor, that means someone else is lying to me."

And Ben thought he was having a bad day. Michelle's unrelenting waterfall of enthusiasm has finally dammed up, they're both more than ready to end this—they thought they'd be ending it with Connor, and yet here they stand back at square one. He doesn't understand why Michelle would believe Connor, if it means she has to accept an arguably worse reality.

Ben runs his hands down his face while a group of pit crew shuffle past in full regalia. That jogs something in Michelle's memory, she gasps.

"Oskar!"

Waving down one of the group—a young man compared to the rest—she pulls a card from her pocket and hands it to him.

"You dropped this the other night."

Eager to stick his nose in, Ben leans over to see it's Oskars ID card.

"Last night?" He asks, beaming with relief and speaking in a thick Swedish accent, "I've been looking for this for days. Lost it just before the race, I thought it was gone for good, thank you so much, where was it?"

"It was on Lewis' yacht—what were doing there?"

Oskars brow furrows, he cocks his head to the side and pouts.

"I've never been on Lewis' yacht."

"Not even last night?"

"No…I was here with the boys—" he turns and waves to the group who reply with a rowdy wahey, "That's odd."

"Yeah," Micelle has suddenly taken on a sharp tone, "Odd."

While Oskar makes his leave, the interaction lingers. Ben supposes the both of them are forming a very similar line of thinking. If someone were to infiltrate the pit crew using Oskar's ID, they could tamper with the ship. If Oskar's ID was on Lewis' yacht, then the culprit was on that yacht as well. They exchange knowing looks—a new lead has just been handed to them.

Chapter Text

"Adam mentioned he ran into one of the pit crew," Ben flips a coin, it lands tails. He flips it again, heads. 

"He mentioned a lot—but if Oskar lost his ID the day before the race then that means someone may have tampered with my ship."

"Which means we'd be approaching beyond reasonable doubt territory."

 Ben should've listened, he should've been the one with Michelle, Adam should be safe, he deserves to be safe.

"He was right I'm—" Projecting? Defensive? Guilt-ridden? Wanting an excuse to believe that somehow Connor deserved to lose Jay to assuage his conscience?

"I'm an idiot, I should've listened."

Motivation is wearing thin again, it's hard to pick himself up when the clock is ticking and demanding immediate attention. If Adam isn't dead yet, he could be at any second. Dead because Ben was too stubborn, because he was too much of an ass to see that Adam had a point. Maybe he's destined to kill everyone he loves. Maybe his own life and luck are at the expense of the people around him. What a sham.

"It's not your fault," Michelle says.

If only that could be true about everything in Ben's life. Then maybe he'd be happy.  

"Let's just go."

The faster they do this, the more likely they are to find Adam alive. If he owes Adam one thing, it's that he'll suck it up and put off his breakdown until after they've rescued him—or his dead body.

Sneaking onto Lewis' yacht isn't as difficult as Ben initially assumed. It's parked just outside the Al-Arab on their private docks, which means the only people around are the staff who already know Michelle. They avoid being seen regardless, just to mitigate any unnecessary risks, but that isn't hard either. Yachts, as it turns out, are not the hotel's biggest priority. What does quickly become an issue, is that all the doors are locked.

"Damn," Ben hisses, jostling the door to the bedroom. From up on the third floor deck, he has a good vantage point of everything below him. A sprawling artificial peninsula clad in pools, hot tubs, sunbathing areas, and dotted in palm trees. There's a slight breeze today, a welcome break from the summer air, as humid as it may be. Ben's hair curls and scrunches up at the moisture, he's had better days. 

"Here let me at it," Michelle pushes Ben aside, "Keep watch for me."

Gladly, Ben peers over the railing, every now and again his curiosity has him glancing to Michelle who has knelt in front of the door and pulled out a few bobby pins from her pocket. She bends them to shape, and slips them into the lock. 

"I always thought that was just a movie thing," he says.

"Not if you know how to finesse it."

"You'll have to teach me."

"I don't know if I want to give you that sort of power," She smiles, "Your reputation proceeds you."

"Damn, I was hoping to break into the bathroom while Adam's showering."

Michelle snorts a laugh of surprise, then the lock clicks, and the door falls open. She gives a very formal bow and allows Ben to enter ahead of her. 

Once the lights click on, the room hits Ben in the face with unimaginable pompous bullshit. Seriously, the wall sconces, the wooden floors, the queen sized bed and fine wooden side tables. A cabinet of holding many bottles of top shelf alcohol.

"So you and Adam," Michelle says, shutting the door behind them. While Ben starts by searching the bedside drawers, Michelle is taking a look in the bathroom. Atop one is a copy of Poe's The Gold-bug and The 48 Laws of Power. God, this guy is gross, Ben shudders.

"What about us?"

"He is very insistent that you aren't dating."

"Because we aren't," Ben purses his lips. He's never met a person as sexually repressed as Adam, besides perhaps Sam, though he's sure with how quiet that man is he's got to have some wild perversions. Every quiet guy Ben's ever hooked up with has been, for lack of a better word, fucking crazy. If Ben were more Freudian, he might try to psychoanalyze it. That's too much work, he'll just enjoy getting fucked in unique and interesting ways. 

"Do you want to be?" Michelle peeks out from the bathroom. 

"Nothing in the bedsides."

"You flirt with him a lot."

"I flirt with everyone a lot," Ben shrugs, slamming the last drawer shut. He eyes the alcohol cabinet, willing himself not to steal any.

"Why would someone wear brown contacts if they have brown eyes?" Michelle asks, holding up a used box on contact lenses. Ben saunters over, and grabs the box. Curious.

"You're sure Lewis has brown eyes?"

"Yeah, he always has."

Ben holds the box up and points at it, it takes a second but Michelle's mouth forms an oh.

"Better question is why would he want to change the color of his eyes?"

"Vanity?" Michelle shrugs, "He can be obsessive about his appearance, he dyes his hair because he can't stand being called gray."

She turns and grabs the box of  black hair dye sitting above the sink.

"So you're telling me his eyes and hair are both completely different colors from what they actually are?"

"When you put it like that it sounds weird."

"It sound like he's trying to hide his identity. Badly," Ben looks at the hair dye. It's expensive stuff, high quality. It gives him a little hope that if this is an attempt at a cover up, it's a pretty brainless one. That, and Ben is missing the essential details of what identity Lewis may be trying to hide. More puzzle pieces yet to be found, they leave the bathroom alone.

"Can you check under the bed for me?" Ben asks. Michelle slides down, resting her head of the floor and titling to get a look beneath. 

"You don't flirt with Sam," She says, returning to that conversation.

"Because it's not fun, he never gives a reaction."

"You gotta try harder then—I'm not seeing anything," She sits up, "You also haven't flirted with me."

"You're a lesbian."

Michelle is clearly about to ask how he knows that, so Ben stays a step ahead as he moves to check the liquor. 

"It's the vibes, I don't know what to say."

He stops as the floor beneath him creaks. So far, the floors had been dead quiet, it is only this spot in the center of the room, that makes a noise. Ben steps off, then back on, and again it creaks under his weight. That's funny.

"How can someone have lesbian vibes?" Michelle asks, "I mean, you're right, but I need to know."

"You just do," Ben says, humming and cocking his head, "This floor is weird."

"Weird how?"

Ben taps his cane. It makes a muffled thunk, then he taps it upon the section that's been creaking. This time, he's met with a reverberation, a lighter, hollower sound. He raises an eyebrow at Michelle, who picks up exactly what he's putting down and slides over to see if she can open up the floor.

It's tricky, there are no visible seams, no handle to grab onto, but as she runs her hand across trying to find a latch, her nails catch on the slightest offset ledge. She digs in and with little effort manages to pry up a panel of the floor. 

"Well that's not suspicious at all," Ben peers in. It's shallow, just big enough to hold what lies inside—a notebook. Leather bound, black, it's pages white and sticking out at odd ends. 

Michelle pulls it out, examining it with medical precision. She flips open to a random page, and Ben peers over her shoulder. Inside, are rows and rows of nonsense numbers and symbols, the only clear thing are dollar amounts. It almost appears to be a spreadsheet, but half the columns are key-smashes. 

"Why would he hide this—what even is this?" Michelle asks.

"Might be transactions."

"But for what? All of our teams accounting is done in office."

"I don't think this is for your team," Ben leans down and snatches the book, paging through. The cash amounts average in the thousands. One dogeared page, though, marks the largest number Ben's seen in the book. Millions came from a source named… )?*16)4. It's even highlighted in orange, dated some time around two years ago. There's another, identical record a year later. He shows Michelle.

"Any of this mean anything to you?"

"No…wait, that first one is a month after Jay died, then the second one is, I think, a month after I picked up that weird phone call."

"Looks like Lewis might've been raking in some money under the radar."

"But why?" Michelle asks, snapping a few photos of the pages, "He's got a good job, he gets paid a lot to manage the team."

"I don't know," Ben chews his lip, none of this spells anything good. Best not stick around for longer than needed, "Maybe he's been using your team as a front."

The pale look on Michelle's face is haunting.

"Oh god, Sam asked me how Lewis could afford a party like that the other night. I just assumed it was all revenue from the races."

"Speaking of Sam," Ben checks his phone, it's past mid day now, and still no sign of him, "Why don't we head back to The Pelican and see if he's home yet."

Adam awakens in darkness, to the feeling of someone breathing beside him and metal tugging at his wrist. Shortly after, his memories return to him. When he'd been found out, they'd dosed him with some sort of sedative, shoved the barrel of a gun into the small of his back, and guided him into the trunk of a car, where finally he'd lost consciousness. 

 Between then and now is a black box—Adam couldn't tell you where he is or who is with him or even how long it's been, though that he's feeling well rested is a hint. Perhaps he should be more concerned about how the only good nights sleep he can get is forcefully and with unknown chemicals, but there are bigger fish to fry now.

Sight is out of the question, so he begins by assessing, with care, what he can feel. Firstly, only one of his wrists is bound, and though he's never been arrested—knock on wood—the thin metal that sits loose upon his right arm feels distinctly like handcuffs. The other end of which must be connected to something—or someone. As he'd first determined upon his wake, he's not alone in here, and his cuffed hand happens to be on the same side that other person is leaning against. Adam reaches over with his free arm to feel around, only for the other person to startle.

"Shit—who—you're awake, Chase?"

"Denby?"

Fuck. As Denby adjusts himself, the cuff on Adam shifts, confirming his theory. Still, he must ask.

"Are we handcuffed together?" 

"It would appear that's the case."

To demonstrate, Denby raises his arm—Adam knows this because his arm raises with it, pulled along for the ride.

"How long have you been awake?" Adam asks. Hopefully Denby has more of a clue as to their whereabouts then Adam does—before Denby can answer though, another question enters his mind which may be more important, "Where's Ben?"

"Ben was asleep last I checked. He's fine."

"But you were both—"

"—I went on a run, that's how they got me. They pulled up and put me in the back seat of their car, then jabbed something in my neck. Ben stayed behind, I don't think they even know he exists."

A breath of relief. Even if they're trapped here, at least Ben is safe and hopefully by tomorrow he and Michelle will realize something is awry. Maybe it already is tomorrow. Maybe they're already halfway to being rescued. Returning to Adam's original question, Denby continues.

"I've only been awake an hour I think, I've been counting in my head."

"It's not Connor," Adam lets out a cynical chuckle, "We were wrong."

"It's Lewis—I highly doubt that's his real name anymore, though."

"Who?"

"Her manager. One of the guys who took me was her manager. Shorter, black hair—"

"His name is Art," Adam recalls, "The other one is Eoin."

"As in Art and Eoin Teagen?" 

Denby's voice raises an octave, it's the most taken aback Adam has ever head him be. Adam had only known the surname Teagan as a whole, as the entity known as the Teagan family. His heart leaps into his throat—so his absurd shot in the dark suggestion was right?

"I fucking told you so."

"Yeah, yeah, great. Now we've been disappeared by the mob, you're the best."

"It's not my fault! You think this is my fault?"

"I'm just saying, be more happy about it."

"I cannot believe you're arguing with me right now."

"I'm not arguing, you're arguing."

Adam takes a deep breath, and resists the urge to strangle his boss. If they're going to get anywhere, they need to collaborate. After all, they are physically bound together. Wherever Adam goes, Denby goes, and vice versa.

"Where are we?" He asks, hoping to take his mind off it for now.

"I don't know."

"Maybe we should try to figure that out."

His mind remains foggy from whatever they injected him with, a head high that's taking it's time, but that isn't going to stop Adam from investigating. He runs his hand along the wall. It's cool to the touch, corrugated and firm, occasionally he'll feel a seam that's uneven, thick and oddly smooth.

"I think it's metal," Adam says, if he's going to figure this out, it can't hurt to involve Denby, "We should walk around."

"We can't see."

"So we stick close to the walls and take it slow, do you want to escape or not?"

Denby responds with an uninterpretable grunt—it's not a no. Adam slides up, supporting himself with the wall until he's standing, and Denby follows. It's a little awkward, Denby being taller, Adam's arm can't rest properly, and the cuffs aren't exactly long. They're practically holding hands.

"You alright?" Denby asks.

Adam is dizzy, and nauseous, and his heart is racing out of his chest. His hair is caked in sweat that adheres it to his forehead, his hands are clammy and shaky—though Denby is most likely aware of that. 

"Fine," Adam responds and takes one step ahead. He keeps count of his paces, however slow they may be. Even if he had a ruler he wouldn't be able to see it, this is second best. At first, walking when tethered to another person is about as cumbrous as it sounds. They stumble about some, Denby's long legs and Adam's pace mean there's a delay between when he tugs forward, and when Denby follows. Eventually they find a rhythm. Adam gives the cuffs a jostle to let Denby know to prepare, then he takes a step ahead and Denby does the same, syncing in time, acting as one. 

Adam's hand finally finds the far wall, marking them having walked the length of the space. Nothing obstructed their path, and the walls remained the same throughout.

"Twenty steps," Adam says, "It takes twenty steps to get from one end to the other."

Next, Adam moves to the side, measuring the width. It doesn't take nearly as long and as he does, he notes this wall has changed. There are ledges, and what seem to be rivets—and lots of seams. A few of which let in a gentle flow of air, even so they are too thin to see out of. It feels to be over engineered comparatively, and it's marginally shorter as well. 

"Four steps."

"Wait," Denby whispers. At first Adam wants to ask what he's noticed but he hears it himself fairly fast. The cooing of birds, whipping wind and waves, and clattering metal. Some footsteps, some distant voices. There are people outside, and creeping through is the subtle odor of oil, gasoline, and a mix of salt and rust. 

"Chase," Denby speaks again.

"Yeah?"

"I think we're in a shipping container."

It is so fucking over.

Chapter Text

"There almost certainly has to be a way out of here."

"There isn't."

"Why would they design it without an escape hatch, that's wild. What if someone gets stuck?"

"Like us?"

"Well, technically we got trapped, but the point does stand."

Adam has been having this argument since Denby had his revelation about their predicament. They've gotten nowhere with it, but Adam is physically incapable of shutting up. Especially when he's nervous—and boy does he have every reason to be nervous right now.

"Are we going to run out of air?" He asks.

"No. You felt air flow through the door."

"Alright, what if we try and break the locks?"

"And how would we do that?"

"I don't know, you're the one who knows about how shipping containers work."

Denby sighs and slumps down, which in turn drags Adam along. It's getting annoying being chained together like this. Adam can't even pace, instead he's resorted to occasionally knocking out a rhythm on the metal, or, when the conversation grows stale, humming a song. Neither of which Denby appreciates.

"Do you think Ben is looking for us?" Adam asks.

"I don't know."

"Will you please talk to me? I feel like I'm going crazy."

"I am talking to you. I've been talking to you for an hour and a half."

"How do you know it's been an hour and a half?"

"Educated guess."

To Adam, it's been days. Everything moves so slow when you've nothing to do but wait. The longer it goes on the more antsy Adam gets. His legs itch and ache, his body vibrating with the desire to get up and try and kick the door open. Akin to a shark with obligate ram ventilation, he has to keep moving.

"He better find us soon or I might die of boredom," Adam says. It's only half a joke, and Denby chuckles half amused. There is a chance, and a good one at that, that they aren't leaving alive. Both of them are well aware of this reality. Wherever they are it's safe to say, if nobody comes to let them out, they'll starve, or die of dehydration in due time.

At least they can be sure they're still on dry land, neither could feel the world shift in such a way that would suggest they're being shipped anywhere…yet. They must be at port, which means there's still a chance someone could find them. The second they're buried between piles and piles of containers headed god knows where, those chances dwindle.

"I was supposed to be keeping you safe," Denby says. His voice barely above a whisper. Adam could respond any number of ways, but he holds his tongue, unsure of where this is going to go.

"An old friend used to say I was trouble. Like I was some sort of omen, things always get complicated when I'm around."

"I'm gonna be honest, that sounds like a pretty shitty thing to say—"

"—he was right," Denby leans against Adam, the first sort of physical affection that hasn't been dragged from him kicking and screaming. Adam freezes, a deer in the headlights, afraid that if he moves Denby will come to his senses, "I would get into all sorts of trouble."

"Like getting banned from Singapore?"

"That was…okay yes but that one was total bullshit I did nothing wrong."

The weight upon Adam is comforting, it reminds him of the weighted blanket he had in his dorm. Only, Denby is warm and his breathing is a gentle reminder that Adam isn't completely alone. He can only imagine how hellish this would be without another person here.

"It's sucks too, you still have a degree to finish."

Adam sighs. Honestly, given the circumstances, now might be the time to come clean. He might not have another opportunity.

"Actually, about that," Adam sucks in a deep breath, Denby's eyes are on him, cutting through the darkness. It's not like he's going to survive to see the consequences of it, he's just leaving off with a bit of much needed honesty, "I've been lying to you."

"What about?"

Adam bites his lip. What if they do escape? What then? Will Adam get kicked off the ship? Left to fend for himself? Will Denby hate him, lose trust in him? Will Adam be able to live with himself, he's already let enough people down. Even if it means keeping up the act, he can still retain what respect Denby has for him. God knows Adam hasn't earned it otherwise.

"Chase? What is it?"

The more he hesitates, the harder it gets. The band aid just needs to be ripped off.

"I dropped out."

Sam, as expected, is not on The Pelican. By the time they arrive, Ben is certain whoever took Adam must've somehow gotten their hands on his captain as well. That is his fate, isn't it? To perpetually find people to love, only to have them ripped from his grasp in violent fashion. He's known them not for long, but Maeve, as always, had been right. The second Ben took off from New York he'd started to laugh and smile as if it were nothing. It didn't solve every issue he'd had, but it was better than being holed up in that shitty apartment.

He forgot, after all that time hiding away, exactly what freedom felt like. Now, once he's begun to let his guard down, the universe had to get one over on him. Humble him, remind him that he doesn't deserve to be happy. Not after all he's done.

"Ben?" Michelle sets a cup of tea in front of him. He'd rather take a swig from his private stash, but getting drunk will have to wait until he's standing over someones corpse, be it that of his friends or that of the people who took them. He will not rest.

She sits across from him, folding her hands, a grimace of concern on her face. Whatever question she has on her mind may as well be thrown out the window, Ben is on a warpath and he isn't going to let anything else distract him. All he needs to know is where Sam and Adam might be. They're still ages away from any answers. It's not as if Michelle would know where Lewis goes to do all his elicit things, especially considering she didn't even know about them until half an hour ago.

Ben slams his fist on the table and relishes in the sting it leaves behind.

"Motherfucker."

"Ben, I think maybe we need to—"

"—what we need to do is find my fucking friends. There's only so many places in the world. How the fuck can't we figure this out?"

"I could call some people, see if they've run into Lewis today."

"How long will that take?"

Too long, is the answer. It is infinitely unfair that Ben can't simply know exactly where Adam is at all times. Michelle shrugs.

"Do you have any better ideas?"

"I don't know," Ben drops his head, "I don't—I can't do this, not again."

His voice is meager, hushed, trying not to show Michelle just how much of a mess this is turning him into. He's supposed to keep it together, for Adam and Sam, apparently he can't manage something as simple as that. It's Michelle that snaps him out of it. Her hand lands itself upon Ben's, rubbing circles with her thumb. A move that is confusing enough, it pauses all the panic in his brain, to ask why?

She's staring at him. Afraid, no, terrified, yet attempting to assure him nonetheless. She is no more prepared or confident than Ben is, it's her first time here—some place flooded with uncertainty and mourning. There is a map carved into Ben's skin, a messy map, but it is there. For Michelle, she is walking in blind, and it shows. That's enough of a kick to snap Ben out of his heartache, and back into action.

"Go call people."

"Are you sure?" She asks.

"Yeah, I don't have anything else."

"Shame I didn't put a tracker on Lewis."

"A tracker," Ben shoots up. All the connections click into place, he tears out his phone and opens the app store, "Never have I been more thankful for Strava."

"Why are you downloading Strava?"

"Because you might not have a tracker on your boss," Ben says as he races through creating an account, "But my boss put a tracker on himself."

"He tracks his runs?"

"Bingo," Ben tosses the phone center table, revealing the most recent of Sam's runs. Uploaded early morning with the caption 'brb'. Michelle gawks, disbelief pushing out a sharp laugh.

"Samuel Denby you are the first person in the universe to Strava your kidnapping."

"Looks like the tracker cuts off around Jebel Ali port."

It's not much, and still leaves a lot of room for interpretation, but it is accessible by boat, and it's faster than calling people. Ben leaps up, knowing exactly what must be done. He detours to unmoor The Pelican from it's cleat, tossing the hawser aside in a messy pile, before he sprints upstairs.

It's been ages since he's taken the reigns on a ship. Not a sailboat or a motorboat, but a proper ship. One with a cushy captains chair, and a million buttons and switches that require very specific familiarity to operate.

"We can't just go sailing in there guns blazing," Michelle bursts into the wheelhouse after him, "We don't even have guns to blaze."

Ben reaches into his memories and drags out every time he's seen Denby behind the wheel. They're fuzzy, but he traces the hand motions as best he can, starting the ignition, key still dangling in place, and kicking the motors on to neutral. The world shakes to life, headlights flicker on, everything just as Sam had left it.

It's unsettling, seeing the world from where Sam's meant to be. Unsettling to place his hands on the cold metal of the wheel, unsettling to only know half of what he's doing—he's never piloted a half-tug half-trawler before. The z drive is entirely novel to him.

If he weren't fueled by spite and determination he'd be frozen in place.

"What even is you plan here?" Michelle asks.

"Not a fucking clue."

He kicks into forward gear and ahead to Jebel Ali.

Chapter Text

Footsteps echo off the metal balcony bordering accommodation. A cargo ship the likes of this is a monster that swallows all other ships in Jebel Ali alive—save the icebreaker just down the way. Eoin is not one who understands nautical things but even he can appreciate the beauty in such power. He leans against the railing and stares out over port. Another thing he can love about this, the vantage point is to die for.

"Magnificent evening, isn't it?" says an American man who approaches on his left. His blond hair is trimmed to just above his ears, messy but with intention. He's dressed in a worn shirt, jeans, and a leather jacket, a pair of old red converse that are falling apart at the seams—a cosplay of modesty only exposed by the million dollar watch hugging his wrist.

Youth is plastered upon his face, not a blemish or bump in sight. It is infuriating that this man—this kid—is in charge of him.

"You should wear more suits," Eoin says.

"Did I ask for fashion advice?"

Eoin wipes contempt from his face. This is not what he's here to talk about.

"Has the deal been done yet?" asks the kid—which is only how Eoin shall refer to him, he hasn't earned his fathers namesake by any stretch of the imagination.

"Not yet, no. But soon."

"Not yet? I'm getting impatient, Eoin."

"My idiot brother was the one who kept messing it up, I've dealt with it now. Connor and Khare should be dead come morning," Eoin says. What he doesn't say is that he'd give anything to be free of this dreadful deal. It's dragged on long enough, perhaps only to the benefit of one buffoon he unfortunately shares blood with. Art has been sent to help their mum pack up their latest shipment, which leaves him to handle the issue of Connor. That is as simple as shoving amphetamines down his throat, nothing one of his lackeys can't do—it's astonishing his brother had so much trouble. Probably drawing out an excuse to keep playing manager, living a lavish rock-star life instead of actually supporting his family.

"It's alright. I forgive you," the kid says, with unearned audacity, "I understand what it's like, having to clean up your brothers messes."

That is curious. Eoin raises an eyebrow, and examines the kid who shows little emotion on his face.

"I never knew you had a brother."

"I don't anymore," the kid looks him in the eye. Sharp blue meeting sharp blue. Eoin shudders. There is no remorse or grief or any sign that he's at all torn up by that statement. Eoin doesn't apologize, he isn't sorry and the kid has never been one for sentimentality. Pure business—which Eoin can at least respect if he were going about it with any maturity.

"I'm only asking because my father is very particular. He doesn't like being made a fool of—and he's been feeling as if that is all you people have done," the kid says.

"I can assure you that will end tonight, send your father my apologies for the delays."

The kid smiles at him, though it doesn't hit his eyes, and reeks of mint so bitter it burns the nose. There's more on his mind, Eoin can tell.

"You know, a little birdy told me," the kid pinches his fingers together and scrunches up his eyes, "That you've had some interference from…third parties."

Damnit, whoever ratted to the kid, Eoin has a few words and a brass knuckle for them. He tenses up, gripping the railing.

"That's been dealt with as well," Eoin fished through his pockets and hands the kid a paper, on it, the number for his 'gift', "Do what you want with them, throw them into the middle of the Atlantic for all I care."

The kid's face lightens, he glances from the paper, to the shipping containers below.

"This is why I like you Eoin, you're efficient. Self-motivated—"

"—I'm not a nitwit."

"That too," the kid chuckles, "I'll let my father know it's a done deal—and if it isn't…"

The glare Eoin receives is one that could kill. It is one that has killed. One that is at the foot of a bloodline defined by atrocity and greed. Slow, meticulous, he takes the piece of paper Eoin handed him, and rips it in half, glare transitioning into a sick grin.

"Ouch."

Eoin doesn't have to ask twice what that means.

Far beneath the shadow of that cargo ship, wrought in iron and marked with the visage of a sunfish, the waves swirl and guide tides in and out, cresting in white noise. The sun is passing downwards, shadows of cranes and industrial equipment stark and long, a clear sky turning shades of orange and gold, a soft, warm glow.

Upon those waves, The Pelican sputters ahead. It weaves as best it can to avoid being spotted upon it's approach to Jebel Ali. Ben grips the wheel tight, turning it while Michelle clings to the seat just behind his shoulders.

"Oh god, what are they doing here?" Ben says, growling. Seeing that logo staring down at them, he wants to throw up. A wretched thing filled with screams and blood and the ice cold water filling his lungs.

Ben turns away, if he looks any longer he'll get lost in the memories. As if it weren't already impossible to stay in a right state of mind. Just focus on getting them to a place where they can moor up, that's all that matters, not Sunfish, not anything else.

Yet all these ships, so much bigger than them, so much hungrier. Ben avoids steering in front of any of them, he avoids steering behind them too. He keeps his distance entirely, though now as they grow closer that's become difficult to do.

It's fine. He's fine. He's not shaking, that's just the motors. He's not imagining one of them suddenly turning it's engines on and pulling out to cleave them in half just like—

No. That can't happen. That won't happen. He. Is. Fine.

"What so we do once we dock?" Michelle asks. It's a welcome distraction.

"Not get seen."

"Yes, obviously that, but how are we going to find Sam and Adam?"

Ben turns through a narrow crevice between ships, beneath the shadow of an icebreaker, just large enough to allow them passage closer to the docks, but in a quiet area without any staff to see them.

"If you were an evil, irredeemable kidnapper where would you put your victims?"

Michelle looks out the window and then hums.

"Shipping container?"

"After I graduated with my bachelors in political science, I did this internship for some local politicians," Adam says. Post-confession, the silence has been deafening. At least he doesn't have to see the disappointment on Denby's face, though it's only right that he explains himself, "I was still doing mock trial, and I was an advisor to incoming students so that I had that extra bit of cash. Turns out when you take on that many responsibilities, you don't get much time to yourself."

He waits, hoping Denby is going to say something. Anything. A reassurance or better yet, telling Adam to fuck off. He hates sitting like this, waiting for the shot to come. Tasting the hatred and betrayal festering, waiting, anticipating Denby to lash out. Adam's shoulders are up to his ears. His heart fluttering.

"I couldn't take it anymore. I hit this wall and—" he sniffs to clear his nose, eyes starting to sting, "The internship was draining me, I had to watch people talk about their constituents like they were cattle, I mean, that wasn't what I signed up for. So I quit. I didn't tell anyone except Maeve and she was so sweet about it, I didn't deserve her."

Deep breaths. Crying in front of Denby now is truly pathetic, he's earned no sympathies. A moan escapes, not the fun kind, his voice cracks as he transitions into a bitter chuckle and rubs his face with his free hand.

"I was getting more and more disillusioned. I realized the thing I thought I wanted to do my whole life fucking sucked, I'd quit something for the first time ever, and I'd been working myself to the bone for as long as I can remember. Some days it felt like I was a fucking zombie, just going through the motions. So to keep my parents happy I joined a masters program, I hoped maybe that would be my saving grace, that I could pull myself back from the edge by doing something so radically different."

"But it wasn't that different, was it." Denby says, it is phrased as a question, but spoken as a statement.

"No," Adam chokes on his tears, so much for trying to stay calm, "I was using it as this buffer, if I'm still in school then I can fumble around and not get my shit together, I could use it as an excuse, but even then, I failed. I mean, I just…crashed. I woke up one morning and my body refused to work. I couldn't get up, I couldn't even move. I stayed in bed all day and then the next, and finally when I managed to get up, I just couldn't bring myself to care anymore."

It's such a painful time in his life, all his friends from undergrad had moved on. His friends in postgrad were different, they were adults with their own lives and goals, and he was a lost child wandering around blind. He used to be something special, and that is the worst thing of all. Looking back, seeing all the great potential he had, how many people believed he could be something great, and then seeing how he threw it all away. Failure, in fact, is not a strong enough word to describe himself.

"I barely spoke to my parents by then," He says, "For other reasons, I mean, that's a whole different story, but I didn't have anyone to stop me. Anyone to talk me down or tell me to suck it up and get over myself. So I—I spent a week holed up in my apartment, didn't go outside, didn't talk to anyone. I let myself get fired from my job for not showing up, I watched passively as my entire life crumbled around me—and then I dropped out."

He laughs and wipes the tears from his eyes.

"Then I saw the ads for the at-sea program, and I figured, fuck it. You know? I ran into Maeve, she was giving a talk on campus, and we went out for drinks and I told her everything. She thought I was fucking crazy, but months later I get that call from you and—I didn't want to face up to what I'd done. I wanted to run away and maybe in six months I'd be brave enough to tell my parents. Fuck, I might not even get to do that now. They're going to find out I'm a failure in the same breath they read my fucking obituary."

He waits, holding his breath for Denby to say something. For Denby to plunge in the knife. It is unbearable, torturous to sit in that quiet, which now surely harbors resentment. Adam is suffocating, he curls into a ball, the gentle tug of the handcuff reminding him he has no escape, and that soon none of this will matter anyways.

"Wait, what about the equipment?"Denby asks. That's it? That's what he's focusing on? Adam clenches his jaw, is this a set up? Is Denby trying to call his bluff

"Found someone reselling a bunch of gear for cheap on Ebay, and I borrowed a friend's diving stuff. I was afraid you'd think it was suspicious if I came with nothing but clothes," Adam says, sputtering, "Why are you worried about that? Don't you hate me?"

That's when he feels a touch. At first a squeeze on the shoulder, then Denby leaning into him. An awkward attempt at a hug given their position.

"What're you—"

"Don't talk."

"Sorry."

"That's talking."

They remain there, Adam attempting desperately to remove the barbed wire from around his throat, Denby doing something that, god forbid, almost feels as if he's comforting him. It's not quite perfect, but does it need to be?

After a while in which Adam is prepared for some sort of twist, Denby finally speaks.

"You're still signed to the contact."

"What?"

"The contract—once we get out of here, you still have five months left," Denby wraps his chained hand around Adam's, giving a firm squeeze, "You aren't escaping me that easy."