Archive of Our Own ^beta

A malodorous reek oozes through the holes of Killer's mask, choking him with the inescapable stench of rot. Scarlet sludge clings to his legs, deposited by waves that wash past him on their way to some beach he cannot find.

---

Killer wakes with a flinch.

"Shit- Were you asleep out here?" Kid asks, looking as surprised as Killer feels.

The sun-warmed boards at Killer's back have cooled as the shadow of the Victoria's jaws creep toward the rail from which Kid gawks at him, but the captain of the ship doesn't seem to notice the immense teeth that reach for him.

"I guess I was," Killer mutters, scratching at his arm distractedly.

"What the fuck for?"

A scowl cuts the angles of Kid's face even sharper than usual.

"I'm fine, Kid," Killer grouches, annoyed that Kid intends to make a big deal out of discovering his first mate having a nap. "Been having weird dreams, that's all."

After a moment Kid seems to accept that, but instead of leaving Kid sits down next to Killer, the coarse fur of his coat brushing against the web of scars on Killer's arm. Dragging his fingers over the warped skin again doesn't help; in the wake of the dream, the itch always remains untouchable.

The smell of that scarlet fur envelopes Killer as though it has been thrown over his own shoulders, and he breathes deep to savour the reward. Metal, of course—but acrid, like cold steel overworked. Leather, well-broken and sweat-stained. And lipstick, aromatic and immaculate. Each a fragment of Kid's domineering presence, but weak compared to the man who wears them all.

Kid's voice rumbles next to Killer.

"Yesterday I dreamed that Heat shaved his hair and nobody recognized him until it grew back."

"That's pretty stupid."

"Of course it's fucking stupid," Kid scoffs. "Last week it was pickle spiders. So what's eating you?"

Killer clenches his teeth, throttling the chuckle that threatens to rear its ugly head.

"I've been dreaming about an algae bloom," he answers eventually.

"That's only weird because it's so boring."

"Shut up. Every night is the same—I'm surrounded by red water, and even after I wake up I feel… wrong."

Killer feels his captain look over, and realizes he's rubbing his arm again. He stops.

"Don't look at me like that. It's just a stupid dream."

"There's nothing wrong with you, Killer."

"I said I'm fine, Kid."

The expression on Kid's face is familiar, although not comforting. Mulish stubbornness, like he knows Killer well enough to know how true that really is. Which he does.

"Say that like you believe it."

Killer sighs.

"You know I would have, if I could."

***

The cliffs that divide the seas rise so high and steep that Killer can't see the top even as the rocks start tumbling down. Red silt swirls around his waist with each tremendous splash, the displaced water sucking and heaving as if to drag him below the surface.

---

Killer lurches upright, breathing hard.

As his shoulders begin to shake with that horrible mirth he hates so much, Killer's face sinks into his hands.

"Fuck... fuck—" he mutters.

Though dawn is hours away, sleep will not have him back now. Rising from his bed, Killer moves toward the familiar thrum of music down the hall; a moth to irresistible flame.

The door to the captain's quarters has been left ajar, revealing the scene of chaos within. Tools, scratchings, scrap metal… and the captain himself, engrossed in a project with his back to the door. Killer lingers, watching him draw tools to hand without sparing the effort of reaching for them. Kid has never had any trouble with focus. He doesn't seem to know how to half-ass anything: it's whole-ass or nothing, total obsession or no interest whatsoever, in a way that Killer envies at times. But from the doorway, he can't see what Kid is working on.

"Hey partner," Kid grunts without looking up, "I need that gasket on the floor over there."

Looking down, Killer locates a tiny black ring on the floorboards. He slinks into the room to retrieve it.

"What are you doing screwing around with rubber? This isn't like you, Kid."

"Fuck off," Kid growls. "I know—that's why I'm glad you're here."

As he leans against the workbench, Killer begins to grasp what he's looking at. Polished plates of steel exactly imitate the muscle structure that has wrought them, and only the palm is still flayed open to expose its intricate workings. The beauty of the craftsmanship is diminished only by the haunting memory of why it is necessary at all.

"Do you miss it?" Killer asks, glancing away from the lifeless arm when the arc flashes across his captain's face.

With all the mania that has smote fear unto his enemies and yet endears him to his friends, Kid grins.

"Never. I'm better off this way."

When Killer stays to watch the work, Kid asks, "That same dream again?"

"No…" Killer admits. "The water's getting deeper."

Kid pulls his goggles up, and as those amber eyes lock onto his, an awful smile cracks Killer's face. He should know by now that trying to hide his shame only makes it worse, but he buries it behind a hand anyway, regretting having left his helmet behind. And then Kid's hand is on Killer's forearm; his grip lending steadfastness in the storm, as an anchor to a ship.

"We're the same," he says. "I can't swim either."

"I don't want to talk about it."

Kid merely shrugs, and returns to his project.

"Do you regret it?"

"I'd do it all again,” Killer says, without hesitation.

***

The water is warm and the crimson waves have calmed, but the cloying fetor of iron fills Killer's lungs and the pressure on his ribs is undeniable. A creaking carcass drifts offshore, and Killer doesn't need to see the sail to know the Victoria. Silent and still, the vessel is half-sunk with its jaws raised in a wordless cry of anguish.

---

Surfacing from the dream leaves Killer gasping, as though there is no air within his chest at all.

Sick and sticky with sweat, Killer flings himself outside where the cool night can sting his face and the solid boards of the deck might soothe his rampant dread. In flagrant disregard of the solemn hour, the ship is neither desolate nor deserted; irreverent to its portrayal in oblivion. Seeking solace in solitude, Killer retreats to the galley.

Eventually, a thump at the counter signals a seemingly inevitable arrival—but they do not speak until two plates are heaped with steaming noodles.

"If I'd known you were hungry," Killer says, "I would have made pickle spiders."

"They should call you Killer the Clown," Kid growls.

When their plates are empty, along with a bottle or two, Kid crosses his arms on the tabletop and leans forward. Killer observes that he's wearing the new arm, and although it is proportioned perfectly to match its counterpart, it seems small and delicate. Almost like porcelain, instead of steel. Fragile, instead of strong.

The captain asks, "What are you afraid of, Killer?"

A boorish question, which gets under Killer's skin. It was meant to, of course. But ostracizing the dreams has only made them more intrusive—a beast that stalks nearer each time he looks away—as though Killer could possibly fail to understand the threat in their meaning.

Killer knows how much blood a man can lose before he dies. It's in the name, the epithet, and the reputation. The problem is that Kid's blood has always run hot, and Killer remembers how it had poured through his fingers, feeling as though it were filling up his lungs instead.

"Drowning," he answers.

To which Kid says only, "Go deeper."

Killer could jest, but he knows what his partner means. It would be reasonable to fear the desperate struggle that burns the air in the lungs or the unfathomable, crushing abyss below the surface. But for him, it's never been about the water. So Killer takes a deep breath, and remembers how easy it is to breathe.

"I don't want to feel helpless again."

Kid scowls.

"You've always got my back, Killer. You've never given me reason to doubt that."

"Action is easy," Killer argues. "But when I can't do anything—"

Kid reaches across the table and seizes a fistful of Killer's shirt, bullying the rest of that anxious confession into silent submission. The gesture is not a kindness, but it might as well be. And as those forged fingers hold him tight, Killer is reminded how much weight they actually carry.

"Stop worrying about all the stupid shit you can't control. Whatever it is you think you're missing, I don't need it."

When he's released, Killer wonders if maybe that's true. They're both still breathing, after all.

"Are you ever afraid that won't be enough to save us?"

"Until the tide takes us both," Kid answers, "I have you. That's enough."