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[Laughter again, this time halfway to a growl, low and painful sounding. He pauses by her dressing table, focus caught by something shiny, but stops only for a second to pick it up, turn it over and toss it in the direction of the bed.]

Fuck her, you know? Just fuck...

[He hits the window - literally, palms of his hands thudding against the glass. That makes him wince, jolting the little splinters wedged into the back of his hand, but he shrugs it off to press his face against the glass too, finally able to see something in the glare of the streetlights below, even if it's only their orange glow reflecting glitter back off the sea-damp sandy beach.]

It was the same day as us.

[ everything slots into place. cassidy's stomach drops at the confirmation of jem's departure, but he hadn't known her nearly as well as freddie. it's probably for the best. one of them needs to have their head, for the sake of the squat and jem's remaining things. probably freddie's safety, too. in the faint light through the window, cassidy finally catches a glimpse of blood between freddie's fingers.

stepping closer, he nudges the lamp out of his path with his foot. the temptation to reach for freddie is there, but he ignores it and crosses his arms instead. he'd been quite warm in bed, and now that the excitement is over his long shirt is starting to feel drafty.

freddie's still not making much sense. a furrow appears on cassidy's brow. ]

How do you mean?

[Freddie presses his forehead to the glass, the heat of the alcohol trying to burn itself out through his skin. His speech is hard to follow, rhythms all off and words blurring into each other.]

You and me and Jem. We were all here on the same day.

[His fingers slide streaks down across the night sky. It's all steamed up in where Freddie's breath pools out, anyway. Nothing but fog, tonight.]

Then you fucked off. [The windowpane rattles as he makes a fist and raps hard to underline his point. Tries to turn, but his legs bow under him and he's left holding onto the sill with a sliding grip.] Then you...

And she...

[A breath - things are adding up suddenly. It's an exchange. He manages to twist enough to look at Cassidy - at least to try to find him in the dark. His mouth's pulled wide and sharp.]

So is it your fault, then?

[ following freddie's drunken logic would be a challenge in full daylight. following it in the early hours of the morning, shortly after being thrown from sleep, requires a nearly herculean effort.

it doesn't help that part of cassidy's attention is being diverted by tracking freddie's movements, making sure he doesn't do something sudden and overly reckless. after all, it would be a short trip from rapping hard on the window to putting a fist through it. he feels the windowpane's rattling in his teeth.

as freddie slips, cassidy starts forward and catches a hand around his bicep, hauling him back upright. not trusting him to keep himself standing with just the sill for purchase.

he frowns more. though he may not fully understand freddie's line of reasoning, he doesn't like the implication in those words. ]

Haul your wind, man. What is it you're saying? [ he tries to meet freddie's eyes in the dark. ] You think I'd aught to do with her leaving?

[No, not really, but a little voice with clearer speech than his own suggests to him that maybe fortune does. Luck. The door's revolved again and he's still here. Poor Freddie, stuck in a rut. He thinks to explain but the words clog up his throat like they'd choke him.]

She chose. [He knows that much. Though it's still an accusation, if leveled at the wrong person.] And you. And I – can't. I can't because fucking Lance is fucking dead and if I fuck off now then I'm the prick who killed him.

[Laughter hacks from his throat, dissolving into hissing giggles at the sheer fucking irony of it. Catching breath again, his attention's distracted by the hand - too tight - around his arm, and where its attached. His head dips almost helplessly to Cassidy's shoulder again, mouthing against the cotton of his shirt.]

Haul your wind. You talk some fucking nonsense.

[ he hesitates, then raises his free hand to the back of freddie's head. his fingers touch down on his hair, which has a faintly unwashed texture but is still softer than his own on a good day. he laughs, a thin breath that stirs a few fine blond strands. ]

Aye, but you enjoy it.

[ the sense in freddie's words is starting to pull together again. he knows the basic details surrounding lance and his murder, even if he didn't hear it from freddie directly. he knows it has to do with incentives and people leaving and, more importantly, people making a conscious choice to leave.

he could tell freddie that it didn't feel like a choice, at least not for him, but decides it wouldn't help the situation.

he has wondered, more than once, why freddie's still here. but he never really broached the topic, either because of cowardice or because he didn't think freddie would tell him even if he did ask. he doesn't ask now, either. instead, he says, ]

You're no killer, Freddie Baxter, no matter what it is you choose.

Yeah, keep humping my pillow and you'll find out.

[Head still bowed against Cass' shoulder, a series of little shivers give away the fact that he's laughing at his own joke, but when he tries to tip his head back to see Cassidy's reaction he manages to tip his whole body with it, legs going from under him again.]

Fuck.

[And even after that, he trusts Cassidy to catch him as he goes down flailing. But, whether or not he does, Freddie's returning to an old refrain:]

Just fuck her, you know? Fuck you. Everyone can just get fucked.

[No, he's not a killer. He's not a lot of things, but it's funny how responsibility gets warped. Too used to being let down, Freddie's always avoided letting down anyone else by never allowing them to believe he has anything to offer them. But he's fucking up on that lately, more and more. People are starting to forget who he is. He's starting to forget.]

They can get fucked.

[ he catches him, because of course he does. even if it amounts to little more than throwing an arm around his back and tightening his hold on his bicep, his thumb digging into the underarm. anything to keep him from spilling onto the floor. ultimately, though, he suspects the fight with gravity will be a losing one. he's not only seen it, but experienced it enough times to know.

so, while freddie goes on about fucking and getting fucked, cassidy grabs him around the middle and hoists him onto his shoulder like a potato sack, muttering, "come on, mate," under his breath.

like that, he carries him the short distance to the bed, and only stubs his toe once on something ( possibly the lamp ) along the way.

when they reach the bed, he dumps freddie onto his back and remains hovering over him for a moment, catching his breath, one hand braced on the mattress beside his shoulder. ]

Are you done?

[Risky move, Captain. With the way the world swims and resettles around him, it's probably fortunate that Freddie hasn't eaten today. Although he's drunk enough that, hiccuping as he's tossed across Cassidy's back, his throat stings with acid.

He slides off and onto the mattress like a broken-jointed doll, one hand just managing to fist in his shirt in a last gasp attempt to hold onto something. But the fall isn't far, and Freddie's fingers are left twisted between Cassidy's buttons. His hand's bleeding quite decently by now and the shirt's no longer anywhere near as white as it was.

Freddie notes the dark patch under his fingers, and then ignores it, gaze slipping up to Cassidy's face. There's some sense memory here - well, it's a familiar position - and his smile's halfway to salacious when he notes that not everthing's as it should be.

A frown works a dent into his forehead.]

The fuck are you doing in Jem's room?

Salvaging it, I reckon, from a wild, drunken fool. Be easy now.

[ gently, he pries freddie's hand from his shirt. the blood stain doesn't concern him; his shirt is already off-white, more off in some places than others. and he has a better chance of getting this particular stain out here than he would at home.

the blood itself, though, does concern him. still gingerly holding freddie's wrist, he tips to the side and shifts to sit beside him. it's difficult to see the extent of the injury in the dark. his fingers slip as he turns freddie's hand over. ]

A damned, drunken fool. [ he doesn't often get to say those words to other people; if the circumstances were any other, he might relish it. ] Don't move from this spot.

[ he slides off the bed, and barks another swearword as he steps on the broken crystal again on his way out. light floods the main floor and there's the sound of rummaging in the distance: cabinets slamming, pipes rattling as the tap runs. when he returns moments later, he has a few supplies in hand, among them a wet towel and a roll of bandages. before entering the room this time, he makes sure to flip the switch so he can see the debris as he makes his way back to the bed – or wherever freddie might have moved. ]

'M not drunk.

[Freddie mumbles the protest to Cassidy's retreating back, then lets himself fall back onto the bed, arms starfished from side to side. Jem's going to kill him for the mess he's made of the sheets. Fuck her, she's made worse. She's not even here to see, so fuck her. Fuck her.

There's glass wedged like deep splinters between his knuckles, jarring bone, and it hurts when he lets himself think about it, so he stops that. The pain in his hand is just heat and the thudding of his heart in his ears is just the bass line to a beat he knows.

He knows this. He feels it when he dances. Can hear it when he fucks, this rhythm of him.]

I know this. [Whispered to the sheets.]

I know so many things. [Voice raised a little louder, then louder still, until he's shouting.]

I know so many things.

[ whatever relief he feels at finding freddie where he left him is short-lived when he sees the actual state of his hand. it's not panic, exactly, but his heart does pick up a little speed. a sense of urgency rises in the back of his throat, and he can taste it when he swallows.

he's seen worse. he's caused worse. but it's always different when it's someone he actually-

as freddie shouts, cassidy climbs back onto the bed with his supplies. he acquired a pair of boxers somewhere between leaving the room and returning, so when he sits cross-legged next to freddie there's less of a chill on his more sensitive parts.

he reaches for freddie's hand again and drags it onto his lap. there's more blood than he realized. it's everywhere, not just on his shirt, but on freddie and the sheets and probably in a dotted trail on the floor between the window and the bed.

while inspecting the glass and deciding on the best way to remove it, debating whether he should try to call someone else ( claire, or john, or any of the many medical experts in eudio ), he says, ]

Aye? And what things be those?

[ he pinches the largest piece between thumb and forefinger and pulls. ]

[Never has a man moved so fast as Freddie bolting upright and straight into Cassidy's lap when he yanks at that glass shard.]

Fuck, what the fuck are you doing?

[And straight off the bed, probably picking up more minor scratches from a tumble across the floor before dragging himself at speed across the room until the first thing he bumps into stops him in his tracks. It's a chest of drawers and one of the handles has probably left a bruise somewhere sensitive.

He huddles against it, breathing quick and cradling his hand.]

What did I do to you? Jesus.

[And, after a moment's staring downward and wondering why both hands now are slick and wet and warm, he blinks up again.]

Fuck, I think that's blood.

[ never has a man made helping him more difficult than freddie is making it for cassidy right now. the upside is that the glass was removed in the shuffle; the downside is that it probably wasn't removed as neatly as cassidy had hoped. there's a muttered, "ah, christ," before cassidy follows freddie off the bed and picks his way towards the dresser. ]

What did you do? You woke me in the dead of the night, to name but one offence.

[ he stops in front of freddie, though he doesn't touch him again just yet. the cloth is in one hand, a package of gauze in the other. ]

Aye, certain, it is. And there'll be more where that came from if you don't avast and likewise belay your foolery, and allow me to tend to it.

[ pirate speak probably isn't the best for talking to a drunk man. and a pirate probably shouldn't be the one seeing to freddie's injury. but he's the only one here right now, so he transfers the gauze and cloth to one hand and holds out the other, his palm also bearing freddie's blood. ]

[If the room were brighter, it might be more noticeable that Freddie's looking a little green. He's not the best with injuries, his own at any rate, and nor is he the best patient. Still, he examines his own hand, gingerly, seeing nothing but the spreading black against the white of his skin. The stark, washed out colours make it look worse than it is.

He pushes his hand Cassidy's way, screwing his eyes tight shut.]

I've had worse. It's not dragon burns.

[So, there's that.

And he might be breathing too quickly before Cassidy even touches him, but he's quiet and he doesn't pull away. After a moment he starts muttering, half to distract himself.]

I know things about - [A soft hiss as something digs.] Things about everyone. About you, too.

[ his shoulders relax as freddie holds out his hand. he takes it, carefully, and begins wiping at the blood with the wet cloth. a smile catches the corner of his mouth as his eyes flick to freddie's face. ]

No, it ain't that. Can't say as I've ever seen dragon burns, up close.

[ he has seen men, younger and older, with blood running from lacerations and puncture wounds deeper than freddie's. men with bloody stumps where their fingers or arms used to be. he once saw a man after he fell from the rigging, and it's not a sight he's like to forget. the more severe injuries were usually tended to by the surgeon, but there were a few times when cassidy had to tend to them on his own.

he can imagine a younger version of himself in freddie's place, eyes shut tight as his friend rubbed a salve on a nasty scrape he'd gotten when a rope whipped out of his hands. white as the holy mother's arse, his friend had told him, describing his face.

he's working out another piece of glass, more gently than before, when freddie hisses. as he dabs at a fresh welling of blood, his eyebrow hitches up and he looks at freddie's face again, briefly. ] Oh? [ his gaze drops back down. ] What is it you think you know?

[ he hopes the talking is a sufficient enough distraction. the glass finally pulls free and he covers it with the gauze, pressing as firmly as he dares to staunch the bleeding. ]

I can show you a picture, if you like.

[Burns down his arms, worse where his shirt had melted into his skin. Broken ribs forming a black band across his chest and puncture wounds and lacerations from what, essentially, was the experience of being caught in a building that turned into an avalanche. People have still had worse, but it wasn't fun.

Freddie learned one thing from it, which is what when it's really bad you don't seem to feel the pain in proportional amounts. Shock and perhaps concussion combined to block enough of it out.

Unlike now.

Cassidy presses, and Freddie lets out a low whimper and heads straight back into his lap to reclaim his hand. At least he's not across the floor again, but just sitting there is impossible.

He ducks his head against Cassidy's shoulder, jarring his chin in the process, and sighs.]

I know that you're so fucking sad. Something got eaten, when you went away. I don't know what it was. But you can feel the gaps.

Later, assuming you don't bleed to death this night.

[ casual, all of it, even though on the inside he's anything but. the thought of freddie almost dying in a dragon-induced disaster is just as unsettling as the thought of him bleeding out on the debris-strewn floor of jem's now uninhabited room. but cassidy's the best version of himself under pressure. at least, he's the version he always strives to be: calm, confident, and in control.

it's only once the danger passes that the gravity of it all really hits him and rattles him to the bones. it's only once he's alone that he lets himself feel the full weight.

freddie's pathetic noise tugs at something in his chest, and almost makes him want to stop whatever he's doing to cause it. but he tries to keep his claim on freddie's hand now that he has it, holding his wrist tight. he does lighten up on the pressure, though, and switches focus to another splinter.

his fingers pause over the shard, and his eyes flit to freddie again. he can't see his face this time, since it's hidden against his shoulder. it's just as well, because then freddie can't see his face either, or the shadow of emotion that passes over it. his voice is a bit rough around the edges when he says, ]

You know that, do you?

I knew the second I looked at you. You looked... shipwrecked.

[The second he looked at him, and he hasn't mentioned it until now. Wouldn't be mentioning it, if he hadn't drunk enough to make things bubble over, and the chances are he may not remember mentioning it in the morning. He'll still think it, though, although the thought won't be enough to make him tread lightly around Cassidy. That's not what he does.

He does, though, wonder at what it is that's eaten away at him. Tells himself he doesn't care: it will be fixed and Cassidy will leave, and that's the way of the place.

But he cares more than he'd like to, navigating around those emptier places.]

Always were, a bit.

[Maybe it's just worn on him more, in the time he's been gone. Not as long for Cassidy as for Freddie, so they discovered, so it shouldn't have managed to hollow him out quite so much.

He takes a long breath, a longer exhale, and looks up.]

Anyway, I'm going to punch you in the face if you don't hurry up, it can't hurt much worse.

[ while freddie might be drunk enough to say what he's saying, cassidy isn't drunk enough to hear them. he's not drunk at all. he's actually never felt more sober than he does right now.

it's not that he hasn't talked openly about himself to a few people here and there, when it fit the flow of the conversation. but he hasn't had anyone cut to the heart of him without him offering anything first. maybe that's not true. maybe he's been offering parts to freddie since he met him. or maybe freddie's just that perceptive. either way, he feels exposed. found out.

freddie didn't ask a question, so cassidy doesn't feel obliged to give an answer. he doesn't say that he's been lost for as long as he's been at sea. he doesn't say that there are only a few people that make him feel less hollow, and freddie might be one of them. he doesn't say that he's afraid to go back. he doesn't say that he's tired tired tired.

what he says is: ]

Drink makes you prattle more than usual, though I'd not thought it possible. [ he blows out a breath, wiping at another spot of blood. then, he admits, quietly, ] Aye, but perhaps there's truth in it.

[ with that, he removes the last of the glass pieces that he can get with his fingers. ]

Now, don't stir.

[ he eases away from freddie and maneuvers back to the bed, where he left the rest of the supplies he brought. the one he brings back to the dresser now is a bottle, half-empty. if freddie really thought it couldn't hurt much worse, cassidy is about to challenge that. taking hold of freddie's wrist again, he removes the gauze he already placed on the one cut and pours the bottle's contents, which smell like whiskey, over freddie's hand. ]

[Cassidy's offered enough, and Freddie watches far more than he lets on. He learns people, when he allows himself the time and space to bother. He's an artist's eye, and no real artist only marks out the surface of a landscape. It's what lives in it that gives it substance and colour.

Besides, like knows like, and if there's anything true about Freddie Baxter it's that he's full of hollow places.

Things have started growing in a few of them, though, lately. He breathes sharply through his nose as Cassidy works the last of the glass out of his hand, and distracts himself with pressing his unmolested fingers to the side of the man's jaw, testing how rough it is, finding its angles. He does nothing more than nod acceptance that what he's said is true. He already knows.

He allows himself to be lead to the bed, all skids and stumbles until he's sat on the edge of it Cassidy takes to medicating him again.

Never will Freddie ever let a man used to ship's doctors treat his wounds.

It's a fucking blessing they don't have neighbours. There are probably noise complaints from half way across the city with how loud Freddie screams, and his good hand finds Cassidy's jaw again - this time with his fingers curled in on themselves.

Then his bleeding hand, a similar fist, pushes into Cassidy's chest - all of it automatic response, a series of punches and smacks and shoves as he crashes out of the room in the direction of the kitchen sink. The reason why might become clear once the noise of his yell stops echoing.]

Burning my fu-uhk. Burning my fucking hand off...

[ for a moment after freddie's disappeared, cassidy remains seated on the bed, the bottle of whiskey in his hand. there's more blood on his shirt now, though it's less of a large blot and more of a frantic smear. it's late, or early, depending on one's perspective. the sky outside jem's window is lighter than it was when cassidy woke with a start, and the adrenaline is starting to wear off.

he wonders if he should even follow freddie this time, or if he should leave him alone to lick his wounds. but even as the thought crosses his mind, he's already rising from the bed and trailing freddie into the kitchen. ]

Better than it rotting off.

[ moving to the sink, he sets his makeshift medical supplies on the counter and washes the blood off his hands under the tap. ]

By Christ, you'd not last a week at sea. Jumping all over like a man being stuck with a hot iron.

[ then he grabs the bottle and turns to lean against the counter. rather than using the whiskey to tend freddie's wounds or torture him further, he puts the bottle to his lips and takes a long drink. ]

Will you cease your running and allow me to finish the job?

I don't want to last a week at sea.

[He's more sullen than sweary by the time Cassidy catches up to him, sitting wobbly on the kitchen counter with his fist submerged into only slightly murky dishwater. He eyes Cassidy with an equally murky look, then turns his suspicion to the bottle.]

If we're lost at sea you can feed me to the sharks. [A soft, slurry mutter.] Could've called John.

[Except he wouldn't, would he. All this time and he's never once asked for help, despite all that's been given. He doesn't ask. Can't. Because he's only got one thing to give back, and he's already given that. He won't ever ask.

Instead he lifts his hand, dripping, and gives it a wary look.]

'S better. I'm fine now.

You'd like tempt me to it, though the sharks may take one bite and spit you back out.

[ he takes another drink. someone with a better understanding, or any understanding, of germ theory might protest freddie holding his hand in the dirty dishwater. someone like john. cassidy blows out a breath. ]

Aye, you could've called him. Perhaps you ought to move in with him, and so the next time you see fit to slice your hand to pieces at four the morning, you'll have someone to tend you to your liking.

[ his tone carries more heat than he intended. as he silently berates himself, he stares at a spot above the sink and tips the bottle against his lips one more time. then he sets the whiskey aside, grabs the gauze and bandages instead, and reaches for freddie's hand.

it's not fine, but it'll keep until he can see a proper doctor, at least. ]

Oh, it'll smart something awful, I swear to it. Once the drink wears off. [ he places the gauze on the deeper cuts to staunch the bleeding, which is already more sluggish than before, then wraps freddie's hand with the bandages to keep the gauze in place. he may not know anything about bacteria, but he knows how to tie a knot. ]

Could just keep drinking.

[This part seems gentler at least, and almost leaves Freddie a quiet observer - reaching across to steal Cassidy's bottle and lift it to his lips, stealing a swallow.

And spitting said swallow out in the sink beside them.]

Jesus, I forgot you drink burning piss. [He opens his mouth to try and evaporate the taste, spluttering softly to help things along. There are some of Cassidy's favoured liquors he'll try, and some that only a man whose sanity left him on a sunny noon on the high seas could force down.

Touching his tongue to the slope of his palate, he tests the current revulsion level and closes his mouth again. Watches, for a moment, as Cassidy works.]

He gave me a key. [Obvious who, surely, though he's replying with a delay.] Haven't used it. And I don't ask him to tend me.

[It's almost the reverse, though it ends up happening. Freddie just finds disaster with more skill than most.]

I was in hospital. He didn't know.

[And he works there.

It's a point of pride, a stubborn fucking point of pride with no logic or reason, but there it is.]

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