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angelofrainfrogs · 1 year ago

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Going Back: Ch. 10

~Coauthored by @zeitghest~

Fandom(s): Five Nights At Freddy’s: Security Breach

Description: Things are looking up for Gregory. After putting the soul of a formerly-immortal killer to rest, he and his new family can finally begin their lives anew. Sure, Gregory might have been cursed with mysterious Remnant in exchange for being involved in this mess—not to mention his caretakers consist of sentient robots and ghosts… But there’s no doubt that the bond they share is unbreakable. They love him, and he in turn.

All in all, life is finally starting to go right for once.

…Unfortunately, true peace is a hard-won battle. There are other things to contend with besides William’s decrepit soul, and Gregory will learn that his role in the lives of the Aftons and Emilys is far greater than anyone could’ve imagined.

Rating: T

Read on Ao3

The group parted ways as soon as they entered the Pizzaplex the next evening. Finding Michael waiting by the front door, as he'd slipped out early to do some mechanical work, Charlie hooked their arms together to track down Sam.

Meanwhile, Freddy took Gregory to the basement so he could play with the other kids—the tour of the Pizzaplex would be continued later with Hannah in tow. After parting ways with his son, Freddy made a beeline for Bonnie Bowl. To his pleasant surprise he found the bunny already wandering the central atrium, so it was a short walk to Rockstar Row where the old friends would settle on the couch in Freddy’s room to discuss everything Bonnie missed… This time focused on the bad things.

Freddy told the rabbit everything he knew, the information coming out in a steady stream like water from a fountain. He revealed events in chronological order when he could, starting with Evan’s birthday in ‘83 that triggered it all. There were certainly areas he was lacking information for, but Freddy did his best to tell Bonnie all the details. The rabbit needed to have as much context as possible before the big reveal of why he’d been feeling these human emotions since being powered back on.

“…And therefore Henry burned the diner to the ground, trapping William and taking the Aftons, Cassidy, and Charlie along with them,” Freddy said, bringing the penultimate chapter of the child murderer to a close. He watched Bonnie carefully, trying to gauge his stress level before he revealed the most harrowing part of the saga—at least with regards to the rabbit himself.

Patting his old friend’s shoulder, Freddy asked: “How are you feeling, Bon? There is one more part to this whole debacle, but I must warn you that it will be far less pleasant for you to hear than everything else, if you can believe it.”

Turns out you should never meet your heroes—or in Bonnie's case, even hear about your heroes. The man who made him murdered children. The most disgusting part was the feeling it gave Bonnie in retrospect, how that blind worship of a man he'd never met before made his mechanical chest ache like there was a ton of bricks bearing down upon it. After the long explanation, Bonnie looked as if he was still gathering his thoughts before he could even register that Freddy had yet one more thing to tell him—and that it was going to be the worst bit of information he'd hear. Bonnie twiddled his thumbs in his lap, careful and collected as he thought of the poor kids and dwelling on the fact that Gregory was nearly an equation inside a messed up science experiment.

“S'pose so, Fred. I doubt it's worse than any of that mess...,” Bonnie said with a raised eyebrow. Surely it couldn't be worse than any of that. It took everything in him not to sound shaken up and scared from the mere thought of more kids going missing.

Freddy's heart ached watching his best friend struggle with so much horrible information. Whereas the bear had a few days to learn things in piecemeal, Bonnie was essentially being force-fed the information in one go. Perhaps there was a better way to approach this, but at the same time Freddy knew the rabbit wouldn't leave him alone until he knew everything. Taking a deep breath, Freddy clenched his fists atop his knees, steeling himself for delivering the final blow.

This was going to hurt.

“Obviously I am telling you this for a reason, and that reason is to explain how we got mixed up in everything,” Freddy continued somberly. “Unfortunately, Henry's plan failed. William escaped and was somehow able to digitize himself, essentially becoming a virus that could infect computers and humans alike. He gained influence over a staff member employed in the Pizzaplex and forced her to do horrible things...”

Here the ursine man paused again, looking into Bonnie’s eyes. He didn’t want to reveal Vanessa’s name just yet, though he was sure Bonnie could figure it out eventually.

“She sent out malware that infected all the animatronics, causing them to become... to become bloodthirsty, willing to attack anyone who opposed them—even children—as soon as night shift began.” Freddy winced, thinking of Gregory's close encounters at the hands of his former bandmates. “Though William had another goal in mind first: he wanted a new body, and a very specific one at that. He was the reason for you being decommissioned. William’s virus worked its way into Monty’s systems, causing him to summon you to the golf course under false pretenses and attack so he could—”

Freddy’s voice broke off, the fact of what William had done still so terrible after all this time. However, it was clear by Bonnie’s expression that the swift rabbit was putting the pieces together.

Bonnie’s hands lifted to his mouth, unable to explain why he felt nauseous when he didn’t even have a stomach to throw up from. But he didn’t need to justify it; Freddy had already done that for him.

He is—no… was William Afton, if only for a few nights. It explained far too much, and Bonnie took to pulling on his ears to relieve the stress. He tugged on them harshly, looking back to Freddy. It was clear whatever evil he was capable of when he was in a coma-like state hadn’t been too bad, though. Surely, Freddy would tell him if it was…

“N… No more. I-I get it, old hat…,” Bonnie replied, shuddering out the unshakable notion he still had that evil lurking inside him somewhere.

Just out of view of his friends, and undetectable by his virus scan, Bonnie feared William Afton’s return to take his body and use it for his nefarious deeds. Worst of all, that man who was supposed to be their loving creator had turned and hurt Freddy, Gregory, and all the others in ways that could never fully be repaired.

“I surely can’t believe it… You all went through too much,” Bonnie said, fighting the self-doubt in his head. Had he put up a fight up until the end, or had Bonnie's mind been torn from his body kicking and screaming? Either way, he failed to protect any of the children.

“Did... Did I hurt any of y'all…?” Bonnie meekly asked.

Freddy opened his mouth to answer, then let it slowly shut. Bonnie hadn’t laid a finger on them, but William hurt Michael and Charlie on multiple occasions, and nearly jabbed a Remnant-infused needle into Gregory’s neck—which he’d indirectly succeeded in doing in the end.

“…It was not your fault,” was all Freddy could say, voice slow and measured as he got to his feet. He couldn’t lie to Bonnie and say everything was fine, but he could at least reassure that his friend’s consciousness was innocent.

Moving to Bonnie’s front, Freddy wrapped him in a hug. Their heights were more equivalent now with the rabbit still seated, so Freddy easily slipped his arms around the lagomorph’s neck and held on tight.

“You did absolutely nothing wrong, Bonnie,” he went on. “No animatronic was safe from William’s influence—the only reason I was spared is because Michael latched onto me. If he had picked someone else, it likely would not be me sitting here telling you this. But I can assure you that William is gone—we made sure of it.”

Now Freddy pulled back, offering the tiniest smile. “The fact that you are powered on and back to your old self is proof we trust that horrible man was rid from the world and my dear friend is back. Please do not doubt yourself, as hard as it may be. No one blames you for anything.”

“But why ME?” Bonnie asked, raising his voice just slightly. He covered his mouth, smacking his paws over his snout as he forced his voice box to manually reset, the outburst only serving to feed his paranoia that there was something wrong with him.

Bonnie forced himself to sit still, but only for a few seconds. He crossed his legs and anxiously bounced his foot over the edge of his knee, a habit now birthed from his new nervous disposition. Is that where those awful emotions were coming from? The man who previously possessed his body and computer system had given him complexes, and all Bonnie wanted to do was give himself a hard reset when they made themselves known. Bonnie ran his hands up his face, massaging it as if stressed skin and muscle were there instead of wires and fur.

“I'm not a bad bunny...,” Bonnie reinforced like a mantra, shutting his eyes. “I'm not a bad bunny...”

Freddy would never lie to him just to spare his feelings, he reminded himself. Most of all, Bonnie just felt violated; being burdened with consciousness only amplified these feelings.

“Bonnie, relax,” Freddy soothed, gripping the rabbit’s paws and stilling them before they did actual damage to his newly-refurbished face. Freddy was thankful yet again for his robotic strength, as he could feel Bonnie’s wires pulled taught as he strained to relieve the internal stress.

“You are not a bad bunny,” Freddy repeated, meeting Bonnie’s flighty gaze when he could, holding his hands in an iron grip between them. “You are a wonderful rabbit, and everyone knows that. I know that, and I trust you implicitly. You are not a danger to anyone.

“As for why it was you, I am afraid I do not have an answer for that. We were all simply caught up in one man’s delusions. I am sorry you bore so much of the burden, but… all we can do is move past this and look to the future.” Releasing one of Bonnie’s paws, Freddy gently patted the top of his head. “We had a discussion yesterday about what it was like to have human emotions—now you know why you have been feeling so strange. Yes, not all of them are pleasant, but so many of them are—and we will be here to help you through them. Alright, old friend?”

Bonnie couldn't find it in him to answer Freddy. While it felt like the end of his whole world not a few seconds ago, Bonnie was reeled back to reality by his pragmatic friend. He’d always been a little melodramatic—though his current outburst was justified. He may dwell of this for a long time, but at least Freddy and the others were here to help him navigate this sea of emotions and lead him back to the shores of sanity.

Bonnie too was happy for Freddy's android strength. It made it less awkward when he leaned into his friend in the world’s laziest hug.

“My chest feels heavy,” he admitted, still holding onto the burden, though less loud about it now. “But... thanks for bein’ here, Fred.”

Everything would be alright eventually. And when it wasn't alright? Bonnie could call Freddy, or Monty, or anyone that would listen—anyone who’d remind him he wasn't insane and that he wasn't going to hurt anyone again.

Freddy kept the embrace as long as he could, though eventually he pulled back. The action was slow, trying to assure Bonnie that his new feelings were all understood and valid. Only when they were fully disconnected did Freddy realize there was one more thing he wanted Bonnie to know before the night was out.

“Bonnie, I have one final thing to tell you, and then I promise I will drop the topic until you wish to talk about it again,” Freddy said. “It is about Monty—I know you could tell he was acting off yesterday, so I wanted to reassure you that it is not because he is afraid of you. He… he does not truly know what happened, save for the fact there was a malware attack that caused everyone to act out.”

The ursine man’s smile slipped the tiniest bit. “I will leave it up to the two of you to have a conversation, but I can at least say that Monty seems strange because he knows he was the one who decommissioned you. He does not remember anything—none of the animatronics will. But there were rumors from the beginning that he was the cause of you going missing, and when he found out the truth he was beside himself. He is simply afraid of hurting you again.”

When it came down to it, Monty and Bonnie shared at least that much in common—the fear of slipping back into an uncontrolled state and lashing out at those they care for.

Bonnie, strangely enough, didn’t seem so upset about it. Like Fred mentioned, it wasn’t as if anyone was in control of their full mental faculties these past few months. Honestly, Bonnie was more upset that Monty was able to beat him at their game of wrestling…

Still, at some point, it became less of a game and more of Bonnie fighting just so his face wasn’t ripped from his body, or his limbs torn off one by one until he was an incoherent mess of wires, parts, and broken casing.

“Aw, shucks, that’s Monty for ya, huh? He makes one mistake and now he’s gonna hold it against himself forever…” Bonnie sighed with a shake of his head. It was something he was gonna have to talk to the old gator about. Hopefully they could sweep all this unpleasantness under the lily pad with a few rounds of golf or bowling. “He’s such a sensitive lug… I’m fine now.”

“Monty will be pleased to hear that, I am sure,” Freddy said, the usual brightness returning to his demeanor now that the initial unpleasantness of things was past. With a grin, Freddy tugged the rabbit forward, urging him to his feet.

“Now, as I said I will move past this topic until you are ready to speak about it again,” the redhead reassured. Once Bonnie was upright, Freddy released him and checked his phone, noting the time. “I promised Gregory that I would take him and a few of his friends on a little tour of the Pizzaplex tonight. I am sure they would be ecstatic if you joined us.”

He glanced up at the comparatively tall rabbit questioningly. “There is a good chance we will run into Henry Emily when I pick them up—but I guarantee he will be kind to you, as that is his nature. Would you like to come along?”

Bonnie couldn't look happier. He’d take anything fun to distract him from the horrible truth he just learned. He just knew the moment he saw Gregory and those poor kids, he'd give all of them a great big hug! He couldn't mention knowing the truth about their shared demises and various tortures, but he'd try to help ease the pain with one of his famous hugs.

“I sure would, Fred! I think that's a swell idea.” He beamed, slipping his arm around Freddy's shoulders to get their journey going. His jolty movements made it clear he was a little shaken and quick to push everything back into the closet of his mind again. The next time he'd speak of this dreadful incident would be when he talked it all out with Monty, then no more for a long time.

“Besides, I couldn't possibly pass up the chance to meet THE He—nry Em-Em-ily...” Bonnie found his voice box needing another manual reset. There goes that weird tick again...

Freddy spared a raised-eyebrow at the glitch but said nothing, simply slipping his arm through Bonnie’s as an anchor. He had to admit, he was just as relieved that their conversation was over for now; he hated dwelling on such topics, too.

It was a slower trip down to the basement than usual due to Bonnie's inclination to pause every once in a while and look around or comment about how he never knew such things like the old, burned down diner even existed in the Pizzaplex. When they finally made it to the workshop door Freddy dislodged himself, flashing Bonnie a smile. “Henry is just inside this room. Let me get him.”

“One sec!” the jovial voice called after Freddy's knock. After some shuffling and heaving, Henry managed to push the android he was working on refurbishing into a corner of the room, away from potentially sensitive eyes. He soon threw the door open, grinning up at the kind-faced creation he'd put so much heart and soul into. “Hey, Fred—oh.”

There was a pause, in which Henry stared up at Bonnie with a slightly lax jaw. However, he was quick to slap himself with a gentle swat of his cheek, mouth flipping back into a smile before the robots could even register his minor internal crisis. “Well, well! If it isn't Bonnie the Bunny!”

That was him. It was really him. Wow...

Bonnie himself was in quite the tizzy. Grasping his head and making his ears flop to the side, he let out a short, albeit star-struck laugh, the expression on his face matching Henry's own micro-crisis.

“Mr. Emily, I presume?” Bonnie asked, feeling his voice box cut in a strange way again. His thick country accent sounded clear, though a tad forced. “I really don't believe my scanners, but it's you! Wowee—it's an honor!”

The normally charismatic bunny was abnormally shy, trying to make himself a little smaller as he talked. Henry knew the man that possessed him; knew what he did. Hopefully he could look past that and accept the paw Bonnie jutted out for a somewhat awkward handshake.

Henry let out a jovial laugh, shaking Bonnie's hand thoroughly. Honestly, he praised Sam for making this version so far removed from the golden springlock suit Henry had come to associate with his former business partner. It was easy for him to see Glamrock Bonnie as just another animatronic; despite William's possession earlier that week, Henry had been assured by multiple sources that his “old friend” was gone for good.

“You can just call me Henry; everyone does. I even got Fredbear to, after a bit of needling,” the ghost said, releasing Bonnie's hand only to playfully jab Freddy in the side. He ushered the pair into the workshop proper, closing the door behind them. “The kids are playing in the diner with Puppet, so we have the place to ourselves for abouuuut—” Henry mimed looking at his nonexistent watch. “—five minutes before they bother me again.”

“We will take some of them out of your hair in a moment,” Freddy assured, settling near the workbench.

“Oh, I'm only joking; I love those little terrors,” Henry chuckled, then glanced up at Bonnie. “It's good to meet you, Bon! How are you feeling? Er, is 'Bon' okay? I guess I should be asking you all these things...”

He scratched the back of his head, mumbling this last part to himself. He'd gotten so used to Freddy looking human that it was easy to forget the Glamrock line was known for its sentience—and Bonnie in particular had much more human qualities than most due to extenuating circumstances.

“Oh, Bon is just great! Bon, Bonnie, that big ol' purple Bunny—” The rabbit laughed, warming up well to their original creator. “—you can call me anything ya like!”

The amiable rabbit offered a smile and a wink. He hoped that it didn't come off in the way he spoke to Henry, but there was an odd need for Henry to like him. Though it didn't seem to be something he'd have to vie for so desperately; Henry was a nice guy, and Bonnie could tell already that they'd make great friends.

The way he spoke about the kids reminded him of the way Freddy talked about them. It was the warmth in his voice, he reckoned. He and Fredbear seemed to share that affinity.

“I'm feeling ter—iffic!” His voice box glitched out, trying to change its pitch all on his own. Bonnie laughed again, scratching lightly behind an ear. “Well! That keeps happening, but besides that I’m all better now!”

“I can take a look at that, if you want,” Henry offered with a questioning tilt of the head. “Sounds like something might've slipped out of place; shouldn't be a hard fix. I'm quite the mechanic, if I do say so myself.” His faux-haughty demeanor softened as he looked at the rabbit's confused mix of facial expressions. “Only if you want—no pressure.”

Bonnie didn't feel afraid; who else would be a more perfect candidate to look over his functions besides from Sam himself?

“Well if you'd kindly, I'd appreciate it.” Bonnie hopped onto the workbench faster than two shakes of a lamb's tail, then laid down to relax his neck joints and his disconnecting jaw. He laid still, disabling his mechanical features to allow Henry easier access to his voice box. After a series of humming and what appeared to be squinting in measured frustration aimed at his odd wiring, Bonnie was then given free range to sit up and click his face plating back into position.

“So what's the prognosis, Doc? My head screwed on wrong?” he teased, batting his eyes playfully to let Henry know he was just joking.

“Only a bit,” Henry joked right back, gently knocking a fist against the top of Bonnie's noggin right between the ears. “Really, though, I do think it's just a few wires that slipped out of place—not a major repair, but it might take a few minutes to fix up. Honestly, Mike or Sam could probably get it done faster than me; hate to say it, but I'm not as familiar with the Glamrock line!”

“We can ask for their assistance later tonight,” Freddy suggested, although before Bonnie had a chance to respond a tiny voice sounded from the recesses of the basement.

“Uncle Henry!” Evan called, floating into the room and making a beeline for the elder ghost's side. “Uncle Henry! Can we bring Puppet up with us tonight?!”

“I don't see why not,” Henry responded, his eyes softening as they always did when talking to the (usually) sweet-tempered Evan. Besides, he had no doubt Puppet would go anywhere she could if the kids asked her to. He gestured to Freddy, who the boy had completely skipped over in his focused mission. “Good timing, too—you're chaperone's here.”

“Oh! Hey, Freddy!” Evan gave the ursine man a bright wave, then did the same to Bonnie when he realized the rabbit was staring down at him from the workbench. Since their time at the bowling alley last night, Evan had no more fear of the purple bunny. “Lemme go get the others. Gregory! Your dad's here!”

With that the boy took off like a rocket, phasing through numerous walls as he headed back to the old diner to gather the crew for tonight's tour, now including Hannah and the Marionette. Henry shook his head with a chuckle, arms crossed in front of his chest. It was good to see the kid in high spirits after so long.

Gregory was walking with the lanky Puppet draped across his shoulders, her wrist limp in his as he gestured her hand wildly at Hannah. As they laughed together, walking through the door at Evan’s call, he waved Marionette’s arm at the group.

“Hey, Dad! Puppet wanted to come and look at Henry’s blueprints!” he shouted, prompting the Puppet to slip off his frame and slink towards the work table.

Bonnie marveled at the silent animatronic. Her movements seemed advanced for her apparent age as she made her way over, unabashedly using Bonnie to climb up onto the workbench besides him with an aura of excitement.

Gregory, now that his hand was freed up, decided to take Hannah’s instead. Not for his own gain—though holding her hand like this was certainly a special occasion in itself for him. Gregory just gleaned that Hannah wasn’t the most comfortable around new people—whether that involved new animatronics she hadn’t met before was unclear, but judging by the way she clutched his palm back, Gregory knew she didn’t mind.

“Bonnie! This is my friend Hannah; come say ‘hi!’” he beckoned, leading her further into the workshop. Bonnie hopped away from the table, fixing the collar of his shirt and pretending to check the smell of his breath as he walked up to greet the kids. The silly rabbit knelt to one knee to meet the children on their level and said

“Howdy, guys! It’s sure swell to meet you, Hannah. Aren’t you two just little peas in a pod?” Bonnie remarked at the close knit friend group he found oh so adorable. In the peripheral of his vision, the strawberry-blonde girl he’d met yesterday with a huge red ribbon in her hair peaked from behind the door, currently glaring holes into Bonnie’s head.

Lizzie was hiding her scowl around the corner, wishing she could simply explode the rabbit with her mind. She hadn’t given Bonnie much thought last night, too wrapped up in the magic of the Pizzaplex itself and their rousing game of Gator Golf. However, now Lizzie had time to think on things—and as usual, when her thoughts were left to wander they also tended to fester.

Looking upon Bonnie now, she came to the conclusion that everything about him irked her, from the heavy accent to his quirky mannerisms. It all reminded her too much of him, and immediately soured her good mood. The dumb bunny must have felt her weak attempt at a psychic onslaught, because he glanced up to look at Liz with a bewildered expression.

“Uh—howdy, little lady!” Bonnie greeted with a wave. “Lizzie, right? You were smokin’ Monty at golf yesterday!”

“Lizzie…” Attuned to his sister’s distress, Evan clung to her shoulders like Puppet had done to Gregory moments before, pressing his cheek against hers as he eyed the rabbit and murmured in her ear. “I don’t sense anything weird, Liz; I think he’s okay… He was nice last night, remember?”

Hannah, on the other hand, seemed a bit star-struck. Bonnie had always been her favorite, starting from his part in the old cartoons she’d watched as a little kid, but by the time her parents actually took her to the Pizzaplex, Bonnie was decommissioned shortly after. She’d only gotten to see him live once, performing on stage with the rest of the band. Never did she think she’d get to have a personal conversation with him—her parents could never afford such a luxury package.

In retrospect, it’d been far too easy for Vanny to lead Hannah away with the promise of an encounter with the rabbit. Her fingers clenched tight around Gregory’s, pushing down the memories under a little smile as she directed the animatronic’s attention back to her. “Hi, Bonnie! It’s super awesome to meet you! I’m like… your biggest fan!”

Something so simple shouldn't have made Bonnie's heartstrings pull like that. It was a sentiment he heard a hundred times by other fans, and normally he'd give them one of the usual responses without deeper thought. Coming from this girl—a ghost if he wasn't mistaken—it felt more real than before he’d gained consciousness. He was someone's favorite member of the band, their first choice and a star in her eyes.

“That's a good thing I get to come hang out with y'all today! I can get to know my new friend better,” Bonnie said to specifically hype Hannah up, trying his best to ignore Elizabeth's more abrasive response.

She screwed up her nose and muttered under her breath. Gregory at least looked happy at his offer to come play with them. While he was sure it was due to their previous day's bonding, Bonnie might not’ve caught on that his huge grin was because of how tight Hannah was gripping his palm still. Bonnie leaned into the mixed group slightly, pointing to the youngest ghost.

“And you’re Evan! I remember—you look just like your lil’ twin over here! And my biggest fan is Hannah,” he reiterated, making sure he knew their names by memory. Then, his index finger pointed to Liz, who still glared at him in hopes he would soon burst into flames. “And miss sour-patch is Lizzie.”

“Yup!” Evan confirmed, absolutely no fear or hesitation in his demeanor. He moved from Lizzie’s shoulders to her side, grabbing one arm with both hands and trying to tug her forward. “Come on, Liz! Stop being a grouch!”

“Evan, do not push her,” Freddy gently warned. When Evan opened his mouth to protest, Freddy continued with an understanding smile. “Everyone processes things differently—you know that. I am sure she will warm up in time.”

This last sentence was partially directed to the girl herself, who turned her narrowed eyes on Freddy. However, the ursine man was completely unfazed by her fierce attitude. After a few seconds Evan released Lizzie’s arm, though he stayed attentively by her side. Freddy had a point—though they both knew their father‘s rabbit obsession forever tainted Bonnie the Bunny, it was easier for Evan to separate his grudge against William from the animatronic in front of them… Much more so than Lizzie, it seemed.

Despite the tense reaction from Liz, Hannah was still entranced by the rabbit. He was even friendlier than she’d imagined! Lightly swinging Gregory’s arm, she asked Bonnie:

“So you’re gonna hang out with us in the Pizzaplex?!” At his conforming nod, she clenched her fists excitedly, squeezing Gregory’s hand in the process as the smile on her face grew impossibly wider. “Yessss!”

She was coming to realize that being dead and stuck in the Pizzaplex wasn’t all bad… Getting exclusive time with the animatronics was certainly one of the best perks.

Henry had been listening in on all of this of course, though only with one ear as the rest of his attention was directed to Puppet who meticulously scanned the blueprints.

“So, what’s the verdict?” the old ghost intoned, giving her a gentle pat on the back as her slim frame crouched over the workbench. “Think you can deal with this body, or does it need any tweaks?”

Puppet gently picked up the blueprints and held their intricate designs to her chest, swaying excitedly. To be able to express these new feelings and thoughts she had would be amazing, if just for a little while. Mari was careful not to crumple the papers before placing them down and showing her gratitude through a gentle hug squeezed around Henry's shoulders. Right now, she appreciated him more than he could know. The design was perfect, and soon she’d understand completely how Charlie and Michael felt in their androids.

Despite Liz's unwillingness to cooperate, she tried to wipe the frown off of her face. She’d simply have to avert her gaze from the rabbit to avoid feeling so blue. Bonnie's image made her heart hurt, and she couldn't help but lash out in a silent anger—anger that indented her nails into her synthetic skin as she clenched her hands.

“So what's our first destination, pals?” Bonnie asked, hands placed confidently on his hips as he stood.

The kids looked at each other expectantly, waiting for one of them to speak up. It was Hannah who talked first, finally releasing Gregory’s hand with the tiniest blush to clasp her palms together behind her back.

“Evan and Liz, where do you guys wanna go?” she asked, tilting her head questioningly at the Aftons. The siblings shared a look, before Evan shrugged.

“I dunno… What else is there to do around here?” He posed the query to the room, knowing someone would be able to provide an answer. “We already checked out mini-golf and the bowling alley… Oh, and the Daycare!”

“I believe you would be most interested in Roxy Raceway or Fazerblast,” Freddy suggested, though his gaze was fixed on Gregory. The boy had traumatic experiences in both attractions, so it was up to him whether he was ready to tackle them. A slight frown creased the redhead’s face. “Although I do not know if the raceway is functional yet… So perhaps Fazerblast? Or an arcade… We could also simply wander and stop by whatever area catches our fancy.”

“What do you think, Gregory?” Hannah inquired, also wanting his opinion. The two of them had the most experience at the Pizzaplex out of all the kids, so she was curious as to what he thought would be a good place to check out first.

Oh, the Raceway. Gregory seemed to have a particularly nonplused stare as he remembered their close call, Michael bleeding all over him and using himself as a fleshy shield... If it weren't for Ennard, they wouldn't be here to make the choice of where to hang out today. In a way, it would be a triumphant return to the very place they had conquered. And while he heard Hannah, it took him a second of thinking to decide.

“Maybe we'll check out the arcades?” Gregory suggested. “Then we can swing around the Raceway and see what's going on with it.”

Bonnie rubbed the side of his head with a broad paw, smiling at the thought of racing their little karts around the track. “Ah, Roxy Raceway—brings back such good memories. Right, Fredbear?”

How Monty and Fred laughed when Roxy's naturally competitive nature made her cross with Bonnie, who only wanted to take a leisurely drive around the track.

“It's a Raceway,” Roxy had argued to the brick wall of a bunny. “We're not taking your grandma shopping. Put the pedal to the metal, rabbit!”

Bonnie couldn't wait to see them all again. Thankfully Michael, Sam, and Henry were hard at work as they spoke tuning up their friends—and currently restoring old ones.

“It does indeed,” Freddy agreed with a soft smile, then gestured for the little band of ghosts and animatronics to follow him. They’d wasted too much time thinking over the past when they could be having fun already. “To the arcades it is; we will see you later, Henry!”

“Have fun!” Henry replied, feeling Puppet dislodge herself so she could slink over and latch onto another friend who’d be making their way upstairs. Clapping Bonnie amiably on the back, he grinned up at the rabbit. “It’s good to meet you, Bon; we’ll definitely catch up more another time. Oh, and don’t forget to ask Mike and Sam about that voice box of yours!”

“Oh you know it, Henry!” Bonnie told him, now brave enough in front of his hero—his good creator—to reach for a quick hug around his shoulders. Weirdly enough, it felt... homey. Familiar and comforting in the way it was when showing Fred quick bouts of affection.

He didn't think about it too hard, merely focusing on one of the good feelings and letting go when that synthetic serotonin wore off. The children were already being wrangled by Freddy, and the former bear looked like he needed help with the rambunctious children. So with a wave goodbye Bonnie met them by the door, happy to hold it open and let everyone through.

Evan was currently being wrapped up in Puppet's hugging arms. She clung to his shoulders as the shortest Afton unintentionally dragged the lower half of her body behind them.

“Don't drag her like that, Evan! Her legs will catch on something,” Liz gently scolded, bending at the waist to pick up Puppet’s limbs while speaking. Gregory couldn't help but crack a smile at them.

“She survived the garbage chute, 'Lizabeth. Mari's tougher than a jawbreaker,” he praised, much to the Puppet's joy.

“Yeah—besides, if she wrapped all around me I couldn’t walk, so what else am I ‘sposed to do?” Evan deadpanned, though his grin showed he appreciated Lizzie’s help nonetheless. Puppet was certainly a long animatronic, apt to converge around a child completely when all her limbs got involved in an embrace—all the better to protect them with her own body if necessary, as was her design.

While the Aftons chatted, Hannah hung back slightly to fall into step with Bonnie. It was still hard for her to believe he was up and running after all this time. With a questioning tilt of her head and hands still clasped behind her back, she inquired: “So, Bonnie, are you gonna be back in the band now? I know Monty took your place, but like… can’t you both play the bass? Or one of you go on drums or something?”

Freddy had slowed his pace as well to better watch the kids, and he glanced over his shoulder briefly at Hannah’s question. He felt strongly inclined to speak up on Bonnie’s behalf, wanting to save his friend from potentially thinking back to any negatives… but as hard as it was to stay quiet, Freddy knew it was best to let Bonnie answer for himself. Now that his old friend knew everything, there was no need to respond for him. Besides, one way for Bonnie to get used to his new emotions was to deal with them head-on, just as Freddy had.

“Huh, you know what? I didn't rightly get to thinking about that,” Bonnie replied, scratching beneath his chin. It'd sure be nice to perform in front of a crowd again! It was just a question on whether management wanted that from him or not.

Maybe now was the time to start flexing his creative muscles—to go back to his roots and practice for an instrument they've been needing in their little ensemble. Bright pink eyes glanced down to Hannah and the expressive robot smiled with them to her.

“I've been meaning to pick up a new instrument! Heck, I might take Fred's old job! Singin' has always been my secret talent.” He mentioned that last part specifically as he saw Freddy listening in, knowing the bear would appreciate the joke.

“Say Hannah, do you play any instruments?” Bonnie asked, offering the girl his hand as they walked. The younger kids liked to hold onto his paw, and though Hannah was a little older he figured being cordial to his biggest fan was only good manners.

Hannah was over the moon at this gesture, her feet floating off the ground slightly in her excited haste to latch onto her favorite bunny’s paw. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but Bonnie’s grip was comfortingly soft for such a big metallic robot.

“Um… I was actually trying to learn guitar,” the little ghost admitted, sounding a bit embarrassed. She hadn’t wanted to learn just because Bonnie played—at least, that wasn’t the only reason. A slight frown crossed her face. “My big sister was super good at it, and he started to teach me a little before—”

She cut off with a distant stare at the ground. However, the motion of her arm swinging along with Bonnie’s quickly perked her up enough to give a small laugh, pushing away the memories of her old life as was becoming a habit. “I’m not good at all though!”

“I am sure with more practice, you would be a wonderful guitarist,” Freddy commented, and Hannah beamed up at him. Freddy’s blue eyes flickered to Bonnie’s, a smile turning up his lips. “Perhaps we can find an extra guitar around here and someone could give you a few pointers…?”

Bonnie knew exactly what she was getting at. She must miss her family so much... Bonnie's empathy was going haywire, and he firmly squeezed her hand to garner her attention.

“Heck—I'll teach you guitar! I know a little thing or two about it. But we gotta get you to meet up with Chica. Boy howdy, she can really rip on the strings!” he offered, simultaneously praising their friend's talents for the electric guitar shredding she often was want to do. He refused to let this girl be sad on his watch. The next time they swung by the stage, Bonnie was sure Sam wouldn't mind them taking a guitar or two to teach Hannah how to hone her skills a little more. “You and I could start our own little band if the Glamrocks don't take me back!”

In the group ahead, Lizzie had asked Evan quietly: “Do you think Hannah's going to write a song about Gregory?”

She said it just to tease their newest friends. Though it earned her a well-placed elbow to the side from Gregory, making her shriek out in a bubbly laugh as she successfully got under his skin.

“That’d be awesome!” Hannah gasped, her eyes shining with the thought of playing with the Glamrocks. She loved them all, but Chica was definitely her second favorite without question, so the chance to have a jam sesh with her and Bonnie was filling her cold little heart full to bursting. She shook Bonnie’s arm, floating higher and completely unaware of the conversation happening a few feet away. “You’ve gotta tell me as soon as Chica’s back so I can meet her, too!”

Snickering at Gregory’s reaction, Evan leaned into his sister conspiratorially and replied: “Hannah’s gonna write him a song, and Gregory’s gonna draw her a picture on that electric notepad thingy Sam gave him.”

Gregory had shown off his tablet briefly the other day, though Freddy opted to take it for safe keeping when the kid started running around. The ursine man might not know exactly how much it cost, but judging by Michael’s reaction to the cell phones he reasoned the CEO spent a pretty penny on family gifts. The last thing they needed was for it to get broken in a prank gone awry…

“You promised you’d show us that again, Gregory,” Evan reminded eagerly. The years of being stuck inside outdated Pizzerias—and even more outdated animatronics—were starting to reveal their effect the more time Gregory spent around the old ghosts. “I still don’t believe it’s a computer! It’s waaaay too small!”

Gregory had taken a cursory glance behind them, content to know that Hannah was preoccupied with her conversation with Bonnie to even recognize her name was being said repeatedly. Though their affection was quickly becoming mutualized, Gregory still hadn't had the guts to say anything to Hannah yet. Evan's playful jeer did give Gregory an idea though—making Hannah something would show her that he thought she was special to him.

What to draw her, though? Maybe something with Bonnie... He'd have to use the rabbit as a model.

Gregory sent the Aftons exaggerated glares before raising an eyebrow to Evan. His sister and brother were robots, plus they themselves were ghosts—and Evan couldn't believe that computers could be small? Then again, these two came from a strange world of technological marvels. Recreational computers just weren't anything like the things they had now. Still, a smile eventually found its way to Gregory's face and he told them:

“I'll show you guys when we get to the arcade! I... I should draw her something though.” He laughed, admitting what the group already knew without actually having to say it out loud. “All of us can draw and play video games together.”

They opted for the East Arcade, allowing Music Man to rest another night without being awoken to blast some more tunes for screeching children. The attractions had all been opened up to allow staff easy access wherever and whenever they needed, so the slated garage doors rose automatically upon the group's arrival. While Hannah tugged Bonnie forward towards her favorite console, Evan stopped dead in his tracks. The flashing neon lights reflected off his huge eyes as he stared around in jaw-dropping wonder. This place had nothing on any Fazbear restaurants he'd seen before—and it was apparently just one of several arcades throughout the building. Sammy had really outdone himself.

“Whoa,” the ghost breathed out, not even sure where to go first. At least the arcade cabinets themselves were familiar, although surely most of the games were new to him. Plus, there were just so many of them! As his gaze swiveled rapidly around the room, Evan noticed a massive prize counter stuffed to the brim with plushies and other gifts to be won with an exorbitant amount of tickets. He tapped the Puppet's arm with one hand, pointing the prize counter with the other. “Look, Mari! You can hand out a buttload of presents from there!”

Elizabeth was frozen solid, her eyes unblinking before she could wiggle herself free. The nearly endless feeling of all the game titles and challenges was making her head swim with all the possibilities. Watching Gregory draw would have to wait; Liz simply couldn't keep all of these games waiting for her. It figured that a former child raised within the confines of the Fazbear diners would have a vision so grandiose.

“This is only the east arcade?” Liz dared to ask Gregory, amazed that there were more of these goliath entertainment centers around the Pizzaplex with even more challenges and titles to test their skills at.

The Puppet slowly slunk off of Evan in favor of performing her little programed tasks. She may partially have a human's consciousness now, but there was something about the simplicity of handing a kid a toy after a hard day’s work of earning tickets that felt satisfying.

“Yeah! We won't get through all of them today, so we got to do the classics and THEN do the new ones,” Gregory said, walking towards Freddy to tug on his shirt. “Dad? Hey, do you have my tablet?”

“Ah—I believe I left it in Sam's office since it was inconvenient to carry,” Freddy replied, patting down his pockets just in case the device would magically appear. With an apologetic smile, he ruffled Gregory's hair and told him: “I can fetch it for you; it will only take a moment. Bonnie?”

The rabbit had already been pulled to a far corner of the arcade by his superfan, who'd finally released his paw so she could show him her talent at her favorite Pacman-like iteration. Freddy's expression softened at the display and he placed a hand on Gregory's back, gently urging him towards the still overwhelmed-looking Evan. “Go play, superstar; I will be right back.”

When Gregory moved towards his surrogate sibling, Freddy headed towards Bonnie and Hannah, stopping at their side and reaching up to tap the rabbit's shoulder. Hannah was fully engrossed in her game, barely acknowledging Freddy's presence as he told the lagomorphic robot: “I am going to grab Gregory's tablet from Samuel's office—do you mind watching them for five minutes, old friend?”

Bonnie had his attention pulled from Hannah for just a short moment. With the confidence and experience to watch groups of kids, he didn't have a worry in the world. With a lazy smile, Bonnie waved him off.

“Sure thing, Freddy! Tell the Boss-man I said 'Howdy', will ya?” he asked, turning back to place a hand on Hannah's shoulder as she played her game. She was impressing the old bunny with her skill on the old joystick and button console. “How are you this good at Balloon Pop?! You're going to make the high score roster for sure!”

A cursory glance over to the Afton kids let Bonnie know the kids were still adjusting from the shock of the more modern Pizzeria. Gregory meanwhile began to shake both Elizabeth and Evan from their stupors.

“GUYS! Come on! We should play bug stomp before Freddy gets back!” he tried to encourage, only managing to move them a few inches before they loosened up on their own accords. He needed to get some gaming in before his dad returned, or he'd likely not get a chance to play at all tonight with the picture he wanted to make for Hannah.

Evan finally got the wherewithal to start forward, following after Gregory as the boy directed them to the game in question. Evan tried his best to take in all the new titles and artwork of these modern day machines, but everything blended together in a big blur. He vaguely registered Puppet's slim frame lounging in the netting above the prize counter, relaxing in a pile of plushies until her first “customer” came over to trade tickets for gifts. A wistful little smile crossed the ghost's face at this. At least Mari was happy; she deserved it, after everything she'd done for them.

Mari was a relatively carefree animatronic on the surface, her lackadaisical repose inside the netting giving her the air of a sentinel amidst the various toys and gadgets. She waved to the kids as they frantically passed her by, happy to watch them from the sidelines to make sure everyone was safe.

It's why she did everything. First and foremost, her central programming was to make sure Charlie was safe. But with every missing child that came after her, Puppet had slowly righted every tragedy. Her Gifts were finally being enjoyed to their fullest extent, and those children could relive their happiest days forever...

Yet it always seemed something wanted to place themselves in the way of that perfect, picturesque life.

Hardly anything got past the Puppet. Not one sound or motion that wasn't analyzed critically. And the shadow passing just outside the hall had drawn her attention quickly. It could be Monty, but the shadow itself was smaller—Freddy was a rather tall man in his human form, and even with this stretched-out darkness just lurking quietly outside, she could see it wasn't their friend. Her music box clicked, starting out of old habit. Above the sounds of various arcade games being played, the old melody played as she slowly slunk down from her precarious perch to investigate.

Bonnie had hardly noticed. His attention was either fixated solely on Hannah, or having called out in asking what game the others were off to go play.

There was that music box again. It played for various reasons—to soothe, to help a child drift off to sleep, to announce when a big prize was won... But it could also play when the Puppet was curious.

Having spent so long by her side, Evan was particularly tuned into Mari's lullaby. Cassidy was the same, but seeing as she was nowhere in the vicinity it was only Evan who turned his head, watching the slim, striped Marionette slink across the floor in a fluid search. He started to ask what she was looking for, but a tug on his sleeve from Gregory distracted him enough.

Puppet would let them know if there was danger about, he was sure of it. There was no need to stress; he was here to have fun, and that's what he was going to do.

***

Meanwhile, Freddy arrived at Sam's office only to find it locked. He must be off gallivanting the Pizzaplex with Michael and Charlie. Freddy sighed, wishing he could connect to one of them in an instant like he used to be able to do with his bandmates... Until he realized that he could, in a way. Finally, he'd get to use this cell phone Sam so graciously provided.

Slipping it out of his pocket, Freddy scrolled through the few contacts Sam preinstalled until he found the CEO, upon which he'd press the “call” button as Michael showed him the other day. He held the device up to his ear, thankful to hear it ringing on the other end and even more relieved when Sam's familiar voice picked up.

“Hello, Sam,” Freddy said, speaking a bit louder than he needed to with the microphone so close to his mouth. “I would like to get Gregory's tablet from your office, but it is locked; I apologize for the inconvenience, but would you be able to meet me here? It should only take a moment!”

Sometimes Sam wondered if he designed Freddy far too politely. It didn't grate his nerves by any means, though he hoped it eventually didn't lead to some kind of complex. Regardless, he answered with a happy sounding: “Fredbear! No, it won't be a problem. I was just showing Mike the newest upgrades in the security system, but he'll be fine while I'm gone.”

Sam would give the guard in question a thumbs up in case he was wondering why Freddy called. It was by no means an emergency, but that didn't mean it didn’t require Sam's attention.

“I'll meet you there,” Sam said decisively, briefly looking down at his nails before wishing him goodbye and hanging up. Oil and dirt came clean from under the whites of his nail bed, and he flicked the dirt to the floor with the dismantled Chica parts. Another robot was almost ready to go, and the more Sam worked with Michael the more thankful he was to have the guy back in his life. He had so much experience inside the company, Mike by all means should be running it with him.

“I'll be right back—Gregory needs his tablet and it's inside the office.” Sam raised a bushy brow towards his friend at the security desk. “You're going to be good while I'm gone?”

Whether he meant ''good' as if fine mood and work wise, or 'good' as in no causing harm or mischief seemed to be left up to Michael. Now clad in the standard white button-up and black pants of the Fazbear security uniform, Michael leaned back in the swivel chair and tipped his hat with a jaunty grin.

“I’ll be fine, Boss,” he replied, still amused that his childhood friend was now technically his employer. Gesturing to the multitude of camera feeds on the monitors, Mike added: “I’ve done this a thousand times—trust me, I know what I’m doing. If there’s any trouble on either end, we’ve got walkies and cell phones to contact each other. Just leave it up to your night guard to keep things running smoothly.”

Was this mild pontificating a way to cover up his nerves at being left alone at a security desk again?

…Possibly, though Michael would never admit it. For literally the first time since he’d started working security guard positions, he would not be on the lookout for possessed, bloodthirsty animatronics. In fact, everyone he’d able to see on the cameras—robotic, ghostly, or human—was his friend in some capacity. Well, except Ennard, though they clung to the vents and would be hard to spot on camera anyway.

With a grimace, Michael glanced up to the grated vent opening in the wall in front of him, hoping he wouldn’t get a surprise visit. No promises he wouldn’t instantly taze the now-helpful amalgamation due to traumatic flashbacks…

Flipping his expression back into a casual smile, Michael kicked his feet up on the desk and gestured lazily for Sam to go. “You’d better meet Freddy before he starts freaking out because you’re thirty seconds later than he expects you to be; we’ll be in touch.”

“You're the best, Mikey.” Sam smiled, throwing up another thumb in the air as the pneumatic hiss of the security door whooshed up and over his head. Samuel walked leisurely, checking his phone on his walk to the office. There was never a break for work for him; when not actively tightening bolts on an animatronic, he was always checking emails or texts from business suppliers and partners.

As Samuel arrived to his office in search of the drawing tablet, Mike would probably notice the movements on the other cameras. With several sections of the mall to flip through, he could catch glimpses of their friends in Daycare. Charlie was currently blowing up his phone with memes she'd found from 2008, now fully entrenched in the culture of that time.

Scrolling through the feeds, something struck Michael as odd: the sound of a familiar music box, growing closer and closer no matter which camera he checked.

***

Previous Chapter ~~ Next Chapter (Coming soon)

Looking for more? Check out the Chapter Masterlist on Tumblr!

Or check out the entire Wires that Bind Us Series on ao3!

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theonceoverthinker · 7 years ago

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The Saga of Geraldine (Knight Rook)

Summary: All kids have imaginary friends, and Alice is certainly no exception. Follow Killian as he takes us through the life and times of his wonderful daughter’s invisible invitee.

Hi! Here’s a little piece of Knight Rook fluff/angst/comfort that hit me last week like a truck to the face! Also, SERIOUS credit to @killianmesmalls for her inspiring a certain aspect of this fic.

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Children had imaginary friends. This made sense Alice would too. Honestly, looking back, Killian would’ve been surprised if she didn’t, especially given her unique situation.

Geraldine was her name, and according to Alice, she was a white rabbit the size of a bear.

This also made sense. The first stories he read to Alice were about the adventures of fictional animals. Books with them were affordable, filled with beautiful pictures that could take her to the lushest of forests, deepest of oceans, and coldest of tundras, and were practically guaranteed to be child friendly, so Killian bought them for Alice as often as he could. When he read those stories, two creatures tended to stick out the most to his sole audience member: Rabbits and bears. Alice loved how the pictures in her books made rabbits look so soft. Bears, she adored for their strength and size. Alice, for as sweet as she was, was equal parts tough and strong as well. During the occasional tickle fight, Killian wouldn’t be shocked to find himself tackled or otherwise sore by the end of it.

Because of that, Geraldine had the appearance of the gentlest of bunnies (She described Geraldine as the “cuddliest friend on Earth”) and at the same time was fluffy and well-built enough that she could withstand her daughter’s wrath with ease.

Killian immediately realized what Geraldine was when they were introduced, and never for a second had any intention of taking this friend away from Alice. So, when asked to play along in her little game, no matter how small or large a role it required, he was more than happy to oblige. He often invited Geraldine to stay for dinner, cutting half of his own food to make a little portion for her, only eating the partial portion when Alice was well and fully asleep. When asked to cuddle with them, Killian would pretend Geraldine’s fur was softer than silk.

This also meant being creative when his daughter tried to use her friend for less than innocent purposes. One time, Alice, while he was out on a supply run, had broken a porcelain candle holder that sat by her bed, and when it came time to press her about the subject, she had blamed Geraldine. Killian, after a short period of deliberation, decided that as punishment, there would be no sweets after dinner for either of the girls, and while Alice pouted, justice had ultimately been served.

Through good days and bad, Geraldine served the part of making Alice’s childhood just a little less lonely, and she did it well.

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“Papa!” Alice called, her tone clearly distressed.

It had been a fairly normal and carefree day. Killian, who had been relaxing on his armchair, half-asleep, sprung to life, taking a swordsman’s stance.

He looked around the room until he spotted his daughter. Alice, hardly a month past seven years, looked so panicked. She was jittering and her eyes were begging for help.

“What’s going on, Alice?” he asked, approaching her.

She gestured for him to lower to her level. When she was able to reach his ear, she cuffed her tiny hands around it and leaned in.

“It’s Geraldine’s birthday, and I didn’t get her a present!” Alice loudly whispered.

Killian went through a flurry of emotions over the course of five seconds. In order, they were shock, frustration, annoyance, and relief.

“Alice, my love. You shouldn’t scare me like that.” Alice guiltily looked down to her feet.

“I’m sorry, Papa. I just didn’t want to let her down.”

Her remorse clear, Killian was quick to forgive her. “It’s alright, my love.”

The question now put itself out there: What were they to get an imaginary friend for their birthday?

Fortunately, if life had blessed Killian with anything, it was the ability to think quicker than the very ship he gave up to be here.

“Where is Geraldine?” Alice slightly gestured her head backwards and to the side. He gave her a grin. “I’ve just the thing.” His daughter released a hushed squee and hugged him fiercely. “Shall we go over there and give it to her?” Alice nodded, and the two went over to the spot she pointed out.

“Hello Geraldine, and Happy Birthday!” Killian said to the open air.

“Papa,” Alice called. “We’re down here on the bed.” Killian chuckled, and turned accordingly.

“My apologies, girls.” Killian continued. “Well, as previously said, Happy Birthday, Geraldine. For this year, Alice and I have come up with a little song for you, one I will now sing.”

Once again, Alice squealed in delight.

Killian knew two things to be undeniable truths. The first thing was that he was quite the wordsmith. The second was that if his baby girl loved anything in this world, it was hearing her Papa sing.

“I call this “The Saga of Geraldine.”” Killian began tapping his toe to get a feel for the rhythm that the song required, and once he had it settled, he started clapping to the beat too. The end result was very much like the sea shanties he grew up hearing.

Geraldine, Geraldine A friend like you has never been seen You’re always nice, not ever mean So we sing of the saga of Geraldine

By the end of the first verse, Alice was doubled over in laughter. It was times like these where Killian was happy that it was just the two of them up here. He was pretty sure he’d be eternally red if anyone outside of this tower ever learned that he had sung a song for an imaginary bear-sized rabbit.

Geraldine, Geraldine Your fur has the prettiest sheen And you’re so damn tall, it’s almost obscene But we still sing the saga of Geraldine

“Papa, language!” Alice playfully scolded. Killian had accidentally swore in front of her quite a few times, but always walked back on them and told her not to use such language. Alice always giggled when he dropped a swear word, and after a while, it became a joke between the two of them.

Killian, still keeping the beat, stuck his tongue out at his daughter just before continuing, much to her amusement.

Geraldine, Geraldine You’re the best friend to my little queen You make her laugh ‘till she hurts her spleen That’s why we made the saga of Geraldineeeeeeeee!

As he held out that last elongated note, Killian smiled at himself. Not only had he come up with a song, practically on the spot, but had managed to give it a big finish. Alice certainly appreciated it. She was on her side, laughing so hard that Killian was worried she might lose her voice or her breath if she didn’t stop soon.

Of course, an encore was demanded, and then an encore after that. By that evening, Alice had the song down by heart. Killian would later be tempted to wish himself deaf after a few days of the song, but Alice’s smile was worth its annoying catchiness one hundred and twelve times over and then some.

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It was only when Alice was eight that her grandest illusion was finally destroyed.

“Geraldine’s not real, is she, Papa?” Killian, after getting over the shock of the question itself, bit his lip. He knew this day was coming, and he knew no matter what, it would be a hard one. It would be the final farewell to the closest thing that Alice could call a friend in this cursed life she’d been unfairly saddled with.

“W-what makes you say that?” He knew he couldn’t stop the truth from hammering down, but he wanted to understand why it was happening. He had still played along with the idea of Geraldine just as he had since she first appeared in his and Alice’s lives.

Alice was now blubbering. “I-I don’t see her the way I used to. It used to be that she was just there. Now, I have to squint and focus to make her appear, and it’s just harder and I realize…”

Killian bent down onto his knees so that he was at her eye level. He placed his hand on her shoulder. “What was it you realized, darling?”

“I don’t have to do that with you.” Alice answered. “When I want Geraldine to go away, I can just make her go away, but I can’t with you. You’re always here, and I don’t have to make you be here. When you’re mean or bossy, you’re still here with me.”

For a moment, Killian simply marveled at how perceptive his girl was. Her mental state for someone imprisoned for so long was impressive. Her childlike imagination was as strong as any others, but when the time came to admit that dreams were dreams, she was able to do it.

And now he had to play his part in laying them to rest.

Killian didn’t want to do this. It was like telling a child that Santa didn’t exist (He himself then realized that that would be a sad confession for another day).

Just before he was about to fully end things, to tell her once and for all that Geraldine wasn’t real, he asked himself: Did he need to?

Well, of course he needed to. He wasn’t about to open the door to something unhealthy like prolonging the inevitable, especially when she had mostly reached the conclusion on her own.

However, there was another angle to take, one that would still honor all that Geraldine had been to Alice, and one that wouldn’t leave her feeling bare.

“Alice, Geraldine isn’t a creature made of flesh or fur or hair or bones like you and I,” Killian admitted softly. “But she is real. She’s the adventures you went on. She’s the stories you told her. She’s tea parties and cookie jar raids and tickle fights. She’s memories. Do you understand?” Alice nodded, though she still looked confused and worse, sad. “Everything that you two shared, all that time. Geraldine by herself might not be real, but that all is.”

A smile, now only a touch sad appeared upon his daughter’s face. Killian pulled her in for a hug. She was still crying - he could feel it through his shirt, but he knew that when the hug ended that she had accepted the story as best as she could. He offered her a handkerchief from out of his pocket, and she took it, releasing a few wayward tears. For a while they sat there, remembering and practically playing mourning to the friend who while, not gone forever, would cease being a constant in their lives.

After a tearful reprise of “The Saga of Geraldine,” Alice’s stomach started to rumble.

“How about some lunch?” Alice smiled, her fingers using his handkerchief to wipe the remaining tears away.

“Can I have an orange marmalade sandwich?” she requested, as sweetly as the preservative she desired.

Killian once again bit his lip as he was poised to deal with yet another difficult situation.

“Actually,” Killian said, slowly and awkwardly. “We’re all out of marmalade.”

“What?” Alice asked, her tone incredulous. “You just got a full jar last week!” Killian could see Alice studying her. “Papa, did you eat it?”

His cheeks reddened. “N-no,” he muttered.

Alice raised an eyebrow and folded her arms. “Then who did?”

Killian suddenly felt quite nervous. Heat flushed his cheeks.

He found that he could only squeak one thing: “Geraldine?”

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“Tilly, what’s that you’re humming?”

Rogers and Tilly were in the midst of their weekly round of chess. Rogers had just secured her knight and while deciding her next move, she started humming. She often hummed when they played, as if to play up her own confidence in her victory. However, something about this song that now buzzed through the air struck him as familiar.

Tilly bit her cheek. “You know, I don’t remember. Song just came to me, as they usually do. Want me to stop?”

While he couldn’t explain why, Rogers shook his head. “No, don’t. I like it, and it helps you concentrate. Besides, you’ll need all the help you want to beat me.”

An expression as crazy as a fox appeared on the face of his young friend. “Don’t underestimate me, detective.”

“Wouldn’t for a second,” Rogers answered as he welcomed back her joyous hum.

#knight rook #ouat #killian jones #wish hook #alice jones #alice

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qqueenofhades · 8 years ago

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The Rose and Thorn: Chapter I

summary: Sequel to The Dark Horizon. The New World, 1740: Killian and Emma Jones have lived in peace with their family for many years, their pirate past long behind them. But with English wars, Spanish plots, rumors of a second Jacobite rising, and the secret of the lost treasure of Skeleton Island, they and their son and daughter are in for a dangerous new adventure. OUAT/Black Sails. rating: M status: WIP available: FF.net and AO3 notes: I said I was not going to write any more CS fic. That lasted exactly two days after finishing TDH. So, I gave in to the rabid plot bunny. This story will focus a bit more on the kids, but Killian and Emma will absolutely be there and have a role, and I am excited to continue the saga and no doubt sign myself up for another monstrosity of unfortunate length. Welp.

The bastard on the parapet above was very definitely aiming directly at him, and that, no matter his mixed feelings on why he was here in the first place, was the one thing Samuel Jones found bloody inexcusable. He ducked as the next round from the apparently very dedicated Spaniard blasted the trunk of the palm tree next to him, then fumbled another cartridge from his belt, tore the twist with his teeth, poured half the powder into the pan, and pulled his grimy ramrod to shove the ball, and the rest of the powder, down the barrel. Drew a bead on his target – the officers had about given up calling through the usual make ready, present, fire commands in the heavy bombardment, and every man was more or less shooting at will anyway – cocked it, closed one eye, sighted down the barrel, and pulled the trigger.

The gun kicked, boomed, and actually went off, which was always a happy surprise when it did. Peering through the smoke, Sam could see to his chagrin that he had not shot the Spaniard, though by the volume and quantity of what sounded like some very Catholic curses, he thought he had at least come close. He crouched back down to start the cumbersome reloading process yet again, thinking that when he had agreed to do this (well, insofar as he had had an actual choice), it had been, in his mind, far more glamorous. The order had gone out through the Province of Georgia for all able-bodied men of arms-bearing age, sixteen to sixty, to join Governor James Oglethorpe in his march to St. Augustine, the capital of Spanish La Florida, and (theoretically, at least) capture it for the English Crown. Such, therefore, was the idea.

Reality, naturally, was turning out to be far more complicated. To say the least, Sam’s family had an extremely delicate history with the English Crown, and this war, which had broken out last year, 1739, on deliberate provocation by the British to improve their economic position in the New World and hang onto their slave-trading right with Spanish colonies, was about as dislikable as it was possible to get. England and Spain were always fighting each other anyway, and Sam’s father and grandfather had both been strongly against his going (his mother as well, though for different reasons). Sam understood their philosophical objections, and to some degree shared them, but he himself had different concerns. His twentieth birthday was in September, and he absolutely did not intend to be the only young man of his age sitting around on his hands while the rest went off to war. The society and good opinion of a number of fetching young ladies was at stake. He was going to make the most of this.

It was possible, Sam reflected, as he squinted against the glare off the water, that there were easier ways to accomplish this objective. The siege of St. Augustine had been, thus far, a very nearly unmitigated disaster. While Oglethorpe had started out with some modest success, the Spanish had recaptured the satellite citadel of Fort Mose in a surprise attack, wiping out half the Highlander and Indian contingent that had held it, and the Royal Navy blockade in the harbor – which by the very word, blockade, was supposed to keep Spanish supply ships out – had failed at that one job, allowing them to slip through the siege lines and replenish St. Augustine’s dwindling provisions. Sam’s father, the former Royal Navy lieutenant who had fought in several battles of the last major Anglo-Spanish war (now about four wars ago) would have been absolutely aghast at this incompetence, and it had left the British army, on its heels, with no option but to try to bash their way into the city by brute force. Which, given current events, was shaping up exactly as well as might be expected.

Sam ducked again as a second blast from the Spanish artillery on the walls crumpled the much-abused tree next to him into matchwood. His ears were ringing, and sweat was pouring down his back from the bruising July heat. He was not wearing the ubiquitous red coat of a soldier, but the blue wool jacket of a Continental militiaman, and either way, he was bloody boiling. He shucked it off, tucked his linen blouson shirt back into his breeches, and threw a hopeful look at the sky, imploring it to help out with a breeze or a bit of rain. Though he was likely to regret that instantly if it actually did, as it would turn this entire low-lying salt plain into hellacious mud, and Commodore Pearce, the lion-hearted commander of the Navy fleet, already had his bloomers in a bunch about hurricane season. One drop, and he’d probably run screaming, wig flying.

Sam snorted to himself, reloaded his musket again (he wasn’t as fast as the well-drilled Army lads who could get off four shots a minute, but he wasn’t some bumbling backwater country boy either – not that you’d know, the looks he got) and fired. The Spaniard was engaged in preparing to visit some other malfeasance on him, and this momentarily interrupted said proceedings. Indeed, their eyes locked among the chaos, and Sam had the brief and unsettling impression that the man knew him from somewhere, or had otherwise some animus with him that went beyond the general conventions of two blokes on either side of a flag trying to blast each other’s brains out. Then there was another explosion, the field gun next to Sam backfired and someone went down screaming, and he forgot about it.

A few more inconclusive salvos were exchanged for the next few hours, but it was clear that the resupplied city was well prepared to hold against a few piddling bombardments, and Sam heard the officers yelling to fall back. God, this was embarrassing. They outnumbered the Spanish almost three to one between Army, militia, and Indians, boasted five Navy frigates and three sloops, and yet they were the ones scuttling away with their tails between their legs. It was a slog of close to a mile back to the British camp, a small tent city pitched on marsh and cut by glades (which, camp rumor held, contained several man-eating crocodiles), and the soot-faced, sweaty men were trudging in hungry, tired, and massively dispirited. It was clear that unless something changed, and quickly, they had permanently lost the advantage in Florida, and sporadic pay had not improved their tempers. The regulars could be more or less assured of theirs, but the militiamen were already clothed and supplied at their own expense, and as the Crown tended to hold the position that they should feel grateful to serve their rightful sovereign from the goodness of their hearts, this was not a profitable occupation. Or –

“Jones. Hey. Jones!”

Sam looked up with a start at the shout, to see his friend Nathaniel Hunt, one of the other men who had come from Savannah, where the Swan-Jones family lived after moving from Boston fifteen years ago. Sam was madly in love with Nathaniel’s sister Isabelle, who was chief among the young ladies whose good graces he hoped to obtain by this venture, and he turned to him, wiping his face with his arm. “Aye?”

“General Oglethorpe wants to see you.” Hunt looked rather intimidated. “Personally.”

“Oh?” Sam had to repress a brief swoop of unease. He had figured that he was mostly invisible among the ranks, and extra scrutiny was never terribly welcome for someone of his particular pedigree. To have the commander asking for you by name was. . . well, hopefully it was just to settle up about those back wages, but not terribly likely. “I’ll be along in a moment, then.”

As Hunt trotted off, presumably to relay this message, Sam untied his long dark hair from its thong, combed his fingers through it, and splashed a little water on his face, which had only a minimal effect on the accumulated dust. He scouted up a new jacket and retied his neckerchief, and when he looked more or less presentable for an audience with the general – who, apart from his military station, was also the governor of the Province of Georgia and someone with the power to make things difficult for Sam and his family – swallowed hard and set off across the camp. Twilight streaked crimson and orange and gold across the western sky, and supper fires were starting to be lit, small earthbound stars, as clouds of stinging insects buzzed up from the marshes. The soldiers slapped them, grumbled, cursed, passed around canteens and bowls of stew, sitting on half-rotted logs and leaning their muskets against knots of saltgrass. Sam suddenly desired their company more than he had a minute ago, if an unexpected visit had cropped up in the meantime. This was probably nothing. Routine procedure.

He reached the central tent after a few more minutes, gave his name to the redcoats on guard outside, and waited as they ducked in to inform Oglethorpe. Then they beckoned him through, and Sam advanced warily as the flaps fell shut behind him. He had a pistol in his belt, not that he thought he could shoot the bloody Governor if this went pear-shaped, and he clasped his hands behind him, feeling as if he was back at school with the particularly irascible Latin master. “Ah – Your Excellency? I’m Samuel Jones. You wanted to see me?”

“Yes.” James Oglethorpe was a trim mid-forties aristocrat in a currently rather damp and flyaway wig, which he seemed to have made a losing effort to tame. He was sitting behind a camp desk heaped with piles of papers and parchments: requisition orders, army reports, maps of the region, dispatches from the scouts and spies, and doubtless a hundred and one bellyaching letters from Commodore Pearce about the needs of the fleet. A few candles were wedged precariously onto the edge, along with some fugitive inkwells and penknives and a half-finished plate of dinner and decanter of brandy. “At your ease, soldier.”

The last thing Sam felt was at ease, but he snapped a salute, clicked his heels, then adopted a slightly more casual posture, taking the camp chair across from Oglethorpe when the governor nodded to it. He tried not to fiddle with the loose thread on his jacket cuff. “Sir?” he prompted, when Oglethorpe kept writing. Likely shouldn’t, keep your mouth shut until the commanding officer spoke to you, so on and so forth, but holding his tongue (or his temper) had never been one of his particular virtues. “Did you – ”

Oglethorpe gave him a dry look, as if to say that he would find out if he just shut up for a moment, and removed the gadroon from the candle, dropping melted wax onto the letter and sealing it with a stamp of his ring. Then he said, “You are Samuel Jones of Savannah, Georgia?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is your father Killian Jones, formerly first lieutenant of HMS Imperator in the Royal Navy?”

A slight chill went down Sam’s back, as this was never a well-boding line of questioning. Still, he kept his expression neutral. “Yes, sir.”

“And your mother, I believe – ” Oglethorpe checked one of his papers. “Emma Jones, née Swan, who was at one point in operation of a vessel, the Blackbird, that – pursued business opportunities outside of the usual parameters of enterprise?”

“If you’re asking if my mother was a pirate,” Sam said bluntly, “I think you know the answer.”

Both of Oglethorpe’s eyebrows raised at that, but he forbore to rebuke this impertinency. He set aside his papers and regarded Sam levelly, fingers steepled. “Both your parents, weren’t they? Your father’s notorious alias was Hook, later in his career?”

Sam winced. So much for this being innocuous. “My parents have been upright citizens for almost three decades. And considering that Georgia was founded to provide a refuge for those who might have landed themselves on the wrong side of England’s laws – you should recall, sir, as you did the founding – surely you can’t be registering a moral objection now?”

“There is,” Oglethorpe said, “rather some difference between the honest poor abused in workhouses, those escaping the unjust vicissitudes of religious oppression, and other such deserving refugees, than there are between notorious and unrepentant high seas pirates. On that note, I believe your grandfather was also a pirate? James McGraw, known as Captain Flint – reported dead some years ago, by hanging?”

Sam kept his face straight. The number of ersatz “Flints” captured by the authorities and inevitably executed had in fact become something of a running joke with his family – “hanged you again last week, Grandpa” – but this meant that Oglethorpe had been doing quite a bit of digging. Not merely to boast about it, either. “Aye,” he said, since there wasn’t much use in denying it outright. “But my grandfather is, as you say, dead.”

“Mm. And you are most likely named for the late Captain Samuel Bellamy, a former close associate of your parents, and also a pirate?”

“Yes,” Sam said resignedly, deciding not to mention that this man was additionally his godfather, as he had a feeling that would be making Oglethorpe’s point for him. “Also a pirate.”

“Mmmmm.” Oglethorpe’s nostrils pinched, but at least he was not shouting for the redcoats to rush in and string Sam up – yet – so there had to be some purpose to this interrogation. “Well, young Jones. You have a. . . colorful genealogy.”

“Yes, sir.” Sam was thirsty as buggeration, but he did not suppose that the governor was about to offer him a drink. “Anyone else to ask me about, sir?”

Oglethorpe gave him a cold fish-eye, seemed to consider it, and then sat back. “That will suffice for the moment. I suppose it’s to your credit that you are forthcoming about it. Though, one would also reckon, quite dangerous.”

“My parents never tried to hide who our family was, and used to be. Even as much as they’ve lived peacefully since they left that world behind.” Sam’s tone matched the governor’s for levelness, but he was not about to sit here and listen to his kin be slandered to his face. “Is there a purpose to this? Sir?”

“So you are going to claim that, despite this, you are a loyal subject?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Sam decided it was best to finesse this question. “Fighting for you? And from what I can tell, the whole thing has gone tits up without any help at all from me.”

Oglethorpe looked pained.

“Er.” Sam coughed. “Feet. Feet up.”

“Well – despite your markedly uncouth matter of phrasing it, I cannot argue with your conclusions.” Oglethorpe took the decanter and poured a bracing tot of brandy for himself. “The failure of the blockade was a serious blow, and by all indications, we will have to retreat. That damnable poltroon Pearce has also turned lily-livered about keeping the fleet out in hurricane season – though considering what happened twenty-five years ago, just down the coast, I suppose he has a point.”

Sam concurred on this accord, as the legendary wreck of the 1715 Spanish treasure fleet was an event well known across the New World, and once more pertinent to his family history. He was, however, slightly wary as to why Oglethorpe had turned that quickly from interviewing him about said history to dropping bits of undeniably sensitive intelligence. His first instinct – that Oglethorpe wanted to blackmail him somehow – felt accurate, but it was more than that. Having made it clear what was at stake if Sam should refuse, viz. the potential continued peaceful existence of his entire family, the carrot must now follow the stick, and Sam didn’t feel like waiting it out. “Well?” he said. “What do you want from me?”

Oglethorpe’s eyebrows made a now fairly-accustomed pilgrimage toward his hairline. “Do you always speak so. . . openly to your superiors?”

“I’m not one for flimflam.” Sam leaned back in his chair. “You do want something from me, don’t you? That’s what you’re getting at. You’ve been elegantly insinuating how much you know about my family and how much trouble you could make if I don’t cooperate. Let’s assume for the moment that I’m cooperating. What is it?”

“Well.” Feathers ruffled, Oglethorpe had to take a restorative gulp of brandy. “Among our other misfortunes, Governor Montiano has recently captured several of my clerks and aides-de-camp, men with detailed knowledge of our plans, capabilities, and the continuing broader operation of the war. We are preparing for a – well, never mind. Suffice it to say that the future strategy of the English Crown will be considerably jeopardized if Montiano succeeds in passing that intelligence to his overlords in Havana. In exchange for your agreement to work as my personal agent in this matter, tracking the Spaniard with the intelligence and taking whatever measures necessary to ensure that it is not received, I will. . . take your word for it that your family are productive and peaceable members of society. Is that clear enough for your tastes?”

Sam repressed a brief and unpleasant sensation that he knew exactly which Spaniard would be carrying the letter to Havana. “So you’re what – asking me to put my inherited pirate skills to work in your interests? Shoot the messenger, as it were?”

“If that is what it takes, then it would, of course, be sanctioned by the state of war that exists between Great Britain and the Spanish empire. Not, of course, that I find the prospect tasteful. I am aware that murder remains a sin in the Anglican confession, and I would not ask you to commit it without due cause.” Oglethorpe actually looked candidly at Sam for the first time in the conversation, which was nice enough of him that Sam decided against mentioning that his family wasn’t much for church. “All I ask is that the letter with the intelligence does not reach Havana. And since you, as you note, have somewhat of a heritage with these acts, you can employ your own discretion as to what that involves.”

“And I’m supposed to do this for free?”

“On the understanding that your family would be guaranteed their safety, yes.”

Sam considered, tapping his fingers on his knee. He wanted to point out that guarantees of safety were not going to cover any bribes, fees of passage, food or lodging, or other expenses, and that the militiamen were, as noted, already several months in arrears of even their modest pay, which always seemed to be the first to go whenever the supply chain was in straits. Not too much in straits, though, given that Oglethorpe still had his brandy. Wouldn’t want to deprive him of that, to be sure. “But you’re still not expensing me for it?”

“I should not be surprised that the scion of pirates haggles like a fishwife.” Oglethorpe pulled out another sheet of parchment, dipped his quill, signed it, and stamped it. “In that regard, well, this is for you. Letters of marque. It entitles you to take that which you require for your sustenance, under the auspices of your status as a servant to His Majesty, George II.”

Sam grimaced. “You’re making me a privateer, you mean.”

“I am hiring a pirate,” Oglethorpe pointed out, with some asperity. “Not a priest.”

This was, Sam supposed, rather flattering in its way, so that he wondered if he wanted to correct Oglethorpe’s amusing but mistaken impression that he had been raised as a miniature buccaneer from the cradle, wrapped in the skull and crossbones as a baby blanket and taught his letters by chalking DEATH TO ENGLISH TYRANNY over and over on the slate. He in fact had no more real knowledge of the pirate life than any other nineteen-year-old lad with an overactive imagination, because his parents had always ensured that he never had to live that way. But he could not deny that he was curious. They had all experienced it, they had known it, they had bled and breathed it, and grateful as he was for his comfortable and prosperous childhood, he felt that he had rather missed the boat, in more ways than one. He was proud of what his family had been, even as he knew there was no place for them in this ever more modern world. And yet, he could not help but want his own taste. Just a little. Just that same breath of adventure, of freedom.

He hesitated, then took the letter. Not that he knew entirely what to do with it, but it couldn’t hurt to keep it for now. “Am I going by myself?”

“An army company would attract attention, and I won’t be able to spare men from our rearguard, given that Montiano and his negroes are likely to be breathing up it.” Oglethorpe sighed. He himself was a fairly progressive man as such things went; it was on his express instigation that slavery had been banned in the new colony of Georgia, and he had cultivated genuinely good relationships with the local Indians, several of whom were here fighting for him. That did not mean, however, that he was inclined to view a hostile alliance of Spaniards and black men favorably. Slavery had been outlawed in Spanish Florida since 1728, granted in gratitude for them rising up to defeat an attempted British invasion, and since the issue of its continued trade lay at the heart of this war, Sam rather thought that despite any personal convictions as to its moral wrongness, Oglethorpe was still supporting it by fighting for the system that sustained it. “You may, however,” the governor went on, “choose a traveling companion. Your mission will be dangerous, and it is best not to go entirely alone.”

“Hunt,” Sam said at once. Whatever was going to happen, he’d feel far safer with a friend from home at his back. “Nathaniel Hunt.”

“Very well. If you think you can trust him, you’d best be on your way.” Oglethorpe looked as if he knew that he was depriving Sam of a hearty meal and a good night’s sleep, but time was of the essence. The Spanish agent might already have a head start. “Good luck, Mr. Jones.”

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“Please,” Nathaniel said as they trudged through the thigh-high salt grass, “tell me that you’re not doing this to impress my sister.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Sam prodded gingerly ahead of him with his musket. There were all kinds of poisonous vipers around here – moccasins, copperheads, cottonmouths – and he’d seen a man bitten, have his leg swell up blue and bloated, then die in agony hours later. The sound of the camp had almost, but not quite, faded behind them, and as they had to get back to St. Augustine, determine if the courier had left yet, and avoid being killed all before sunrise, Sam was setting a brisk pace. “Besides, even if I was, fair’s fair, isn’t it? You’re not going to tell me you don’t have eyes for Geneva?”

Nathaniel was a tall, lanky redhead, which meant that when he blushed, it looked as if his entire head was afire. The fact that said blush was visible even by moonlight was testament to its ferocity. “Shut up.”

“Aha.” At least, Sam thought, Nathaniel could take comfort in the fact that he was far from alone in this affliction. Geneva Jones was twenty-four, a striking beauty (not that Sam himself was vested in this, as she was his older sister, that would just be bloody weird) and the present captain of the family ship, the Rose, which had been a Navy sixth-rater in its former life before their mother commandeered it. Geneva had always demonstrated more of an aptitude and aspiration for sailing than Sam, who preferred to conduct his misadventures on land (the one trait in which he sensed that he might have disappointed his seafaring relations) and as such, had been the one prepared to inherit said vessel. Come to think of it, this mission also couldn’t hurt as a chance to polish Sam’s credentials as an old salt, or however that worked. “You do.”

“I said, shut up.” Nathaniel kept walking determinedly. “Besides, someone has to come along to be sure you don’t break your fool neck.”

“It’ll be a good story,” Sam said. “Have your uncle print it up in his paper. Or he can put it in the other one, Poor Richard’s Almanack. I’m sure it would be very popular.”

Nathaniel looked mildly horrified at this suggestion, as if his uncle Benjamin found out, it would assuredly mean that his mother, one of the other sixteen children of Josiah Franklin and his two wives, would find out as well. “I think I’d rather face the Spaniards.”

“There, see, you’ve that going for you already.” Sam stole another wary look from side to side, checked the grass once more for poisonous beasts (of whatever variety) and jumped the creek, before gesturing to Nathaniel to halt. “This shouldn’t take long. Keep watch.”

Nathaniel blinked, utterly baffled. “Keep watch? For what? We’re not even out of the camp yet. Hate to break it to you, Jones, but that’s one of our supply wagons just there, not a Spanish artillery position.”

“I know it’s a supply wagon, you dolt.” Sam cracked his knuckles. “I said, keep watch.”

Bafflement remained the chief emotion on his friend’s freckled countenance a moment longer, until it was replaced by horror. “Oh no. Oh, no. Sam, don’t you – ”

“I have a letter of marque, remember? And this is the hell of a lot easier to start with than some Spanish fortress or man-o-war bristling with guns. Besides, they haven’t paid us anyway. Do you want your share or not?”

“Oh my god,” Nathaniel said. “You are going to get us killed.”

“Just keep quiet and let out a good yell if anyone comes this way.” Sam checked that the sentries had passed, then limbered up the side of the wagon, untying the lashings and burrowing beneath the canvas like a determined weasel. He could still hear Nathaniel muttering imprecations to himself under his breath, clearly vastly regretting this decision not an hour into it, but, well, that was his misfortune. Sam rummaged around in the dimness, saw beady eyes and batted away the foot-long rat that was gnawing on the grain sack, and finally happened on one of the petty cash chests. The main strongboxes were kept in the governor’s pavilion with the guards, but the supply wagons needed to have their own capital on hand to barter or purchase provisions for the army, and the drivers were not always terribly conscientious about taking it out every night – who would bother to steal it, in the middle of camp, when being caught would either get them short a hand or a noose around the neck? Aye. Rhetorical question, Jones. The answer being you.

Sam took the ramrod from his musket, which he had brought into the wagon with him for this express purpose, and worked at the lock – not terribly complicated – until it gave way. He might not be a full-blown pirate, no, but growing up with them had given him a black-market skill or two, and he opened the chest, grabbed one of the money sacks inside, gave it a good jingle to test that it was full, and then stuffed it into his jacket and bailed out of the wagon to the extremely judgmental stare of Nathaniel Obadiah Hunt. At least it was his, and not anyone else’s, and Sam scrambled to his feet, brushing grass off his breeches. “Let’s go.”

Still shaking his head, Nathaniel shouldered his own musket and their rucksack of provisions, and they trotted at a healthy pace until the British camp had mostly disappeared behind them. St. Augustine lay dark on the horizon, the Castillo de San Marcos bristling with fortified positions and torches burning along the walls. The Spanish were no doubt extremely vigilant as the possibility of a second English sneak attack during the night, and Sam and Nathaniel had to be very, very careful picking their way across the outlying island. It was still strewn with the remains of the bombardment earlier, broken trees and heaps of stones and here and there, unpleasantly, a staring corpse already starting to smell ripe from the heat. Some of them had supplies still with them, and might have had coin, but Sam already had what he needed, and he was no grave-robber. Leave that to the scavengers.

At last, they reached the bay, slipped through the mud flats left by the outgoing tide, and cautiously eyed up the ships in the harbor. All they really had to go on was that Governor Montiano would be sending his intelligence to Havana, so they could hitch a ride aboard one of the sloops – it shouldn’t be too difficult, if Sam presented his commission from Oglethorpe. He thought vaguely of the fact that his family might wonder what had happened to him, if he did not return home with the rest of the retreating army. When tasked with a vital secret mission, you did not get a chance to ask if you could write to your mother first, but Sam hoped they wouldn’t worry. Besides, any letter he gave to one of Oglethorpe’s minions would provide them with an excellent chance to find out exactly where his family lived, the fact that his grandfather was not dead, and other such sensitive details. Finish this, and they’d be. . . well, Sam was not so naïve as to think that this would shield them from scrutiny forever. But still. This could matter.

He took a deep breath, hitched his pack up, and started to walk.

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It was the dream that woke Emma, though once she opened her eyes and felt herself return to reality with a small gasp, she was not quite sure what it had been. It slipped quietly away on the tides of sleep and the stillness before sunrise, and she blinked hard, left with only a vague sense of unsettlement and unease. It faded, though, and she let herself sink back into the pillows, Killian’s arm settled around her waist where he had draped it before they had fallen asleep. In the deep heat of a southern summer, neither of them saw much call to wear anything to bed, and much as Emma enjoyed being cocooned in amorous embrace with her dearest spouse, she was also rather too warm, and she lightly disentangled herself, settling his arm on the mattress and admiring the dark sweep of lashes on his cheek. He looked young in his sleep, he always had, despite the advancing streaks of silver that frosted his hair, the well-weathered lines that framed his eyes. At almost fifty-three – his birthday was in a few more weeks, on Saint Bartholomew’s day at the end of August – he would have fallen under the militia conscription order as well, as men were not exempt from service until the age of sixty, but a one-handed man did not qualify as able-bodied, could not fire a musket or otherwise fight, and besides, it was possible that the Colony of Georgia did not want to clutch Captain Hook too closely to its bosom anyway. That past was kept quiet and private these days, and Emma did not think that the authorities were fully aware, but no sense in tempting fate. Besides. She was just as glad to keep him home.

That made her think yet again about Sam, whom she had not stopped worrying about since he had marched off with the rest of the men in January. At going on six months, this was the longest he had yet been away from home, and with the slow and piecemeal movement of news through a war zone, there was not necessarily any way to know that they would have been informed by now if he had died. The founding of Georgia as an organized colony, when previously it had been the vital buffer zone between the British Carolinas and Spanish Florida, was always destined to be a point of serious contention, and Emma could not help but resent that her family had once more been caught up in one of England’s pointless, damaging, draining wars. Still. At least the rest of them were here, together. At least she had this.

She paused, looking down at Killian, then settled closer alongside him, deciding that the heat, given that the sun was not quite up, was not too onerous after all. She traced a finger down his chest (his magnificent fur was also rather silver in places) and then lower, opening her palm, as he made a deep, rumbling sound in his sleep, stirred, and she saw a crack of blue beneath those lashes, grinning at her. He arched his back, pressing himself into her hand. “Well, love. That’s one way to wake up.”

“Good morning.” Emma leaned down to kiss the corner of his mouth, wanting him, his weight and warmth and presence, to chase away whatever demons were lingering from the darkness. Her hair fell loose, the blonde gone white in a few sizeable places as well, as he reached up with his good hand to play with it, tucking it behind her ear. “Did I interrupt a good. . . dream?”

“Nothing comparable to the real thing.” Killian shifted as she rolled on top of him, uttering another satisfied-sounding rumble as she palmed him. He wrapped his shortened arm around her waist, settling her into the grooves and lines and hollows of his body where she had learned to fit so well, and they passed an extremely pleasurable interlude with the minimum of talking. Then, when she had rolled off again, both of them enjoying the deep flush of climax spreading through them with the same steady glow of the rising sun, he said, “What is it, love?”

Emma supposed she shouldn’t be surprised that he could, as ever, sense even the faintest tremors of disquiet in her soul. “Nothing.” She circled his nipple with her finger. “I’m all right now.”

Killian gave her one of his Really, Swan? looks.

“Really.” Emma had to laugh. “Just worrying about Sam again, that’s all. I had a dream – I don’t even remember if it was about him – but it felt like one of those. . . those motherly things. It’s been hard on me, the not knowing. I’m ready for him to come home.”

“You can’t keep the lad close by forever,” Killian said gently. “When I was nineteen – well, I’d just joined the Navy, so everything seemed possible to me. You’re not the smartest of creatures when you’re a boy of that age, so – whatever Sam’s been doing, whatever he’s gotten himself into, it’s likely best we don’t know, eh? Be far too stressful otherwise.”

Emma buzzed a reluctant laugh, even as she couldn’t rid herself of the faint, lingering thorn in her heart. Still, however, there were happier preoccupations on this front. “I don’t suppose Geneva will be awake just yet. She was rather late arriving last night.”

“Aye,” Killian agreed, with the same doting look he had always worn when discussing the subject of his daughter, for all the twenty-four years of her life to date. Geneva had just returned from her trip to Boston, where Henry had remained with his wife Violet and their two children, Richard and Lucy. Henry had a respectable position as a reader of law and history at Harvard College, though he had been making noises about moving the family to Philadelphia and taking up with Nathaniel and Isabelle Hunt’s uncle Benjamin and the newspapers, pamphlets, and publishing business he was profitably running there. The Hunts were longtime friends of the Swan-Jones family, also with their roots in Boston, and Emma hoped that Nathaniel, who had likewise gone to war, was at least trying to keep her son out of trouble. He seemed to have a far better grasp on what that actually entailed than Sam did. He’s too much like the rest of us.

At any rate, Geneva sailed fairly frequently between Boston and Savannah, keeping up the family tradition of female captains in her mother’s stead, and she might have picked up something about the progress of the war on her peregrinations. Emma sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and went to pull on her shift and drawers, then her stays. “Give me a hand?”

“Very funny, Swan.” Killian rolled his eyes tolerantly, though he had in fact become quite good at doing up his wife’s corset with one hand; he did not always bother to put on the complicated brace for the hook if they were merely lounging around at home, and he tended to wear his false hand when they were going out. Savannah might be an opportune place for ex-pirates to settle, given the philanthropic considerations that had attended the colony’s founding, but that did not equate to openly displaying it before everyone’s faces.

Once Killian had laced the stays, not too tightly, Emma shrugged on a light lawn dress, and Killian himself pulled on a loose shirt and buttoned breeches, both of them leaving their feet bare as they padded downstairs and into the airy solarium that adjoined the house’s kitchen. They did not keep servants, though they could certainly afford to do so; that would just have to go into the ledger as another item with which to shock the neighbors. Killian sat at the table as Emma filled the kettle and set it on for coffee, to which all the Colonies had become ragingly addicted, and set on a pot of porridge to warm. When it was burbling appealingly, she took it off, spooned it into two bowls, and took the honey pot as Killian passed it with a slightly pained look on his face. This was her taste in breakfast more than his, as Killian tended to insist on boiled mackerel, grapefruit, and other severe and bracing choices of morning meal. You could, and might have long since, taken the sailor out of the Navy, but etc etc.

They had eaten for a few minutes in amiable silence when the stairs creaked, and – clearly drawn by the scent of food – Geneva came shuffling in in her dressing gown, yawning and groggy. Nonetheless, both Killian and Emma quickly got to their feet to greet their daughter with a kiss, and Emma ladled out a third bowl of porridge, pouring coffee into an earthenware mug (she and Geneva liked it with a bit of cream and sugar, Killian insisted on quaffing it black as tar). “How was the voyage, sweetheart?”

“It was a bit of a bloody hassle, actually.” Geneva shook her tousled black locks out of her face, sat down with her breakfast next to her father, and began to voraciously devour it. “The Spanish are crawling straight up the arse of any ship that seems remotely English, and I must have had to declare my goods ten times. Not to mention the looks those bastards give me, whenever I say that I’m the captain. I spent five hours arguing with the guardas costas off Cape Hatteras.”

Killian and Emma exchanged a look, as they themselves were too familiar with the guardas costas, the Spanish patrol ships that had made pirate lives so unpleasant back in the day. This war, moreover, had ostensibly been started by one – when the master of the guardas ship La Isabela had seized and boarded a British brig, the Rebecca, and cut off the ear of its captain, one Robert Jenkins. The incident had remained a source of insult, but only that, until the British government, looking for an excuse to declare war on Spain, had fanned it into evidently the most major outrage the country had ever suffered, anywhere. (Colorful legends that the severed appendage had been displayed before Parliament remained unverified.) “Off Cape Hatteras?” Emma repeated. “They’re not supposed to be so far in English territory.”

“Must have been my lucky day, then.” Geneva gulped down another spoonful of porridge. “We all know that the real profit from the annual ship comes from all the contraband aboard it, so I suppose they were determined to ensure it wasn’t me. I finally sent him packing, though.”

“Aye, that’s my lass.” Killian looked enormously proud. The “annual ship” meant the one ship of trade goods a year that Britain was allowed to send to the Spanish colonies in the West Indies, as they were otherwise a closed market that only Spain was allowed to trade with. The Spanish colonists, however, were as eager for English luxury goods as their government was for them not to have them, and were willing to pay exorbitant prices for their acquisition. Hence, whichever captain was chosen for the annual ship must be barely able to hold the wheel, as his palms had been so well greased. Half of the smuggling in the Caribbean for the entire year must go through that ship, and was fenced profitably at its port of destination, so the guardas costas must be even more overzealous in trying to catch it and prove a major success to Madrid. “While you were out, did you. . . hear anything of how things are going, in Florida?”

A slight shadow passed over Geneva’s face, as she clearly knew they were asking for news of her brother. “Only rumors, but it didn’t sound promising. Oglethorpe is besieging St. Augustine, has been since June, but whichever nobhead they have in command of the Navy fleet seems to be sleeping on the job. The sea blockade hasn’t been effective. They might have to fall back.”

Killian snorted, as even his long departure from the Navy would certainly not prevent him from judging it harshly on its failures. “Typical.”

“Aye.” Geneva scraped the bottom of her bowl and looked hopefully for a second serving, which Emma took it to provide. “Then again, what would you expect? I doubt the South Sea Company is actually giving them any money either.”

“No,” Killian said scathingly. “Seeing as that would detract from losing it in illicit insider trading and gaming the stock market. Likewise typical that twenty years after they crashed the economy the first time, they’re given a kiss on the arse by Westminster and their very own war, isn’t it?”

Geneva, who had been only four when the “South Sea Bubble” burst for the first time, ruining a number of common creditors who had been persuaded to invest at artificially skyrocketing stock prices in the promised opening of trade with the Spanish Indies (but not, of course, the wealthy shareholders who had conned them into it) raised an eyebrow. “You know you sound like a grumpy old man, Daddy, don’t you?”

“I’m justified, lass,” Killian said, with great dignity. “Well, if Oglethorpe is retreating from Florida, that might mean your brother’s coming home, but it’s not necessarily good news for the rest of us. That means the Spaniards might be on the march, and if they make it to Savannah – ”

The Swan-Joneses exchanged a look, as they all knew that what befell captured cities in wartime was rarely pleasant. Finally Geneva said, “We’ll leave on the Rose, we’ll take Granny, Grandpa, and Great-Uncle Thomas with us. Go back to Boston, if we have to.”

“Ah,” Killian murmured. “So England can take another home from us.”

There was a brief and unhappy silence, as nobody was eager to uproot from Savannah, where they had lived for fifteen years, and surely Miranda, James, and Thomas must be even less so. Still, that remained as yet a theoretical difficulty, happily, and Geneva drank the last of her coffee, then set the cup down. “On that note, I was actually planning to visit them today. I brought back some books for them. Did you want to come?”

“That sounds lovely.” Emma started to rise to her feet. “I’ll get the horses hitched up.”

“No, Mother, I’ll do it. Soon as I get dressed.” Geneva pushed her back down. “Stay.”

Raising an eyebrow, Emma did as instructed, as she had to consider that perhaps it would not be the worst thing in the world to consider hiring help. When Sam was home, he was saddled with all the chores that it was useful to have a teenage son on hand to accomplish, but with his extended absence, and the fact of Killian’s limitations, that meant that most of the housework and general mucking about fell to Emma. Neither of them were getting any younger, and there were certainly any number of interested applicants. At least a maidservant and a footman, as they could likely get by with that, and she would treat them better than Leopold White had ultimately treated her. She would have to place an advertisement in the Virginia Gazette, published in Williamsburg, as that was the chief newspaper serving the southern colonies. Gone were the days when all the Americas had only had the Boston News-Letter, printed once weekly, to rely upon, as the trade was steadily growing – thanks in no small part to Ben Franklin, in fact. She’d look into it.

Geneva returned in fifteen minutes or so, washed and brushed, and went to hitch up their two horses to the buggy, which she enjoyed driving through Savannah’s cobbled streets at decidedly unladylike speeds. Various outraged guardians of public virtue had registered their objections to Killian, which were promptly and thoroughly ignored, and several local ministers were more than slightly convinced of Geneva’s status as a Cautionary Tale to all the impressionable young women in their parishes. Emma bit a grin as her daughter helped them up onto the running board, adjusted her hat to a fashionable angle, gathered the reins in gloved hands, and snapped them lightly over the horses’ backs. They rolled out of the carriage house, and down the road.

It was a hot and clear late-summer morning in Savannah, the air already thick as soup, and the merchants were at least as interested in reclining in the shade as they were in hawking their wares. Geneva only attracted a few stares, as most of the locals were resignedly used to her by now, and they sped up once they had crossed town, taking the road (well, wandering country lane) that led out to the small house, built under huge old oaks, where Miranda Hamilton McGraw lived with her husbands, who were at least as married to each other as they were to her. Hearing the buggy’s wheels crunching up, she opened the door and stepped out onto the porch, and Geneva waved to her. “Stay there, Granny,” she called. “We’ll come over.”

Miranda did as instructed, though her face had lit up with joy to see her granddaughter, as the two of them were very close. She was not much for traveling these days, as she had never entirely recovered from her ordeal in Charlestown and the lasting damage it had left in her, and at the age of sixty-five, she was more than justified in a quiet retirement. When Geneva had unbuckled the harnesses and led the horses to the trough, she hurried up the garden walk to hug her grandmother (gently) and kiss her on the cheek. “I have a surprise for you.”

“More than just this unexpected visit?” Miranda raised an eyebrow, turning so Emma could kiss her as well, and Killian nodded affectionately. “I didn’t think you’d be back from Boston for another week at the least.”

“Wind was good,” Geneva said, with the casual competence of the experienced sailor. “Though the delays with the guardas nearly wiped that out.”

Miranda’s brow furrowed. “They’ve gotten quite bold again, haven’t they?”

“Don’t worry, Granny, I still have both my ears,” Geneva assured her, linking her arm through Miranda’s, as Miranda took a better grip on her cane with the other hand, to escort her inside. With Killian and Emma following, they went through to the small kitchen at the back of the house, where James McGraw and Thomas Hamilton were reading the paper in their shirtsleeves. Flint was likewise in his late sixties, but tough and strong and weathered as a stump of ironwood, his hair gone mostly the rich, mellow white of redheads, though there were ginger streaks left here and there and in his beard. Strictly speaking, he hadn’t been “Flint” for many years now, and while everyone was grateful for it, it still tended to be how Emma thought of him. Fonder, rather than the previous wariness and careful, always-contested alliance, but an older lion was still a dangerous one, and he more than certainly still had his claws. Even his life here in peaceful obscurity with Miranda and Thomas had not softened those edges entirely.

And yet, Flint was smiling as he stood up. “Well,” he said, crossing the floor to clap Killian on the shoulder, let Emma kiss his scruffy cheek, and hug Geneva with one arm. “Thought I smelled trouble. Those bastards let you back into port then, Jenny?”

“Only with minimal bribery, aye,” Geneva said dryly. She stepped past him to hug Thomas, who – although she and Sam would have happily called him grandpa as well – insisted that he did not want to take away from the family that James and Miranda had built in the years without him, and was content to be known as great-uncle. “I’ve a surprise for you.”

With that, she took out a large parcel wrapped in brown paper, handed it over, and watched with barely concealed delight as her grandparents opened it. There was a leather-bound edition of the poems of Catullus, the same of the histories of Tacitus, a copy of Gulliver’s Travels by the novelist Swift, the newest Poor Richard’s Almanack, some tracts by the philosopher Locke, and several French books with risqué woodcuts. “This must have cost you a fortune,” Miranda said, finally looking up from lovingly paging through each. “Are you sure you don’t want us to – ?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Granny. It’s a gift.” Geneva shook her head firmly. “You know Henry’s at Harvard, and he’s thinking about moving to Philadelphia and taking up with Mr. Franklin. You’ll have more books than you know what to do with.”

“Gracious, you’ll spoil us.” Miranda’s eyes shone, belying her protestations, as she squeezed Geneva’s hand. “Well, what next for you, after all this industry? Surely a young lady as busy as you won’t be sitting at home for long, much as we might enjoy your company while you are.”

“Actually.” Geneva’s voice was the sort of carefully offhand tone that was used to impart potentially uncomfortable information, while trying to make it sound as ordinary as possible. “I was thinking about going to Nassau.”

That caused everyone in the kitchen to sit up sharply and pay attention. Killian and Emma glanced at each other, as James, Thomas, and Miranda did likewise, a current running among all five of the adults. Thomas had never been there, and the other four had not been back since they had left. It was a bustling center of (mostly) lawful commerce these days, rather than a notorious outlaw haven, and they obviously could not stop Geneva going if she wanted to, but that would certainly take a few tries to swallow. “Nassau?” Emma said at last. “Why?”

“Uncle Charlie’s there,” Geneva pointed out, which was true. Emma’s brother, Charles Swan, had stayed on New Providence Island and risen to a position of some significance in its politics. The pirates’ old and sworn enemy, Woodes Rogers, had actually been reinstated to the office of governor after he was released from debtors’ prison, though his second tenure was quite a bit less successful than the first, and he had died there in 1732. Upon the occasion of his decidedly unlamented demise, Charles had taken over as the acting governor of the island, holding the office for a few months, before he formed the strong opinion that such a career was not at all for him. He returned to his work with Max, the de facto mistress of the island anyway, to manage David and Mary Margaret Nolan’s shipping and merchant concerns in the Bahamas, of which a portion of the considerable profits had been sent to Killian and Emma for years. And yet, none of them had ever quite felt up to returning. It felt like tempting fate, given everything that had happened to them there. Charlie had visited them in Boston and Savannah alike, but they had never returned the favor with Nassau. It remained too delicate.

“Aye,” Emma said at last, slowly, seeing that her daughter was waiting for her to answer. “I can understand you might want to visit, and aye, Charlie would be happy to introduce you to the merchant guilds there. But it’s. . . it’s surely not where you mean to make a career?”

“One of you should be a pirate,” Flint suggested. “Seeing as Samuel can’t sail to save his life.”

Miranda gave her second husband a deeply reproving look. “James.”

“No, Grandpa, I don’t mean to be a pirate.” Nonetheless, Geneva had to bite her lip on a smile. “But I – I’ve wanted to go there for a while. I feel as if I should at least see the place.”

“By yourself?” Thomas raised a grey-blonde eyebrow. “From what James and Miranda have told me, it’s not the sort of place I’d think a young lady would feel comfortable venturing alone – it might be slightly more respectable these days, but a fresh coat of paint is scarcely about to fix all the holes in the walls, only hide them. Nobody would know me, and therefore I doubt I’d attract any singular attention as your chaperon. Permit me to come along.”

Flint and Miranda both started to say something at this, then stopped. Surely Thomas must be just as curious about the life they had shared there for a decade without him, and with his long years of work on the plantation where he had been sent by his father, thus to expunge the scandal from the Hamilton family name without actually killing him, he was still reasonably spry and active. As he pointed out, it would attract no attention for an older gentleman to be traveling with his great-niece, and no matter if it had been a quarter century or not, there was no way Captain Flint could set foot on Nassau again without lighting the entire Caribbean afire with the news. The world presumed him dead several times over, which was not entirely inaccurate insofar as Captain Flint had long returned to the sea and only James McGraw remained, and it was that anonymity which was keeping him, his wife and husband, and the rest of their family safe. Nobody needed to look for a dead man, or think to try him for his crimes. Bringing him back to life might be more trouble than it was worth.

“Thomas,” Miranda began at last. “Are you sure? Do you want to – I could go with both of you, if you thought that would – ”

“You can’t travel well,” Thomas reminded her. “And I know you and James have not spent a single night apart since you found each other again. Stay here and look after each other as you did for so long, my dear ones. It’s my pilgrimage to make, now. Assuming, of course, that Geneva would be willing to bring an old man along.”

“Of course, Great-Uncle Thomas.” Geneva seemed surprised that he would have to ask. “I’m not planning to be there long, just a fortnight or so. If you wanted more time – ”

“No, no. A fortnight should be fine.” Thomas smiled at her. “Likewise, I thought it was time that I visited. So then. That’s settled?”

Flint and Miranda glanced at each other, their hands linking under the table, then nodded. Just as well, Emma knew that she and Killian could not prevent their daughter, a grown woman and captain of her own ship, from returning to the place where this had all begun, their home and their fortress and their battleground for many years. Still, Emma hoped it would go quickly, and that Charlie was correct when he insisted it was no different from any other bustling port city in the New World. She had carried a certain image of Nassau in her head for so long that it was a shock to think of her daughter going there, bringing the two worlds together again after their years of separation, until sometimes it seemed to have dwindled almost into a dream lost on waking. Like the one this morning, like that faint whisper of unease but nothing discernible or solid. Only shifting shadows, and countless ghosts.

“Very well, then,” she said at last. “But please do be careful.”

----------------------

Geneva and Thomas left three mornings hence, once Geneva had had a chance to resupply the Rose, be sure that her crew had been paid (they were too used to her schedule to complain that she was dragging them out of home and hearth and their wives or mistresses’ beds after not even a week ashore, and she made sure the money was good enough that they didn’t) and made at least reasonably certain that there was not a hurricane brewing up further out to sea. It wasn’t a terribly long journey from Savannah to Nassau, and she had sailed to the Caribbean before, but it was still not one she cared to risk if the weather was going to be a pain in the hindquarters. Especially given how anxious her parents and grandparents already were about the enterprise, no matter how hard they tried to disguise it. She didn’t mean to worry them, but she was also fully confident in her ability to handle herself, and her great-uncle Thomas, while he might not be one of the several pirate captains in the family, had learned from necessity how to defend himself. They would be fine. Her uncle Charlie would be there too. No worries at all.

Geneva was also aware that her family was especially sensitive about the prospect of storms, given how her godfather, her brother’s namesake, had died. She had only met Sam Bellamy once, when she was far too young to remember, only hours after her birth on a remote strip of Caribbean sandbar, which was also where her grandparents had been married and made the fateful decision to sail for Charlestown and avenge the betrayal of their old friend, Peter Ashe. She had been taken away with Henry by their uncle Liam and aunt Regina, who lived in Paris these days, and who Geneva also did not remember, given that they had left France and returned to the Colonies when she was still less than a year old. She knew her father missed his older brother, as the Jones boys had never been separated in their lives until Killian’s disgrace and downfall, his transformation into Hook, but Liam was likewise not much for traveling any more, wanted his sailing days to be behind him, and was haunted by the events of Charlestown in a different way. He had had to kill the bloodily infamous privateer and terrifying mercenary captain, Henry Jennings – also to protect Geneva and Henry, and which Henry remembered but would not talk about – and that memory, the cost of what it had taken to bring down the monster who had wreaked so much pain and havoc on their family, had left him never the same again.

Geneva had begun to mull the idea of suggesting to her parents that she take them to Paris, though it would certainly be the longest voyage she had ever attempted; she had sailed plenty in the Colonies and the Caribbean, but the Atlantic was a different proposition. Not that she thought she wasn’t capable, and if worse came to worse, she would have both her father and mother, experienced captains in their own right, to help. But if she wanted to go to Nassau, she also wanted to go to France. Could not help but think of that Scottish folk ballad, and how oddly, poignantly appropriate it was for their scattered family. The water is wide, I cannot get o’er. Neither have I the wings to fly. Give me a boat that can carry two, and both shall row, my love and I. She wanted her father to see her uncle again, wanted to mend what still seemed so deep and raw and broken. A ship there is and she sails the sea, she's loaded deep as deep can be. But not so deep as the love I'm in, I know not if I sink or swim.

Nonetheless, Geneva did her best to banish such melancholy preoccupations for their departure. Grandpa, Granny, Mother, and Daddy had all come to see them off, all with a flood of last-minute advice about Nassau. Despite their misgivings, she couldn’t help but think that they all missed it, at least a little, though some of their suggestions were wiser than others. “Get into at least one fight,” her grandfather said, sotto voce, as he hugged her on the quay. “Don’t tell your parents.”

“Grandpa.” Geneva raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m not going to start a second war, you know.”

“Pity. I think England deserves all the wars it can get.” James McGraw smiled, not entirely reassuringly. “Jenny, you and Thomas look after each other. That place is not just a bit of quaint family history, you know. What Nassau did to me, to all of us. . . it can catch you off guard, if you’re not prepared for it, and it can change you. You’re smart, and you’re strong, and you’re hopefully more bloody sensible than we were, but still. Pay attention. Both of you.”

“I will,” Geneva promised, turning to kiss her grandmother and then hug both of her parents. They were putting a brave face on it, but they were still clearly struggling with letting her go again, when the questions of her brother’s whereabouts remained outstanding, and she hoped she ran across the little twerp on the way, give him a good shake for making them worry. Sam Jones had a very high sense of adventure and a very low sense of self-preservation, which could make for a combustible combination.

Farewells completed, as Thomas kissed Miranda, hugged James, and promised Killian and Emma that he would likewise look after their daughter, the travelers went aboard the Rose, and Geneva gave orders for them to make ready to depart. She and Thomas stood on the deck, waving to their family as the Rose began to take the wind, until they were quickly dwindling small specks. Geneva ensured that everything was in order, said one more. quiet prayer under her breath, and went to take her turn at the helm. When she looked back again, Savannah had vanished astern, there was only the sea behind her and before her, and all the world was sunlight.

#captain swan #cs ff #cs au #the rose and thorn #the dark horizon #black sails #welp #here we go again #cs next gen

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