Over the next month, Ambrose found that being on the side of the boarding party was just as stressful as being boarded.

“Excuse me, apologies,” he shuffled around deck with an armload of potions, weaving around pirates, rigging, and loose cannonballs, “healing potions coming through, because clearly none of you have ever learned how to duck—“

“Fire!”

He gave a start as cannons erupted below him, rumbling the planks like thunder. Somewhere to his right, a gangplank crashed down. As hollering and gunshots zipped through the air, Ambrose cursed and crouched behind a crate.

“Banneker!” he called as a splotch of red hair flew over his head. “Please don’t forget to take the grip potion first—“

“That’s no fun!” Banneker yelled, and swung with whoop over to the merchant ship. Ambrose rolled his eyes and escaped belowdecks. As soon as his feet struck the lower level, a dark shape whipped past his shoulder, then veered back towards him.

“Ames!” Eli caught his shoulder. “Just dropped off two more in the infirmary, gunshot wounds.”

Ambrose grumbled and shifted his grip on his armful of potions as he navigated the passage, Eli trailing close behind. “Could you please invest in a medic one day? I hate healing those sorts of things—“

“Why would I need a medic?” He could feel Eli’s grin, even if he couldn’t quite see it in the darkness. “Your potions make us immortal.”

Ambrose bristled. “Stop saying that,” he snapped. “There are things my potions can’t heal. Cannonfire to the face, for instance—“

“What, has that happened today?”

“No, but—“

“Great, we’re all good then.” Eli clapped him on the shoulder and doubled back towards the steps. Ambrose gave a huff and pushed open the infirmary door with his shoulder.

As Eli had warned, there were two new visitors to the narrow cabin, moaning and clutching their limbs alongside the poor souls who had caught bad luck at the beginning of the fight. Ambrose did a quick survey of his four patients—broken arm, stab wound, bullet to the arm, bullet to the leg. Easy to address and easy to heal, if he shoved down the bile in his throat and worked fast enough.

But as more boots pounded over the gangplank above them, he was sure this wouldn’t be the end of it.

“Bone-knitting potion,” he said as he knelt before the first man, his fingers finding the triangular vial by shape alone. “Take it in one go, and I’ll knock you out for recovery.”

The pirate’s eyes went wide. “Knock me out?”

“Trust me, you’ll want it.”

The pirate grimaced and chugged the bottle. As soon as the glass left his lips, Ambrose held a pipette over his forehead and let a single drop fall between his brows. The man immediately fell asleep, unconscious before the excruciating healing work of the potion could begin. Ambrose gave a small sigh of relief on his behalf and moved on to the next person.

The last pirate was a relative newcomer to the crew, a young woman Eli had discovered as a stowaway a month before Ambrose came aboard. Eager and fearless, this wasn’t the first time she had visited the infirmary. Ambrose feigned a tired sigh. “Zoe, what did I tell you to do last time?”

“Not get shot in a raid.”

“And what did you do?”

She gave him a trembling smile. “Got shot in a raid.”

He returned the smile as best he could and pressed a vial into her hand. “You know the drill. Down the hatch, bullet up, and out you go.”

As soon as the vial touched her lips, Ambrose yanked on a thick leather glove and placed his hand over the wound. The stones sewn to each finger—Banneker’s invention, all metal-pulling alloys—flashed once, and after a shriek from Zoe, the bullet in her leg thumped against his palm.

“It’s out, it’s out,” he murmured, knowing it was little comfort to the pain. “Sleep well, now.”

One drop of the sleeping fluid, and her head lolled on the planks while the healing potion did its work, closing the wound and healing the skin as if the shot had never happened.

There was plenty more to do—wipe blood off the wounds, mop the planks, shift the sleeping pirates to the side to make room for more foolish swash-bucklers—but instead, he sat back on his heels, took the glove off with shaking hands, and wiped his brow with his sleeve. God, he hoped there was a lot of gold in that buried treasure chest. He wasn’t sure how many more times he could see the crew like this.

“Mr. Beake?” Grim’s voice struck the door. “Got a few more coming.”

Ambrose closed his eyes, steadied his hands, and stood. “Bring them in.”

#

It felt like hours before the gunshots and screaming turned into more peaceful sounds—crates being dragged into the cargo hold, victorious laughter, orders to set sail. Ambrose wandered about the infirmary, siphoning blood off the floor with a cleaning wand as pirates either slept or rested around him. The day could have been worse, he supposed. No one had taken any cannon fire to the face.

“How are we looking?” Sherry opened the door, a hand on her hip. Ambrose slotted the wand into a wall rack and wiped his hands on a cloth at his belt. The enchanted embroidery rippled, and the blood and grime disappeared off his fingers.

“Didn’t go through as many potions as last time,” he said, keeping his voice quiet for those sleeping. “Though I’ll need a re-stock on the basics before another raid. Algae, spring water, silverleaf…”

“Already on my list.” She squeezed his shoulder, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening with her smile. “Thank you for all your help. Can’t tell you how much it means to us.”

He nodded. It would mean a lot if he could go brew himself some tea. “Has the Sunset called for any potions?”

“No, they’re plenty stocked.” Sherry jerked her head behind her. “But Eli wants to see you in his cabin.”

“Oh.” So the tea would have to wait, then. His shoulders dropped. “I’ll be right there.”

As he ascended to the deck, his tired thoughts bubbled into anxious ones. What was it that Eli wanted? Was he injured? Was it cannon fire? He almost hoped it was cannon fire. That would at least give him something to lord over the reckless, stupid man—

“Eli, are you...” Ambrose opened the door to the captain’s quarters, already pulling out a healing potion—but it was unnecessary here. Eli and Dawn were laughing and pawing through several chests of fabric, admiring the brocades and throwing stockings at each other in between passes of a bottle.

Ambrose slouched at the entrance, fear draining back into exhaustion. “So…no injuries up here, I take it?”

Eli lifted a stocking off his face. “Ames! No, no, doing excellent, aren’t we, Dawn?”

Dawn giggled and took a swig as she balanced three hats on her head. Ambrose sighed, exhaustion tugging at his eyes. “Glad to hear it. If you’ll excuse me, captains, I’m going to need some tea before—“

“Good thing I made you some, then.”

Ambrose turned to find Eli holding a steaming teacup towards him. He took it and settled tentatively on the side of the bed while the captains continued to survey their spoils.

“I thought…” he ventured, “I thought you typically sell these things when you get to port?”

“Oh, we do,” Dawn said, holding a pair of gloves to the window light. “But every now and then you find something worth keeping.” She winked at Eli.

Ambrose frowned. “Sorry, what—“

“How are you holding up?” Eli asked quickly, rifling through a stack of white shirts. “Grim said everyone in the infirmary’s doing well, thanks to you. How does it feel, saving so many lives in one day?”

He smiled at Ambrose, who hid behind his teacup and took a long sip. Saving lives was never how he thought about it. Keeping them alive until the next raid was more accurate.

“Still looking forward to my shop, captain,” he mumbled into his tea.

“Thought so.” Eli stood, sized up a shirt in his hand, then held it out and nodded to the folding screen in the corner. “Here, go and put this on.”

“Why?”

“Because yours is covered in blood. Unless that’s the look you’re going for?”

“It’s a dashing look, if so.” Dawn poked her head out from around Eli’s shoulder. “Right, Valenz?”

Eli rolled his eyes.

Ambrose ignored whatever was happening between them and retreated behind the folding screen to change. At least Eli had avoided the shirts with ruffles—this one was rather straightforward, no frills, no embroidery. As he was pulling the shirt over his head, someone tossed a blue waistcoat over the folding screen.

“You know,” Eli called, “in a few months, you won’t have to patch up pirates anymore.”

“One can only hope,” Ambrose called back. “Depends on how much buried treasure we find, doesn’t it?”

“Suppose so.” There was a smile in Eli’s voice that Ambrose didn’t understand.

“Well,” he frowned at the buttons of the waistcoat, “we’re dividing it evenly between the two ships, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” Dawn answered.

“Then evenly amongst the crew, like usual.”

“Of course.”

“So it’s entirely possible the share will be quite small, all told.”

Eli paused. “Then it’s a good thing you’ll be taking my share.”

Ambrose’s fingers froze on the last button. “I’m sorry?”

“Oh, yes,” Eli said airily. “Banneker offered up his share, too. Sherry followed, once she heard. I imagine Grim, might, too, if you keep saving our lives in such orderly fashion.”

Ambrose stumbled out from behind the folding screen to find Eli holding up a blue coat. “Captain?”

“Yes, that’s me.” He shook the coat. “Come here and try this on, please.”

For a moment, Ambrose could only stare. Dawn glanced between the two of them, picked up the bottle of rum and the hat with the largest feather, and sauntered towards the door. “I’ll leave you two to talk.”

“Dawn, it’s alright!” Eli tried, but she just waved at him and left, leaving Ambrose to slip into the coat in a daze. He had heard correctly, hadn’t he?

“Eli, are you sure about this?”

“The coat? Yes, I think it’s your color.”

Ambrose turned around, straightened the coat, and gave him a look. “You know what I mean.”

Eli reached forward and neatened his collar. “Quite sure. It’s the very least we could do for your service.”

“But I can’t rob you of your share—“

“Ambrose.” Eli set his hands on his shoulders. “For once in our pirate lives, it’s not a robbery, it’s a gift. Take it.” He turned Ambrose towards the mirror. “Now, what do you think?”

The coat fit perfectly, its thick, warm fabric swirling down to his calves. The long line of silver buttons made him look taller, but not as spindly as Sherry kept claiming he was. Ambrose fiddled with the midnight wool at the collar, wide enough to turn up against the salt spray on deck. He hadn’t worn anything this nice in ages.

“How do you like it?” Eli breathed, his hands slowly dropping from Ambrose’s shoulders—but rather than falling away, his fingers trailed down his back until they reached his waist. A jolt ran up Ambrose’s spine.

“It’s lovely.” His voice rasped, and he cleared his throat. “Shame you’ll have to sell it.”

“Why would I sell it when my potioneer is so obviously in need of a coat?” Eli tried his usual grin, but it faltered as he dragged his gaze up and down Ambrose’s reflection in the mirror. “Though I suppose if you don’t want to look like a pirate…”

His hands snaked up around Ambrose to tug at the lapels of the coat, and without thinking, Ambrose wrapped his fingers around Eli’s wrists.

“No,” he said quickly. “I, um—I like the coat.”

Eli released the lapels, but kept his hands in place, fingers gently splaying over Ambrose’s quickening heartbeat. Their warmth sank straight through the coat, the vest, the shirt, searing into his skin. “Good. Then it’s yours, if you want it.” As Eli leaned in, his words were hardly more than a whisper brushing Ambrose’s ear. “You only have to tell me you want it.”

As Eli’s breath slipped past his neck, one of his hands slowly inched downwards, dragging torturously over every fold and button. Ambrose closed his eyes and tightened his grip on Eli’s wrists, no longer able to think nor breathe. He could say yes. It would be so easy to say yes. To let Eli’s hands take over, to let himself become one of the many broken hearts in the captain’s stories—

It was Grim who saved him from having to make a choice.

“Captain?” They rapped on the door. “Need you at the helm.”

Ambrose sprang away from Eli’s grasp, face flooding with heat. “Sorry, I,” he fumbled and started to shrug off the coat, “I should give you this—“

Eli smiled and touched his arm. “Keep it,” he said, then swept out of the cabin, his own red coat trailing behind him. Ambrose leaned against the wall for a moment, tugged his collar away from his flushed neck, then staggered back to his quarters in a fog.