Ambrose woke up the smell of biscuits and the clinking of vials.

“Good morning,” Eli whispered and kissed his cheek. “Time to heal those arms of yours.”

Ambrose groaned and tried to tug the pillow over his head, but his arms wouldn’t let him. They had stiffened overnight, and shot bolts of pain up to his shoulders when he attempted to move them. As he hissed through his teeth, Eli held up a potion. “Down the hatch?”

The potion tasted awful, as they always did. No matter how many times Ambrose had tried to brew a better-tasting healing potion, the algae that served as the active ingredient cut through the flavor every time. He shuddered, screwed his eyes shut, and waited as the acrid draught took effect. Slowly, the pain seeped from his arms. Purple bruises faded to green, green to yellow, yellow to nothing. It wasn’t a perfect heal, and wouldn’t be for a few days, he imagined. But it was a great deal better than where he had started.

“See, what did I say?” Eli tried to sound casual, even as his lips twisted against the bitterness of his own vial. “We’re immortal.”

Ambrose huffed and sank back into the pillow. “Keep saying that and I’ll withdraw my hug.”

“Withdraw your hug and I withdraw breakfast.”

Ambrose’s stomach growled. “You wouldn’t.”

“No, ‘course I wouldn’t.” Eli helped him sit and handed him a biscuit. “Eat. I promise I’ll get you a better breakfast when we next make berth.”

The food and Eli’s presence did more for Ambrose’s energy levels than any potion ever would. When the biscuits were gone and Eli was puttering around, Ambrose stood, smiled, and wrapped his arms around Eli’s shoulders.

“How are your ribs?” he asked, carefully avoiding contact with Eli’s waist—but Eli leaned in and pressed him close.

“Better,” he said, though he couldn’t hide a small wince. Ambrose closed his eyes and hummed into his hair, gently threading his fingers through it. It was a relief, being this close to Eli without the panic of a swimming lesson, or the frustration of holding down his feelings. He could stand like this for hours and not notice the time passing.

“One hug, as promised,” he mumbled. Eli pressed a gentle kiss to his jaw.

“You have met your terms, Mr. Beake,” his words vibrated against Ambrose’s neck. “Now I believe we agreed upon one proper cuddle.”

Before Ambrose could react, Eli had picked him up, laid him down on the bed, and slid in next to him. Arm around his waist, head on his shoulder, leg draped over his hips. In a heartbeat, Eli had made himself comfortable, closing his eyes and humming contentedly on top of Ambrose’s chest.

Ambrose could hardly breathe, he was so thrilled.

“You’re,” he laughed, “you’re just using me as a pillow.”

“Yes, that’s what cuddling is, love.” As Ambrose flushed from head to toe at the word, Eli lifted his head. “Hasn’t anyone…?” When Ambrose shook his head, Eli dropped his smile. “I see. Well, then.” He burrowed in more deeply, tugging tighter on Ambrose’s waist, then resting a hand against his cheek to absently stroke his jaw. “I suppose we’ll have to stay here all day, then. You have much to learn about cuddling, and it will take some time.”

“Isn’t your arm going to fall asleep?”

“That’s the first lesson of cuddling—you’re going to have to sacrifice a few limbs.”

Ambrose smiled and melted into the sheets. “Eli, can we really stay here all day?”

“‘Course we can,” Eli said, playing with a lock of hair that had fallen over Ambrose’s forehead. “You saved my crew, and I got shot. We can stay here as long as we like.”

A knock on the door. Eli groaned and hid his face in Ambrose’s shirt.

“Captain—“

“I’m busy, Grim!”

“You better not be, Ambrose needs to heal.”

Eli froze. Ambrose spluttered.

“Be right out!” Eli called, then gave Ambrose an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, I should probably—“

“Of course, of course.” Ambrose swallowed as Eli rolled away. Grim wouldn’t tell anyone, would they? Had anyone seen them last night? There was the night watch crew, of course, and Eli had been loud—but it had been dark, hadn’t it? No, no, the crew would let him be. It would be fine.

But as he tugged on his coat and slipped out onto deck, it was immediately apparent the crew would not let him be.

“There’s the man!” Banneker grinned and waved from the rigging. “The newest plague upon the British Navy!”

Pirates all around him saluted, clapped him on the back, and much to his chagrin, shook his hand hard.

“How you feelin’?” one man asked. “Need any rum?”

“He don’t need rum,” a woman from the rigging shouted, “Captain took care of ‘im well enough, I’m sure.”

Laughter scattered about the deck, but there was no malice behind it, nor cruelty in their smiles. A few pirates were even trading coins back and forth, some gleeful, others grumpy.

“Thought it was going to take another week for them to get together.”

“Another week, with how the cap’n was staring at him? You’re mad.”

“Back to work, all of you,” Sherry’s voice cut through their muttering, and she shoved through Ambrose’s admirers to check him over. “How are you, dear? Looking a fair sight better than yesterday, at least.”

“I’m alright, Sherry, thank you,” he said as she tugged up his sleeves to inspect his arms. “I apologize for burdening you with the reversal, I should have warned you in advance—“

“Burden,” she snorted. “S’not a burden, helping you. You’re never a burden, lad.”

Once she was satisfied with his health, she released him, leaving him free to find the solace of his workroom.

But there was one more pirate he had yet to deal with.

“Morning, Mr. Beake!” Zoe said cheerfully, sweeping glass off the planks. His bandolier, now mostly empty of potions, hung neatly on the wall. “I did as you asked yesterday. Down, up, and out. Didn’t lose a crew member, thanks to your potions. Though we did run out of a few vials, I wrote ‘em down on that paper right there—“

“Zoe.” Ambrose rushed forward. “I—I owe you an apology as well. I shouldn’t have thrown you into such things without any preparation—“

She looked up from the pile of glass. “But I liked it.”

Ambrose paused mid-step. “You did?”

“Absolutely!” She leaned on the broom. “So when do I get to learn how to make them?”

He gaped. “You want to learn how to make potions?” He pointed to himself. “From me?”

“‘Course I do!” Her grin widened. “I want to learn from the best, don’t I?”

Tears sprang to his eyes. If anyone had told him before boarding that the pirates of the Griffin’s Claw would be like this, he would have sprinted over the gangplank himself.

He cleared the tears from his throat, tugged on his lapels, and drew himself up to his full height. “Yes. Absolutely, it would be an honor to teach you. But—there is a small ceremony to be done first.”

“Oh. Right.” Zoe set aside the broom and snapped to attention. Ambrose set his hands behind his back and paced in front of her.

“Alright, Miss…”

“Lorell.”

“Miss Lorell, honorable pirate of the Griffin’s Claw.” He clicked his heels together. Zoe bit back a laugh, and so did he. “I hereby declare you the official junior potioneer of this ship. May your cauldron, um,” he twirled a hand, “boileth over, or something.”

Zoe saluted. “Aye.”

“Aye.” Ambrose nodded and looked about the bullet-ridden mess of a workroom. “Now, if you could start by helping me clean up these herbs…”