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No good first mate would ever question the Captain in front of the crew, so Bucky waited until they had all returned to their duties before he murmured, “You sure about this, Stevie?”
Captain Rogers didn’t take his eyes off their still-unconscious captive.“No. But what else am I to do? The king hounds me from one port to the next, even chases me into open sea, and refuses to acknowledge the Letter of Marque that he himself signed! I was proud to call myself a raider, a privateer in the king’s own employ, Buck, but if he’s turned on us… What choice will I have but to turn to the piracy of which he accuses me?” He swallowed hard. “No, not if I can help it. With luck, despite our rough meeting, the prince will parlay with us, and carry our words back to his father’s ear. But if not…” The captain’s face hardened.
Bucky nodded and sighed, eyes lingering on the man before them. How the second mate and her small crew had stolen him out of his berth aboard his pleasure-ship, the Industrious, and brought him back to the Avenger without being seen or even waking him was – and likely would remain – a mystery. She’d only winked when Bucky asked, then gone to order the crew to full sails – they needed to put a lot of water between them and the Industriousbefore the prince was missed.
Even unconscious, Prince Anthony seemed tight-wound, and Bucky wanted to reach out and smooth the furrow between his brows, to touch the wind-tossed mop of hair.
He shook off the desire and finished fastening the iron cuff around the prince’s ankle. “He’ll see reason,” Bucky said confidently, and hoped he’d not have to eat the words.
***
Bucky was there when the prince awoke, along with the Captain and the Widow, the second mate and the Avenger’s most intimidating crewman, for all she was a tiny slip of a woman. Many were the sailors who had scoffed at her slight figure, only to freeze in fear when they saw her eyes, green as bottle-glass and twice as sharp.
Prince Anthony’s eyelids fluttered, and then they were open, fully awake and aware all at once, for all that he hadn’t moved another muscle. He looked at them all carefully, taking his time about it, and Bucky might have thought he felt neither fear nor surprise but for the way his pupils contracted in the dim cabin light.
“Well,” Anthony said finally. “I’m guessing you’re not here to ask how I’ll take my eggs this morning.” His voice was as steady as his gaze, and Bucky’s estimation of the prince’s bravery rose another notch.
“You may have eggs, if you like,” Steve said agreeably, “but first I wish to discuss a matter of business with you.”
Anthony shrugged. “I am no businessman,” he said. His tone was careless enough, but his eyes were sharper than the Widow’s blades.
“It is not you with whom we wish to conduct business,” Steve said, “but I think you are uniquely placed to act as our factor in this matter. Don’t you agree, your highness?”
The prince’s breath huffed and he finally sat up, taking his time about it. His lips pressed together when he saw the cuff around his ankle, but then he turned to face them directly. “You should know that my father has a strict policy about dealing with kidnappers and other hostage takers. Namely: he doesn’t. You’ll have no ransom from him for any part of me.”
“It’s not ransom we’re after,” Steve said. “We ask only that he honor–”
“Honor!” Anthony spat.
Steve’s face darkened, sudden as a summer squall. “Yes, honor,” he growled. “You think raiders know no honor? My crew are loyal and brave, doughty warriors and skilled sailors, and every man jack of them is worth ten of you!”
Stronger men than Bucky had quailed before the Captain’s rage, but Anthony leaned into it like the wind from a storm, his lips twisting into a sneer. “You can say that if you like, Captain Rogers – oh, yes, I know well who you are and where I am – but it was neither skillful sailing nor combat prowess that took me from my bed on the Industrious, was it?”
The Widow tensed, and Bucky did not have to look at her to know how her expression had darkened. “Why, was that bed more comfortable?” Bucky asked, hoping to break the tension.
Anthony’s piercing gaze shifted to Bucky. “It wasn’t equipped with iron chains, at any rate,” he said tightly.
“More used to restraints of silver and satin, are you?” Bucky returned, leering, needing – for reasons he hesitated to examine too closely – to push the prince off-balance, to elicit some reaction, any reaction.
Before Anthony could respond, though, Steve was shoving at Bucky’s arm, steering him toward the door. “Out,” he grumbled. “Get out, both of you. Leave us to talk in peace!”
“If that’s what you want to call it,” Bucky snorted.
***
The sound of raised voices echoed from stem to stern, and rattled even in the deepest holds. Bucky groaned as he pushed into the ship’s kitchen and dropped onto a barrel of potatoes pressing his hand against his pounding skull.
Bruce, the ship’s cook – and also their surgeon, when there was a need – glanced up from the stew he was tending with a sympathetic hum. “Negotiations still not going well, I gather.”
Bucky growled. “Never thought I’d see the day when I met a man to match the Cap'n for stubbornness,” he confessed. “Gimme a tray for them and a loaf of your brown bread. Maybe if they eat, they’ll be less testy.”
Bruce began ladling the stew into dishes, but he smiled slyly at Bucky as he did it. “I think you just want an excuse to go back in there and ogle the prince.”
“He’s worth an ogle or two,” Bucky admitted. “But mostly I just want them to shut up for twenty minutes.”
Bruce laughed and handed Bucky the tray. “Good luck with that, First Mate.”
***
After three days, the arguing had finally been replaced by a sullen silence, much to everyone’s relief. Steve was in his cabin, presumably consulting his charts and plotting the next leg of their course, but Bucky suspected he was mostly just brooding.
At least, “brooding” was the word Bucky was planning to use when he inevitably had to call Steve out on it and chivvy him to put on a good face for the crew. Privately, to himself, the word Bucky used was “sulking”. But sometimes Steve just needed a good sulk, so Bucky left him to it and went to see how their guest was doing, instead.
They’d taken off the leg iron after the second day – they were far enough out to sea that there was no land to be seen; it was unlikely the prince would try to swim for it or steal a longboat under those conditions. Anthony had been a surprisingly good sport about it, in fact, and when Steve had been too occupied with the captain’s duties to continue the argument, the prince had stretched his legs by exploring the Avenger’s decks. He’d even climbed into the rigging with surprising agility, though he’d stopped at the first yard arm rather than follow Hawkeye all the way up to the crow’s nest.
This time, Bucky found him in the aft of the gundeck, looking not at all princely. He’d stripped down to breeches and a plain linen shirt and half his hair had come loose from its ribbon, hanging in lazy curls around his face as he curled into the embrace of an ancient device. Hovering nearby was Peter, the cabin boy, carrying a bucket filled with what Bucky recognized as the carpenter’s tools.
“Don’t you have work to be doing, brat?” Bucky demanded. “If Thor finds out you’ve stolen his tools, he’ll hang you over the railing by one foot ‘til you’ve a belly full of seawater.” He could do it, too; the ship’s carpenter was a massive man who swung a hammer one-handed that the rest of the crew struggled even to lift.
“Didn’t steal ‘em!” Peter squeaked, though he backed away from Bucky warily, clutching the bucket closer to his chest. “He said we could use ‘em! And th’ Cap'n said I was free 'til luncheon! Honest!”
Bucky snorted. “Luncheon’s an hour gone, and more, boy.”
Peter’s eyes stretched wide and he darted to the closest gunport to check the angle of the sun. “Blast and damn!” he cursed, then slapped a hand over his mouth, to Bucky’s amusement. Steve had been at pains to try to prevent the boy from acquiring the habit of cursing, out of respect for the boy’s aunt. It was a losing battle, of course, but maybe they’d be able to hide it at least until Peter’s beard came in.
“I’ll let that one slide,” Bucky said. He plucked the bucket from Peter’s hand and gave the boy a stern look. “Go and find out if the captain forgot about lunch, or if he served himself.”
“Yessir, Mr. Barnes, right away, I–” Peter edged past Bucky, wary of the possibility of a cuff, and then scrambled for the hatch, swarming up the ladder.
“Did you just send off my assistant?” Anthony demanded, poking his head out.
“He was neglecting his duties,” Bucky said. “He’s lucky I sent him to the captain and not the second mate. What are you doing, your highness?”
“I’m fixing your ballista. Why, by the way, do you have a ballista on your ship?” Anthony squirmed further under the contraption, his body wriggling in ways Bucky probably should not enjoy so much. “We have these new-fangled cannons now, they’re terrific. You should look into that.”
Bucky forced his eyes away from the way the prince’s shirt had slid up to reveal a stripe of skin low on his belly. “We have one or two of those,” he agreed blandly, neglecting to point out the dozens of short-barreled guns that ringed the room, amongst the barrels of powder and stacks of ammunition. “The ballista’s… a bit of a joke, actually.”
Anthony pushed himself out from under its frame to raise an eyebrow at Bucky. It should have been imperiously demanding, but with his tousled hair and grease-smudged face, it was merely adorable. Bucky answered anyway. “We found it. Nevermind where; it’s a story too long to tell. But we found it, and the captain claimed it for Hawkeye’s portion, because Hawkeye’s great-great-something-grandfather, as the tale goes, was a yeoman archer. That bow he carries with him everywhere? That was it, an original English longbow with a two hundred pound pull, his family’s greatest heirloom, and the only thing he managed to save when– well, that story’s his to tell, not mine. But he sleeps with the damn bow, and since a ballista is basically a bloody huge crossbow…” Bucky shrugged, smiling. “The captain has an odd sense of humor.”
Anthony actually chuckled. “No, I get it, I like that.”
“What are you doing with it?” Bucky asked again.
Anthony looked down at the mechanism under his hands. “Fixing it. There’s nothing wrong with the frame, it’s in good shape under that surface rust. The sling pocket needs to be replaced, but that’s just some leather and rope, really, but the winch for cocking it is all gummed up and jammed and could really be improved – this gear right here isn’t set properly. If I adjust it just a bit, it won’t slip off its groove and jam so easily, and then–”
“Why?” Bucky wanted to know. “It’s… It’s a ballista, it’s probably hundreds of years old. We have cannons now. As you so graciously pointed out.”
Anthony shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “Every dissolute noble has his hobbies. Mine is building things, or fixing them. And I don’t like sitting idle. So unless your good captain intends to press me into service and put me to work swabbing the deck or peeling potatoes, this is what I’m doing.” His hands ran over the frame of the ballista as he spoke, absently, as if he was drawing strength and comfort from the ancient machine. Bucky got the impression that those hands could feel the slightest imbalance or inconsistency, and that they would gently but firmly set everything aright.
Bucky pushed away the thought of those hands on a lover’s body. “All right,” he agreed. “I’m not wanted anywhere for a bit. Since I’ve deprived you of your assistant, I’ll take his place for the nonce.”
Anthony looked at him askance, as if weighing his sincerity, but then nodded once, sharply, and slid back under the ballista’s carriage. “Fine, then. Hand me a pry bar.”
***
Anthony studied the game board with narrowed eyes. Steve, sitting across from him, just looked smug. Bucky, who was so far behind in points that he’d all but given up, just leaned back in his chair, watching with interest.
Finally Anthony huffed out a sigh. “You’re winning,” he told Steve in an accusing tone. “How are you winning?”
“By being better at it than you?” Steve suggested innocently.
“Rogers, I invented the game. I mean, I literally invented this game, literally last week, and there are only five people on your whole crew who can even remember the rules, much less keep them all in mind for the duration of a game. No one should be able to beat me at this game!”
Bucky grinned. Steve and Anthony had agreed not to bring up their primary point of contention, and things had been much more cordial aboard the Avenger since. The prince dined with the officers in the captain’s quarters, and had moved from his prisoner’s berth into more comfortable quarters. Originally, the room had been built to house the captain’s mistress, which had led to a certain amount of ribald teasing. That the prince accepted such teasing with grace and replied with a comical leer or good-natured return volley had earned him a measure of respect. The prince had charmed the whole crew, in fact, with his apparently sincere interest in their lives and ready – if somewhat sharp – wit.
Not to mention his dark good looks. Bucky forced his eyes away from the curve of the prince’s throat, yet again, and caught Steve’s eyes on him, fond and just a touch worried. It wasn’t the first time Bucky had set his cap for someone above his station, though this was certainly the farthest his fantasies had ever climbed. But he knew well how hopeless such a suit would be. Never let it be said that James Barnes, first mate on a privateer’s frigate, didn’t know his place in the world. So he would tease and flirt, since Anthony didn’t seem offended by it, but no more, and when it was all over and the prince had returned to his palace, Bucky would allow himself a few melancholy sighs before he returned to duty as usual. Bucky shrugged one shoulder and gave Steve a wry smile, hoping to reassure the man who was both his friend and his captain.
Whether Steve was reassured remained to be seen, because the door burst open to reveal Peter, panting for breath. “Cap'n! Mr. Barnes! There’s a ship!” he gasped.
“Such excitement,” Steve said, gently chiding. “We can’t decide whether to give chase until we’ve seen her colors and belly.”
Peter shook his head so fast his wide eyes were a pale blur. “No, Cap'n,” he said, still breathless, “he’s– She’s chasing us, sir. She snuck up on us!”
Steve was on his feet instantly, and Bucky not half a heartbeat behind. “What colors?” Steve demanded.
Peter all but cringed, and he gave away the answer with a helpless flick of his eyes toward Anthony, still sitting with a game piece in his hands. “Stark’s,” he whispered.
Steve whirled on Anthony. “Is this how you repay our hospitality?” he demanded.
Anthony’s eyebrows rose. “First of all, your hospitality was to kidnap me from my own bed,” he pointed out, biting off his words sharply. “And second, how do you imagine that I might have had anything to do with this? I have been here, the whole time! Do you imagine I have somehow snuck away to post a message?”
Steve glared, but Anthony glared back just as fiercely. Bucky put his hand on Steve’s arm. “Captain. Steve. He’s right. Of course they were going to send out searchers. We just lost the toss.”
Steve turned his glare on Bucky, but then sagged. “You’re right, of course.” His jaw worked, and he slanted a look at Anthony. “My apologies.”
Anthony relaxed as well, and nodded his acceptance.
Steve took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “Buck, go help the Widow roust the men and begin preparations in case we have to fight.” He grimaced. “I hope it doesn’t come to that. It would violate our Letter of Marque and make this whole escapade pointless.”
“You have a Letter of Marque?” Anthony said, looking startled. “From my father?”
Steve gave him a strange look. “That’s what I’ve been saying!”
Anthony frowned. “I’m quite certain you never told me that!”
“Of course I did! Why wouldn’t I have–”
“Gentlemen,” Bucky interrupted firmly. “If we could deal with this stealth ship first and discuss our failures of communication afterward, please.”
“Stealth ship,” Anthony said, rising to his feet. “If that’s what I think it is, I suspect I know who’s at her helm. Captain, if I might borrow a spyglass, it’s possible that I can put paid to this encounter without so much as a hostile word.”
Steve gestured Anthony to proceed him out the door. “By all means, your highness.” He glanced back at Bucky as he followed the prince out to the deck. “Get the preparations underway anyway,” he said softly. “Just in case.”
***
The Avenger’s crew lined the railing, gawking as the Reliant drew alongside. The Reliant’s crew were more disciplined, going about their work while Admiral Rhodes stood at his own rail alone. He didn’t seem weaker for his isolation; in fact, Bucky thought, it only enhanced his aloof, regal bearing. Impassive, that was the word. Implacable. There was a reason this man was first among the king’s counselors of war.
Bucky snuck a glance at Steve. Steve’s shoulders were proud and square and his jaw was set stubbornly, but he had both hands resting on the rail, as if to show he was unarmed.
Prince Anthony showed no sign of either pride or dignity. He whooped and waved, jumping up and down like an excited child. “Rhodey! Hey! It’s me! I’m okay!”
The distance between the ships was too great for Bucky to make out the admiral’s expression without a spyglass, but the square shoulders slumped a bit in obvious relief. “Your highness!” he called back. “Are you unharmed? Have these ruffians dared to–”
“Hey!” Anthony yelled. “I’m fine, I just said– They’re not ruffians, Rhodey! They’ve been good to me!”
A wash of waves pushed the Avenger a little closer to the Reliant. “Captain Rogers,” Rhodes said gravely, his voice carrying easily, “are you prepared to surrender your hostage?”
“Whoa, hey, not a hostage!” Anthony protested. “Rhodey, are you listening? They have a Letter of Marque, and for some stupid reason, Dad’s not honoring it!”
Rhodes’ severe expression did not relax. “They kidnapped you,” he said, and now that they were closer, Bucky could see honest concern in the man’s eyes. “There’s nothing in a Letter to excuse that.”
“They didn’t kidnap me!” Anthony lied, waving his arms in exasperation. “I’m… on vacation. We’ve all become the best of friends!”
“A vacation. On a pirate ship,” Rhodes said drily.
“Privateer,” Anthony corrected. “I promise, the only time they tied me up was the fun kind.”
Bucky kicked him in the ankle, where Rhodes wouldn’t be able to see. “You’re gonna get us hanged,” he hissed. “For a crime we didn’t even commit!”
“Relax, would you?” Anthony said. “We practically grew up together, he knows me. If I didn’t say something appalling, he’d know I was under duress.” He raised his voice again. “Look, Rhodey, what if we lash together and I’ll come over with Captain Rogers and his first mate and we can have a cup of wine and discuss it like respectable people.”
Rhodes stared at Anthony for a long moment. As if ice had suddenly formed in his stomach, Bucky was certain the admiral was about to give his men the order to open fire.
But before he responded, the Avenger gave a mighty lurch. Half the crew staggered and fell; Steve caught Anthony’s arm before he could pitch overboard and fall into the sea. Bucky caught his balance and turned around and froze in horror.
A pair of tentacles, pinkish grey and as thick around as a man’s waist, were groping their way over the opposite railing, tugging violently on the ship. Even as he gaped, a third tentacle appeared at the bow, coiling around the bowsprit and snapping it off the ship like a child breaking a twig.
“What gate of Hell spat that out?” Steve asked of no one, and then shook himself. “All hands to stations,” he bellowed, jolting some of the crew out of their terror-induced trances. “Man your weapons!”
Anthony tugged free of Steve’s grip and grabbed hold of the railing for support instead. “Rhodey!” he yelled, and there was something desperate in his voice.
Bucky turned just in time to see another tentacle smash down on the Reliant’s deck, crushing a man and splintering the wood.
“To the cannons!” Rhodes roared at his own crew.
***
Steve hadn’t been far wrong in his assessment of the creature as having come from Hell. The tentacles were pocked with suckers like those of an octopus, except where they scored flesh, they left behind welts that burned like a jellyfish’s sting. The tentacles themselves were rubbery and thick with muscle, and took several tries to hack through with even the sharpest cutlass edge.
But that paled beside the emergence of the beast’s head. It was vaguely shaped like a squid, with a serrated beak and round yellow eyes, but it oozed a slime that smelled like rotten flesh and corroded like acid. So close to the ships, it was hard to fire on, but when they’d finally succeeded in re-aligning the cannons to hit, the balls only bounced off its hide. The beast barely even seemed to notice their impacts.
The main mast had been ripped in two, but Hawkeye managed to make his way to the top of what was left and fire an arrow directly into the monster’s nearest eye. The shaft sank in up to the fletchings, but the creature was only enraged by the pain, and not significantly injured.
Bucky was doing battle with one of the tentacles, trying to hack enough of it off to force it to release its grip on the helm and two crewmen. They might not survive anyway, but Bucky kept feverishly hacking at the horrid thing anyway, determined not to give them up to it. Finally, the severed limb flopped to the deck and Bucky rolled away from the spray of ichor and the flailing remainder.
Something caught his arm before he could come to his feet and he thrashed against it, only to realize it was Anthony who had him and was dragging him toward the hatch. The prince was much stronger than he looked.
“Your highness,” he began in protest, but Anthony cut him off.
“The ballista!” he said, voice raised over the shouting and screaming. “It might be powerful enough–”
“Yes!” Bucky shouted, understanding in an instant. “Go, I’m right behind you!” He paused only to duck a tentacle and crouch where Bruce was tending to Hawkeye, who had fallen from his perch. He explained to both of them in half a dozen words, then sprinted for the lower deck.
If the main deck had been loud, the gundeck was an echoing cacophony. The gunners were reloading and firing as fast as they could. One group had given up on the cannonballs and were packing the cannons with small shot in the hopes that it would fly faster and actually penetrate the monster’s hide. Bucky made a mental note, if they survived, to have their ingenuity rewarded.
Survival was looking less and less likely by the minute, though.
He found Anthony in the rear, having already cut through the ropes securing the ballista in place. He had positioned himself by one of the wheels. Bucky got behind the other and put his shoulder to the frame. He bellowed orders at the nearest gunport crew for them to move their cannon out of the way, even as he and Anthony heaved, forcing wheels to turn around an axle long since rusted.
They wrestled the thing into place and aimed out the gunport, and then began winding the winch to pull back its sling. As they were finishing, Bruce and Hawkeye came clambering down into the gundeck. Hawkeye’s ankle had been tightly bound, and he was leaning hard on Bruce’s shoulder for support. Bruce was holding a mop handle to which he’d lashed his longest, sharpest kitchen knife.
Hawkeye looked at the ballista and, to his credit, didn’t laugh. “You’re sure it will work?” he asked Anthony, even as he looked over the mechanism and began to fit the makeshift spear into the firing groove.
“I’m sure it will fire,” Anthony said. “But the sling will break under the pressure the first time it fires; I didn’t get around to replacing it yet, and the rope’s half-rotten. And I don’t know about aiming it.”
Hawkeye grinned, a desperate death’s-head smirk, and clapped Anthony on the shoulder as if he were another crewman instead of the crown prince. “Let me worry about aim.”
It took forever, it seemed, as Hawkeye fussed with the ballista, determined to make the most of his shot. Bucky wanted to yell at him to hurry, that men were dying – their crew, their friends – but forced himself to silence. His impatience would help no one.
Anthony noticed, though, and put a hand on Bucky’s arm. It would have been more reassuring if Bucky hadn’t been able to feel the way Anthony’s hand was shaking.
When Hawkeye finally tripped the trigger, the ballista released with a deep twang that reverberated in their bones, and then a crack like a whip as the rotten rope broke under the pressure, whipping back with enough force to knock Hawkeye off his feet.
The monster… shrieked, was the only word that Bucky could think of. The spear had missed its eye, but was instead buried a foot to the side of it.
The ship lurched even more violently than before. Bucky wrapped an arm around Anthony’s shoulders and braced his feet, but couldn’t look away from the awful sight of the creature as it twisted and shook, trying to dislodge the spear.
With another dreadful pull on the ship, it jerked out of sight. Bucky hesitated only a second, then sprinted for the hatch.
Up on the deck, everything was chaos – splintered lumber and torn sail, men dying and dead. Water and ichor and blood mingled underfoot and rendering the wood as slippery as ice, but the only tentacles Bucky could see were hacked-off bits, none even twitching still. Steve was standing up on the quarterdeck, drenched in gore, leaning heavily on the rail, his eyes on the water.
Slowly, Bucky made his way to Steve’s side. “Is it–?”
Steve nodded, cautious and exhausted. “I think so.”
“It’s gone?” Anthony’s voice said.
Bucky turned. The prince was still pale and trembling, but there was a sword clutched in his fist. “It’s gone,” Bucky confirmed.
“Hawkeye did it,” Anthony whispered. His eyelids drooped, falling closed in relief and exhaustion.
“And you,” Bucky said. “If you hadn’t fixed that thing–” He got no further, because all of a sudden his arms were full of Anthony, and Anthony’s mouth was hot on his, a kiss full of desperation and life.
For an instant, Bucky froze, uncertain, but the prince tasted sweet and his body was pressing into Bucky’s, hard and urgent. Almost of its own volition, Bucky’s hand cupped Anthony’s face and tipped his head and then Bucky was kissing him back, gentle, teasing strokes of the tongue into Anthony’s mouth that soothed the sour taste of mortal terror into something warmer, something sharp and needy. Anthony’s borrowed sword clanged as it dropped to the deck and then his hands were clenched in Bucky’s shirt.
And if this was all Bucky could have of him – this one moment, fueled by the rage and fear of battle, then Bucky would take it and treasure it for as long as he lived.
Finally, Anthony pulled away, breath coming in heavy gasps. He stared into Bucky’s eyes for another long moment before dropping his forehead to rest on Bucky’s shoulder, heedless of the filth. His hands remained clenched in Bucky’s shirt, but he sighed, “Sorry, I’m sorry. You–”
“I’m not sorry,” Bucky said. Anthony looked up at him, and Bucky rubbed his thumb over Anthony’s cheek. “Not even a little.” He drew a breath, and made himself let go. “We should see to the crews now, though.”
“Yes. Absolutely. I…” Anthony started to take a step back, then realized his hands were still fisted in Bucky’s shirt. Lips twitching wryly, he unfurled them. “The crews,” he said, and then his eyes widened. “Rhodey.” He turned then, staggering and slipping across the deck to the rail to hail the Resilient.
A hand fell on Bucky’s shoulder, a hand Bucky knew without looking belonged Steve. “Shut up,” Bucky said.
“Is that any way to speak to your captain?” Steve asked, but Bucky could hear the smile in it. “Come on, let’s see to our crew.”
***
The rest of the day was spent in counting the crew and patching up the wounded, to beginning to clean up the mess and mend what could be fixed. Prince Anthony crossed over to the Reliant to help repair the broken helm. Bucky looked up from his job of mending sailcloth to watch Anthony swing effortlessly across the rails, and swallowed the lump in his throat telling him that was the last he’d see of the prince.
But Anthony returned as they were passing out biscuits and jerky for a cold supper. He had the Reliant’s carpenter with him, pledged to help restore the snapped main mast. Anthony’s eyes scanned the Avenger’s deck until they fell on Bucky.
Bucky lifted his chin in greeting, hands occupied, but it seemed to be enough for Anthony, who nodded solemnly in return before going in search of Steve.
At sunset, they consigned to the waves those fallen sailors who hadn’t gone overboard during the fight. Anthony didn’t try to hide his tears, and Bucky loved him the better for it.
There was no lack of volunteers for the night’s watch, and Bucky doubted many would sleep. He certainly didn’t, his rest plagued with dreams of the icy cold in the darkest deeps that nevertheless failed to soothe the burns scored on his arm where one of the tentacles had caught him. He was grateful when the sky finally began to lighten.
He came on deck obscurely surprised to see that the Reliant hadn’t packed up the prince and slipped off into the night, watch or no watch. He grumbled through his breakfast, wanting to be able to despise the ship of the king who had betrayed them, but prevented by grudging admiration for the admiral’s dedication and honor.
That afternoon, as the carpenters were finishing their work on the mast, Bucky was summoned to the captain’s quarters. He entered to find Steve, Anthony, and Admiral Rhodes seated around the captain’s map table. Steve looked up at his entrance with a quick, tight smile. Rhodes nodded a greeting, looking him over appraisingly. Anthony barely glanced in Bucky’s direction before returning to his examination of the closely-written paper in his hand.
Bucky’s stomach turned in on itself at Anthony’s lack of regard, but it was no more than he’d expected, he reminded himself. He made himself stand straight. “You sent for me, Captain?” Privateers stood on much less ceremony than ships of the royal navy, but something about Rhodes inspired a man to be on his best behavior.
Steve waved Bucky toward an empty stool. “I have a mission for you,” he said seriously. His brow was creased with worry.
Bucky frowned as he folded himself onto the seat. “Cap?” Away missions were typically the Widow’s purview. Steve preferred to keep Bucky close to hand.
“Prince Anthony and the admiral have agreed that our Letter of Marque is legitimate,” Steve said. “But they also agree that, even with their support, convincing the king to strike us from the list of the wanted will be no easy task.”
“You want me to be your envoy,” Bucky said. He cut another glance at Anthony, whose eyes were still fixed on the paper. It would be a tense voyage, if he had to avoid the prince at every turn, but he was the best man for the job, and he didn’t have the heart to deny Steve anything. He allowed himself a sigh, then leaned forward on his arms. “Tell me.”
***
Bucky was packing his duffel when the door to his quarters opened. Bucky looked up to find Prince Anthony, holding a tray of food. “Your highness,” he said, forcing the words through a suddenly thick throat. “Did I forget something?”
Anthony grimaced and stepped into the cabin, shutting the door behind him. “Don’t take it like that,” he said. He set the tray on the table and then tucked his hands behind his back. There was enough food on the table for a feast – or a solid meal for two. “I wasn’t ignoring you because I wanted to.”
Bucky turned back to his duffel, rolling his best jacket carefully so it wouldn’t wrinkle. “How else should I take it?” he asked, trying not to let the hurt echo in his voice. “If you’re worried that I’ll say something I shouldn’t, don’t. I’m a man of honor.”
“I know that. I didn’t want you to think the mission was yours because of the way I feel,” Anthony said quickly. “You need to know that it’s you because you’re the one who has the best chance of convincing my father.”
Bucky snorted. “The second mate is a skilled negotiator, and well-versed in–”
“She’s also a woman,” Anthony said. Bucky didn’t have to look at him to know there was a scowl on his face, from the way he growled. “The king’s twice as likely to dig in his heels, to my shame. You’re the best one for the job, I swear.”
“And the way you feel?” Bucky challenged.
“Bucky,” Anthony said, close enough for his breath to ghost over Bucky’s neck, “you have to know. You have to know how much I want you.”
Bucky squeezed his eyes tight, refusing to give in to the desire to turn and find himself in the prince’s arms again. “It was an excellent kiss,” he said. “And I thank you for it. But you’re a prince, and I’m–”
“You’re a good man,” Anthony said. Warm hands closed on Bucky’s shoulders, gentle, revealing none of the strength Bucky knew were in them. “Is it so hard to believe?” Lips brushed the nape of Bucky’s neck, Anthony’s breath curling warmly over his skin. “Maybe I should abdicate,” Anthony mused. “Run away. Become a privateer.”
Bucky huffed in mingled exasperation and amusement, but turned to face Anthony. “You don’t look like much of a sailor to me,” he said, sliding his hands carefully around Anthony’s waist. “You’d have to start at the bottom.”
Anthony’s lips twitched. “Well, I wouldn’t mind that, I suppose, as long as I could serve under you.”
“You say that now, but you’ll find I’m a hard man to serve.” Bucky tugged Anthony closer, heart pounding as their hips ground together. Anthony let out a soft groan that sent sparks shooting through Bucky’s blood. He nipped at Anthony’s neck, sucked at the pulse point.
Anthony’s head tipped back, offering more of his throat to Bucky’s lips and teeth, eyelids fluttering closed, his body pliant and trusting in Bucky’s grasp. “But so rewarding,” he sighed. His fingers twined in Bucky’s hair, tugging it free of its tie.
Bucky shuddered at the sensation, and felt Anthony’s smile against his cheek. “Sometimes,” he said, then turned on his heel, swinging Anthony around to fall onto his bunk. Anthony looked startled, and then smiled, an expression of joy that almost hurt in its purity. “Sometimes there are rewards,” Bucky continued, straddling Anthony’s hips and planting his hands on either side of Anthony’s head.
Bucky leaned down and kissed him, slow and hot, teasing at Anthony’s lips until he was clutching at Bucky’s shoulders and arching up to press his body against Bucky’s. Bucky chuckled, trying to make it low and menacing, as he pulled away. “Sometimes, though, you find yourself in irons.”
Anthony laughed shakily, and when he looked up at Bucky, his pupils were enormous in the dim light. “Yo ho,” he whispered, “it’s a pirate’s life for me.”