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Gryffon was out of his depth, and it was not a feeling he enjoyed. For days, now, he’d been running this stand, his paws always sticky with juice and sugar up until the point where he managed to drag Ollie back to the ship to clean up and sleep, his ears always humming with the shouts of people who were oddly enthusiastic about limeade, his eyes always scanning for anyone who may want to cut the line or snatch money from the register.
He didn’t give a shit about limeade. He was just trying to make Ollie happy. That was his main objective, loath as he may have been to say it, because he’d gotten to know his Captains well enough to know that they were coming back, that they were stupid but not stupid enough to get themselves into permanent trouble they couldn’t get out of. Had push come to shove, he knew they would’ve sent Pretzel to call for help. Something would have made its way back to the ship.
They were on their way back. Gryffon knew that.
But Ollie was another story.
With his child’s heart on his sleeve, it wasn’t difficult at all to know what Ollie was thinking. He had not yet learned to hide his emotions; even when he tried, Gryffon could read it in the flit of his eyes, the draw of his lip between his teeth.
Every second that Ollie wasn’t distracted, he looked sad. He looked afraid, and Gryffon didn’t know what to say to a child whose feelings weren’t rooted in reality, so fuck, he defended that limeade stand with his life. Every morning he got up before sunrise to squeeze limes until his hands burned, throwing quick, deadpan quips back and forth with Alphonze, who’d decided to develop a sense of humour specifically to make fun of Gryffon’s struggles with the fruit, and every morning he woke Ollie as gently as his massive hands and loud feet could manage, a barrel of limeade already prepared, just so the kid could have breakfast in peace while the others set up the stand and served the first customers.
Ollie didn’t deserve to know what real work was like just yet. This was already too much. He wolfed his dinner down like he didn’t know there was enough for everyone, like standing all day and keeping track of customers was taking its toll on his little body, and Gryffon didn’t know what else to do for him. Ollie was determined to make a name for himself here, if only for a few weeks, if only as a distraction from the fact that his friends weren’t back yet.
There was nothing else that Gryffon could do, he supposed. So, he tried to do this well.
Today had been a slow day compared to the others, only a few hundred people coming along over the course of the day, so there was about half a barrel left over. Gryffon had exchanged a look with Alphonze as Ollie’d drunk enough to make him vibrate with it, uneasily tip-toeing beside Gryffon as he looked out for new customers, stretching his neck this way and that, asking every two minutes if Alphonze could see anything.
“Not yet,” Alphonze had told him, and the disappointed look had torn at Gryffon so much that he’d laid his hand on Ollie’s head.
He was so tiny. Gryffon’s hand could’ve wrapped around his head completely, crushing it with two fingers. One finger was nearly as thick as Ollie’s entire hand, and he was just barely level with Gryffon’s stomach, and he weighed nothing when Gryffon allowed him to climb on his shoulders to see if there really was no one to be seen. He was tiny, and yet he seemed to fit so much in him, so many conflicting emotions, a world’s worth of grief and joy at the same time.
After the sun had set fully and Ollie had once again given up his resistance to being brought back, Gryffon found himself stopping by the kitchen where Alphonze was cleaning up. He didn’t know what he would’ve asked. He didn’t know what answer he was expecting from a robot who’d only started being sentient a few weeks ago.
Alphonze’s glowing eyes met his, and Gryffon felt caught.
“Give me that,” he told him, panicking, motioning with his chin at the leftover limeade, distributed evenly in a dozen or so glasses, about to be placed in a larger bowl with ice to keep them cool until tomorrow. Alphonze stopped what he was doing, looking like he was about to move, but then stopped, tilting his head as a substitute for a lifted eyebrow. “Please,” Gryffon corrected, glaring. “Give me that, please.”
He swore Alphonze did it just to fuck with him sometimes. Yeah, sure, he was a person now, he deserved respect, but he was so smug about it sometimes that Gryffon was convinced he found it funny to make people fumble when they got it wrong.
Alphonze didn’t smile, per se, because his face probably wasn’t meant to do that, but his mouth did light up from a broad lamp beneath his moustache. He was gentle with the glass, only a tiny clink as his metal hand connected with it, and he handed it to Gryffon.
He was too far away. Gryffon realised he had to move.
“Thanks,” he said, receiving the glass from him, one long stride to bring them closer.
Alphonze leaned his forearms back on the counter. His head moved up and down ever so slightly, as if sizing Gryffon up. His mouth lit up again, flickering as he spoke. “You’re welcome.” Gryffon turned on his heel to leave, but stopped at the kitchen door.
“You’re a dick,” he said over his shoulder.
“Aye,” Alphonze said, shrugging. “You haven’t stabbed me yet, though.”
Gryffon looked at him for a moment longer, very much able to suppress a smile, but choosing not to. Alphonze was… easier. Easier than most people. And maybe that was a bad thing, maybe it was a testament to how he still instinctually adapted to those around him. Gryffon didn’t know how robots worked. He liked him, was the point. These past few days had forced the two into closer cooperation just to keep things running, and every time Gryffon looked over Ollie’s head to Alphonze, he was met with that same stagnant expression, but there seemed to be understanding there. The glow of his eyes, the way he held himself. He, too, was very dedicated to Ollie’s happiness.
He knew why Gryffon was taking limeade with him so late at night.
Ollie had been sleeping in the Captains’ quarters these past few nights, bundled up in covers that smelled like Chip. Like unwashed ass, that is, but Ollie seemed to like it. Gryffon knocked on the door, quietly, just in case Ollie was already asleep, and was met with a quiet yeah? from inside.
Gryffon was once more confronted with how out of place the kid was. His nightgown was too big for him and had had to be pinned in places to remotely stay on him, and he was wrapped in a blanket that would’ve been big even for a man, and he’d shed his armour and untied his hair and brushed his teeth and was just—a boy. A boy on a pirate ship with stains that didn’t wash out, with weapons in every corner and a crew bound by shared pain. A boy who didn’t have to be here, who had a life waiting for him, who had other options.
There was nothing Gryffon could do for him except cranking up Chip’s guilt when he returned.
There was nothing Gryffon could do for him except be there until then.
“Hey,” he said, closing the door behind him. Ollie looked lost on the bed, having sat up to look at him, a tiny speck on the mattress. “I brought you something.”
Ollie eyed the glass. A spark rose in his eyes, then dulled. “My mum says sugar before bed is bad for you.”
A hell of a lot was bad for Ollie. Gryffon doubted his mother would give a shit about the sugar.
“That’s true,” he said anyway, nodding in feigned defeat. “Should’ve thought about that. I’ll drink it myself then.”
“No!” Within seconds, Ollie had untangled himself from the blanket and held out his hands, his expression fierce, like he meant to tear the glass from Gryffon’s hands if he didn’t give it to him immediately. Gryffon must have smiled, because a moment later, Ollie faltered. “Uhm,” he said, hesitating. “I… will you tell her?”
Gryffon sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath the weight, sending Ollie falling sideways into him. Gryffon steadied him by the shoulder, and he didn’t tell him that he might be dead by the time Ollie got back home, or that Ollie might be dead by then, or that his mother would’ve fainted and probably died, too, at the sight of him and the rest of the people Ollie had surrounded himself with. He didn’t tell him that their relationship would never be the same, that Ollie would be forever changed and would soon come to realise how much this brief time of piracy had fucked him up, that he would never feel understood by people of the land again and would carry all his burdens alone. He didn’t tell him that he’d probably forget all the little details like this because his growing brain was constantly in survival mode and had no time for anything beyond it.
“I’m good at keeping secrets,” he told him instead, setting the glass into Ollie’s uncertain hands like it meant anything, like this childlike shame of doing something forbidden wouldn’t be burned out of him sooner or later. For now, having sweets before bed was the biggest crime the ship had ever seen, and Gryffon was just as bad as him for enabling him.
Ollie beamed up at him before drinking. His mouth was a mess, half-grown teeth fighting for space within it, and they clicked against the glass as he set it to his lips.
Gryffon didn’t tell him that braces hurt like a bitch, either.
He took the glass back when it was empty, watching as Ollie cocooned himself back into the blanket. “Thank you,” he said, partially muffled by the folds of the fabric, but Gryffon could hear the smile in it. “Chip—”
He cut himself off. Gryffon’s ears pricked up—which was a stupid reflex to have because they were round and moving them hardly helped him hear, but whatever. “Spit it out,” he said, and Ollie shrunk a little bit, looking nowhere in particular.
“Chip always kisses me goodnight,” he said. “But—I just remembered that, you don’t have to.”
And—fuck, Gryffon didn’t know how to respond to that. Keeping a kid happy, that much he could do; lying to a kid’s face to preserve their innocence, sure; all the logistics of keeping a kid alive, easy. But this.
This, all the intricacies that someone with a more delicate touch might have dealt with easily, all the things that other people understood when they hadn’t lost their family at a young age and spent every moment since then travelling, never forming attachments to avoid the risk of losing sight of the goal. Fuck, Ollie was tearing up beside him, and he didn’t know what to do.
“Do you want me to?” he asked before the silence could stretch any longer. “I can if you want. It’s cool.”
Ollie sniffled, lifting his head to look at Gryffon with reddened eyes. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Gryffon assured him. “But I gotta warn you, the fur tickles.”
That made Ollie laugh, and Gryffon breathed a sigh of relief. It had been easy after all, not something where the kid was gonna be upset no matter what. Ollie crawled up the length of the bed, back to where the pillow was, and plopped down onto it. There, he untucked all the ends of the blanket to lay it over himself properly.
Gryffon tugged on the back end, foiling his plans.
“Hey!” Ollie giggled, pulling the blanket back. Gryffon pulled again, but gently this time, adjusting until Ollie lay fully covered and had enough space to either side to potentially turn in his sleep.
“Alright.” He got up from where he was sitting at the foot of the bed and put his knee on the mattress a little closer to Ollie. Leaning over, he brushed Ollie’s hair from his forehead with the heel of his hand, and pressed a kiss to his forehead—a gesture he couldn’t remember making for anyone. His mouth wasn’t meant for gentle shapes, his hands not built to hold. But he tried. He held back all his strength and weight, reducing himself to a suggestion of a presence, and as a reward, he felt Ollie’s entire face rise into a grin. His eyes were bright when Gryffon pulled away, a hand reaching out to pet Gryffon’s chin.
“It does tickle!”
Gryffon allowed it. Whatever. The kid could’ve been hellspawn for all he cared; he wasn’t going to be the cause of his tears if he could help it. Nevermind the fact that he hadn’t wanted to be gentle with someone in years, and that this good, honest heart of Ollie’s was making him feel things. Nevermind that he was starting to hate the idea of dropping him off at home as much as Chip did, and that Ollie reminded him of a child from his village, and that the grief stung all the deeper the more he allowed himself to like him.
“Told you,” he said, his voice even rougher than usual. He lifted himself back up, letting Ollie’s hair fall back into place, and took a final look at him. “Good night, kid.”
He took the glass with him, removing the evidence of Ollie’s horrific crimes. “Good night,” Ollie sighed as he got comfortable.
Gryffon wanted to stay. But it’d only fuck the kid over in the future if he got coddled, so he closed the door and left Ollie alone.
Fuck.
It seemed like an endless journey back the kitchen to drop off the glass, a hundred paces and a hundred more, and each felt like he was abandoning something that’d relied on him, like he was being negligent, like he hadn’t done enough, like bad things would happen that he could stop, but wouldn’t. Gryffon’s lips tingled with the lingering pressure, the texture of skin still unmarked by life. Skin that would not stay that way for long.
There was nothing he could do. He’d been reminding himself of that every day since meeting the kid: he could neither undo the past nor change the future, couldn’t make his situation any better without also harming him in some way. All he could do was sell limeade and let him touch his fur and give poorly worded reassurance where he could, because this was a child on a pirate ship, and everything about that was wrong, so there was no way to make it right.
All he could do was try to erase the context and treat him like the boy he was. Surely some fragments of his youth could be protected throughout all this.
The sky was broad and black above the ship, the air sea-spiced in his lungs as he stepped out onto the main deck. Alphonze was already there, leaning his weight on the railing, his eyes casting a soft glow over his face and the wood under his forearms.
Silently, Gryffon joined him.
It was already far too late to hope for a good night’s rest, so there was no harm in staying a little longer when he knew he’d feel like shit either way. It had been that way for the past few nights. Ollie would be put to bed, and then Gryffon would find Alphonze on the deck and just—stand there with him. In mutual silence they’d watch the moon rise over the ship, until the exhaustion of the day finally caught up to them and they’d settle down for what remained of the night with nothing but a slap to the other’s shoulder and a grunt of acknowledgement.
It was nice. Alphonze was simple like that—like him. All the important bits were said between the lines, in actions and the lack thereof. Alphonze stood with him into the night and did not question why he didn’t go to sleep, or why he found such solace in the moon and stars, or why he looked that much softer then, none of that rough, hardened exterior he carried with him all the time.
He just stood with him, and he seemed to understand.
Gryffon didn’t keep track of time, but the moon moved about a finger’s width as they stood together in silence, shimmering bright and brilliant in the sky, casting enough light to see clearly.
And then, as if he knew that tonight was different, Alphonze spoke. “Silver for your thoughts,” he said, his gaze still forward.
Gryffon looked him up and down, chuckling. “You don’t have any silver to your name.”
“As part of the crew,” Alphonze said, “I have the same share as everyone else. You might want to consider moving on to higher-hanging fruit.”
“Fuck you.”
Gryffon found himself smiling, looking down to pick at a splinter in the railing. This, too. The meaning between words, between easy insults. This was how Gryffon spoke best, but…
The situation he found himself in wasn’t like what he was used to, after all. The tried-and-true methods didn’t work.
Gryffon sighed in defeat—because it felt like defeat—and lifted his head again. “I think—” he began, then stopped. The ship was cradled by the shore, bobbing idly in its currents. A sideways hourglass, its flow stopped for now. Gryffon set his sight to where the black of the water met the black of the sky, that unreachable point, that constant presence. “I think I’m gonna miss him.”
Alphonze looked out across the dark waves, the moonlight caught and broken in the ocean’s skin. “Me too.”