Roxanne paced the cabin restlessly, pausing every so often to listen to what was going on outside.

Gunshots, swords clashing and shouting.
The music of battle.

She tried the door. Locked.
Cursing, she sat moodily in one of the chairs, scuffing her toe against the floor.

"What the fuck did he lock me in for?" she muttered irritably to herself.
"Haven't I proven I can handle myself in battle?"

Her gaze scanned the room, finally settling on the bookshelf behind the desk. She wandered over to take a closer look, fingertips trailing lightly over the leather spines as she read some of the titles. They were a fairly even mixture of three languages :- English, what she guessed was Gaelic, and Spanish.

She recognised a few of the English ones, titles she'd read standing out like old friends in a crowd of strangers and foreigners.

Roxanne mentally ajusted her impressions of Edward Teague to entertain the fact he might spend time reading when not occupied with ship's business and the duties of a captain.

She wandered away from the shelves to sit down in the chair Teague usually occupied.
Her gaze fell on the piece of paper nearest her, which was half-covered in surprisingly elegant, clear handwriting.

She didn't understand it but entertained herself looking at the unfamiliar words, many of which had little marks over vowels, like what was called an accent in French.

A quill lay on the paper, staining it with a blot of ink. Roxanne lifted it, carefully replacing it in the inkwell and doing her best to soak up the blot with a scrap of paper so it wouldn't spread further.

Wiping her inky fingers, she found an almost-full bottle of rum and uncorked it as she sat there.

It burned as she sipped it, distracting her thoughts.

She welcomed the distraction because her thoughts were all about Edward Teague. And Soracha.

She'd heard them talking and laughing together at night on several occasions, their mingled voices carrying in the stiller night air to reach her in the cabin when she was trying to sleep.

Teague had said they'd been friends since childhood and she was starting to wonder if there was more between them than friendship.

She'd noticed Soracha seemed to be the only one on the ship permitted to use his first name.

A seed of curiosity and suspicion had sprouted in her belly about the captain's relationship with his doctor.

Then again, Roxanne thought to herself, it didn't matter to her what the captain's relationship status was.
She was here to get away from England, not to get involved with an Irish pirate.

She shook her head and took another sip of rum, clearing her thoughts and resuming listening to the battle that was going on outside.

Frustrated, she stood up and paced the cabin, wishing she could join the fight rather than being locked in listening to it.

With a huff of annoyance, Roxanne sat down again in Teague's desk chair, drumming her fingers irritably on the arm of it.

She sat sipping rum, her restless gaze moving around the cabin.
The curtain that separated the berth from the main room was pulled back and she looked at the rumpled bedclothes she'd been sleeping under, considering making the bed.

Upon closer inspection, she saw reddish fur among the covers and realised it was the dog.

"Get out of my bed," she muttered.

The terrier didn't move and Roxanne rolled her eyes, finishing off her rum and starting to think about Teague and Soracha again.

************************************
Edward Teague was furious.

Roughly half of the Misty Lady's crew had decided to mutiny, having come to the realisation that Roxanne Sparrow would be on board for the foreseeable future and refusing to accept that.

McDonagh, the Irishman he was currently crossing blades with, let Teague know what he thought of Roxanne in a variety of unpleasant and derogatory Gaelic phrases.

Teague matched him with both blade and word, throwing an insult at him for every one he said about Roxanne, finding he relished swearing aloud in his native tongue, as he usually only did it under his breath when not at home.

"Lá breá ag do chairde-dó d'adhlacadh,"* was the final venomous phrase that fell from his lips as his blade pierced McDonagh's abdomen and he stepped over the dying man towards another mutineer, an aging Kildare man who was part of the Lady's original crew.

Auburn hair danced like a flame in his vision, then blades flashed and the man Teague had been intending to engage fell dead, his throat slit.

"I was goin' to do that!" he called over the noise of swords and pistols as the crew fought each other.

"Too slow Eddie Teague!" Soracha called back with a wild grin as she efficiently disposed of a mutineer before he shot Sahara.

After that, Teague lost sight of her.

His shoulder burned as he blocked yet another sword belonging to a man he'd often defended in battle.
Teeth gritted, his heart heavy, he put a bullet between his eyes.

Shooting made dealing out death to those he had considered friends much quicker, though each gunshot felt like he'd put a bullet into himself and the pistols kickback was hurting his  shoulder.

At long last, nobody swung a sword or aimed a gun in his direction.

His gaze scanned the deck, bloody sword and smoking pistol held loosely by his sides as he took in the scene.

"Jesus," he whispered, processing the carnage. The crew was depleted by over half, mostly mutineers dead, though the bodies of loyal crew also dotted the bloodstained deck.

"Would anyone who would even consider another mutiny step forward."

Two men around his age stepped out and were promptly shot.

Teague stowed his pistol, wiping his sword clean and sheathing it too.
"Let that be the end of this, an' a lesson to anyone who lets the thought of mutiny ever enter yer head," he said firmly.

"Any injured, go to the surgery to-" he cut himself off, realising he hadn't seen Soracha since she'd teased him about being too slow.

Heart racing in sudden panic, he scanned the deck.
He saw Sahara first, kneeling with her back to him by the stairs that led to the quarterdeck.

Walking over, he looked over her shoulder and felt his stomach clench in fear.

Soracha lay on her back, hands still loosely wrapped around her knife hilts.
Her eyes were closed and for a moment he feared the worst.

Sahara's head turned, her eyes full of tears.
"She's breathing and her heart's beating, but there's so much blood..."

"Move," Teague said roughly, stripping off his shirt as he took her place beside Soracha.

He saw Sahara hadn't been exaggerating; there was an awful lot of blood coming from the wound in Soracha's side.
Trying not to panic, he rolled his shirt into a ball and put pressure on the wound in hope of stopping the bleeding.

She moved slightly, which he decided was a good thing as blood soaked his shirt.

Then, a few minutes later, she softly groaned "Ow."

"Soracha, can you hear me?" he asked anxiously, slipping into his native tongue.

"Mmm...hurts..." she murmured weakly in Gaelic.

"Soracha, stay conscious. What do I have to do?" he asked, needing her to talk him through what he should be doing.

"Pressure on wound...stop bleeding..."

"Doing it," he said, glad of the confirmation he was doing the right thing.

"Good. Wrap it tight and get me to the surgery," she said quietly, her breathing ragged as he did as instructed, gently and carefully picking her up, ignoring his sore shoulder.

Sahara went ahead, opening doors and watching anxiously while he slowly lowered Soracha onto one of the surgery berths.

She sat, leaning against the wall as she unwrapped Teague's makeshift bandage.

"On the table, there's a green leather-bound book, give it here. And I need painkillers."

"This and these?" Teague asked, holding up a book and a bottle he recognised, being familiar with Soracha's painkillers.

She nodded, swallowing the painkillers and starting to flick through the book, muttering to herself.

Her gaze flickered between her side and the pages, then she slowly closed the book again, eyes glancing at her abdomen as she pressed gently.

Teague watched her quietly, noticing she was sweaty and rather breathless as she continued examining herself.

After several moments, she looked up.

"Edward, how far are we from Ireland?"

"At full canvas with current wind? Eh, four, five days I'd say. Why?"

"Then set a course. Now."

"I'll do it," Sahara said, leaving the surgery quickly.

"Ye know," Teague said idly, trying to hide his worry, "if anyone else tried to give me an order like that Soracha, I'd shoot them."

"Mm, but ye need me..." Soracha lay back on the berth, eyes half-closed.
"An' you've known me too long to be bothered."

"What's wrong?" he asked, gaze flickering to her side.

"Stabbed. Bad internal damage," said the Irishwoman shortly.

"Why are ye lookin' to go home?"

"Cause I don't know if I can fix everything an' if I can't, there's someone there who can," Soracha murmured.
"Bandages, whiskey an' a cloth please," she added, taking her boots off and slowly sitting up again.

He gave her what she'd asked for, watching as she started cleaning her injured side.
"I owe ye a shirt," she said, a flicker of a smile appearing, though her teeth were gritted in pain.

"You owe me nothin' Soracha. How bad is it?"

"Pretty bad," she muttered. "Hurts an awful fuckin' lot."

"Who's goin' to fix it if ye can't?" Teague asked.

"The witch at the holy well back home," she said simply.

"Who the-oh, aye." Teague nodded, realising who she meant. "Ye know she'll demand payment."

"Mm I know," Soracha murmured. "I'll worry about that if I'm still alive by the time we reach Ireland."

"You will be," he said softly and firmly, refusing to think of his friend dying.
"You're going to be fine."

"That'll depend on how long it takes to get home."
She kept her gaze on her side, hands busy wrapping the wound.

After a few moments she slowly stood up, evidently in pain.

She took several swigs of whiskey, lifted her boots and opened a door in the back surgery wall which led to her cabin, disappearing through it.

Teague watched as it closed behind her, removing his hat to run a hand through his hair with a worried sigh before leaving the surgery.

************************************
Roxanne glanced up as she heard the lock open. Teague entered, his head bowed, hat in hand.

He slowly and silently removed his coat, weapons and boots.

She vacated his chair as he approached the desk, taking the one opposite him.

He set his hat on the desk between them, studying it in silence.

"Are you hurt?" Roxanne tentatively asked after several long moments.

"The shoulder I wounded in the previous battle is sore again. No new injuries."

Teague's voice was steady, but flat and emotionless. A slight frown creased his brow and a thousand thoughts and emotions danced like flames in his eyes.

He sighed, resting his elbows on the desk, hands supporting his head.

"What happened?" Roxanne asked softly.

"Had to...to kill members of me own crew. Men I've fought alongside an' defended so many times...bhí sé..."

He slipped into his native tongue, hands running through his hair, evidently distressed.

Roxanne was suddenly aware that, despite his efficiency and authority in managing the Lady and her crew, Edward Teague was only at the most, a year older than her.

His stormy eyes roamed the cabin as he fell silent.

"I didn't understand that, I'm sorry," Roxanne said softly, unsure if he'd been talking to her or himself when he'd slipped to Gaelic.

Teague frowned slightly.
"Oh, sorry, I must've switched without noticing," he said, looking slightly sheepish.
"Doesn't matter, I was talkin' mainly to meself anyway."

"Can I do anything to help?"

"Ye could make me a cup of tea if ye don't mind."

Roxanne nodded and got up. "Sugar?"

"Two please," he replied softly.

When she returned with the tea, she thought about hugging him, then reconsidered and set the mug down before taking her seat again.

"Do you read those?" she asked, gesturing to the bookshelves.

Teague nodded, taking a sip of tea.
"When I have time, usually before I go to sleep. You're welcome to read any of them."

"You speak Spanish?"

"Not as well as English. I read an' write it better than I speak it."

"And you can read and write in English too?" Roxanne asked, impressed by how literate he was.

"Aye. I'm decently literate in three languages and pretty much fluent in speaking two," Teague replied with a slight smile.

"And I was always told pirates were uneducated..." Roxanne muttered, a smile appearing on her own lips.

"Mum taught us the basics an' I taught meself from there," he said in explanation, sipping his tea again.

Roxanne watched his expression as she cradled her mug of tea, noticing worry appearing in his features.

"This is a grand cup of tae by the way, thank ye."

"You're welcome."
She smiled slightly at his pronunciation of "tea", liking his accent, though the smile faded as her gaze returned to his worried expression.

"What else is wrong?

"Soracha's hurt."

The deep concern in his voice made a hot flare of emotion erupt in Roxanne's belly.
Images flashed in her mind, mostly conjured by her imagination :- Teague and Soracha sitting together in the surgery, heads closer together than was deemed appropriate for friends. The two of them, again in the surgery behind closed doors, Soracha's hands in his hair as he kissed her. Him laughing at something she'd said before putting an arm over her shoulders in an affectionate gesture.
The last one wasn't imagined; she'd witnessed on several occasions.

With a great effort, she controlled her voice before asking, "How badly?"

"Pretty badly she says."
Teague's gaze was fixed on the steam rising from his mug.
"We're going home to get someone who can heal her."

"Back to England?"

He scoffed. "No. Absolutely not back to England. I don't an' have never lived in England. Home is Ireland, always will be."
Taking a sip of tea, he continued, "I could be hung in England, could be shot in cold blood while mindin' my own business. I'm a branded pirate with a bounty on my head. England, London specifically, is one of the most dangerous places I can go."

"Hanged," Roxanne said automatically.

Teague raised an eyebrow.

"The past tense is hang-" she didn't finish, remembering English wasn't his first language and not wanting to be rude.

A resigned smile touched his lips.
"I still fuck up the English language even though I've been speaking it relatively often for years now."

He rose and gestured to the curtain.
"It's late, an' I want to check on Soracha, sleep, forget about all this shite an' move on in the mornin'. Goodnight Roxanne."

The dismissal in his tone was clear.
"Goodnight," she replied with a nod before stepping through the curtain.
"Oh, call your dog. He's decided to make himself quite comfortable on my bed."

************************************
Teague left the cabin with Regan following like a shadow at his heels.

The sky was overcast as he crossed the deck, which was bloodstained from the earlier battle.

Regan pushed his hand and he caressed his ears. "C'mon boy, Soracha will probably appreciate your company too."

"I'll have ye relieved in a few," he said to Seán, who nodded gratefully from his spot at the wheel.

Descending below deck, he went through the surgery and knocked gently on Soracha's door.

"Tar isteach."*
Her voice was muffled and drowsy and he entered to find her visible as only a lump under the covers.

"Did I wake you?" he asked apologetically.

"Mm."
Her dishevelled auburn head slowly emerged, eyes narrowed until they adjusted to the light.

She patted the bed, indicating he could sit as Regan jumped onto it, eagerly licking her hands.

"Sorry. How do you feel now you are awake?"

"Very fucking sore," Soracha said shortly, reaching carefully over to lift a bottle off her nightstand.

She uncorked it, sipping the contents.

"What's the weather doing?"

"It's cloudy, probably goin' to piss the rain."

Soracha nodded, stroking Regan. Her gaze flickered to him.
"You've ripped your bloody stitches. Get over here with a needle and thread."

Teague hissed through his teeth as she wiped his wound clean before starting to stitch.
"Feckin' hell, this is worse than the first time ye stitched it."

"Well, let this be a lesson to ye. Don't rip your stitches," she responded dryly as she finished and wrapped the wound.

He smiled slightly as he pulled his shirt back on.
"Thank you. Do you need anything?"

Soracha shook her head, pulling the covers over herself again, which he took as his cue to leave.

After seeing to Seán's replacement, he retired to his cabin, lying in his hammock on his back.

The ship rocked, pitching rather violently. Evidently the sea was getting rough as the weather worsened outside.

The hammock swung with the ships rocking and Teague regretted giving Roxanne his bed as he tried to get comfortable, cursing under his breath as he hurt his shoulder.

He eventually settled, falling asleep to the howling of the wind.

Meanwhile, Soracha lay in her berth, trying to douse the flames of agony with whiskey enough to let her sleep, hoping for favourable winds to quicken the journey home, as she had a feeling that five days was too long.

*May your friends have a fine day-burying you.

*Come in.