Her head snapped to him the moment he opened the door like some kind of deadly cat. "Out," she snapped. Her tone was sharp and her eyes were narrowed down to slits. Although she was standing, she'd taken the weight off her left leg to spare it the work.

Archer closed the door behind him. "Did you cut off some of Bardarian's finger?" he asked. His eyes drew to the blade she was spinning in her fingers—the Captain's blade.

"I'll do the same to you," she said, clearly not in the best of moods.

"I was invited, by you," Archer said.

She tilted her head a little, mind turning.

"You told me to come back when you're sober," he explained. "You're sober now, aren't you?"

She ran her tongue over her teeth, attempting to place their previous conversation.

"You remember that?" he prompted, walking to the side but not breaking her gaze.

"I remember."

"Excellent," he said. He sat down on the bed across from her. "I'm back."

She continued spinning the knife, nimble fingers catching and tossing the blade.

"What's rule number five?" he said, starting simple.

She walked around him with a demoralizing stare, and he was proud to stand his ground. He waited.

"Rule number five," she repeated.

"That's what I said. Well, it's what you said."

She ran her tongue over her teeth. "I said something about rule number five," she concluded.

"You said you can't seem to follow it."

"I didn't mean that."

"You mean everything you say."

She leaned against the wall in front of him. "Not when I'm covered in gallons of blood."

Archer pointed to her. "You only have a gallon of blood in you."

"Some of it was his."

He smiled, admiring her incredibly unique talent of sidetracking a conversation. "That doesn't mean you didn't mean what you said about rule number five," he said, refocusing them.

She spun the knife. "You just want me to have meant it."

Archer frowned at her, breathing out deeply. "I don't even know what it is."

"You have guesses."

He sighed again, leaning back on his hands. "You could just tell me. It might be faster."

She didn't answer.

"Fine," he said, searching his mind for the best way to put it. "I'm guessing rule number five has something to do with not getting close to people, because then they become a weakness for you. You broke it once with Bardarian, and now you're breaking it with me."

"You think yourself to be awfully important."

"No, apparently you think of me to be awfully important." He smiled, making sure to show off his very white teeth.

Her face was calm, but one of her nostrils flared just the tiniest bit. She was furious, and she was not enjoying this.

"I didn't forget the other thing, either," he added. "You kept talking about perfection."

She glanced at the door. Thanks to his clear mind and her weak state, he could actively process those little behaviours he might've missed before. By looking at the door, she was estimating the distance, wondering if she could get to it before him.

"You think I'm infatuated with the perfection of you?" he asked. "The fact that you don't make mistakes? That you don't get beaten?"

"I don't think," she said, voice cool and calm but her eyes light and focused.

"You're making a lot of mistakes today," Archer said. "I'm walking all over you."

She maintained that calm expression, but she was fuming, by his insinuation, and because he was right. Not only that, but she couldn't even start throwing the knife—to do so would be to broadcast that she was threatened by the mind game. He was quite proud of himself; she was perfectly cornered into listening to his words. Like a check that was about to become a checkmate.

"I think you're confusing your lovers," he told her. "Bardarian wants you perfect. Bardarian wants you undefeated. Bardarian wants your reputation. I respect those things about you—I think they're part of who you are, but they don't make my opinion of you."

Now she spoke, quick and focused, "You couldn't move. You didn't even know I could bleed."

Archer leaned forward. "You know what seeing you like that did to me?" he asked, but didn't wait for the answer. "It humanized you. It took you down from this otherworldly god to a woman not much older than me. It made you real. Attainable. Loveable, even."

"Loveable," she repeated.

"Novari, listen to me," he said, making a gesture to draw her gaze. "It was lust when I thought you were out of my reach. It was infatuation when I realized I had just a fraction of your attention. It was love when you reached for me first on that deck. When you couldn't go to him, because he might think less of you, but you could go to me, because you knew I'd think the same of you."

She might've anticipated his words, for she didn't react, but he preferred not to believe she did. He preferred to think he'd shocked her with his revelations.

"You're not an untouchable woman who's so much older and smarter," he continued. "You're talented, incredibly so, and you're smart as hell, I'll give you that—but you're not invincible. You bleed, and you lose your shit from time to time. You're not so far out of my league; you're just a person. Your father did you wrong and you lost your mother. You fell in love with a man when you were eighteen and he was twenty-six. He had power over you and your career, and you couldn't stand it. He gave you what you needed for a while, but then he stopped, so you forced his attention by using me. He's giving you all you wanted now, but you still can't let go of me. You're just a person, deeply flawed, like the rest of us."

"Little wordsmith you became there, Kingsley."

"Archer," he corrected.

She looked down at him.

"That's a strategy," he told her daringly. "To not call me by my first name. Keep it impersonal. Your mother teach you that? So you're less likely to break rule number five?"

She ignored the insinuation. "You know what would end all my problems, Kingsley?" she asked, taking a step closer. She leaned down so she was crouched beside the bed, her eyes now looking up at him. Archer didn't lean off his hands. He'd made it this far keeping a rather level head. He needed to keep that streak; he couldn't lose his mind just because she closed the distance.

Archer looked down at the knife, answering her last question.

"That's right, Kingsley. Killing you would solve all my issues."

"It's Archer."

She grinned and rested her forearms on his knees, leaning into him. "I need you gone, Kingsley. I think I should do it now, before you can wreak more havoc on my life."

Archer resisted the urge to lean back further. He was sure she wasn't kidding, but he wasn't sure if she would really do it. He took a deep breath and leaned forward, fingers gently pressed into the skin of her forearms.

"I'm not entirely sure you could kill me right now," he said. "Not in this state."

"You want to find out?"

"Not particularly. I'd like to point out that I am your best option at keep yourself sharp, though. Perhaps the man in port wouldn't have caused so much damage if you were with me, sharpening those skills on the daily."

She shook her head, but a smile was on the verge of her lips. She tapped his knee, once, twice. "Your skills are more threatening than comforting," she admitted.

"You mean my skills are more challenging? Less certain? You're hardly a fan of certainty, isn't that right?"

She continued tapping his knee, once, twice, three times.

"I don't know the story behind you two," Archer said. "But from what I see, he's safe. He's not going to leave you—not if you chop off his finger, not if you sleep with other men, not if you pull him into game after game when he just wants peace. He's predictable to you, after all these years."

"I like predictability," she said after a moment, thumb brushing over his knee.

"I don't think you do."

"Kingsley, love," she said, eyes down on her knife, fingers still. She looked up, glittering golden eyes full of some adventure she wouldn't ever take. Her expression was truthful and transparent, so he held to her next words like they were law.

"I'm going to keep you, Archer," she said. "All the way to the Kingsland. I'm desperately fighting with myself to figure out what I want and while I do, maybe just for a moment, I'll lean closer to you, and you'll think you have me."

She glanced up at him, stark black hair falling over her shoulders. "But then it'll be over, and I'll go back to him. I do it every time; I can't help it. It's sick repetition, undying loyalty down in the pit of my soul. You can't change it, I can't change it, he can't change it."

Archer searched her gaze. Did she really believe that her life was so out of her control? That some things just were the way they were and she'd never be able to influence any of it?

"I do believe it," she said. "You can play your games with him, maybe he'll think you won, too. But you won't."

Archer shrugged. He had his doubts. Plenty could happen between now and then. "In any case." He nodded down to her knife. "Help me out. He'll buy you something pretty if he thinks I'm winning."

She looked at her knife—Bardarian's knife.

"Kingsley, that's mean."

"Archer," he corrected. "Just give me the knife."

She gave him a look as she reached out and offered it to him. He looked at it for a moment, then quickly took it. He honestly hadn't thought that would work.

She shook her head disapprovingly as she stood, and he gave her his best grin as he left the room. He went back down the hallway and leisurely opened the door to the navigation room. As he had hoped, the Captain was still there.

"Archer?" Starle said, looking up. "You're not dead."

"Observant as always, Starle," Arche replied. He glanced at Bardarian, whose gaze rested on the knife. "I believe this is yours, sir," he said, tossing it to him.

Bardarian caught it in one hand, not breaking his gaze. Beside him, Britter bit his lip to stifle his laughter but ended up letting out a snort anyway. At the table, Rusher looked down to hide his smile.

"Pry it off her, did you?" Bardarian asked, spinning the knife in his hands.

"No, sir," Archer said, sitting back down in his chair. He tried his best to keep his expression neutral. "Just asked for it."

Bardarian's jaw tightened, the first sign of that unruly calm beginning to loosen. Britter breathed a little too loudly through his nose and looked at Archer with an as funny as this is, I advise you to shut up glance.

Archer grinned back at him, leaving it there.

Bardarian continued to stare at Archer, who didn't give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze. Perhaps he was wondering what was so great about Archer, what possibly could've distracted Silta for this long.

"Oh, wait," Starle said, looking intently at his map. "Oops."

Rusher pushed his way to the other navigator and stood over his shoulder.

"Starle," he scolded. "You charted the winds the wrong way!"

Starle quickly looked at the Captain, knowing it was bad for him to see the mess-up, but the Captain wasn't paying attention. He was looking at his knife.

"Sorry," Starle said. He looked up at Archer. "I guess we'll be there a lot quicker than two days."

Archer shrugged. It didn't really make a difference to him. He knew that Rusher would care, though. The navigator smacked the back of Starle's head.

"You keep doing this—" Rusher started.

"Hey, Captain, do we get shore time in Trivv?" Britter asked, cutting the navigator off.

Archer watched the strategist carefully. It may not have been clear to anybody else—but he found it awfully convenient that Britter happened to draw the Captain's attention away from Starle's mistake.

Bardarian looked up. "One night," he said.

Britter stretched his hands out and grinned from ear to ear. "Excellent," he said. "That's all I need."

Archer's eyelids grew heavy as the three of them continued to talk. Somewhere in between Rusher's and Britter's fifth argument, Archer got up and left. He wandered around for a moment, then took the stairs belowdecks. Perhaps he'd just go to bed early. On the way to his room, he knocked into someone coming up the stairs.

"Hey—sorry," Denver said quickly.

Archer shook his head. "My fault." After the whole morality talk, Archer hadn't spoken to his old friend. In fact, he was spending his time around Britter and Rusher, instead. Were the older boys far worse in terms of killing and ethics? Of course, but Archer was just pretending to be their friends, just hanging around meaninglessly. With Denver, it had been real.

He still refused to believe Denver was really all that bad of person. He believed Bardarian had simply shaped him perfectly, exactly as he did to everyone else.

Regardless, Archer figured he should try and walk the bridge between the two of them. He had very little time left on this ship, anyway.

"Look, Denver, I really shouldn't have talked to you about all that stuff. I was out of line."

Denver's face coloured a little as though even the thought of it discomforted him.

"It's whatever, Kingsley. I won't say anything."

Archer watched him bound up the stairs and disappear over the deck.

At least he'd said he wouldn't tell anybody. That was good, but it still hurt. To watch him walk away, to hear that professionalism.

He'd thought he had nothing left to lose. He thought that he could walk away from this having only lost what he came with; he hadn't realized he might've gained things as well. Because truth be told, he liked Denver. He liked his friendly smile and his protective nature. He liked Rusher's bubbly personality, and he liked Britter's quick wit.

He pushed open the door to his room, startled by his thoughts. Since when had he become the type of person that cozied up to murderers? Since when was he the type of person to mourn a connection with a ship that was incredibly toxic—since when did he fight tooth and claw for a woman who'd just told him he would lose?

He was saturated in the situation, he knew. He'd do the right thing should it come down to it. He had to.