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smokeys-house · 7 months

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The Cane King's Daughter

⭐️Art by @sator-the-wanderer, story by @smokeys-house ⭐️

⭐️Also available on ao3!⭐️

✨️Part two TCKD: A Story for Another Time available here✨️

Storms at sea are no rare occurrence. Squalls that sweep ships to their sides may be daunting, but no more so than the tumult of the lives of all folk, land or sea. Captain Whetstone, a self made pirate born on the coast of France, has made rather a name for herself. A large and fluffy brown moomin, she grew up hearing the stories of a free life at sea.

She sat wide upon a chair in the cabin of her ship. The strain of a pirate's life wore heavily upon her brow. The early days were rife with plunder and excitement, raucous laughter and cheers. She'd made it, or so she would've thought. She'd got the merry life she'd wanted, as for whether it'd be a short one would be up to the rule of law.

'Perhaps I've been at it too long.' the captain thought to herself. She sighed aloud, staring into the vanity mirror as if looking past herself. "Rouse yerself. Yer a captain, not some layabout on a fishing trip." She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and made for the deck. She'd grown weary of taking scores and the thrill of living on the run.

The crew still aboard The Honeyed Word were working diligently; hauling crates to and from the port, maintaining the ship, or otherwise making themselves useful. Marseille was bustling, lively, and lousy with merchant ships. The local law, while concerned about piracy, were not so eager to challenge those engaged in its splendors. Collecting a bribe was practically by the books in Marseille. It wasn't the pirate haven of Nassau, but at least here she could try to lie low for a while.

The salted sea air mingled nicely with the smell of cookery and the commotion of working sailors as the captain made rounds amongst what crew remained on deck.

"Cap'n." A grizzled old hemulen woman wiped the sweat from her brow. "Most of the crew 'ave headed into town. I assume you can simply follow the ruckus if ye be needing to find them." Her voice was coarse and thick, but with a sense of duty.

"As it happens, I fear I may be in search of drink myself." The captain shielded her eyes from the sun with her paws. "Keep an eye on things for me while I'm gone."

"Promise me ye don't be up to nothin' foolish. I seen that bored look you been wearin'."

"No foolishness here, Ruthie. Just a quick nip, and maybe a rest in a bed what ain't rollin' on the waves." She patted the hemulen woman on the back with a hearty thud, to which she chuckled mirthfully.

The way into town was fraught with people of all classes and lifestyles; merchants, traders, sailors, simple common folk, rich and poor. Marseille was a well populated city, and drew in people from all over. The captain trod a familiar path to her preferred local pub, one of the few she hadn't been run out of in recent memory. Despite the relative ease with which she carried herself, being spotted by knowing eyes would likely spell trouble, or at the very least more excitement than she was looking for.

"Didn't think I'd see you in here again, after last time." The barkeep didn't look up from polishing his glass.

"I'm not sure I remember the last time. Much to see around these parts I'm afraid, sometimes too much." She eyed a table of navy men in the corner as she approached the counter. It was a clean establishment, not necessarily upscale, but it did at least serve the more well-to-do in days long since passed. The place was littered with well crafted furniture and gave an air of high status, but the clientele quickly dimmed the illusion. The velvets adorning curtains and chairs had all faded, and some were torn in spots.

"What'll you have, Whetstone?"

"That'll be captain Whetstone from you. Pour me anything what ain't rum n' cask-water, and you can call me whatever you like!" The two shared a laugh as the bartender filled two tankards with ale.

"Word on the street is your boys are already wreaking havoc. Half my usual patrons have made themselves scarce. You've only been in town a couple of days I thought, but from the way folks are talking I would've thought the devil himself had popped up on our doorstep, and made himself at home."

"Oh, how lovely." Whetstone sighed and eagerly watched the man pour. "I'd have thought by now the folks 'round here would've been dreadfully bored by that sort of thing." She paid for the two drinks and clinked glasses with the bartender. "Not like the navy men do it any different while docked. We're all fixin' t' crack Jenny's teacup!"

"Aye, but your 'Jenny' is more often than not someone else's 'Sally', ye damn dog."

Whetstone raised a finger as she drank deep from her mug. "So long as she's not your Sally I'd say I'd done no wrong. Not my fault no navy men know how to keep a woman in good spirits!" She had a charismatic and an almost musical way of speaking, it was as though everything she said was a line in a play.

"And how might that be, oh great and wise slayer of maidens?"

"Spirits!" She motioned to the bottles on the shelf behind the bar, sharing a hearty cheer with a few eavesdropping barflies.

"And what might it be that brings you to Marseille once more?"

"Naught but the wetting of m' whistle and the tireless search fer comp'ny I reckon. I'm not quite so sure, I think I just wanted t' see yer ugly mug once more!"

She spent a few coins and hours there, seemingly wasting the day away. She knew that she wasn't searching for much of anything, and that she was simply tired of the hardships she'd chosen for herself. 'What use is a free life if I can't live it quietly?' She thought. 'All the excitement out t' sea, and all I'm wanting fer is a quiet day indoors.' Perhaps she'd grown weary of her trade, but taking a day for herself surely wasn't what you'd expect if you'd heard the stories about her.

"That's her right over there. The glum looking gal in the coat." Whetstone's musings were interrupted by murmurs rolling like thunder into jeers. The calm if somewhat gruff environment quickly became rife with tension.

"Seems our mutual friends have spotted a familiar fiend." The barkeep kept his paws busy, still cleaning glasses from patrons past. The captain appeared more tired by the idea than worried, propping herself up on the bar with her arms.

"You've got some nerve. Swingin' your snout 'round here like it weren't still smellin' of my girl's perfume." The hemulen navy man tucked one thumb into his belt as he approached, glancing over his shoulder back to his fellows.

" 'fraid I haven't seen your girl since she were someone else's. Last I checked, and likely still, she belonged to herself. Let's keep our paws in our pockets, shall we?"

"She seems t' think quite highly of you." His words were dripping with venom as he looked the captain up and down. He either had a chip on his shoulder or something to prove. "Turn 'n face me you bilgerat. I'm fixing to see what she thinks is so special!"

"Quiet over there!" A younger fillyjonk man spoke up from the corner, his face mostly obscured by a hat tilted over it. "Some of us are trying to drink in peace."

"What's it to you, boy? Shut yer gob afore I shut it for you!" The navy man leading the group continued to shout, tensions rising among the men behind him. He grabbed the captain by the collar of her coat. "Don't think even for a second I've not seen your face on them posters. Teachin' you a lesson and gettin' paid for it? Price on you's enough to split with these boys and then some."

The captain's eyes darted to and fro, seeking any opportunity to turn this around. The navy men must've numbered at least a dozen in total, all surrounding her. Them aside, patrons flanked them on all sides, acting as likely obstacles. Just as the situation was looking its grimmest, a near full glass flew across the room, finding its target to be the head of the man nearest Whetstone.

That one thrown drink began a large-scale brawl encompassing the entirety of the bar. The glass distracted the leader of the pack long enough for Whetstone to throw the first punch, square in the snout. The rest of the navy men, unable to tell the shouting of patrons from aggressors, and unable to tell who threw the cup, tore through the establishment. Skirmishes filled every corner of the room. The bartender calmly ducked into a room just behind the bar as it all began to unfold. The captain danced among the crowd, dodging blows and delivering them herself.

"This way!" Beckoned the be-hatted fillyjonk man, motioning to the alley entrance he was holding open. Whetstone fought her way through the flinging of paws at maws and more thrown drinks, toward the only friendly face in sight.

Just then, the bartender returned from the storage room behind the counter with a flintlock rifle and pistol in tow. He fired the musket straight into the ceiling, the boom overcoming the sound of the raucous crowd. For a moment, everyone stopped.

"Out of my bar." He spoke quite plainly, as though it were simply closing time. The navy men stopped their brawling and regained focus, looking about the room for their previously cornered quarry.

"Over there! After her, boys!" The sailors that still stood gave chase, stumbling over chairs and glasses underfoot.

In all the excitement, the captain had only just made it to the door when the gun went off. Her and her new acquaintance darted alley to alley, their pursuers forcing them through markets and over fences. Though the chase felt to them as intense as any they'd ever seen, it must have been quite the sight to see that many drunkards speedily shambling across town.

The shouting got further and further away, and luckily the throngs of the afternoon crowd began filling the streets once more. If it weren't for the simple fact that the captain hadn't been at the bar for as long as the rest of them, they likely would have caught up to her. She'd wisely abstained from anything too strong while in public, but a belly full of beer hardly makes for good running. With her wits mostly about her, and her ego intact, she'd made good on her escape thanks to a kind stranger.

Soon after, the busy dockside streets and afternoon sun quickly shifted into wealthy homes and a dimming evening sunset as the two evaded their would-be captors. Once they felt they had lost their assailants, the two caught their breath and the young man calmly led Captain Whetstone to a lovely gated garden bordering the wealthier part of town. It was well kept and filled with vibrant pinks, deep purples and reds, and a sweet floral aroma mixed with the salt of the nearby sea. Ornate metal bars formed a fence, wrapping the exterior of the garden.

"There's a greenhouse here where we can lie low. I like to come here to get lost for a while." The young man's voice shed pretense for a moment.

"Fine work, lad! And yer sure no nosy gardener's eager to do some midnight pruning?" The captain idly rubbed the petals of a nearby rose as she took in the view. "Posh bit o' living, this. Real pretty, though."

"Didn't think pirates cared for flowers. No, no one'll turn up. This square belongs to a wealthy family, used to be the daughter's. Haven't seen her around here in some time, though."

"We've all got our secrets, lad." She winked as she meandered through the garden to the greenhouse. The moon's rise baked a soft light throughout the interior. She idly rummaged through a cupboard above a potting bench. "Bless me tail! Oy, lad! They've got booze in 'ere! Some fine drink by the look of it. Supposin' the young maiden kept a few secrets, too." She snickered as she uncorked the bottle. She'd sobered a bit since her midday jog, and apparently wasn't eager to continue that trend.

"What's your name, anyhow? Ya know mine as it seems half of Marseille does these days. Why risk yer life fer a no good pirate?"

"Well… like you said, we all have our secrets, captain." The young fillyjonk sat upon a stool in the corner, seemingly familiar with the space. Whetstone poured a glass for herself and another for her new friend. The two shared drinks for a while, swapping idle stories late into the evening. The liquor spilled forth as did the relaxation and courage that comes with it.

"So… you're a pirate, ay?" The man swirled his glass in his paw, not looking up from his drink. "You'd know a thing or two about fighting with a sword, then?" He stood, walking over to the potting bench near where Whetstone sat against the wall.

"Aye, lad. I'd say I know a thing or two about swingin' a sword. What're ye gettin' at?" She steadied her eyes as they'd just begun to spin, realizing only now the risk of getting too drunk to stand with strangers about.

"Show me." He tossed her a wooden cutlass from beneath the bench.

"Secrets, secrets, secrets. My my my..." She caught it deftly, laying it across her lap. "I'm supposin' that's not the only thing y' be hiding from me."

"It's not, but if you beat me, I'll tell all."

"Ha, it'll take more'an that to get me into playfighting a stranger what won't say his name with a wooden toy."

"Scourge of the seas frightened by a youngblood after just a few drinks?" He used the point of his wooden sword to lift her chin and meet his gaze. Either he'd handled his liquor better than she did, or he was far more cautious than she was.

"Now yer just testing me patience, boy." She pushed aside the sword and finished her drink, rising to her feet. "Ye won't be needing t' set terms fer if'n you win. On account of ye won't. Take the first swing." She stood straight, sword idle in her paw, in an entirely unready stance. She took in a sharp breath, and exhaled slowly. She wasn't unfamiliar with the art of the un-sober sword, but she never did like to lose.

The man swung, overhead and diagonal to her shoulder. She tucked herself to one side as it flew past and struck the ground.

"Slow." Captain Whetstone teased.

He swung again, from left to right, to which she back-stepped.

"Clumsy." She continued her barbs with a wink.

He thrust at her belly in quick succession, the first one a narrow miss, and the second intercepted by the flat of the captain's wooden blade.

"Not bad! Once more!" She taunted, now fully engaged. Her feet planted firm and knees bent, she parried blow after blow. He sent out yet another thrust, this time aimed at her chest.

"Out you go!" She turned his thrust to her outside line and closed in. She turned her point down, pressing the pommel to his ribs, and pushed him out of the greenhouse door into the garden with a shoulder check.

"You're toying with me! Throw a cut at least!" The fillyjonk protested, panting, but on guard after managing to avoid falling flat on his face.

"Aye lad, I am! But here goes!" She threw a cut at a downward angle to cross his chest, or so it seemed at first. She feinted high, forcing him to guard his head and swung low, giving him a gentle tap on his thigh. "How's that?" She smirked. It was clear he was embarrassed, and perhaps a little upset. His face was red from drink, exertion, and now frustration. He threw several wild strikes out in a vain attempt to land a blow, to which she ducked several.

"Easy, lad!" She began deflecting his blows, hoping that he'd ease up. He brought his sword up as a club with both hands, over his head, letting out a tense shout as he swung. She blocked it static and right between the two of them, holding the bind. She turned her point under and went for a disarm, tossing his sword aside. Just as soon as his sword hit the ground, as did he, with a swift push on the chest from the captain. She stood over the fillyjonk, pointing her sword at his chest.

The fillyjonk's hat tumbled back, spilling forth long dark curls, previously tied back with ribbons that had since gone astray. The moonlight soaked into the fillyjonk's fur and hair, cascading shadows from the flowers that she had tumbled into upon onto her muzzle. The contrast between the bright blue flowers, her dark, rolling hair and the soft brown of her fur mirrored that of the shore and a stormy sea. To the captain, she was the very visage of romance. Perhaps it was the light of the moon, or the thrill of the fight, or even the blur of the booze, but she became immediately enamored.

"Well strike me pink! Hell hath no fury, eh? Now the question is, who scorned a bonny lass like you?" The captain lowered her sword, wearing a surprised grin on her face. "I'm supposin' now would be a good time to cash in on my winnings."

The evening stretched on into night, bringing with it the still presence of the full moon and the quiet breeze carried in from offshore. The night air was cool, and just comfortably so.

"My name's Marion." The fillyjonk acquiesced, true to her word. "Marion Cartier. It's my rum we've been spilling all night." She crossed her legs as she sat upon the cobblestone amongst the flowers.

"And this here'd be your garden then? The daughter o' the house as you'd said it. It's beautiful." She cupped the bulb of a flower in her paw. "If yer the daughter of a wealthy family, what business had ye in a bar like that one?"

"Same business I had in having a private garden. An escape."

"An' what was that bit afore I pushed y' down? Figure you'd take me in fer the bounty alive after gettin' me liquor'd up?"

"No… it's not that it's just…" Marion hesitated before answering, burning with embarrassment and the rum in her belly. Eventually she settled on telling the truth. "My father was right."

Captain Whetstone sat just across from her, light-heartedly rolling her eyes. "I'm supposin' that's got a story behind it. Night's young and I've nowhere better t' be, might as well let it out."

"He'd have me fall in line or sell me off just the same. If it's not helpful to his business, it hardly matters what I want."

"Yer a grown woman, can't ye just use all that money o' yers to get yerself a place by yer lonesome? 'S what I'd do."

"The man practically owns me. I won't see any money that doesn't sit in his paws until I take up the mantle."

"...And the swords?" Whetstone was quick to dismiss the woes of the wealthy and continued sating her curiosity with questions. Despite the blooming feeling in her chest, she still found it difficult to feel sympathy for rich folk.

"Father fancies himself a duelist. I'm… I thought I could get to know him better if I could get him to see me." She eyed her paws, rubbing the areas hardened into calluses by many hours of practice. "Told me it wasn't worth my time to wield a sword. Told me I'd be good for nothing if it wasn't for the family business."

The captain looked over at the wooden swords lying on the ground and cocked her head to the side. "Those ain't dueling swords, lassie. That's a cutlass."

Marion's eyes stayed focused on her hands despite the captain's piercing gaze and raised eyebrow. Silence filled the space for a moment.

"I've uh… I'm not quite sure how to uhm… it's rather embarrassing, I fear. Given present company, especially."

"Spill yer beans. I've drank too much t' sleep now fer fear of hangover. An' it's far too long a night yet fer keepin' secrets. B'sides, I won, remember?" Whetstone laid up against a tree and began picking her teeth with one of her claws.

"You must promise not to laugh."

"Miss Marion, I hadn't realized we were school girls! I ain't laughin' now, but I sure could use a good'un, out with it."

"I thought I could be a pirate. Or a privateer. Something on the sea that isn't in the navy. I'd take off as a stowaway on one of my father's ships with a few good men and strike out on my own."

"If that's yer cover fer trying t' claim my bounty it sure is the most… creative ruse anyone's drummed up against me."

"I'm not trying to claim the bounty! Even if I was, you'd have killed that dream along with the one you're stepping on now." Marion paused for a short while, composing herself. The frustration in her voice was joined ever so slightly by the sound of tears beginning to well up.

"Ah, I'm sorry lass, but it's a mite hard to think of someone like yerself at sea… y' need more'an just a few good men and some sword swingin' skills. It's a rough life out there."

"But it's a free one. The sea keeps men honest… in a way. There's bluster, sure, like anywhere else. But the sea asks that you prove it, and I aim to."

"Aye… ye can't lie to her none, this I know." The captain looked to the sky, feeling a flutter in her chest. She was reminded of her youth, and the first time she felt the call to the sea. Though it hadn't been too many years, most pirates don't last more than a few. "You'll find yer way. The bold ones always do."

The conversation bled into thoughtful silence, the pair quietly ruminating on past and future. The captain balanced a near empty bottle on her knee, watching the liquor shift and roll within. She examined the label, taking in the details. A mustachioed fillyjonk gentleman wielding a bundle of sugarcane like a royal scepter sat cross-legged upon a throne also made of sugarcane. In his other paw, a coconut prepared to be a chalice.

"Cartier's Cane King rum blend…" Whetstone continued eyeing the bottle, comparing the fillyjonk on the label with her new friend. "Tell me, what did you say yer name was again?"

–

Captain Whetstone awoke with the early afternoon sun baking into her fur upon a makeshift bed within the greenhouse she had stayed the night before. Her coat had been draped over her like a blanket, and her head was pounding. She stood and stretched, remembering the night prior.

"I swear I fell asleep in the garden, though…" She thought aloud as she surveyed her surroundings. A note penned in fine handwriting sat upon the potting bench, and was tented neatly.

Ms. Whetstone

I should think you capable of reading seeing as you're a captain. You've given me much to think about. I've many choices to make. I apologize for leaving you unattended, but it's as I said that no one visits my garden.

I intend to convince my father to teach me about sailing. I'll tell him it's for to learn the family business, and that ought to be enough. Of course, you and I know the reasons why well enough. The next time you see me, it might be out at sea.

I took the liberty of coaxing you into the greenhouse for a more private rest. I've a busy morning to come.

It was a pleasure meeting you.

-M

"Coaxed me into the..?" The captain was much too heavy to lift. She imagined Marion rolling her on her side like a big fluffy barrel as she slept. She would've been beet red if it weren't for her thick fur. She donned her coat, shook off the embarrassment, and tucked the note into her pocket. With the morning ending and the afternoon just beginning, she thought it prudent to check in with the crew and nurse her hangover with a late breakfast.

Rumors of yesterday's excitement had reached every ear, and just as quickly sank into the sand like waves upon the shore. The king's navy almost always had reason to cause a stir and rarely did it ever go quietly, but with such frequency it joined the day's monotony. A chilled breeze and shapely dark clouds portended a storm to come, though the warmth of the sun persisted for the moment. The docks were alive as always, folks walking shoulder to shoulder, hardly taking note of one another. The cacophony of cooking, trading, buying, and selling rang through the air. The cumulative hangover was just beginning to peak as Captain Whetstone sat down to eat beneath an awning at a dockside restaurant. Through the din of the crowd, she could almost make out the song of seabirds and waves lapping on the shore. She didn't take to being in public well, but the liveliness of the docks drawing eyes off of her bought her a modicum of peace. This peace was short-lived, as a garishly overdressed fillyjonk man cut a path around him through the crowd, speaking loudly and with no lack of self-importance. He moved dramatically, as though he was performing a dance, spinning and gesturing flamboyantly.

"What fortuitous timing, you wishing to take up the family business. As it so happens, I've dealings with a gentleman from Curaçao this very afternoon!"

"Yes, well… I was hoping to start with more on the transportation side of things. Learning to sail ships and the like. I've been doing much reading on the subject." A timid, familiar voice followed shortly after him.

"Hmm? Oh, of course. I'm sure he'll be just as happy with that if all goes well. Regardless, Marion, how does 'Cartier's Cane King Curaçao blend' sound to you? Bold? Alliterative? Lively? Perhaps, too lively, do you think?" His exaggerated manner of speaking sounded as though all must hear. It was difficult to tell whether he was advertising to the world or simply lost within himself.

"Who will be happy with that?" Marion rounded the corner, catching up with her father. She was dressed in deep blues, in an outfit that portrayed her wealthy standing and matched her father. The duo stopped perpendicular to the restaurant Whetstone was eating at, looking out at a few ships along the dock.

"That one there's a wild'un." The captain nudged a nearby patron with her elbow. "Drinks like a sailor 'n aims to be one." The patron patently ignored her idle musings upon seeing they were pointed at the wealthy young woman, assuming it to be a joke with no punch line. She snorted out a quick laugh to herself when comparing Marion's current clothes to her getup the other night. She decided it best to keep her nose out of it and went about finishing her meal.

"The gentleman from Curaçao, my dear."

"And why should it matter to him whether I learn to sail?" Marion's confusion began to mix with her growing concern.

"Well you are to be married, after all. I should think him quite pleased to marry a sailor if he needn't a homemaker." He removed his watch from his pocket and stared impatiently at it for a moment. The watch and the fob were both silver that shone bright against the deep blues of his shimmering waistcoat. He slicked his hair back with his paw as Marion stood dumbfounded.

"Have you no shame?! Selling your daughter off for sugar and spirits! I would think a man of your status would at least have the guts to tell his own daughter about such an arrangement prior. We're done here!" Marion balled her paws into fists, turning to walk away. Just as she turned she felt a tug at the back of her shirt. Her father pulled her back forcefully, turning her to face him.

"We're done when I say we're done." He scolded under his breath, eyeing passersby in the hopes they hadn't seen his family matters turned public. He placed his paws upon her shoulders, holding her in place.

"Get off me!" Marion shouted, batting his arms away and making an attempt to flee. Just as she escaped his grasp, he raised his arm high.

Slap

Captain Whetstone looked up from her breakfast in time to see Mr. Cartier backhand Marion, who stumbled into a stack of tin plates and other dinnerware atop some crates, sending them clattering to the ground. The ruckus drew everyone's attention. Marion's father stood over her and shook his head. He took a clearly practiced stance, placing his hand disdainfully upon his brow, with the other resting on his hip.

Whetstone shook her head as she slammed her utensils onto the table. She stood abruptly, and threw her chair to the ground as she stomped over to the scene. Without so much as a word, she raised her paw and delivered a powerful open palmed slap to Mr. Cartier's cheek. He crumpled to the ground, both from the surprise of being slapped and from the sheer force of such a large moomin.

"I'll not have ye befoul my breakfast. Treatin' a young woman, let alone yer own daughter like that. Despicable." She spoke at him gruffly as she helped the young fillyjonk up onto her feet. Marion, awestruck and utterly confused by all of the events that had just transpired, simply stood behind Whetstone.

"I won't.. take that… from a brute like you!" He panted as he struggled both to speak and to stand back up.

"Aye, I imagine ye won't. And I don't be takin' nothin' from some fop exceptin' what's in his coffers. Scurry off out, ye bilgerat. I've got a devil of a hangover and I won't be wasting my time on the likes of ye."

"I'll have you arrested! Assault! Assault!" He shouted to the crowd forming around the trio. Much to his chagrin, the group seemed far more interested in seeing a pirate shake down a wealthy man than they were in coming to his aid.

"Guards! Gendarmerie! Somebody help!" The captain mockingly shouted in a pitiful voice. She spat to the ground near the man. "You think the law around here cares? Look around you. The people who carry your crates fer a coin. The folks who you exploit. Whingeing like that only works on folk what got food in their bellies." She stepped uncomfortably close to him, looking just down on him from a head above his height. "Anything left worth sayin', or are we done here?" The man could only look back at her with glassy eyes, stunned into brief silence.

"That's what I thought." Whetstone began to walk back to her table when she heard above the shocked whispers of the crowd, the distinct sound of a leather glove being thrown to the ground.

"A duel. You've thoroughly disrespected me and I'll not have the Cartier name besmirched by a ruffian like yourself."

The crowd ooh-ed and aah-ed at the prospect. More folks gathered around, wishing to see what the gathering was for.

"What? Here and now? But I 'aven't even finished breakfast." She stopped only long enough to respond as she continued her stride to her table, not even turning to face him. Her gait was immediately interrupted by another leather glove, this one being tossed directly at the back of her head.

"A coward and a glutton! Afraid to challenge the famed fencing of Jules Cartier! I simply must laugh! Aha! Aha!" He forced out an almost theatrical laugh as he puffed out his chest. It seemed to him the world was a stage, and the thing he feared most was losing the audience. There was hardly a moment he wasn't scanning the surrounding group for approval.

"You'll be wantin' to be careful with what you say next.'' Captain Whetstone growled as she balled her paws into fists, turning to face him once more. "I didn't come to Marseille to kill a rich boy. I came to make merry and sell the scores I took from ponces like you!" She stepped in closer once more, slow and with intention. "Y' have no idea who yer talkin' to, do ya?" Her gravelly voice rumbled.

"From the smell of it, a drunkard. And from the look of it, a buffoon!" His confidence, though shaken, had returned as he began to shake off the slap. He dabbed at his cheek with a pocket square, and straightened his jacket.

"She's a pirate captain, father, don't do this!" Marion pleaded.

"Quiet, Marion!" Jules snapped. "This isn't one of your storybooks!"

"From the papers! Must you embarrass yourself at every opportunity? She's wanted and very, very dangerous!"

Whetstone shot her a flattered, knowing look. "Ha! Did y' hear that one, Jules?" She thumped her chest before tucking her arms behind her head with a cocky smirk. "Very… very dangerous." Her gaze was piercing, albeit smug. She was practically inviting him to hit her knowing full well that he wouldn't allow himself to be seen in such a light.

"A duel! I demand it! Face me or be branded forever a coward!" Jules' obstinations were increasingly childlike.

"As you like it, sugarboy. If I win, yer daughter goes her own way. And you pay off whatever price they got on m' head in Marseille. We fight to first blood, I'm not killing a man in front of his daughter. You let me know the time and place, Cartier. Send someone a'callin' down near this here restaurant. I'll be waitin'." The Captain parted the crowd as she passed. She righted her chair and sat back down, continuing her meal.

"Three days time. When I win, I'll be taking your bounty, and whichever rotten tub you floated in on. Live it up while you still can, Whetstone. You're about to make me even richer."

Captain Whetstone simply waved as he made his exit, her mouth full. Jules departed, entirely forgetting his daughter and the man from Curaçao. Marion, now the sole focus of a murmuring crowd, rushed to the table her would-be savior sat at.

"You complete and utter fool!" She slammed her paws down onto the table just across the captain. "You can't just go around inserting yourself into any old trouble you like!"

"That's a laugh right there." She swallowed her bite. "I seem to recall someone inserting themselves into trouble on my account just the other day. She looked a lot like you, matter o' fact... Took me fer a stroll in the garden in the pale moonlight." She took her last bite and set her utensils on her plate.

Marion slumped into a nearby chair, placing her head in her hands as the previously interested onlookers began to disperse. There were a few disappointed sighs, and life seemed to return to business as usual.

"You've no idea what you've done. Not that you'd care if you did, seems you've no thought beyond fun and fortune." She repeatedly cleared her hair from her face, looking into the table rather than across it to the woman now responsible for her fate.

"It's only to first blood, mate. I'll give yer dear ol' dad a good scratch and a scar to remember me by, and you get to goin' on whatever it is you'd like from then on. You've seen what I can do first-hand. It won't be but a quick bout."

"And I've seen what he can do, as well. He's a liar and a no-good cheat, but a proper duelist through and through. If you win I'll be on the street, and if he wins I'll be married off and you'll be in prison or worse in no small part on my behalf." Her brow furrowed. Her life had capsized and was now in the paws of a scruffy outlaw.

The captain took a small pouch from her belt and laid a few coins on the table near her plate, then slid the pouch over to Marion.

"I'm sorry, lass. I just can't sit idle 'round men like him. When yer out t' sea, aboard and abroad, y' get to thinkin' all manner o' things 'bout the way folks get on… Whole lot that don't make much sense. I don't know to make a social call by now. I don't know nothin' but me own code." She took a heavy sigh, pulling a long smoking pipe from her coat and chewing on the stem. "Take that there coin and put yerself up some place nice a while. It'll be a payday fer us both 'fore it's over, I promise ye that."

Marion sat quietly, gripping tight the pouch of doubloons. She wasn't sure what else to say, let alone what else to do. Captain Whetstone trodded off toward her ship, head full of thoughts and ache. Marion followed her not long after.

"Something more y'need from a… how'd you put it? A 'complete fool' like me?" The moomin turned her head over her shoulder at the woman sulking just behind her.

"You are many things. A rapscallion, a scallywag, a ne'er-do-well, but I fear I spoke unfairly of you in calling you a fool. One of the many things you are now, however, is responsible for me." She sighed deeply. "Whether or not you like it."

"Yer yer own woman ain'tchya? Can go as ye please, afore at least three days are up. I don't be needin' t' look after you." She chuckled.

"Consider it the price you pay for today's events, and my penance for yesterday's. I hardly think it wise to be anywhere my father could reach me at the moment."

"Won't be fur off my tail. Yer welcome aboard as long as you can stomach it!" She slapped her on the back, knocking her forward a bit as the duo made way to The Honeyed Word. "Hardly the worst punishment I've seen in all me days, 'avin a lass like you aboard."

The next three days brewed a strange energy for all around. Word got out about the incident at the docks, likely in part due to Jules' boasting. It wasn't enough for him to duel and beat a lowly pirate, nor befitting of his reputation. Whetstone's wanted posters had enjoyed a fearsome makeover, at Mr. Cartier's request. She now appeared monstrous, though devilishly handsome. Her bounty was attributed to both deeds she had done, and now tales some have told. Even in opposition, the fillyjonk could not be associated with the ills and ails of a true and "ugly" world. He did not just want to restore his reputation, he wanted to cement himself as a hero by defeating a villain. Criers, newsmen, even housewives and barflies were alight and giddy over the upcoming duel. A legendary scoundrel pirate versus a noble and upstanding upper crust citizen.

Word had reached the captain's crew by now, who were mostly uneasy toward their new found glory. Being a famous criminal still makes one a criminal, and being famous makes one a target. They'd watched as their normally steadfast captain had begun fawning over a rich young lady, while showing her the ropes as it were. Their new guest had been enjoying the captain's fineries and with none of the work to earn it. The pair spent much of the three days aboard romping about clad in silk, delighting in drink and distraction alike. If it weren't for the prize of having their charges cleared and paid off by someone with deep pockets, and the captain's usually fair treatment, a mutiny might've been in order. There'd been no talk of plans, and any crew that interrupted the captain were brushed off or turned away. It seemed as though their luck would soon run out if their captain remained lovestruck.

Tensions rose onshore surrounding the Cartier business as well, but as tensions rose, so too did the profits. The money minded men of Marseille had begun buying up as much Cane King rum as suited them. Some stocked up to resell and others to enjoy, but all were buying thanks to the sudden and fervent advertising of Mr. Cartier. He'd sent out servants swinging sample trays to swill all over town. The collective drunkenness among citizens alongside the excitement of recent events made for a city wide spectacle. It seemed duels and drinks drove sales and sail alike.

The buzz surrounding the affair became the calm before the storm on the day of. A party sent by the challenger arrived at the docks in the early afternoon along with a parade of onlookers. The usual liveliness of the harbor was instead abated by prolonged eager silence, joined only by the lapping of the waves and the stomping of boots.

"Captain Whetstone!" A pair of whompers shouted at each ship they passed, waiting a moment before moving on to the next. They looked for her at the restaurant as she had requested, but she never arrived. The challenger's party consisted of two whompers dressed in deep blues featuring ornate silver trim, a large and muscular hemulen clad almost entirely in leather, and a nibling carrying a long red velvet box. Down the docks they shouted, and down the docks more and more onlookers followed shortly behind.

"Captain Whetstone!" The whompers cried, over and over above the murmurs that had begun to swell. The captain, still fast asleep in her quarters, awoke with a start.

"Who wa- is… wha..whasit you want!" She stumbled to her feet, eyes squinted, an empty bottle tumbling from atop her to the floor. She quickly realized the voice was coming from outside the ship, and fastened a robe around her waist. Marion awoke from the commotion as well, following Whetstone's lead. The pair exited the captain's quarters to the sour faces of an armed and ready crew.

The first mate of The Honeyed Word, an older hemulen woman by the name of Ruth, spoke up from between puffs on her pipe. "I imagine that's fer you Cap'n. They've like to come a'callin' on her account." She motioned to Marion.

"I imagine so, too, aye. Worry not, I ain't steered you lot wrong yet, 'ave I?" Whetstone winked, and made for the deck, Ruth and Marion following just behind. The mood was tense, and not all of the crew were sure of their captain's judgements as of late. She arrived at the railing, rubbing the sleep from her eyes to see dozens upon dozens of folk, all waiting on her. The leather clad hemulen, who had presumably been hired muscle, shook his head at the sight of the supposed legendary pirate dressed in a frilly nightgown and robe.

"What do ye want?" The captain shouted.

"Captain Whetstone!" The whompers cried once more in unison. The nibling in the party opened his velvet case to reveal a long brass horn, about three times his size. He set up a tripod and rested the other end of the horn on it. The small creature drew a deep breath before filling the air with a short, but very very loud melody. The muscular hemulen covered his ears, and shook his head once more. "You've been summoned to duel the great Jules Cartier at his manor! We shall escort you!" The whompers bowed.

Marion appeared just behind the captain, wrapping her arm around the small of her back. She was similarly dressed in a silk robe and nightgown. In her other paw, she held a steaming teacup, and passed it along to Whetstone, who took a long, slow sip.

"But we 'aven't even had breakfast!" The moomin protested loudly.

"It's past noon!" The hemulen mercenary shouted, palming his face, and shaking his head once more before storming off. He parted the crowd, grumbling to himself on the way out. The nibling took up his horn once more, apparently announcing the departure of one of their party, much to the dismay of the gathered crowd's ears.

Ruth approached the duo, dropping on the deck just behind them their clothes, and the captain's sword with an unceremonious thud. "Don't be comin' back if ye don't win." She spit to the side.

"When I do come back, we'll be 'avin' words, Ruthie. Strong ones, too, I reckon. Mind yer tongue 'round yer captain." Whetstone began to put on her boots.

"If only ye could mind yers 'round whatever gal ye be fancyin' of late. Wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't fer you. Now the whole of Marseille wants a look at us, and the whole of the world wants the price on our heads. Keep yer promises, cap. Er I'll be keepin' 'em fer you." She headed below deck.

"Whaddaya reckon that means, Marion?" She looked around, puzzled.

"I imagine it was pretty straightforward, but you pirates are a bit hard to understand sometimes. Verbally, I mean."

The captain wheezed and laughed loudly, wiping a tear from her eye. "That we are!" She continued to get ready. "Anyway don't ye be worryin' about her, either. Everyone's a mite worked up I imagine. She's stubborn, but she's a good'un." She tossed her robe and nightgown onto the deck of the ship as she hopped over to the side of the ship to the dock.

The whompers were still in their bowed position, and a large chunk of the crowd had begun to disperse before hearing the captain's boots slam onto the wood. She had only dressed halfway up, boots, slops, a sash, a belt and sword. Her thick fur was disheveled and unkempt, an appearance apparently befitting the crowd's idea of a pirate. Ooh's and ahh's once more took shape, whispers and whistling as well. She began pulling her shirt on as she approached her would-be escort crew, coat draped across her arm. Marion shortly after hopped over, dressed quite unlike she had when she'd arrived. She rushed to the captain's side, attempting to avoid the gaze of the murmuring crowd for too long. The challenger's party parted a path as they beckoned the duo along quietly.

Marseille was silent and empty, shopkeeps shuddered their windows and covered their stalls, passersby rushed indoors, and the captain swaggered through the streets en route to her duel. Deep blue ribbons and brightly colored bits of decor began cluttering their path to Cartier Manor. Though sparse at first, upon nearing the manor proper, the whole of the area was densely decorated. Rugs and flower petals lined the walkway, and whatever surface could have something hanging from it, did. Red roses and white lilies were bouqueted and affixed opposite each other. Even the balconies of houses unaffiliated to the Cartier name had wreaths hung from them. The early afternoon sun baked the clouds in front of it as they gathered, and it seemed as though the sky would open up any minute. The air was humid and filled with the scent of loose flower petals being crushed underfoot, alongside the distant rains.

The nibling rushed ahead as fast as his little feet would carry him, horn in tow. He set up his tripod just outside a bespoke iron gate. Just beyond the gate was a vast open courtyard, filled to capacity with all manner of folk, many of which were dressed in finery.

"I'm a mite hazy, but, is yer dad always this.. dramatic?" Whetstone covered her face as she whispered to Marion.

"Seemingly more so than usual these days. This, I'd say, is less dramatic and more… absurd? Honestly I've given up attempting to understand the man."

"This way, Captain Whetstone." The whompers once again spoke in unison. They led her just to the side as they ushered the rest of the guests, Marion included, in through the gates. The nibling blasted the same tune as before as each made their way into the courtyard.

"So I'm not goin' that way?" The captain said, pointing across the fence.

"No!" The whompers said, cheerfully. Their smiles almost perfectly matched one another, along with just about everything else about them. They seemed as though they were simply pleased to be involved.

"Can y' tell me which way I am goin'?"

"No!" They cheered once more.

The trio stood for a few more minutes as the nibling welcomed more guests with his horn.

"Can I go in now?" The captain scratched behind her ears. Her tone was playful, but she was starting to get impatient.

"No!" They sounded almost the same every time. Captain Whetstone gave up and leaned against the fence, arms crossed. She wasn't worried about being late to the duel, nor really very much about the duel itself. The whole affair was turning out far more posh than she had imagined, and with each decoration and each passing upper crust guest, she became less and less worried. She gave into idle thought for a moment. Her mind chose distractions of all kinds, but more and more her mind wandered back to Marion. Had she made the right choice to interfere when she did that day at the docks? Had she done right by her so far? What would become of her next?

"Ahem"

"Wah!" Whetstone shouted, recoiling from the sudden interruption. "Who'sat!" She caught herself on the fence.

A muddler with very long droopy ears dressed in a most garish fashion held her paw out in front of her. Her hat was massive and had a large feather sticking out from it, along with several other adornments. She wore several pin cushions in various places, and a chatelaine of sewing materials hung from her hip.

"Ahem." She continued to hold out a paw to shake in greeting.

"What? Am I in yer way, or..?"

"Ahem. It's my name."

"What's yer name?"

"Ahem!"

"What?!"

The muddler sighed. "My name. My name is Ahem. As in hemming garments. It's what I do. I'm a tailor." She motioned to her collection of sewing tools and accessories.

"Taylor? But I thought y' said yer name was Ahem?"

Ahem patently ignored her. "Mr. Cartier has requested that you come along with me for the time being. Preparations for the… un-seam-ly events to come."

"...right." The captain squinted. "And will there be more sewing puns?"

"We'll put a pin in that one for now."

"Yer too quick fer me, lass!" She laughed out loud. She was beginning to enjoy herself. Things had taken quite the turn from the serious to the silly, and she was along for the ride.

"Quick indeed." She grabbed the captain by the arm, taking her to a room just inside the manor around the outside of the courtyard. The room was littered with fabric, tools, and mannequins of all shapes and sizes. One of the mannequins featured a fillyjonk-esque head with a familiar mustache made to resemble Jules.

"Rich bastard's got his own uhh… what do ye even call a room like this? Sewing dungeon?" Whetstone fiddled with just about everything in her path as Ahem snapped back and forth with her measuring tape across the captain's moominous form.

"Mr. Cartier has appointed me to make a coat for you. Something a little less stolen and salt soaked. He wants you to look flashy for his big day." She rolled her eyes.

"Big day. Pffft." She blew a raspberry. "Also I'll have you know I bought this one." She said, putting extra emphasis on the last two words.

"Pffft indeed." Ahem pulled aside a curtain revealing a tall and nicely rounded mannequin. Upon it was a coat fit for a pirate, though very well made and quite fancy. It was entirely black save for the trim, cuffs, and pocket covers that were a deep dark red, with shining gold buttons and an interior lining of red and gold paisley. A cutlass crossed with a rose was embroidered on the left breast. She snatched it off the mannequin and draped it over the captain's shoulders. "Go on, see how it fits. Your measurements seem almost exactly what I thought they'd be."

"It's quite lovely!" She put the coat on, pulling the sleeves over her arms. She jumped and jogged in place, bent down to touch her toes and stretched her arms. Then she mimicked punching, drawing and swinging a sword, and climbing the riggings of a ship. She pretended to draw her pistol with a flourish and blew the smoke from its imaginary barrel, and then curtsied meekly. "Fits great! Oh, one more thing." She walked up to the Jules mannequin and planted her feet. She drew her arm back and delivered a hearty slap just as she had the first time. "It's perfect, actually." The head of the mannequin tumbled to the floor.

"Three days is hardly long enough to craft something perfect. Let alone an entire ensemble that turns a ruffian into a posh pirate renegade as Mr Cartier suggested. So you'll have to make due with only the coat I'm afraid."

"Wait, three days? He asked y' to make a coat on the day that I slapped 'im?" She let out a single loud laugh. "I musta knocked something loose! How'd ye get m' measurements, anyhow?"

"Followed you around."

"But I hardly left m' ship after that business, how'd y-"

"You left four times, actually. Two of which you brought back food and wine."

"Ha! Typical. I like you, Ahem, yer fun! An' this coat is perfectly made t' measure, most folks miss just how big I am 'round the middle. You've got me thanks."

"You know, I think that might be the first time I've gotten a genuine compliment the entire time I've spent under the employ of Mr. Cartier. Go give him hell, captain." She smiled, pushing the moomin gently on her back towards the door. "Oh, but do mingle a bit first. I don't think Jules is quite done making a fool of himself yet. I'm sure he'll call for you." She began packing things into a large trunk.

Not long after, the strange events at Cartier Manor continued to unfold. Captain Whetstone found herself in the courtyard, and Marion in turn found her as well. Refreshments were being served on trays carried by servants in bright blue vests. The pair sat at a table under a parasol, similar settings littered the yard alongside tents, rugs, and a veritable ship's load of furniture. All of this surrounded a large stage, adorned with deep blue ribbons and flowers.

"That's a fine coat you've found yourself." Marion eyed the embroidery, sitting across from Captain Whetstone.

"Aye? A gift from yer old man I s'pose. Funny seamstress gal made it." She lifted it to show off the liner. "Yer house is massive! Just you lot live there?"

The captain made musings about this, that, and the other, chatting idly with Marion. Time stretched on, and the outing began to seem much less like a duel, and much more like a garden party. With each offered hors d'oeuvre, the captain took at least one of each thing, most of which she tried and set aside without finishing. She did, however, finish each flute of champagne that was brought by.

The captain held a glass at eye level, staring at the champagne within, boredom getting the better of her. "Marion, how do ye reckon they get the bubbles in th–"

"Welcome, all!" A voice boomed from the stage, commanding everyone's attention. "Today marks a momentous and fateful occasion." Jules' theatrical manner of speaking finally suited the situation.

He had chosen an outfit of deep blues and bright whites, with silver buttons. Each article bore a motif of white lilies, trimmed with shimmering silver. The calves and sleeves of his outfit were tight and fitted, while the rest was loose and flowing. All of it was made of a shiny satin exterior, and he wore a large and gallant cape upon his shoulders. It was no doubt the work of the same tailor of Whetstone's coat. His hair was slicked back, and his mustache was waxed into perfect, symmetrical points. Behind him stood a short and portly older moomin, with a curly powdered wig. He was dressed similarly to Mr Cartier, though much simpler and with a brooch bearing the symbol of the King's navy.

"Today, we bring a close to the scourge upon the seas. I, Jules Cartier, am to end the career of a pirate that has so long plagued the open waters." Not a word left his lips without some manner of posing added to it. Bravado seemed a natural calling for him. "But I, ladies and gentlemen, am no brute! We duel today only to first blood. I have called upon the aid of Governor Woodes Rogers, an experienced pirate hunter, to take down alongside me the infamous Captain Whetstone!"

Gasps were shared by the crowd, most of whom had likely never heard of Rogers nor Whetstone before the last few days. Jules was building drama for a performance, and the audience was absolutely enraptured.

"Should your hero prevail today, Miss Whetstone will voluntarily turn herself in at my behest. The streets of Marseille will no longer be subject to her whims, and its surrounding seas shall stand as an affront to all pirates who would dare approach!"

Rogers, the moomin standing behind Jules, stepped forward. He unfurled an almost comically long document and cleared his throat. "Captain Whetstone, of her own free will, submits heretofore under the crown and will be granted clemency for all acts perpetrated during her stints as a pirate, and shall be pressed into service of the king's navy, or be jailed at once and in perpetuity remain. Here listed are her many crimes, and associated parties-"

"You needn't continue reading Mr Rogers. They can see how long that page is." Jules interrupted.

"Am I going crazy?" Marion whispered across the table to Whetstone. "I mean I know it's been three days. But it's only been three days. A garden party is one thing, but to organize all of this?" She rested her head in her paws for a moment.

"I don't even think that there's the real Woodes Rogers." She squinted at the man from her seat. "Last I heard it, he were bankrupt or some such. Sued by his own crew. Ought t' be down n' out, not out n' about putzing around France." She searched her pockets for her pipe, remembering that she wasn't wearing her old coat. "That page he's got is like as any t' be blank I'd bet."

"Captain Whetstone, to the stage if you would!" Jules shouted, finishing his speech.

Marion looked across the table, only now showing her fear. "Be careful up there. He's quicker than he looks."

"It'll be over 'fore ye know it, lass. If yer dad wants to put on a show fer these folk, then I say let's give 'em a show." She picked up her champagne flute, and swaggered up to the stage. She took her place across from Jules.

"The fearsome pirate captain, Whetstone. Ruffian. Ne'er-do-well. Scoundrel and scallywag. You've plundered your way through the seas and sewn chaos among the citizenry, but that all ends today." Jules once again performed for the audience rather than speaking.

"Aye. All that n' more. And none of it could sate the devil inside me." She growled, mostly unconvincingly. She was, at best, unseasoned as an actor.

"You're drunk!" Jules said, tugging on a pair of leather gloves.

"An' yer annoying!"

"Name your second."

"My what?" The captain shot him a puzzled look.

"Your second. Someone you trust to bear witness to the duel. Have you never had a proper duel in your life? And yet how many have fallen to your sword alone? How barbaric." Jules rolled his eyes.

"Ah. Marion'll do it. She's good like that, seems despite yer efforts t' the contrary, you've raised a very capable young woman."

Jules flinched, balling his hands into fists as the captain shouted for Marion to join them on stage. He swallowed his anger, and continued the show. The moomin who may or may not have been Woodes Rogers presented a velvet box, and a servant presented another. They opened the lids revealing one to have within it a set of ornate dueling pistols with pearlescent grips. The other box contained two sideswords decorated with gold engravings upon their blades.

"The challenged may choose the weapons. The seconds shall inspect the weapons to ensure fairness and quality. Once we are all in agreeance, we shall separate ten or twenty paces, face one another, and the duel can begin in earnest upon the signal of each second." Jules delivered his clearly practiced lines to the crowd.

"Well I meant what I said. I won't be killin' a man in front o' his own daughter. No pistols. First blood."

"Swords it is, then. Ten paces instead."

"I ain't usin' one o' yer swords neither. I made this cutlass and ye won't part me from it." She removed her sword from her belt, handing it to Marion, who had just arrived on stage. "You and yer second can inspect that'un."

"Very well, captain. I suppose I should have expected no less from a pirate." His words were intensely venomous, annunciating each word with a pompous anger. He turned to face the audience. "The pirate has elected to use her own, crude blade even within the context of a gentlemanly duel!" This elicited whispers from the crowd.

Jules paid no mind to Marion as she presented Whetstone's sword to him and his second. They looked at it for only a moment and both scoffed, despite its elegance and craftsmanship. The captain and her second both carefully examined Jules' blade, finding no flaw or alterations. They agreed, and each took their sword as they took their place on stage. The crowd was silent, and the sound of thunder echoing in the distance was joined only by the footsteps of the two duelists as they took their paces.

Jules held his sword point up, taking a dueling stance as he measured each pace. The captain had returned her sword to its scabbard, and was still holding her flute of champagne. She took each step as though she were crossing stones in a river, occasionally pretending to lose her balance playfully as she watched the audience.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

With each step Marion's heart raced, she feared for her future, and for her newfound freedom. She'd found a fondness these last three days and had mostly forgotten her anger to her father until she met with him once more on stage.

Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

Jules gripped his sword tightly, eager to rewrite himself as a hero to the people of Marseille. He turned in his position, waiting for the signal from the seconds. The captain turned as well, sword sheathed, glass in hand.

"At your will, Mr Rogers." Marion stood beside him near the rear of the stage, out of the duelists' way. Her voice was shaky.

"Begin!" Woodes Rogers shouted without hesitation.

Jules lowered himself, rushing into a full sprint.

The captain tossed her glass into the air, straight. She drew her cutlass quick as lightning, and with incredible speed and precision, cut the stem from the bell. As the glass descended, she caught it in her paw. The audience gasped, a few even squealed as the base sailed far off into the crowd.

Jules stopped in his tracks for a moment, on guard. It was too late to back out now, despite the impressive display.

She took a long, protracted sip before gently setting the unharmed top half of the glass onto the stage upside down next to her, empty. "I hope y' brought yer dancing shoes." She extended her arm, the point of her sword idly aimed at her opponent.

He rushed to strike first, despite his showmanship he aimed to end the duel as fast as he could. He thrust to the captain's side. She sidestepped, grabbing his wrist with her empty paw, and used his momentum to throw him to the ground. He landed with an anticlimactic albeit quite loud thud on his back.

"That's disappointing, Jules. I thought y' wanted to give these fine folk a show." She spoke at stage volume. She stood over him, the tip of her cutlass resting just above his chest.

"It's to first blood, captain." He gripped his sword tightly, and swept at her ankles. "And I'm not bleeding yet!" He jumped to his feet the moment she was on the defensive.

She back-stepped, narrowly avoiding his swing. The audience roared to life having been in rapt silence during their first exchange. They shouted and cheered, nearly drowning out the following clanging of steel.

Jules ferociously delivered cut and thrust after cut and thrust, he was as well practiced as Marion had said. He'd not met an opponent yet that could hold against his onslaught, and yet the captain was calm and focused, dodging and deflecting each of his blows.

Whetstone feinted high as she had done with Marion, then swung low at his legs, cutting just the fabric of his pant-leg as he changed his stance.

She laughed. "Ha! Got yer daughter with that'un, too!"

He snarled, lunging in and following up with several repeated thrusts. The captain knocked each of them aside. She bound her sword against his and closed any distance between them, using her weight to throw him off balance. Jules fell to the ground once more, but rolled off his back and onto his feet again. He rounded her, swapping sides hoping to gain an advantage. He threatened a cut, but dropped his leg and reached out for a long thrust to the captain's inside line. She had previously been neglecting it and stepping aside, and she wouldn't step aside if she had thought it was a cut. He drove his point home as fast as he could, and then-

Thwap!

Whetstone batted aside his blade by the flat using her paw! She charged in now that he was open, blade raised high. He managed to raise his guard just in time, barely withstanding the weight of an oversized moomin crashing against his sword arm like a heavy wave against a ship's bow. He rounded his opponent once more, returning to his side of the stage.

Jules hated being on the defensive. He hated even more his opponent. He hated that despite his assuredness in his own skill and the effort he put into this display, he had not bested the captain as quickly as he had hoped. His off hand left his hip, abandoning his dueling stance. He abandoned his footwork, too, in exchange for a mad dash. He began throwing wild cuts in front of him as he charged, yelling the whole way. She threw all of her might into one heavy cut, knocking his sword off line once again. He reeled, regaining his composure.

He realized that he could not beat her in a competition of strength, nor speed. He would have to stay calm and search for an opening. "The leg!" He thought to himself. "She may be twice the size of your average moomin, but she's still got shorter legs than a fillyjonk!" He closed in once more, focusing in on waist level thrusts. He began changing his rhythm, repeating the same passing steps in his approach. He'd stab and wait for her to cut, then step and do it again. Biding his time until she went for something trickier.

Whetstone noticed the change in his attitude. He was lithe and by now much more warmed up. It was as though he'd settled into the flow of battle. She held both arms out to her side, as if to say "come at me!" Completely opening up her defenses. He threw a cut to her chest, following up on her opening. She took her sword by its spine at one end, and the grip with the other, and swung up as though she were forcing open a window. He reeled once more as his sword was knocked away, but the captain was wide open for exactly the kind of attack he'd hoped for. He readjusted, then swung for her thigh.

Seeing this, she leapt back once, being caught off guard by such a near miss. She'd kept her cool through most of the fight, but she was beginning to worry that her fooling around might cost her new friend dearly. She leapt back again, escaping his reach. She spun off her front leg. Jules watched, unsure of the captain's intentions with such a maneuver. He saw her rear leg swoop up midway through the spin, and then back down as she completed it, as if in slow motion. At first he was confused, but then he remembered. "Oh no." He thought. "Not like this!"

Her back foot kicked the glass she had left on stage, sending it flying straight at his face. He brought up his sword to block it, or knock it aside, but it was in vain. It shattered against the base of his blade, sending shards flying past it. The collective gasp from the previously uproarious crowd would have sucked the air from the room were they not outside. Even the coming storm stood silent as a trickle of blood ran down Jules' forehead. He reached up and touched it gingerly, examining the aftermath upon his paw.

"I believe that's first blood, Mr. Cartier." The captain flourished with her sword a moment before returning it to its scabbard. She faced the audience, curtsied meekly, and headed off toward Marion at the rear of the stage. Much of the crowd were confused, some even angry. There was cheering and jeering alike, booing and whistling. Jules remained on stage, utterly defeated as the rain began gently dropping.

"Congratulations, Miss Whetstone." Jules said. His voice was much less performative, taking on a sinister tone. The captain continued her stride, merely raising her paw dismissively. "You have won the duel…" Jules rushed toward her. "But you will lose your life!"

"Whetstone! Look out!" Marion cried as loud as she could.

The captain turned to see Jules just behind her, and coming right at her head was the tip of his sword. She threw herself back, headfirst, but it was too late. His sword dug into her face and tore across her left eye, stopping around the middle of her forehead thanks only to luck and to Marion's warning. She shouted in pain, clutching at the wound on her face with one paw and drawing her sword with the other.

"This isn't fair!" The wouldbe Woodes shouted, sprinting away. He stumbled into the table that had the dueling boxes atop it, knocking it over. "You didn't tell me you were going to kill her!"

The audience bellowed with shouts of a similar kind.

"The duel is over! Stop!"

"You lost! Give it up!"

"He's lost his mind!"

Many voices cried over one another.

Several members of the audience shrieked in fear from the sight of so much blood, and several others rushed to the stage in an attempt to stop him from continuing his assault.

"Y' cowardly bastard!" The captain growled, fighting as hard as she could with the use of only one eye. "Marion! Get yerself outta here!" She looked around in a half blind panic.

"Duel or no duel, she's a wanted woman! To the man who brings me her head, you'll claim the bounty and I'll make you the richest man in Marseille!" Jules drew the crowd into a frenzy. Those who weren't tempted by his offer began running to the gate, and those who were tempted began surrounding the stage. They were unarmed but very much outnumbered the two who were now stuck between Jules, the manor, and the gate leading back out into the streets.

Marion rushed in the same direction as Woodes, shaking with panic. She had to act, and quickly. She picked up one of the pistols from the open dueling boxes, pointing it at her father. She tightened her grip, steadying herself. She'd never fired a pistol before, and despite everything, she'd never wanted to kill her father. "Stop! Stop attacking her this instant or I'll shoot you!" She shouted. Tears were streaming down her face, her hair and clothes now soaked with rain as the storm raged on.

The captain backed off from the fight, holding her ground as Marion made her plea. Jules stopped as well, turning to face his daughter. The herd of newly made bounty hunters waited, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire.

"Make sure you take that one alive." Jules pointed at Marion with his sword, gesturing to his makeshift militia.

Click

Marion pulled the trigger, filled with an array of strong emotions that all burnt up in her anger. Jules paused briefly, seemingly offended. His eyes were wide and mouth agape. The flint struck the frizzen, yet there was no smoke, no flash, no bang. The rain had soaked the powder thoroughly, forcing her threats empty.

The moment seemed to drag on, the clear line in the sand now drawn between Marion and her home life. She screamed, barely able to hear herself as she threw the gun at him, reaching next for the sword left in the box. The captain used this as an opportunity to rush to Marion's side, scooping her up in a bridal carry at full sprint, off stage.

"After them, you fools!" Jules regained focus after his brush with death. He'd gone too far now to give up. He'd all but given up on raising his daughter to be the way he wanted her, but he refused to relinquish even the slightest bit of control, especially to a pirate.

Captain Whetstone ran as fast as she could toward the gate. The path was clear and the only remaining bystanders had just made it through. Jules was the fastest among the duo's pursuers, quickly taking charge ahead of his group. The grass underfoot was slick, and the rugs placed upon it now waterlogged. Thunder crashed within the sky, bellowing throughout the humid air below.

"Come back you coward! Blaggard! Face your fate!" Jules shouted above the racket of the storm as he ran.

The captain stumbled, woozy from her injury, dropping Marion in the process. They both stopped only a moment, with Jules gaining on them. The gate was tantalizingly near, and their hope for escape pushed them onward. The pair righted themselves and passed the threshold, soon to be followed by Jules and his cohorts.

"I have you now, you wretch!" Jules raised his sword, closing in. He chanced a cut at the captain's leg rather than attempting to tackle a woman likely twice his weight.

tst-BOOM

A shot rang out, crushing beneath it for a moment the sound of storm and step alike. Smoke plumed from a covered balcony one floor up, just outside the gate to the Cartier Manor courtyard. Whatever onlookers remained nearby scattered at the sound.

"I reckon I already told ye…" a hoarse voice spoke from behind the smoke. "Keep yer promises, Cap'n. Lest I be keepin' 'em fer ye." A rugged hemulen woman set her spent rifle to the side, lifting a loaded one from a row against the railing she was perched at.

For the briefest of moments the world fell silent as those in the vicinity searched for the object of Ruth's aim. The silence broke with the anguished scream of Jules, his sword clattering to the ground as he clutched his arm where he'd been shot.

"Ruthie!" The captain shouted, gleeful and relieved.

"Put some wind in yer sails, kid! Ye promised me no foolishness. Ye get that girl outta here, an' maybe I won't be considr'in it foolish n'more!" She took aim, putting a shot between the wounded Mr Cartier and his thugs. The shot caused a few of them to rethink, running back into the courtyard. She once again set her empty rifle aside, picking up a fresh one. "Avast! I've got 'nuff guns up 'ere to take the lot of ye! What'll it be?" She asked the duo's pursuers, mounting her gun on the railing.

Captain Whetstone and Marion ran as far and as fast as they ever had before. Despite eventually making their escape, the two were in need of leave from Marseille. Jules' ire is doubtless to have stirred all manner of trouble, and he had a wound to prove his opponent's guilt. When they arrived at the docks that evening, out of hiding, The Honeyed Word was no longer moored at the harbor. The surrounding area was lousy with law, searching for the both of them. They spent that night together in a cove on the beach tending to Whetstone's wound, making plans for tomorrow and the tomorrow beyond that.

–

"That's awful, Miss Puukko!" Moominmama had returned from the kitchen to the veranda with a tray set for coffee. She set it down upon the table, having a seat next to her husband.

"Yes, quite! And what became of the two of you next?" Papa asked from his seat across the table. His agreeance to Mama's exclamation was betrayed by the excitement in his voice. He held a love for all things nautical as well as for a good story, and could not hide it.

The fluffy brown moomin scratched at the underside of her snout, eyes fixed on the distance as she reminisced. It was a calm, and pleasantly warm evening in Moominvalley. The sun was beginning to set on the horizon and crickets chirped from their hiding places. She puffed on her pipe, exhaling deeply with a contented sigh. She bore a scar across her left eye, and the heavy brow of a long life. Seeing her dressed comfortably, swapping stories on the veranda, you'd hardly believe she'd once been a fearsome pirate captain. Obscurity suited her quite well, as the last breath of a legend long past.

"In my absence, Ruthie 'ad told me crew t' weigh anchor an' make fer somewhere near. I reckon I'd consider her t' be a hero, least by my account anyway..." She took another drag off her pipe. "Trouble were certain to have found them if she hadn't got 'em outta there. That was the last anyone saw of her. Sent some men that-a-way fer to go about findin' her some time later. Not hide nor hair. I think she aimed t' make the rest o' her life a quiet one."

"But you pirates are all flare and bravado! A life of excitement, and er, uh, and freedom! Why would you want to give up that?" Moominpapa gestured in his chair as he spoke.

"Papa…" his wife laid her paw on his arm as if to settle him down.

"It's a fine thing t' be sure, fer a spell. But it's got its rigors. I fear what I mean t' say ain't kind enough fer this valley. It's foul, and it's wretched. Turn folk into beasts and beasts into.. well I hardly even know what ye'd call it. Bastards 'n scoundrels. When ya find a one like the one I were sweet on, well… it's hard t' live a life like that seein' thems that you'd protect with their teeth gritted behind a sword." She dropped a sugar cube into her cup, watching it slowly dissolve beneath the dark waves of coffee.

"And to think I'm the one writing memoirs." Papa mused. "And what happened to Marion?"

"After we made it back aboard me ship, I weren't in a way fit fer sailing. Without a first mate and without their captain and helmsman, the crew had t' band together. They fell in with Marion right quick. She'd read up on sailing her whole life, call to the sea an' all that. Just ne'er put it to practice. Did a good turn at the old bailiwick once more, plundered as many ships carryin' the Cane King stuff 'tween Nassau, Curaçao and near Marseille as we could. She learnt t' be quite fierce in a short while. A force to be reckoned with under my care. We became as tall tales walkin'... We got t' bein' quite close, too. Didn't ne'er get to talking out the particulars though, I'm afraid."

She stopped for a moment, enjoying the coffee, company, and relative peace and quiet. Ever since she'd moved to Moominvalley she'd known more peace than she ever had. Even in her own childhood home, there were always storms and turmoil. As no more than a pup on the seas apprenticing under good men, she knew even further strife and noise. From her start on the seas she thought she could earn the peace she had now, and never did.

"It's funny how misfortune and heartache can get ye where ye need t' be goin'. We coulda stayed tall tales iffin things hadn't shaken out like they did. The thing about it is…" She took one last puff on her pipe before tapping it into the ashtray.

"Whether or not ye tuck it when ye run, if ye made yer tale long enough, someone always catches ye by it in the end. But that's a story fer another time I suppose."

#puukko #moomins #moominvalley #moomin oc #first mate marion #fillyjonk #sator you did an amazing job with the cover i cant express just how much i love it! ❤️❤️❤️#i really hope everyone likes the story it took a loooong time #in case anyone's wondering this is that big project ive been talking about #the one that used to be called sea of stars and underwent multiple rewrites #the sequel is already in the works! so hopefully it shouldnt take as long as this one did #the sequels also gonna be shorter than this. more like an addendum really. then we can take the travel log series off hiatus!#i still dont know how to tag writing stuff #anyway please give this a read if you can. id love to hear what you think! send me an ask! ^^#also expect me to reblog this like a hundred times #Whetstone's whispers

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bisexualbuck · 11 months

Text

what it wants

word count: 12k | tedtrent, mutual pining, trent centric

[READ ON AO3]

Trent starts seeing the perfect man, so of course he wants to break up with him. All because he can't stop pining for Ted Lasso. Or, It takes some work, but they get there in the end.

Unlike his past dalliances since coming out, Trent doesn’t meet Hugo Willoughby on an app.

He’d call it a proper meet-cute if he dared. He doesn’t.

Their meeting goes like so.

It’s late one evening, and Trent is running to the Tesco by his place in his rattiest band tee, his hair thrown up in a greasy bun.

Nellie is at her mother’s place tonight, and although his daughter’s absence feels like his lungs can’t expand to their full extent and he’s always one breath away from choking on air, it also allows him to get more writing done that he would have otherwise.

His bout of inspiration carried him for hours and when it left, he only then realised how famished he was, and that he desperately needed to so some grocery shopping. Hence the late night supermarket visit.

Trent is longing for a quick, easy meal before falling into bed and sleep for a few blissful hours.

He reaches for the pre-made chicken tikka masala as the exact same moment someone else does. His fingers brush against the stranger’s though neither let go of the box.

Tired and hungry, Trent turns to the stranger, ready to tell them off. His words catch in his throat when his gaze meets the bluest eyes he’s ever seen.

The man before him is strikingly handsome, sharp-jawed and golden-skinned. He’s taller than Trent and much more muscular, but with the form of someone who is naturally predisposed to build up rather than spending all his time at the gym.

“Oh,” the man laughs. “I see we both want the same thing.”

His voice is deep and warm, and it does something to Trent’s belly when he hears it.

“You can have it,” he says despite the rumbling in his stomach.

What can he say? He’s got a weakness for tall men with great voices, that much he can admit.

“We could trade,” the stranger offers. “I’ll let you have the meal, and in exchange you buy me a drink.”

Trent blinks. He wants to ask if this is a joke, because what else could it be? He is very aware of how unkept he looks at the moment, with his wild hair and unflattering old clothes. Why would anyone as stunning as the man in front of him would show any interest?

But he is being sincere, Trent can see it. He sees the appreciation in the stranger’s gaze as it rakes over Trent’s face and lanky frame.

For a moment, Trent doesn’t even know what to answer. For a man who has spent his life using words like a sword and a shield both, he struggles to come up with an adequate answer.

“Deal,” is what comes out his mouth in the end.

Jesus fucking Christ, what a repartee.

“Wonderful,” the man replies with an open air of sincerity. “I’m Hugo.”

And that’s how Trent Crimm goes home that night with a handsome man’s phone number and the promise of meeting each other soon.

They go on several easy dates in which they converse without effort. Whenever silence does befall them, it is comforting, the kind of companionship that comes with two kindred spirits finding each other.

This is what Trent has been missing his entire life. A man who cares for him, who understands him.

Hugo is a handsome, kind and intelligent man who has openly stated how invested he is in this blossoming thing of theirs.

If only Trent could be satisfied by it. If only he didn’t have to long for what could never belong to him.

“In the spirit of honesty,” Hugo tells him several weeks into their seeing each other, “I should tell you that I’m all but smitten with you, Trent.”

And what is Trent to reply?

“Oh. That’s– that’s great. Good.”

Anyone who ever thought of Trent Crimm as smooth – or god forbid, suave – was only ever fooled by his years of hiding his innate awkwardness. Hugo seems to find said awkwardness endearing as he smiles, fond, and pressed a gentle kiss to Trent’s lips before he returns to cooking for the both of them.

He is a perfect man.

Trent should break up with him.

He’s already broken his ex-wife’s heart by hiding his true self from her, he can’t do that to Hugo as well. What if Hugo were to fall in love with Trent, and Trent never feels for him as he deserves?

Still, Trent can’t seem to let go of the selfish part of him that’s afraid of never again finding someone who would care for him in such a way.

He wishes he could enjoy this, immerse himself in it.

Damn his idiotic yearning heart.

It’s not Ted’s fault that Trent has fallen so deeply in love with him, and yet, sometimes, in the darkest hours of the night when his insomnia keeps his eyes open and staring at nothing, Trent resents him for it anyway.

It’s always gone by the first lights of morning. Every single time it happens, Trent feels guilty for it when Ted offers him one of his genuine smiles. Of course Trent was to fall in love with Ted Lasso. How could he help it? Surely all moths are in love with the light that would burn them should they get too close.

Trent likes it. He likes how the edges of himself burn away when he is in proximity to Ted. He would lead himself to the pyre only if for a chance of another sweet smile flashed his way.

There is no place for Hugo in this melodrama, but every time Trent tries to steel himself to free the man from this mess, Hugo does something so thoughtful and lovely that Trent finds himself cowering away.

Trent Crimm must be a coward then.

He had one period of insanity that he thought was bravery in which he came out to Laura, and then later got himself fired from his job, but this did not last and to cowardice he has returned.

Ever since Amsterdam, Colin has taken to come by Trent’s place whenever they can manage it. Trent has gone to Colin’s twice but the young player feels more at ease somewhere none of the team could be dropping by without warning.

Michael is in Brazil for a fortnight which has the welcomed consequence of Colin being there on more nights than usual.

When Trent finally approached him in that queer bar, he never thought they would grow so close. He was expecting a single conversation to let Colin know he wasn’t alone at the club, but it’s become obvious he was in need of a friendship with another gay man.

In truth, so was Trent.

“Care for a cuppa?” he asks after Nellie has been put to bed, story read and forehead kissed goodnight.

“Please.”

Colin and Nellie get on like a house on fire. It’s amusing to see a grown man have so much fun playing with Peppa Pig figurines or completing bright animal puzzles.

Rain is continuing to pour down outside as it has all evening. Trent knows Colin isn’t comfortable driving in such a deluge. It doesn’t look like it’s going to relent any time soon, and so Trent is half-expecting Colin to crash on the sofa once again.

“Oh, before I forget,” Colin says when Trent hands him his tea. “Michael will be back next week, and he offered to host you and Hugo for dinner. We want to meet the guy, it’s been like three months since you’ve been seeing each other.”

Trent busies himself with the biscuits he’s gotten out – proper British ones – although he only breaks one in half without taking a bite out of it.

The silence stretches out.

“Trent?”

“I might call things off with Hugo.”

“What?” Colin exclaims. “Why? What happened? Has he done something? I though things were going good.”

“They are! He is great, perfect even,” Trent is forced to admitted. “Attentive, kind, funny.”

“So why do you want to break up with him?”

Colin’s brows are furrowed in confusion and worry both. It’s clear he doesn’t understand why Trent would want to break up with such a lovely man.

“I wish I could tell you,” Trent confesses. “Hugo is a gem of a man, and he’s made it clear he is smitten with me.”

“Smitten?” Colin repeats, eyes twinkling with mirth.

“Well, yes. That’s the word he used, at least.”

Trent brushes off some dust off his sleeve, though he suspects even a microscope wouldn’t have revealed it. He is slightly uncomfortable with this barring of his emotions but there’s some relief, giddiness even, at being able to speak so openly.

Despite being closer than ever with his ex-wife, he and Laura don’t speak much of their respective romantic endeavours.

“What’s the problem then?”

“I don’t feel anything,” Trent comes clean. “I mean, he is handsome, I’m not blind, and I do appreciate the times we’ve been spending together, but that’s it. It’s missing something.”

“There’s no spark.”

“Right.” He pauses. “Perhaps it is too much to expect for me, and I should satisfy myself with it.”

“Hey, don’t say that,” Colin cries, looking offended on his behalf.

“Let’s be serious here, I’m nearing fifty, I came out when I was already middle-aged. Trust me, there aren’t a lot of men throwing themselves at me. Hugo is great, I should be happy. I should like him, so why am I still waiting for more? Why can’t I ever be satisfied? I’m always striving for perfection and it’s ruined so many things for me.”

He interrupts his rant with a strangled sound, as though choking his own words down and shoving them back down his throat and deep behind his lungs where they could never see the light of day.

Perhaps Trent isn’t as ready to open up as he thought. His skin is scrawling from saying so much uncensored, and he wants to burrow in the darkness and forget any of this ever happened.

Old habits die hard, it seems.

“I think it’s normal that you want something great,” Colin says kindly. “Especially because you came out so recently. You’ve been waiting for this your entire life. Of course you’re not going to be satisfied with something that doesn’t make you feel alive, you know? You should be in a relationship that makes you feel amazing.”

Trent’s mind, the traitor, flashes to Ted, and he closes his eyes, pained.

“I’m afraid there’s no chance of it.”

Silence follows the statement.

“Is this because you have feelings for the gaffer?” Colin asks hesitantly.

Trent’s eyes bolt open to find Colin looking at him with sympathy. He feels his face falls, then his cheeks redden before he pales, skin ashened by his mortification.

“It’s fine, mate,” Colin continues, gentler and definitely more awkward for having brought up the subject without warning. “I didn’t notice you signalling with the rainbow mug and whatever, but now that I know you like blokes, it wasn’t hard to pierce it together.”

He hesitates for a moment before deciding to continue on.

“You love Ted, don’t you?”

“I’d rather not talk about it,” is the answer that rushes past Trent’s tightened lips.

“Come on,” Colin insists, too kind still and it makes Trent’s skin crawl. “This doesn’t have to be a one-way thing – us, I mean. I know you see yourself as some kind of mentor, and I guess it’s true in a way, but I’m here for you too. We’re friends, yeah?”

The tightness growing around Trent’s heart releases its hold, if only for now. That’s what Trent has always done, hide himself away behind the coldness that inhabits him until it all but defined him. He was Trent Crimm and he was distant.

He doesn’t want to be that Trent Crimm any more. It was a lie, at least some of it. Yes, he can be cold but that’s only because he was made to smother the fire that forever burns inside of him, so much so that he forgot it was there. It always was.

Meeting Ted reignited it until it burned through all the layers of the jaded, cynical journo until there was nothing left but the real Trent.

He now walks with his flesh flayed, his true skin exposed for all to see. It would be tempting to cover it again, except he knows the price one has to pay for such a cloak. He has paid it too long.

For nothing in the world would Trent go back to that version of himself. Oh, he will never be Ted Lasso level of enthusiasm and endless positivity, but he’s not as aloof now. Gone is the tension that resided between his shoulders blades for the past thirty something years.

Trent Crimm is a man reborn.

This newness makes it all the more fragile, he finds himself unsure of how to stand in this new world. He clings somewhat still to the coldness because that’s all he’s known for so long, but then he goes and rants to Ted about Total Football, and wonders if he will ever know how to be neither ‘not enough’ or ‘too much’.

He wants to reach out. He wants to laugh if he finds a joke funny, he wants to tell the jokes himself without overthinking if he should and end up letting the moment pass.

Fuck, he just wants to be himself. And yes, he can admit, that means also opening up to a new friend because they asked.

“We are friends indeed,” Trent confirms.

“Then talk to me. I don’t want you to think you can only listen. Truth is, I’ve never had a mate like you, you understand what it’s like to be in this environment and to be gay. I don’t have gay friends even, and no one I’ve ever hooked up with was into football. Michael tries but he doesn’t get it, not really.”

“I’m not a footballer.”

“But you’ve been around the lot of us for a long time, you know what it’s like.”

Trent can only agree with the statement.

“So?” Colin insists. “The gaffer?”

A sigh escapes Trent, although it’s more show than any proof of aggravation.

“So what if I do?” he grits out, then sighs again as he feels resignation take hold of him. “It’s hopeless.”

“You love him, right? It’s not just a crush.”

“I don’t do crushes,” Trent bristles. “But yes, it’s more profound than that at any rate. Not that it matters.”

“You never know,” Colin tries only to be stopped by Trent raising his hand.

There must be quite the retched expression upon his face because Colin makes a move as if to hug him, but Trent flinches and Colin stops. Trent has to look away, unable to stand the look of sympathy he finds there.

“Don’t,” he rasps. “I don’t need pity.”

“Jesus Christ, mate – it’s not pity! We’ve just established we’re friends. Sorry if I don’t like to see my friends in pain.”

Feeling chastised, Trent bows his head down.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise, just talk to me.”

“Right,” Trent sighs. “It’s true, I do have romantic feelings for Ted, but it is hopeless. After all you’ve heard him – he’s straight.”

Colin hums, pensive.

“I don’t know,” he says, articulating each word slow. “I said I was straight many many times before in my life, and I never meant it. I think you did too. So you never know.”

“Don’t. Don’t even try. I can’t deal with such false hopes.”

After all, it’s the hope that kills you, isn’t that what people say? Trent can’t handle entertaining the idea that Ted could ever be interested in him, it’s much easier to deal with his own sorrow in a most private manner.

One day it will cease to hurt. It must.

“You should tell him,” Colin says. “Because if you tell Ted and he rejects you, then you’ll know and you’ll be able to move on and you won’t have this what-if hanging over your head.”

“I can’t tell him.”

Colin bites his lip and lets the silence linger. Trent’s biscuit is nothing but crumbs under his fingers. He hasn’t taken a bite out of it.

“So you break up with Hugo but you never confess to Ted. That’s your plan?”

“I don’t have a plan,” Trent snaps, lashing out because he’s hurt out of habit. He deflates right away, shameful. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“No one knows what they’re doing, that’s why we got a team to have our backs.”

Trent huffs. Having a team, here is a concept he isn’t used to. Soon anyway he will be leaving Richmond. He will keep in touch with Colin, of that much he is certain. Their bond is too vital to each of them to let something as pesky as distance tarnish it.

The rest of the team, however – Trent has no illusions. Oh, they would be happy to see him if they ran into him, they might even reach out once in a while but even that would only cease given enough time.

And Ted –

Trent doesn’t want to think about Ted disappearing from his life.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it, but you are in love with Ted, and I think you need to deal with that one way or another. I don’t know if you should break up with Hugo, but you’re steering him on a bit, no?”

Colin pauses, allowing for Trent to say something but Trent has nothing to say.

“Hugo’s falling in love with you and he’s thinking that so are you, but you’re not,” he resumes. “You are still hung up on another bloke who you are so sure you have no chances with. So you think you have to satisfy yourself with the first guy who showed interest in you, and it’s not fair to Hugo.”

“I know it’s selfish,” Trent mutters. “That’s why I said I would break up with him.”

It’s not something that Trent wants to hear, but it is something he needs to hear from someone that’s not himself.

He knows all this and Colin is right, and Trent is being selfish. Hugo does deserve better.

“But what happens if you never stop being in love with Ted? What if this is like this for always? Are you going to pine for him and do nothing about it? Can’t be in a relationship because you love Ted, but can’t be with Ted?”

There are so many thoughts whirling through Trent’s mind that he can’t begin to make sense of them. It was easier when he buried all of them, focused only on his work and the goals he made for himself. It was easier to deny every want and need of his, and slap over them the expectations demanded of him.

It’s harder being oneself, but it’s so much more fucking rewarding.

Trent pushes away the need to retract into himself, and accepts the confusion.

“What are you saying? That I actually should try and stick it out with Hugo?”

“Listen, I don’t know. If you stay with Hugo though, you need to accept that you can have happiness even if it’s not what you had in mind for yourself. Getting in a relationship with someone doesn’t start with love most of the time, just a good feeling. The love comes after. Perhaps you’ll learn to love Hugo too.”

Trent reaches for a tissue to wipe his hands off the blasted biscuit. He is sure that if he were to try a bite now, it would only taste like ashes on his tongue.

“You know,” Colin ventures, “you say you’re selfish for all this, but I don’t agree.”

“No?”

“Like, you have the right to be happy, you know? It’s normal that you can’t let go of Hugo because he doesn’t want to let you go either. Now Ted… I think it’s selfless. You love him, completely, but you don’t expect anything at all from him. You aren’t asking for anything in return. There’s beauty in that, I think.”

“Whenever did you get so wise, Colin Hughes?” Trent jokes to hide the rising emotions such words provoked in him.”

“You must be rubbing off on me, boyo.”

They are family, but there isn’t a neat little box they can shove this friendship in. Colin isn’t like a son to him, they aren’t quite brothers either. They are something that defies definition – they are Colin and Trent, two widely different men united by some common existence.

“I appreciate you,” Trent says, borrowing the words of the man he loves.

The conversation trails off after that.

What else is there to say? Trent needs to make a decision either way.

To stay with a man who cares for him despite Trent’s own lack of passion, or to long for a man who could never love him back, remaining alone and miserable for however long it took to get over Ted Lasso.

Colin does sleep on the sofa that night, and when Trent brings down a blanket and pillow for him, Colin wraps him in a brief embrace.

At least, Trent thinks as he hugs his friend back, he isn’t quite so alone as he used to be.

Trent thinks about it for the next few days.

He hasn’t a date planned with Hugo till the next Sunday when Nellie will be at her mother’s. Hugo hasn’t met either of them yet though Laura has been asking about it more and more lately.

It’s the first time Trent has been dating a man for so long, and she’s happy for him. Still, he can’t bring himself to burden her with his doubts and hesitations.

Hasn’t he burdened her enough?

It’s selfish to keep dating Hugo, yet that’s what Trent does.

Now, however, he will pour all of himself in this relationship, try and be the partner that Hugo deserves although he knows he never will be.

Trent can move on from Ted. He can, he will.

He can bury his feelings for Ted Lasso and pretend that this time, it’s different because it’s for his own happiness. Trent is not falling back into tried flaws, he is not. He is merely adapting old strategies for a new play.

One can’t full one’s stomach with crumbs. Trent hungers for more, and he starts wondering if perhaps there is truth to it – why shouldn’t he have the love and companionship so many praise? So what if it’s with the person he dreamed of?

He can live with it. Thunder and lightning, it’s all overrated. With Hugo, Trent can make a life for himself and for his daughter. He needs to stop wanting for the impossible and satisfy himself with what he’s got.

It’s already more than he deserves.

The heart wants what it wants, but Trent has a mind also and he will force it to quiet the pathetic yearning of his aching, ever-beating betrayer of a heart.

He can choose who to love. He is choosing Hugo.

And if it’s the rational choice, then so be it.

It’s early one morning and Trent and Hugo are getting ready for the day.

Hugo is looking as handsome as ever in nothing but pants and his vest, the heavy muscles of his legs and arms on full display.

The smell of coffee caries through the entire flat and brings with it the promise of a new day.

They are both sitting at the table, Trent doing last week’s crossword all the while aware that he will never have the patience to finish one. Hugo is busy reviewing documents for a meeting he will have in the afternoon.

His job as a budget analysis isn’t the most exciting, but it’s well-respected and well-paying. Even Trent’s ever-demanding parents would find no protests against it.

The bubble of quiet is shattered by Hugo clearing his throat. Trent abandons his crossword readily, but when he takes in the not quite serious but cautious look upon Hugo’s face, he straightens.

“I’ve been thinking,” Hugo starts slowly. “Maybe I could come to training sometime?”

In an occurrence that happens all the more often these days, Trent finds himself speechless.

“Not today, or not anytime soon,” Hugo adds, “but I’d like to see where you work.”

Not anytime soon, like he plans on staying in Trent’s life for a long, long time. He says it easily, as if it’s obvious to him that he shall be here months from now. Years even.

The offer is made without pressure or expectation. Hugo is giving all the power of decision to Trent who can’t think of a reason to refuse – except for the shameful fear that bringing his boyfriend to Richmond will make the hopelessness of his feelings for Ted all the more real.

And that’s exactly what Trent needs.

After all, he has given up on Ted, he has dug a hole into the remnants of his broken heart and hid all his longing so that no one, not even himself, could take a peek at it.

“Yes. I’d like that.”

It’s not quite a lie, but it’s not exactly true either.

It makes Hugo smile anyway, a bright beautiful thing tearing at his lips.

“And when I’m there, what will you say to your friends about me?”

It’s still undemanding, still nonjudging, Hugo only want to know so that he can be ready for it.

“I’ll tell them we’re boyfriends, will I not?”

Despite himself, Trent finds himself blushing. Boyfriend, what a word to use at forty eight years of age, but it feels right. Yes, said boyfriend won’t be the man he truly loves, but it’s still a euphoric eureka to think that he’s allowed this.

He’s allowed to bring a man to his workplace and introduce him as his boyfriend.

It’ll be okay. Everything will be okay.

He will learn to bury his feelings for Ted, and from that will grow new feelings for Hugo. This love might never be as all-encompassing as the torch he carries for Ted Lasso, but it will be true nonetheless.

Hugo beams again, and this time Trent feels a flutter of something deep in his belly, brief but there.

Pretending that he hasn’t feelings for Ted is easier said than done.

The flutters of Trent’s heart refuse to cease despite all his great determination and stubbornness. His heart has a mind of its own, clearly, and will not back down.

All that Trent can do now is to stifle the yearning as it comes up, and if he tries and takes some distance from Ted, no one should notice.

It’s hard though to resist the orbit of Ted Lasso. Trent’s gaze is ever drawn to him, his ear always tuned to that Kansas twang. His brain picks apart every interaction that they have, analyses every smile and every look.

It’s pathetic, it’s what it is – to love and want a man so, a man who acts with Trent the same way he does with everyone else.

Trent isn’t special to Ted.

And when they’ll go their separate ways, Ted will not miss him.

Trent is coming back from a lunch break shared with, surprisingly, Rebecca.

It took some time for Rebecca to warm up to him which was to be expected. After all, Trent worked as one of the enemies for many years, albeit he never criticised her for anything but her handling of the club once it belonged to her.

Once she did accept Trent in her circle, they came to the conclusion that both of them shared some common interests and personality traits.

They have similar tastes in art, and know a lot of the same people. Mainly though, they gossip.

As soon as Trent walks into his office, Ted calls after him.

Helpless to resist the summon, Trent struts to the door that separates the two spaces and props himself against the same drawer he always does.

“What can I do for you?” he asks, knowing his face is softened beyond words though unable to stop it.

“It’s not what you can do for me, but what I can do for you!” Ted replies with his usual megawatt smile. “The Diamond Dogs and I are doing a little meet-up at the Crown and Anchor tonight. Of course, you’re invited, being one of us.”

“I’m not a fucking Diamond Dog,” Roy cuts in.

“Right, Roy isn’t,” Ted amends, “but he’s still coming.”

Trent wants so badly to accept the offer, not even just because he would love to spend the evening in Ted’s company, but because he is proud to be a Diamond Dog as foolish as it may sound. He likes being a part of something.

Too, he is afraid of the day he will no longer be a part of it, a day that grows ever closer with the season nearing its end.

“Ah,” Trent breathes out. “I would have loved to join, but I fear it won’t be possible seeing as I have prior engagements.”

The smile slips out from Ted’s lips, a frown settles instead upon his brows.

“But I thought you didn’t have Nellie on Thursdays.”

“No, I don’t–”

“You’ve got a date,” Beard interrupts, eyes narrowing and gaze unreadable.

Trent feels trapped all of the sudden. He wonders if he should lie but the slight blush that takes over his cheeks betrays him before he can make up his mind.

“Oh, he does,” Roy says, sounding amused. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“What does that mean?” Trent shots back, insulted.

“No, there,” Ted intervenes and Trent’s gaze snaps to him. “Of course anyone would be lucky to go on a date with Trent Crimm, Independent.”

Ted doesn’t appear overjoyed at the idea however. The smile that’s back in place now appears somewhat forced and unnatural.

Could it mean–?

But no.

Trent strangles the half-formed thought. He knows Ted has been hoping to settle down, it’s envy only, not jealousy, that darkens his expression.

“How long have you been going out?” Ted asks, still hesitant and awkward.

“Some weeks now,” Trent replies although it’s not quite correct.

“Weeks?!”

Ted isn’t the only surprised at the answer, both Roy and Beard are now frowning at Trent too.

“Now, we do really need to meet this mysterious date.”

“They could come tonight,” Beard offers, a mysterious edge to his voice.

“Oh, I don’t think–” Trent tries but Roy cuts him off again.

“Yeah, we can vet them.”

The conversation is escaping Trent entirely. Gone are the days where he used to command an entire press room just by stating his name, or maybe he never was able to deal with personal interventions the same way and merely avoided them.

“We don’t need to vet anyone,” Ted says to his fellow coaches with a pointed look before turning to Trent again. “We’re happy for you. Your date is one lucky person.”

It’s not insincere but there’s an added layer of meaning for which Trent doesn’t a dictionary to translate.

He’s missing something and he doesn’t know what.

What he notices is the choice of gender neutral term, and he wonders if his rainbow mug hasn’t gone as unnoticed as he thought. He almost blurts out the three words that have been crashing against his lips for so long, but he can’t bring himself to come out just yet.

“If you say so,” Trent mutters instead.

“I do say so! Anyone should be over the moon to have a date with you, Buttercup.”

Then, why won’t you do it?

No, Trent admonishes himself. He is happy with Hugo, he truly is.

If he says it enough times, perhaps he will start to believe it.

Another week passes and nothing changes, except for the strange glances he keeps Ted throwing at him.

These mean nothing at all and so Trent will not read anything into them, though he does burn them to memory.

The voice in his head that sounds too much like his ex-wife Laura is taunting as it reminds him of what an imbecile he’s being.

That too, he can ignore.

It’s not like Trent doesn’t know that Hugo was planning on dropping by AFC Richmond to observe training. They have talked about it, Trent has agreed to it.

Still, when it happens, he is startled.

Stranding in his usual place, close to the doors that lead to the locker room, Trent has his notebook resting on the handrail as he scribbles down observations and such.

“Hello handsome,” a familiar voice comes from behind him.

Trent jumps. His notebook scatters to the ground, drawing the attention of several players as well as the three coaches. He throws them a smile he hopes to be reassuring, although he is certain it probably looks stunted.

When he turns, Hugo is smiling at him with a bemused but fond look. He is holding two cardboard cups from Trent’s favourite coffee shops.

“Hugo,” he breathes out. “Hi.”

“Is this okay? You said it was, but I can leave if you’d rather.”

God, he’s so thoughtful and caring.

Trent doesn’t deserve it, he never has.

“Of course it’s okay,” he tells him. “We’ve talked about this, haven’t we?”

“We have indeed, but I’d have understood if you’d changed your mind.”

“Well, my mind remains unchanged,” Trent replies and immediately cringes at his own ineptitude.

He catches Colin’s gaze who’s warming up out on the pitch with the other players.

Good job, boyo, he seems to convey silently. You weren’t lying, that’s one good-looking man indeed.

Some amusement slips in through the old panic, and once again Trent thanks the powers that be for the friendship with this incorrigible youngster.

“I need to go,” Hugo says, dragging Trent back to the moment.

“Already?”

“I’ve got an important meeting today.”

“With the new client, yes, I remember.”

“I knew you paid attention,” Hugo teases. “But yes, I really can’t stay. This wasn’t planned in fact. I do want to see the place and meet your colleagues, but I couldn’t resist coming to say a quick hello.”

“It’s appreciated,” Trent says and it is.

He might not be in love with Hugo, but he does like him.

A smile tugs at Hugo’s lips, and his gaze drops to Trent’s own lips for the briefest of instants. If Trent hadn’t been looking so intently, he would have missed it.

Oh.

Hugo is leaving. He wants to kiss him goodbye before he does, but he won’t initiate because he knows Trent isn’t out at work. He won’t ask either.

Fear seizes Trent, but he forces it down. He thinks about Colin who may never get to kiss his fella after a match, who doesn’t want to be a spokesperson. Who just wants to live freely.

And then Trent thinks about himself, and the long journey it took him to get to this point. How much suffering he endured because he shoved himself deeper and deeper in the closet.

“Come here,” he whispers.

“Are you sure?” Hugo asks just as low, understanding the meaning of the unsaid words.

Trent can’t speak, he can only nod.

Slowly as to allow Trent the chance of pulling away or changing his mind, Hugo leans in closer and closer until there is no space at all between them, and they are kissing.

It’s a chaste press of the lips but with it comes crashing down the last of Trent’s walls.

When they part, the first thing Trent sees is the blissful look on Hugo’s face.

The second thing is Ted Lasso staring right at him.

Ted snaps his gaze away when their eyes meet. Before he does though, Trent catches the blankest expression he has ever witnessed on the man. His heart skips a beat and it has nothing to do with the kiss he’s just exchanged with Hugo.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Hugo asks.

Right. Another date.

Trent nods, forces a smile and keeps his eyes on the retracting form of his boyfriend, not quite ready to face the new reality he has opened here at AFC Richmond.

“Oi.”

For the second time today, Trent jumps out of his bones.

Roy grunts his greeting and before Trent can start spiralling in fear, he declares with all the gravity he can muster,

“If anyone gives you shit about this, send them to me. I’ll deal with it.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Roy continues. “This is a safe place and shit.”

Unburdened for a moment, Trent laughs and laughs and laughs until there are wild tears gathering at the corner of his eyes, but even then he keeps on laughing.

Roy is looking at him with alarm and – yes, Trent isn’t mistaking it – concern, and the sight of it only redoubles his laughter.

What even is his life that he came out to the entirety of the Richmond team and its coaching staff by kissing his boyfriend goodbye in front of them? And that Roy Kent would come to make sure he knew he would be safe and protected?

It takes a few minutes for the laughter to subdue.

“Do you,” Roy starts looking like all his teeth are being pulled at the same time, “do you want to talk about what the fuck this was?”

“No, Roy,” Trent replies, still high off the incredulity and crashing adrenaline. “I’m quite alright. But thank you.”

“Right.”

After Roy leaves, Trent finally turns his attention to the field. All the players are looking in his direction and don’t seem to care at having being caught.

There are some expressions there that he can’t decipher, but most of them, including Beard, offer Trent a nod – a simple way of letting him know that they have seen him, and they won’t have a problem with it.

Dani Rojas waves, smiling as wide as ever, and Trent can’t help the chuckle that comes out.

A few others smile at him, among them Sam and of course Colin – Colin whose eyes are shining with pride and joy.

The only person that won’t look at him at all, is Ted.

The day goes on as it does.

None of the team gives him any reason to run to Roy. In fact, they act around him as they always do, albeit Trent is the receiver of a definite higher number of friendly slaps on the back. Jamie Tartt even hangs off Trent’s shoulder at some point as if it’s something he does every day – which is definitely is not.

It’s nice all the same.

Trent would be overjoyed, basking in this easy acceptance, were it not for Ted’s utter lack of reaction.

The silence is telling, it is deafening, and Trent thinks he could drown in it.

But for all his journey toward self-betterment, he’s still Trent fucking Crimm and Trent Crimm gets the truth.

If Ted Lasso, in spite of all his talk of acceptance and tolerance, turns out to be a homophobe then Trent will wash his hands off him.

Will lights up when he sees Trent making his way toward the locker room, and opens his mouth to say something.

“I don’t have time for this,” Trent snaps, settling back in his journalistic prick skin.

He will have to apologise for it later as he, in fact, quite likes the young kitman, but right now, Trent is a man on a mission.

He marches into the coaches’ office, his gaze narrowed on Ted, and ignores Roy and Beard to stand right before Ted.

“Do we have a problem?” he snarls.

This time, it’s Ted who jumps.

He looks up at Trent with large, stunned eyes. His mouth falls open but none of his usual chatter comes out.

“Do we?” Trent repeats, his voice lowering dangerously.

“No,” Ted answers hurriedly. “There’s no problem, Scouts honor.”

“Then why the hell haven’t you been able to look me in the eye since you’ve seen me kiss my boyfriend this morning?”

A terrible mix of emotions run through Ted’s face – shock, horror, regret, but no anger, no disgust.

“Trent,” he says, retched. “I swear to you, I swear that I don’t have any problems with you dating a man. I swear.”

“Then what is it?” Trent asks, the anger deflating, replaced by tiredness.

Ted glances at Beard before returning his attention to Trent.

“I was jealous,” he says with such honesty it’s hard to look at him. “I saw you kiss him, and I was jealous.”

“Because you’ve been wanting to be in a relationship as well,” Trent finishes.

Ted’s face returns to blankness.

“For fuck’s sake,” Roy swears in his office.

“Right,” Ted admits though it’s lacking conviction – admitting to envying a colleague’s relationship would do that. “That’s right on the money, George Clooney.”

“So there is no issue about me being gay?” Trent has to ask.

It’s the first time he’s saying the words out loud to someone that isn’t his ex-wife, and it feels liberating though terrifying.

“There’s no issue,” Ted confirms, softly.

The last of Trent’s fury bleeds out of him. His shoulders sag in relief and his jaw unclenches.

When he looks around at the office, Roy and Beard are nowhere to be found.

“But now that we’re talking about it,” Ted starts, standing up, “I just want to say that it was a mighty brave thing you did out there.”

“We don’t have to do this.”

“But it was, and I applaud it. May we were all as brave as you.”

Trent chuckles drily. He isn’t feeling very brave right now, only old and weary and yet still elated.

“So, it’s serious then,” Ted ventures. “You called him your boyfriend.”

“I did, yes.”

“And he’s good to you, this boyfriend?” Ted asks, his voice drops softer than the situation warrants.

Trent matches his tone all the same, “He is.”

Ted’s eyes shine a strange, indescribable glint before they settle on somehow dimmed, though sincere.

“That’s good, Trent. You deserve it.”

“Do I?”

The words fly out his mouth before he can even think about stopping them. His mind is a world away from all thoughts of Hugo. Trent can’t be thinking of the man he is dating, not when Ted is standing so close to him.

Never would he cheat, but the burning desire to kiss Ted stupid is still there – not that Ted would want such a thing, of course. Why must Trent always need to remind himself of that?

“Of course you do, buckaroo. You’re– you’re a good person. You deserve all the good things.”

“So do you, Ted. You most of all, truth be told.”

There is something that Ted hesitates to say. Whatever it is, Trent doesn’t get to hear it.

The team returns to the locker room chattering and the moment is broken.

Wordlessly, Trent goes to join the boys. He needs some distance from the confusing man that is Ted Lasso and the mess of feelings he evokes in him.

He joins the team just in time to hear his name said along plans for the next year.

“Next year?” Trent echoes, oddly moved by the assumption that he should still be around then. “I won’t be there next year.”

“What? Why?” several of the players exclaim.

“Aren’t you happy here, Trent Crimm?” Dani asks, a sad twist to his brows.

He is, that’s the thing. But he can’t tell them that.

“I’m writing about this season,” he explains instead. “I won’t be around after it’s over.”

Murmurs of disappointment and dejection rumble through the locker room, and Trent feels his throat close up. He isn’t used to people wanting him to stay – even at the Independent, his colleagues did nothing more than tolerate him. He was polite enough with them, but held them all at a distance for fear that they would see through him.

Here though, Trent has allowed the truth of himself to shine through and these people have accepted him. They had no reason to even trust him, let alone like him, and yet they do.

He doesn’t know what to do with that.

He’s still reeling from his silent coming out to the team just that morning, then his strange conversation with Ted, and this much camaraderie might push him over the edge and well into tearfulness.

“So what are you going to do after?” Sam asks, sounding genuinely interested in the answer.

“I haven’t decided yet,” Trent admits.

“You can’t just go and write about another team,” Jamie of all people says, disdain clear at the thought. “Who’d you even follow? Crystal Palace? Pfft.”

“Right, you’re our ex-journo,” Isaac declares.

“I am touched,” Trent says and he truly is. “However, I can’t forever stay at Richmond.”

“Why not?”

“My editor wouldn’t like it, for a start. I mean, how many books can one write about a single team?”

“Huh, eleven at least,” Jamie points out, waving to the numbers written on top each their compartments.

Why is Jamie so determined to keep him around, Trent doesn’t know and frankly doesn’t have the energy to explore such an enigma.

It’s great. He’s found a place where he belongs, where he can be truly himself, and where he’s liked for all of him.

And he will be leaving all of that soon.

And then he will be alone again.

No. Not alone. He will have Nellie and Laura, and he will have Hugo, and that will suffice.

Hugo and Laura get along well.

Trent can see that his ex-wife is easily charmed by his boyfriend, and the three of them enjoy a nice evening together. They haven’t brought Nellie yet, Trent tells himself it’s because he wants Laura to approve of Hugo first, but in reality it’s because he isn’t ready to take that step.

Having his boyfriend meet his daughter would make it too real.

He really is trying but he’s still nowhere near in love. Butterflies haven’t batted their wings for Hugo yet, but they do continue make a ruckus when Trent catches sight of Ted.

Bloody bastards, those butterflies.

The restaurant Trent has picked is lovely, the Lebanese cuisine so excellent it reminds him of his grandmother’s cooking, the atmosphere intimate without being too quiet.

Toward the end of the meal, Hugo excuses himself to the bathroom.

As soon as he is out of earshot, Laura turns her attention to Trent.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she demands.

“I’m not doing anything,” he protests.

“Trent, I love you, but you need to stop.”

“Stop what?”

Laura breathes in sharply through her nose the same way she used to do when they were about to have a fight.

“What have I done, now?” Trent says flatly. “I thought you were liking Hugo.”

“Oh, I am. But you’re not.”

Trent freezes.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she scolds him though not unkindly. “I know you, Trent, and now that we’re divorced, I see you for all that you are, and what you’re being right now is a wanker.”

“Laura, I don’t know what you think you’ve deduced from three hours spend together, but I can assure you I like my boyfriend just fine.”

“That’s my point! You like him, you don’t love him though.”

“What about it? We haven’t been together that long.”

“How long did it take you to fall for the gaffer?”

A quick look toward the bathroom ensures Trent that Hugo isn’t on his way back yet.

“You’re doing to him the exact same thing you did to me,” she continues relentless. “You’re using him as a plaster because you can’t face what you truly want.”

“Laura–” he starts, chocked.

“I’ve forgiven you already,” she cuts him. “I’m not here to have this conversation again, especially not here and not now. But you need to realise what you’re doing.”

Trent catches sight of Hugo, beautiful, lovely Hugo, walking back toward their table.

“Stop punishing yourself,” Laura whispers, gentler than he has a right to have it. “Stop settling, and go for what you want.”

There is no time to expand on it after that. Hugo rejoins them and the evening keeps on, although Trent speaks little and thinks much.

“You’re alright in there, Fred Astaire? You’ve been out of it today.”

It’s a testament to how lost Trent is in his thoughts that he doesn’t startle at the sudden presence behind him.

Instead, he slowly turns around to face Ted who is looking at him with a slight furrow to his brows. The office is empty again but for them, something that seems to be occurring more often these days for some strange reason Trent can’t explain.

“I’m fine,” Trent lies.

“You say that and yet I’m sensing an underlying vibe of ‘not fine’.”

Trent knows he should answer, even if only a movement of his lips in the approximation of a smile. Yet he can’t. The tempest of his mind drags him underneath once more, and he drifts to notions he swore he would forever ignore.

Hugo hasn’t met Nellie yet because Trent hasn’t been ready to make the introduction. Why is that so? Why can’t he bring himself to have the man he’s been dating for over three months meet his daughter?

Is it because he isn’t ready or is it because he knows the relationship has no leg to stand, and he doesn’t want Nellie to become attached to someone that will not last?

Nellie has met Ted though. It was an accident, back when Trent was still a journalist at the Independent, and they did not stay long. No matter how short the moment, it showed without the shadow of a doubt how splendidly Nellie and Ted got along, something that only deepened the longing that Trent wouldn’t acknowledge for months still.

Ted remembered to bake her biscuits for a birthday, and has done so every year since then.

He asks after her and listens to Trent as he rambles about all the wonderful things his daughter does, and then he remembers every single of them.

“Trent?”

Trent drags his gaze upward again, unaware of how long he was staring unseeing at the wall behind Ted.

“I’m alright,” he repeats. “I slept badly last night, that’s all.”

With that he means that he did not sleep at all, forced awake by the raging in his skull and chest.

“If you say so,” Ted says but still searching for an unvoiced answer in Trent’s eyes.

That’s when Trent takes notice of Ted’s position. The American is still standing but he’s got a hand on Trent’s desk, the other on Trent’s chair, and his chest is leaning forward toward him.

He’s all but surrounding Trent, boxing him in his seat.

It’s not threatening, quite the contrary in fact. Trent’s blood hums with anticipation – of what, Trent couldn’t tell, but it’s there all the same.

That’s when everything changes.

Ted’s gaze falls to Trent’s lips. Ted’s tongue darts to wet his own lips. He looks up, meets Trent’s gaze and – oh.

This is wishful thinking, Trent thinks with growing desperation. He’s imagining the heaviness of the gaze.

Yet, all logic goes all the window right there and then, and, unthinking, Trent inches forward toward Ted, his lips parting, ready to–

Trent’s rainbow mug drops to the ground.

Ted jolts back.

Trent’s heart is hammering in his chest, wrecking him beyond recognition. What is he doing? What was he about to do? What was he thinking?

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Thank God for carpeted floors,” Ted jokes, voice high. “I don’t think it’s broken.”

“I don’t think so, no,” Trent replies, a million kilometres away.

Neither men make a move to pick it up.

“Alrighty then!” Ted exclaims. “I should go and check on Beard, you know, just doing my rounds.”

“Of course. Right.”

Ted makes finger guns at Trent, blinks, and then he’s run out the room.

“Fuck,” Trent swears out loud.

Shame threatens to choke him. What the fuck is he doing? He would have kissed Ted if the mug hadn’t dropped to the ground.

It doesn’t matter if he’s imagined the moment or not, if Ted looked at his lips because he wanted to kiss them or merely because a movement caught his attention.

Of course it was the latter, but it does not matter.

Because Trent forgot all about Hugo and what kind of arsehole does that make of him?

He’s known, he’s always known deep down that he will never be able to love Hugo. It was all a charade he pulled up to hide again, always hiding, always seeking the truth but for his own. Trent will never love Hugo, he will never love anyone else because his heart belongs to one man only.

Trent will always love Ted.

And it hurts because Ted will never love him back, but perhaps he has no right to hope for happiness, especially not after what he’s almost done.

He has hurt so many people in so many different ways – as a journalist, as a husband, as a son, a friend, a partner.

What is it with him that he should break everything he puts his hands on?

But he can free Hugo from him.

Laura agrees to taking Nellie for the night without protest and without question.

Her look is knowing though when Trent drops their daughter off, and Laura stands on tiptoe to press a kiss to his temple.

“It’s going to be alright,” she promises him.

It won’t, but Trent appreciates the sentiment.

And that’s how Trent Crimm finds himself knocking on Hugo’s door at eight o’clock on a Wednesday evening.

“What a lovely surprise,” Hugo welcomes him, moving away from the entrance so that Trent can walk into the house.

Trent remains rooted where he stands.

“We need to break up,” he blurts out without fineness

He regrets it as soon as he says it, not for having said it though. He knows he’s pulled this off for far too long. He only wishes he could give Hugo the grace that he deserves, if not all else that he does.

“Oh,” Hugo breathes out, wounded.

“I’m sorry.”

It should be a crime to make such a man appear so small. Hugo is larger than life, his smile brighter than all the stars, and yet he now looks crestfallen, tired beyond his years.

“Come on in then,” he sighs.

Hugo leaves the door open and turns around, walking down the corridor that Trent knows leads to the kitchen.

After a moment’s hesitation, Trent follows after him.

By the time he makes his way to the kitchen, Hugo has gotten out two glasses of wine and has filled them with his favourite white. Trent doesn’t care much for white wine, it’s too sweet for him, but he takes the glass and swallows a large gulp anyway.

“Can I ask why?” Hugo breaks the silence. “Have I done something–? I mean, this is all so very sudden.”

“You were perfect,” Trent admits brokenly. “It’s my fault. I was never fully devoted to this relationship because–”

The words bubble up in his throat where they make him choke on his shame and self-hatred.

“I have feelings for someone else,” he forces himself to confess, willing his soul to bear its final judgement. “Unrequited as they are, mind you. It’s unfair to you either way, and I am truly sorry.”

Hugo puts down the glass he was carrying it, his movement slow and deliberate as if moving his body would help him gather his thoughts.

“It’s Ted Lasso, isn’t it?” he asks. “The person that you’re in love with.”

It’s not said accusingly, though Trent would endure it.

“Yes. Yes, it is.” Pause. “I’m sorry.”

“You can’t help who you love.”

If only, Trent laments. But then again, would he really change his feelings even if he could?

Loving Ted has given him so much. It encouraged him to live his life as himself, and helped him find a place where he has found friends, unexpected as they may be.

Having his love unrequited might be a blessing in disguise. If Ted is never his to begin with, then he never will have to lose him.

“I’m sorry,” Trent says again.

“I won’t lie and say I’m fine about this, but I am not angry at you, Trent.”

It would be easier if he were. If Hugo had snapped at him, gotten mad at him, then Trent could have pretended that breaking things off with him was the right thing to do, but he can’t and it’s not right to expect that coward’s way-out.

Hugo truly is the best of them all, and Trent has never deserved him.

“I’ve tried,” Trent tells him. “I really wanted to love you, but I know you will find someone who will give you the world.”

“I hope your American will give it to you.”

An inelegant snort frees itself from Trent. He finishes downs the rest of his wine before straightening his spine.

“I should go,” he says.

Hugo nods, his handsome face clouded in sadness.

Together, they walk back to the door where their journeys will part. Trent will walk away from the warmth of Hugo’s doorway and into the cold, dark streets of the city.

“If you ever change your mind,” Hugo whispers. “Call me? You never know what could happen then.”

Trent can’t answer, there is a sorrow inside of him that eats at his lungs, at his guts, devour until there won’t be anything else but an empty skeleton of regrets and guilt.

Silently, they reach for each other for one last kiss.

The door is closed before Trent has climbed down the stairs.

It’s a few days later and Trent hasn’t told anyone about his break-up with Hugo.

He almost does it several times. Beard calls a Diamond Dog meeting for some issues he’s having with Jane, and Trent can’t help but tell him he should just stop seeing her forever because she is ‘nothing but bad news’.

It’s a little biting, but Beard merely hums at it, contemplating.

No one has been so blunt about it, if the startled looks the others throw him are any indication. Trent has really come to like Beard and he will be damned if he remains silent a moment longer.

Before the meeting is called to an end, Ted asks if anyone else has something to share. Trent keeps quiet.

He can recognise his hypocrisy, thank you very much.

It’s a different situation, there is nothing anyone can do for him and it’s not like he would be able to explain the entire situation to them anyway.

Meeting adjourned, Higgins trots back upstairs after one last pun that makes Ted giggle, and Trent opens the door between the two offices even though they all know Roy can and does hear everything they say and never actually leaves.

“Trent,” Ted calls.

Trent turns back, raising an eyebrow as question.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, is your boyfriend – or partner, do you prefer partner? - you know what, I’ll use his name, that was my bad. Is Hugo coming to the match on Saturday?”

“No,” Trent replies before hesitating. “We broke up.”

This catches the attention of all the coaches. Under their stares, Trent fidgets with his glasses, wishing he had his mug to hide behind.

“Did he do something?” Roy demands, his gaze narrowing.

Trent blinks in confusion. It hits him, then, that Roy is ready to get angry on his behalf and that, should Trent ask, he would go and commit act of violence for him.

It’s as touching as it is terrifying to have made it on the list of people Roy Kent would fight for, in as many definition of the words.

“No, he did nothing wrong,” he is quick to correct. “As a matter of fact, I was the one to call things off.

“Why?” Ted cries, shocked. “I thought he was great.”

“He was, he truly was great. Probably too great for me.”

“Bullshit,” Roy says. “You’re alright now that you aren’t being a prick all the time. And you’re hot in a dorky way.”

Trent stares, unsure how to process this.

“Thank you,” he replies though it comes out more as a question. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, but it’s more complicated than that.”

“How?”

Who would have thought that Roy Kent would be pressing Trent Crimm to be forthcoming with his emotions so that they could discuss them? If anyone had told Trent so even a few months ago, he would have laughed in their faces. He isn’t laughing now.

“We can call Higgins back down,” Beard offers.

“No, it’s alright. There’s no need for another Diamond Dog meeting.”

Ted is strangely silent.

“Go on then,” Roy insists in his gruff way that’s only to hide how caring he actually is.

Trent should wave the concern and the questions off. There’s learning to be honest and then there’s baring his soul to these peculiar, incredible men.

He finds that he wants to though, and so he stops resisting and gives himself over willingly.

“Did you know,” he starts but trails off.

It never comes easy, opening up, but he’s been made one of theirs and they have shared their utmost personal thoughts and feelings with him present, the least he can do is to offer himself up, fully.

“I was in the closet most of my life,” Trent tries again, staring at nothing. “Married a woman even, although I knew. I was a bachelor for most of my life, hiding that I was gay to everyone that mattered. Then I met my ex-wife and I thought I could just will the way the gay away, that I could finally be the person that everyone wanted me to be.”

No one speaks up when he pauses to gather his thoughts. He appreciates it. He doesn’t think he could resume talking if anyone said anything at the present, or he’d lose the courage.

“Now that I’m out, I realise I don’t know how to be loved like that. I was always alone. As a child, I was peculiar and I didn’t have many friends. Later in my life, I never knew how to truly connect with people. That’s why I became a journalist, I suppose. That way I could get others to answer the questions they never would have otherwise.”

And isn’t that a joke? His work only pushed more people away, but he was writing and he was writing about football, and surely that must have been it. Just another thing to bury.

“I don’t think I know how not to be alone, not like that anyway. Being in a relationship, it’s not in the cards for me. What I want, I can’t have– it’s alright. I’ve got my daughter, that’s all I’ll ever need.”

“But you want to be loved like that,” Beard says, the first one to talk.

“It doesn’t matter what I want.”

“Sure it does,” Roy chides. “That’s a stupid fucking thing to say.”

Ted says nothing still. Trent won’t look up.

He feels foolish all of the sudden, and the urge to flee seizes him.

“I’m getting some air,” he announces and escapes before anyone can stop him

Sitting in the stands, Trent lets his gaze rake over the empty pitch.

The end of the season is drawing closer and after the book is completed, he will be free to do anything that he wants. He hasn’t come any closer to a next step.

He might just free fall into the abyss, there’s a plan.

Movement by the pitch draws Trent’s eyes.

Ted looks at him, still for a moment before he takes a decision and starts climbing up to him.

There are hundred of seats around Trent, and yet Ted plops himself right next to him, so close that their tights are now touching.

You should tell him, Colin’s voice echoes in his head. Because if you tell Ted and he rejects you, then you’ll know and you’ll be able to move on and you won’t have this what-if hanging over your head.

And Laura said, stop punishing yourself. Stop settling, and go for what you want.

Perhaps it’s time to listen to the advice.

After all, there is one last thing Trent needs to unburden himself with if he truly wants to free himself of all his old shackles.

“I’m going to tell you something,” he says without looking at Ted, “but I need you to promise me you will not intervene until I’m done.”

“I won’t,” Ted swears. “I’ll admit I’m something of a chatterbox, but I’m a darn good listener too.”

“I know you are.”

Trent breathes in, and on into the plunge.

“I’ve always known I was gay, from a very young age in fact. At university I would go on dates with women to assuage the questions from my peers, but I’d sneak alone at night to gay bars to feel alive.”

He’s lost in the memories now, all these things he never should he would get to share with anyone.

“I thought I could go on like this forever,” he continues, “and it worked for some time. After I joined the Independent, it was both easier and harder. Easier because I didn’t allow myself to grow close to people and so they didn’t have to learn anything about me, and harder because my parents grew increasingly demanding about why I was still single and not giving them grandbabies.”

Ted remains quiet, as promised, but he presses his leg against Trent’s, a silent show of support.

“When I met Laura, she pursued me. I liked her from the start because she was wickedly smart and charismatic, and I forced myself to think that the friendship I was feeling for her could be love, that it could be enough for a life together. I couldn’t tell her the truth then because I couldn’t say it to myself either.”

Trent recalls their first kiss – how wrong it had felt but for the familiarity of her. Laura is his soulmate, but he could not admit at the time that it was platonic.

“I knew I was gay, but I buried it. I avoided thinking about it. I stopped going to gay bars, I stopped having meaningless flings with faceless men. I loved her and told myself it was enough. I didn’t allow myself to think about what type of love I was feeling for her. We got married.”

Ted reaches wordlessly for his hand, reaching for him through the sea of memories to anchor him in the present.

Trent squeezes with all his might.

“She proposed as a matter of fact, and I should have told her then, I almost did. She became pregnant, and I was overjoyed. I never thought I’d want to be a father but it’s the greatest thing that ever happened to me. For Nellie, I would do it all over again, if only it meant that I’d have her.”

He can’t help the smile at the thought of his daughter. Little Eleanor, named after his favourite father’s mother, the brightest light in his life.

“Still, I broke down one day. I couldn’t keep the lie up any more. I told Laura I was gay. She didn’t believe me, she thought I was lying to divorce her, and it was awful. I was still so paralysed from decades of self-repression that I found myself unable to find the words to explain the truth of who I was to her.”

Trent catches his breath before turning to face Ted whose big brown eyes are set upon him, kind and attentive.

“And then I met you, Ted,” he confesses. “I met you and you were uncompromising about who you were, you didn’t care what people thought about you, you just did it and lived your life. And that inspired me. I came out to Laura a second time after our day together for your profile, and that’s when she believed me. She’s the best friend I ever had, and without you I might have never been able to repair our relationship.”

Ted smiles, softly, touched.

But there’s one last thing to say.

“I love you, Ted Lasso. I am in love with you.”

Trent could have expected Ted to remove his hand from their hold, but he knows better than that. Even in this, Ted will be kind.

“Can I talk now?” he asks, gentle.

Trent waves his other hand hand, allowing it. The rejection is incoming and truthfully, he can’t wait for it. He is a man with his neck exposed to the guillotine, and the expectation of the steel is killing him more than the blade ever could.

At least it will be swift.

“I think you got some things about me wrong,” Ted confides. “I’m not always honest with myself. Actually, I’ve been hiding stuff from myself for a long time. Stuff I didn’t want to take a too close look at, you know. Probably why I have to deal with my anxiety and panic attacks now.”

Trent opens his mouth, ready to apologise once again but Ted clicks his tongue.

“It’s my turn to talk, Trent, plus we’ve already had this conversation several times. I’ve forgiven you for the article, and we are all good.”

He pauses again. Trent doesn’t try to speak.

“So yeah, I’ haven’t been quite all honest with myself. I– well, I even lied to you before because of it. The truth is, I’m bisexual.”

The world around Trent comes to a screeching halt.

“When I told you I was jealous after I saw you kissing Hugo, you though it was because I wanted a relationship like that, and in a way that wasn’t wrong. But I was jealous because he was kissing you. I want a relationship like that with you, Trent Crimm. No one else. And I started acting like an ass because I thought it was too late, I’d missed my chance.”

Trent is gaping at Ted who laces their fingers together.

“I’m in love with you too, if that wasn’t clear. And if this isn’t too late, I’d like to ask you out on a date.”

“Yes,” Trent utters through his maddening joy. “Yes, I want to go on a date with you.”

When they kiss at long last, Trent feels all the butterflies in the belly, the fireworks on his skin, it’s everything he’s ever wanted, everything he has searched for.

It’s all in this, this kiss, this man, this love.

Trent has been lost in the darkness for so long but he’s come home at last, in the arms of the one for whom his heart sings.

They were right then, when they sang on that bus in Amsterdam.

Everything is going to be alright.

The atmosphere in the locker room as the team gets ready to play the final is electric.

There’s their shot at winning the whole fucking thing, it is in their grasp and they all trust, all believe they can do this.

This is the final and whatever happens next, Trent will have no reason to hang around at Richmond any more.

This is the end.

This doesn’t worry him.

Finally he sees, it’s also a beginning.

He now knows that he will never be alone again.

Trent has Nellie and Laura, always, and now he also has Ted. He sees also that he has Beard and Roy, even Rebecca.

And Colin won’t be the only Greyhound to stick around in his life. For some unfathomable reason, a place has been carved for Trent into their team and they do not let go so easily.

Trent Crimm can’t predict the future, and he can’t change his past.

Right now though, he is happy and in love, and that’s all that matters.

“Richmond on three,” Isaac shouts his rallying cry.

“Richmond,” Trent cries as loud as the others.

What a joy it is to be free.

#tedtrent #tedependent #trent crimm #ted lasso #ted lasso fic #tedtrent fic #this took me so long but it's done!!!!#don't forget to reblog please please if you read it #this took me three weeks i won't lie #my writing #userceci

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