Once upon a time, in the cottage I called home for all my life, I'd read a book about a war. Not our war, with the men and the wolves and the anarchic Gifted. A fabricated, fantastical war, where the navy stood on one side, written as the heroes, and the pirates stood on the other, as the villains. It was propaganda, disguised in a children's book, but the moral was fair and unbiased. The pirates had been disloyal to their captains, and one by one had pleaded mercy from the navy and joined their ranks until the count of navy men far outnumbered the pirates. As a result, the navy won with barely a finger lifted, solely because of their superior numbers.

They would not have won had the pirates been loyal. Strength comes in numbers and in loyalty, and with this principle, Captain Avery had built a fortress, and I had been dropped in the middle of it. The pirates celebrated me, and played with me, and involved me more than I felt comfortable with. These men would trust Avery with their lives, and believed he would trust them with his, and I've started to get the same feeling. Even if I'd heard straight from his mouth that we are 'baggage', I've started to feel that we are anything but.

And with the captain's name out, the morale is higher than ever, and the attention around me reached a peak so fast that I haven't been given the time to breathe since. I have been lifted onto shoulders, taught to gamble and play dice, sparred with, given alcohol that I had to discretely pour overboard to avoid drinking... So far, each time I have been able to escape the men, I have found my companions already asleep in our shared chambers. They always rise earlier than I and are gone, and the cycle repeats.

Professor Woods has been apparently so repulsed that he has skipped mealtimes to avoid me and the crowd that follows. He ignores me and my existence entirely.

I asked Lydia to talk to him, to help me to stop this nonsense business of having two sides, when we all could be on one. She kindly spoke to the both of them, the professor and the doctor, on my behalf, but not to ask them to reconsider their distaste in the captain; only to reconsider their unwillingness to accept my choices. So, four days into being exhausted witless, Dr. Oswald waits for me to awake to play a game of cards with me. He hears me out at last.

"I don't want you to be pressganged into drinking, or galivanting with harlots or breaking hearts or thieving. It isn't respectable, Walt," the doctor frets, "That is what these men do. It's their lives; in fact, I'd wager many of them even have the audacity to call it a career."

"Doctor, my mother raised me to be respectable. It would be an insult to her memory if I went following in my pa's footsteps, don't you think?" I argue. "I wouldn't do that. If I ever found a girl, I'd be honest, I would. One girl, and I'd not pick up and leave her. No, never. And I wouldn't drink, because I know that drunks get violent, and I don't want to hurt anyone. I wouldn't thieve because I was raised to earn and not steal. But not one of these men have stolen from, violated, or hurt any one of us; not the captain's men. It's not fair to judge them for doing things that we haven't witnessed them doing."

Dr. Oswald chews his lip and hesitantly lays down a queen. He almost takes it back, but after consideration, leaves it on the stool that we use as our playing table. "You are quite right, my boy. But, I have observed their interest in you."

"How could you not, sir? I've been suffocated by them for days!"

He chuckles. "Yes, yes. What I am worried about is their constant offers of alcohol. Have you taken any?"

"Taken any? I've been alienated enough by the three of you, sir," I scoff, and despite how I try to keep my tone light, I hear my bitterness slip through just in the slightest of breath. "I'd rather not give any more reason for you to doubt where my loyalties lie."

Ah, the doctor. How I enjoy his company so. His expressions are rarely concealed, and never when it comes to sympathy and compassion. At my words, his wrinkles turn upwards and arc above his brow, and the smiley lines about his eyes and lips crinkle and rearrange to something sad.

"I'm sorry, Walter," he apologizes, earnest and true. "I didn't mean to alienate you. I just don't like getting close to those sweaty hulks, and they're constantly around you. And I know you have tried speaking to me, but when you start a conversation with me by bringing up the captain, it is conflicting, and I've avoided those talks—it's been very immature of me, I know. They do indeed make me question where your loyalties lie. I know you don't like to be called young, but in comparison to myself, you have so much life and vigor in you that you are precious. I suppose you could say I have as much maternal instinct as any woman, because I can't help but look at you and want to protect you and keep you innocent and safe forever. But, with these men, all I can think about is corruption. It deeply concerns me to see you surrounded by such, but, you are not my son, and you are old enough to be independent, so I have no right to press my own will upon you."

I lay out all my cards, though the game is not complete. Dr. Oswald frowns softly and starts to pack up. I sit back on the floor. "Doctor, I'm loyal to you, and to Mrs. Marks, and to Professor Woods. But, I am also loyal to the captain. There aren't two sides. We are all heading to the same place, and we all want to survive. Right?"

He slides the pack into its box. "There are the lawless men, and the lawful. I shall remain lawful, and I'd implore you to do the same."

"Have I broken any laws, sir?"

He pauses. "No, but in the wrong company, we all make mistakes."

I clasp my hands. I have no intentions to break any laws. "I won't be corrupted, sir. I may be in the company of the pirates often, but they don't ever try to lure me into anything so sinful as thievery or, and it makes me shudder to even think of it, the abuse of women. Drink, yes. But I say no every time, sir. I say no," I insist. I shake my head and try, "What about the Seer, sir?"

He stills, concern fading. "What about?"

"She chose Captain Avery for a reason, didn't she?"

His brows pinch. "Of course."

"She trusts that he can get us to the Isles alive so that we can bring the end of the war. That was what she said. So, are you afraid that you'll die under his command, sir?"

I am pleased to say that the befuddlement on his features is a clear sign that I have succeeded in bringing one wonderful man to the same side as Lydia and I, with only so little. Brows painting an umbrella of lines, he nods and sighs.

In prayer, he touches two fingers twixt his brows, then brings them to his lips. "I will have faith," he decides. "Of course we will survive in the hands of this captain. It has been foreseen, and who am I to doubt the Sight of Laod?" He pauses and narrows his eyes. "As long as the scoundrel keeps my flag up, that is."

I grin and reach out to vigorously shake his hand. "Thank you, Doctor!"

For what? I am confused as he is. I suppose I am thankful that he sees the importance of my pa, and that after four days, I've finally gotten to show him that I'm no traitor to anyone. I'm just... doing my best. I have plans, the captain has plans, and the doctor has plans, too.

He stops me from shaking, laughing at my eagerness, and pulls me into his thin old frame. He smells as salty as any seaman. I'm sure I smell the very same. "That's all right, Walt. I've been blinded by my upper-class ignorance, it seems. Faith over judgement, always."

It is very strange for me when he has religious moments. Before, I'd always felt a little uncomfortable about it, but accepting, for the most part. Since Simon's story of religious parents and all the pain they caused, I've been more disturbed. He doesn't pray at night or chase me with blessings like the devout on the streets of Amity that advertise their causes to the public—always groveling, always thinking the rest of us need saving by their Laod. He's subtle about his faith. In fact, when he speaks of it, he only speaks of it using the very word of 'faith'. No more, and seldom even that.

I wonder if he knows about Simon's lover. If there was something religiously wrong with their relationship, would the doctor accept it? I almost ask. The professor told me in confidence. But...

"What if faith hurts someone?"

"I have pledged myself to never do harm, dear boy," he assures, patting my back. "Ethics over religion. There are some scriptures that I do not agree with." He lets me go. "This isn't about... Simon... is it? Because he told you about Sandy?"

I blush. "You know he told me?"

"Walt, Simon tells me how many chapters he's read every day. There isn't a thing he doesn't confide." He chuckles.

"Oh."

"What Sandy's parents did was morally wrong, Walter." He firmly grips my shoulder and searches for my eyes. "And you will never, never have to fear me laying a harmful hand on you. Not for my religion, or otherwise. No matter what you do. I promise."

Obviously, I have no doubts. Ne'er have I met a kinder, more genuine man than Dr. Oswald. We quietly speak a little longer, and it is pleasant to have such polite company after four days of howling, hooting, swearing hooligans. He escorts me out, and, to my surprise, Simon catches us on the stairs on his way down and our way up.

"Good morning, Doctor," he greets.

"Good morning, Simon!"

After four days and a stern talking-to from Lydia, the professor looks glumly to me. "Walter."

I grin. "Good morning, Professor!" I let go of Dr. Oswald's hand and reach for Simon's. He flinches away, quite unfriendly, and places both hands on the book under his arm; a disease compendium. "May I speak with you?"

"I'd rather you didn't," he sniffs, and carries on down the stairs.

My face falls, and I can't help but feel injured. The doctor opens his mouth to scold Simon.

Simon stops at the bottom of the stairs and glances back at me, before the doctor speaks. "But, I won't stop you." He shrugs in a resigned fashion and carries on.

My heart flutters. An opportunity!

Dr. Oswald catches my arm and pulls my ear near to whisper, "You wish to speak to him about Captain Avery, don't you?"

I nod, looking anxiously back at the professor as he leans against the door to our cabin, swinging it wearily open.

The doctor whimpers slightly, eyes filling with worry. "I ask that you don't. There are things, personal things, that you don't know and that he won't share with you. You'll only bring out his temper, I can predict that much after all the years I've known him."

"Cornelius," Professor Woods calls, squinting from the cabin doorway. "What are you saying?"

"If you have to say anything, just be forgiving if he lashes out," Dr. Oswald pleads. He lets me go and prods me on with a pat to my back. He waves to the professor. "Mind your temper, Simon."

"Oh, please."

I hesitate at first, then leave the doctor and jog after the professor. He holds the cabin door for me and closes it on my entry. He lowers his book onto his bed and stares expectantly.

I take a deep breath. "Right. Well, first, sir, you've been ignoring me. Entirely."

"How astute." No particular reaction to this at all. As if this is fine.

Well, I tell you, it isn't fine. "That hasn't been very... very nice."

He looks moodily to the ceiling. "My apologies. Mrs. Marks has spoken with me already. I will be more... open in the future."

"Thank you," I say.

"But, if you speak to me about the captain, so help me, Walter..." He sucks are through his teeth, shaking his head.

"Professor..." I frown. I bite the inside of my cheek. That is exactly who I wish to speak of, isn't it? Exactly who the doctor warned me not to speak about. The agonizing tensions won't cease until we can stand on the same side, so I continue despite the warnings. "Professor, why are you so angry with me for trusting the captain? You knew that he was Captain Avery before and you knew that I trusted him. Professor Woods," I use the name he likes, the way the captain does it, "why should anything be different?"

"You never fail to disappoint, do you," he sneers, casting his gaze aside. "By associating with that man, you are as much a scoundrel as he is."

My shoulders tense. "That's not fair. You are over-reacting."

"Perhaps I am," he admits, unapologetically. "There is more to it than you think you know, but if you want to know what's on the surface, you can have it; I think it foul that you thought to share a toast with that wastrel immediately after he informed us that if we manage to survive an uncharted death-trap of a course, we will be required to serve in his war, where we will have just as unlikely a chance for survival at his request. I would rather not serve him on his own personal vendetta." He shudders and dusts himself off by way of habit, as if even the thought made him feel dirty. "Furthermore, you agreed to revenge with him. Revenge of all the morally, ethically incorrect things! I can't support that, especially not when in league with that knave. He's a sewer rat, Walter. A thieving, drinking, deserting sewer rat with no good attributes or good deeds whatsoever. He has no loyalty, and yet he asks for ours. He deserted the navy, he deserted you, he deserted..."

His hand catches on his lower back, lightly at first. His face pales, and his fingers clench over where his branding lies. They fall quickly away and with a blink, his face hardens to stone. I look away, weary of this change. From sharp scorn to something cold and outside my realm of understanding.

"I will not serve him. I would sooner shoot him. I despise the man, and his history, and all that I have seen for myself. I don't wish to speak of him. I never trusted him or even liked him before, what's it matter that I still don't?"

He sighs, and I feel his hand clamp over my shoulder. I look up and find the malice washed from his features, granting some relief.

"You can make your own decisions, Walter, and I'll respect that. I know you were raised respectably enough to know your right and wrong apart. But I cannot make the same decision as you. The man repulses me. But, please, don't think that that I am repulsed by you as well, despite myself. I do not hate you. I hate the pirate."

Thinking, I chew idly on the inside of my cheek. Bitterly, I can't stop a jeer at his 'respecting my decisions' from coming to mind, although I wisely don't voice it. I almost say a sardonic, 'gee, thanks', but bite my tongue. He is a stubborn man, and terribly petty, I find, when it comes to being disrespected. Let it go, Walt. What had the captain suggested?

"Have you asked Elian why he sails with Captain Avery?" I ask. "I'll bet he trusts him, too."

Simon stiffens and furrows his brow, looking over the top of my head. His fingers twitch at his sides, and after a moment, he clasps them behind his back to conceal their spastic movement. "Elian's opinion of the captain cannot change my own any more than yours can."

Doubtful.

He moves to pass me, but I block the door.

"Ask Elian," I implore. "Please, Professor. I don't think the captain needs you to like him, or even to respect him. He just needs to be able to trust you, and he needs you to trust him in return. All I want is for us to be on the same side, sir. Please."

He tilts his chin up and peers at me over his nose. "Step aside, Walter."

I do.

***

Of all the scenarios that I could have come to at the end of my tiring day as a celebrity, I find myself baffled out of my wits by what I arrive to. It's bloody difficult to tell the time when I haven't got a time-piece—and I doubt the rowdy salts aboard even know how to read time at all, so they don't have time-pieces either. They look at the sun and the moon, they say. It isn't accurate, but according to that method, I do think that is it quite close to, and perhaps a count of minutes less than, eleven o'clock when I shuffle into the shared cabin.

Inside, I find the room dimly aglow with three soft candles and the energy of Simon. Simon is like the flint to the steel of knowledge—when they meet, he sparks a brilliant flame. He's discovered something that excites him so considerably that he does not notice me at all, and carries on with his rant of sheer fascination, keeping two weary savants half-awake in their cots.

I noiselessly kick off my shoes and crawl into my hammock to stretch out and listen.

"—wouldn't have thought of it. It truly eliminates the untrustworthy. It is, though manipulative, genius. Quietly and discreetly genius. I can't help but wonder what happened to the ones that did tell his secret. I did ask, of course. I hate to have unanswered questions, you know."

"And what did he say?" Dr. Oswald tiredly asks.

Simon frowns. "He didn't. He'd gotten what he wanted from me, and so had his henchman—and by that, I mean Master Harvey Cobbe, the dreadful louse—escort me away from him. Refused to speak with me after that. Stubborn as a mule, and cruel enough to keep me guessing. I'd wager he slit their throats."

Lydia pulls her covers over her shoulder and faces the wall. "Go to sleep, Simon."

"Are you talking about the captain?" I ask, quite certain I am right. "Why is he genius?"

Simon's eyes smile at me, though his lips barely twitch. He has the brightest and most brilliant blue eyes when he's excited. It's a nice change to the constant cold shoulder and icy glare. "Well, let me tell you what I learned today!"

Lydia and Dr. Oswald both protest.

"It is late, Simon," Dr. Oswald reminds, exasperated.

"Take it outside, for pity's sake," Lydia mutters. And, quieter, "Laod knows we don't need to hear it again."

Simon blushes. His hands fidget at his sides, as they'd done with me this morning. He holds them behind his back. "Yes, all right," he mumbles in his embarrassment.

I readily slide out of my hammock and open the door, picking up a candle as I go. Simon blinks at me in surprise. Of course he should be surprised. I'm not, and I doubt anyone really is, typically interested in anything he has to say. However, if he's dropped the foolishness of having two 'sides' aboard the ship, I want to hear about it. Can we be respectful acquaintances again? (I really don't think we'll ever be friends. I can't understand why the man must always be so cold and alienating.)

The professor very nearly smiles, eager to follow me out. He wishes a courteous goodnight to our companions and, content, closes the cabin door behind us. Rootwig clicks at us from across the narrow hallway. I peer into the darkness of their cabin, and at a glimpse of the eerie light seemingly glinting from her glasses, scamper on. There are no candles lit in their cabin. How could there be light on her eyes? Greenish-yellow light?

Simon lets out a quiet, nervous whine. I don't think he'd appreciate me describing it as a whine, but I swear, no word could better suit. I wait for him to hurry up, standing in my socks by the staircase to the deck.

He says a respectful goodnight to the creepy creatures, and plods after me in his shoes, which are beginning to lose their shine, all the while looking over his shoulder.

When he reaches me, I carry on, my bobbing candle's light drifting with me along the walls. There are two lanterns lit in the corridor. Simon stops before the mess hall doors and waits for me to open them. Naturally, he does not touch them himself.

With a sigh, I tug one open and gesture him in. I'm sure to close the heavy door before I move to sit across from him. He frowns at the table, and for a moment, we are silent.

"I miss having tea," he remarks quietly, rubbing idly at his wrist.

"Oh."

Did I sap his energy? Am I not as worthwhile an audience as his colleagues? I think it was the fish people, and I shouldn't blame myself. I can see the goosebumps that we share. The creatures could make anyone's skin crawl.

Well, perhaps not the captain's skin. From what I've seen, he has a rare fascination with them.

"What excited you so?" I begin, because in the awkward, silent ticks that have passed us by, he's sunken to thoughts so deep I swear I can see them. They are so prominently there.

He looks up from his folded hands, and blinks at me, gathering his attention for the present. "Ah," says he, and it's a wonder I hear him because he speaks so softly in the silence. The ship may creak and the waves may churn and lap against the hull, but I assure you, in my mind it is silent. The sounds of the sea no longer seem to be sounds to me. Like my own breathing. I wouldn't hear it unless I was listening for it.

"I spoke to Elian, and I learned a great deal more than what I expected to."

He spoke to Elian! Just as I'd beseeched him to do. I smile, just slightly, and bite it quickly away. "What did you learn?"

He looks back to his hands. He rubs the goosebumps at his wrist until they disappear. "Elian told me that he trusts the captain because the captain trusts him. And the rest of the crew, I discovered, are the same."

"And this fascinates you? I'd always figured you were dry, sir, but not as much as this."

"No," Simon pointedly replies. "It is the how and the why that fascinates me, boy. Human nature."

"Don't call me boy."

"They all knew that his name was Avery. They knew before he apparently 'revealed' himself. They knew because he told each one of them in confidence, as he'd told many men before. What they didn't know was that everyone else knew, too."

I frown. "Sorry?"

"Just listen," he grumbles. "Avery told many, many men his name, but he told each one of those many men to never tell a soul. The men currently with us aboard are the ones that never told. They never told each other, and they never told anyone else. They kept a secret for him for years, each one of them. So, the captain trusts them all, and they trust him in return, so much so that in years of knowing about the ransom on his head, they never spoke a word."

In all honesty, knowing myself, I'd spill any secret told to me within a day. Unless, that is, there's a solid reason not to. "Why?" I ask.

"Responsibility, Walter." As if the answer is as clear as glass, as if it is remarkable that I haven't figured it out myself. "We crave it. Humankind. When the captain took one man into his cabin alone and chatted with him, complimented him, shared a drink with him..."

All these things had he done with me.

"... it made him feel special. Important, and cherished by the highest authority aboard; the captain, whom everyone looked to for commands and guidance and control. And each man felt all this importance about themselves, bestowed a precious secret by that high-up sailor in his private cabin, even though, unbeknownst, every other man experienced the very same treatment. But, when a man is made to feel special, it inspires some loyalty, doesn't it? Because when you feel trusted, you are inspired yourself to be trusting." He smiles at me, but not in a kind way. It is a very confusing smile, and I'm not sure what to think. Guarded, I sit back slightly. "You would know, wouldn't you. Alone in the room where it happens with the game's champion himself, being played with." And his supercilious crow is so utterly... utterly snake-like that I have to look him up and down to be certain that I am speaking with the same man whom had been so eager and excited just a handful of minutes ago. "I'm curious, Walter... what did he say to make you feel so valued, despite how he fails to spare you much attention at all?"

I fold my arms and slouch over the table in heat. "Simon." He frowns instantly, because I'm addressing him as if we are equals and he really doesn't think so. "I don't feel valued by the captain, I feel respected and trusted."

He thinks about this, as if it is something that interests him, that he hasn't already considered. I can see it on his face, as if he's processing the information to add to his library—a new perspective for his latest research pursuit. His eyes flicker over the table, peering through his dopey spectacles.

"And honestly, Simon," I continue, without managing to think about what I'm saying, "That's more than I could say for you. If I had to choose sides between you—and I don't mean you as in a collective of you, the doctor, and Lydia—I simply mean solely you, Simon, and him, I'd choose him, and that's fact." Impulsively so.

I regret it and almost take it back, but... Simon's back straightens and he stares at me, and I feel like it may be the very first time that he's truly focused on me and what I'm saying. One hundred percent focused and attentive and listening—really, truly listening. At this, I do feel a twinge of nerve, but I grit my teeth because there is more to this argument.

"The captain may be manipulative and alcoholic, irresponsible, arrogant... but at least he treats me as though I'm respectable and worthwhile, and he doesn't call me boy. When trust is mutual, or at least seems mutual, yeah, you get loyalty—so sure, you could say I'm loyal to him. I'm loyal to the doctor, and to Lydia, too. But, I am not loyal to you—not really. I'm loyal to you because I feel obligated to be but I don't feel so strongly about it. I trust you to be self-absorbed, I trust you to be unfriendly, and if I were to fall, I'd trust you to take two steps to the right and allow me concussion. To me, you are, frankly, a snake, and if you continue to attack me every time we speak, I will no longer fight to see you as otherwise. I..." I almost say 'hate', but can't bring the word to my tongue, "dislike you, Simon. Sometimes strongly."

I stare back at him expectantly. The expectation turns to anticipation which turns to anxiety and in silent minutes passing I find myself yearning to apologize. Every muscle pulses for me to say that I am sorry, and that I don't mean it, but I do not, because he is so still and quiet and attentive and despite the reserved, stunned expression frozen behind his spectacles, I can feel him reading me, and my twitchy, nervous, sweaty body language, and listening to my hesitant breath and that slight, annoying whine that is betraying my reluctant desire to speak again.

Moments.

Seconds?

Minutes?

Hours?

"Hypothetically," he raps eventually, allowing my heart to clench even tighter, and then relax, letting me know he isn't... broken. His tone is no different to how it ordinarily is, where he speaks briskly and to the point, but there is a difference in his attention. It isn't divided. "Hypothetically, if an unforeseeable, but preventable disaster were to occur—for the sake of this hypothetical, the mast falling over—and both Captain Avery and myself were in its path, and you had the ability to save one of us in time, who would you save?"

The question stumps me, and the fact that it does is only further puzzling. I had just said myself that I would side always with the captain over Simon, but I hadn't mentioned life or death. I hadn't considered it, because I suppose I've seen enough death with my mother and feel that a chunk of me is missing still. With our cottage located in such a reclusive spot outside the quiet village of Amity, I didn't know many people, which I suppose is why every person matters to me, now, more than they should. My mother was like my other half— I was never without her before...
The doctor and Lydia and Simon and the captain, and even a good portion of the crew, have taken her place as that half, and if I ponder on it, and I do now, I realize that... I'd feel loss no matter who died. I've grown attached to them all, perhaps Dr. Oswald most.

"You shouldn't need to think about it."

Alas, I do. Simon would be the more conventional choice, wouldn't he? Educated, mannered, and a contributor to society with in-depth studies of diseases and cures and symptoms that will help future generations. And he's young, too. So much more life left in him, and so many discoveries to make; especially with his passion for his specialist subject. However, I don't feel love for him. Attachment, yes, but not love. I'm not sure what to think of it, how to describe it or put it into words for myself to comprehend. Comfort, maybe. I feel comfortable with him, because, deep down, I guess I know he would protect me. Well, I think he would. Maybe. If he is in a good mood.

The captain on the other hand has that presence about him that you can't ignore. It's like life and luck and pure charisma fills him to the brim, and on some days it spills, so that when you're in his midst you absorb that energy and that amazing, brilliant, high-on-life livelihood that carries with him always—even when he's in foul moods. And the way he lives is inspiring (no, not the criminal part, or the runaway part). He's penniless, but he still loves life and makes others love it, too. He has a smile that can shoot sharper than Simon's pistol. When Captain Avery smiles at you in his special, mischievous way, you bleed life that you don't know you have, and you suddenly feel alive.

"You would be utterly still and save neither," Simon concludes.

"No!" I protest. But... yes. Maybe. I can't decide.

"It's an ethically challenging decision to make, but I had expected that you would save the captain. Instinctively, if the time came to it, you likely would. With what you've been saying, that is. That I am of course so much less worthy in your opinion."

Should I be ashamed?

"You wouldn't be able to move him, and you would die, too. Realistically. I'm smaller. But, also realistically, in such a situation, I'd really think that you would not move at all because to save one of us would be to sacrifice yourself, and though you may be the dry 'hero type', or fancy yourself as such, you would not sacrifice yourself."

My jaw drops because I feel the need to say something in defense, and at the same time I haven't a word to say. Broken Simon? I'd for certain not even grazed him! Here he is, insulting me with his assumptions and his 'realistically's. What in the world am I to do, but think him utterly, unsaveably self-absorbed and detached from me and my opinions and my feelings and my words?

Except, he's still entirely focused on me, and I'm still beyond confused.

"You shouldn't sacrifice yourself," he carries on, after my silence has become peculiar and deafening to myself. "You are worth more than both of us, and I haven't been kind enough to tell you so. I am not kind. I will not attempt to be kind. I work best when I am alone, and will never, ever allow you to get close to me, therefore, I will always push you away. Call it selfish, self-absorbed, self-obsessed... call it whatever you like, but, I'm afraid, Walter, though I appreciate your confrontation, I won't change for you. I do trust you, and I trust in your predictability. I trust you as a companion, though I wouldn't trust you with all my personal, emotional baggage. I think, and perhaps I am assuming too much, or even too little, I trust you in the way that you trust the captain. Not in the way that we both trust Dr. Oswald—as in, as I said perhaps not clearly enough, I would not feel safe or comfortable confiding in you. Do you understand?"

I stare glumly at the table. At the very least, he's sharing, and not giving me the cold shoulder. "Yes." I understand that he'd like to keep our relationship as separate as possible while living in close quarters.

To my surprise, he reaches across the table to lay a gentle hand on my forearm. I look up at him again, searching for explanation.

"Walter, please understand that I don't dislike you. You are very important to me, because you are important to the doctor. And furthermore, you did save my life. That was... impressive. But, even if you hadn't, I'd still protect you the same. If I were alive, that is." He chuckles a little, hardly a breath, then withdraws his hand, searching my eyes with such concern that I, overwhelmed, must look away. It isn't like him. "If any one of those brutes threaten you, I'll shoot them. I hope you realize that."

What I realize is not only that Simon fancies himself a protector (while I apparently fancy myself a hero), but also that I will never understand him. Companions, acquaintances, but never to be friends, and not at any fault of mine. He cares, but prefers to do so at a distance. How does one care from a distance? It is puzzling and unfair.

It is unfair.

He ignored me blatantly for days. Was that caring from a distance, too?

I fold my arms and pull them to my chest, out of the professor's reach. I'd rather he not touch me again. It's far too confusing. Confusing, confusing. "Where did you learn to shoot?" I ask, just to seem aloof. The question has been eating me from the inside out since I'd first witnessed his talents. I'd rather hear the answer to that than further elaboration on why he must be so distanced from me, even though he's bloody well close enough to Mrs. Marks and Dr. Oswald.

He laughs, and it isn't a real laugh, but how else can one describe that puff of almost noiseless air that exits the nose when one experiences a personal joke. It isn't a snort. It's too smooth and mannered to be a snort.

He shakes his head.

"Where... I do wonder, why is it always 'where'?" He stands up. He doesn't answer my question, and leaves me only more confusion to deal with. Only befuddlement. I feel no curiosity now. Just blankness. Thoroughly disheartening blankness.

"Come, Walter. We must retire. It is late," he says, and waits for me at the door. As I rise, he speaks again, "And to answer your initial curiosity of the evening, yes. Yes, I do trust in the captain. I suppose there really is something strong in the value of secrets... for he's revealed to me that he's been keeping one of mine. It's a peculiar debt."