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“Need help with that, dame?”
Ishmael–Captain Ishmael now, Heathcliff supposes, throws a glare over her shoulder as her hands pause mid-another attempt at wrapping her voluptuous hair into a bun with the kanzashi, something she clearly wasn’t used to.
“I don’t see you dragging a wave of uncontrollable locks wherever you go.”
“You’ve been fiddlin’ with that for the past few minutes. Gettin’ kind of sad, frankly.”
She drops her hands, her hair released from its umpteenth attempt at compression. “Then do it yourself if you’re such an expert.”
And so Heathcliff does, and, to Ishmael’s visible frustration as she looks in the mirror, with better results than any of her previous attempts.
“Girl I grew up with had a bunch of knick-knacks for her hair, n’ I’d help her put ‘em on.”
“Hmm.” Ishmael hums, then grabs the rope laying on the vanity table, and expertly ties it around her bun.
“You never go anywhere without that, huh?”
“As you do with your ring.”
“Fair enough.” He cocks his head to the door, “Ready to make it official, Captain?”
“That’s going to take some time getting used to…” She sighs, but the power in the title clearly gives her a bit of a high, if the smile forming on the corner of her lips is any indication. “Let’s go.”
-
Before Ishmael became Captain, she and Heathcliff were fellow henchmen who would often butt heads, yet continue to be partnered up for the same missions due to their undeniable chemistry during battle. Ishmael let no distractions overtake her, facing the enemy straight on like a harpoon, and Heathcliff’s versatile fighting style, akin more to swinging a mace than a sword, worked in taking care of enemies in one fell swoop. They were oddballs who for all rights and purposes shouldn’t work together as well as they do due to their tendency to clash.
When Ishmael’s promotion to Captain was announced, Heathcliff congratulated her with a pat on the shoulder, jokingly lamenting they wouldn’t be able to fight back to back as much as they used to.
The day her irezumi was to be upgraded, signifying her higher status and enhancing her present augmentations, Ishmael asked him to be her witness during the process. Which was not needed, nor common, but Heathcliff found no reason to refuse.
“Nervous?”
“As if. It’s just a needle.”
“Feel free to hold my hand if you can’t handle the pain.”
“What am I, five?”
“Hey, just a proposition, dame. Here to be supportive and all.”
After about an hour of painting, watching Ishmael wince at random intervals during the process, the artist took a small break in order to change tools. During their absence, Heathcliff took the opportunity to reach out to Ishmael, poking at her trembling hand. Ishmael, with her face still buried in the cushion, replied by silently wrapping her fingers around his hand, nails stabbing into Heathcliff’s skin. Not enough to bleed, but enough to leave marks. Her heavy breaths, barely audible over her self-inflicted muffling, had become clear through the way her back moved with each gulp of air she desperately took to keep from groaning in pain.
Ishmael hated to be seen like this, even when it was out of her control. Especially when her wounds were the result of a mistake she made that led her to have to cling to Heathcliff’s equally bruised form, limping his and her whooped asses back to base before they both kicked the bucket. They’d argue the most during those times, less out of genuine anger, and more to keep each other's blood pumping so they'd keep moving. Alive. Self-hating, self-blaming creatures, yet too angry to let those bruises be their demise. Prideful creatures would cling to each other in the dark, sodden alleyways, leaving trails of blood and tears as they continued to grab and cling to each other to remind themselves they’re alive. That the other is alive. That they haven’t lost anyone again.
How funny, Heathcliff thought. In being the last person Ishmael would want to see her like this, he became the only one who she would allow to witness her in such a state.
The tattoo artist comes back, and Ishmael’s nails let go of Heathcliff with a gentle squelch, too soft and quiet for anyone to notice that wasn’t obsessed and hyper-focused on their contact. Heathcliff sticks his hand between his thighs all the same, keeping the wound out of the artist’s view. Less for Ishmael’s pride, and more for the sprout of possessiveness that began to delicately bud in the corner of his mind.
As Ishmael was making her final preparations to be made Captain, dignified and unreachable, Heathcliff watched through the tiniest open gap in the door between him and Ishmael, and the attendants fixing her clothes. In the darkness of the waiting room, keeping his eye on Ishmael’s back like an ever-watching bodyguard, Heathcliff licked the nail marks on his hand, savoring the memory of the pain inflicted upon Ishmael. Unable to show weakness, she stored it in Heathcliff’s heart, where she knew it would be safe, given time to nestle and heal.
As his saliva seeps into the indents on his hand, Ishmael glances at her nails, sweeping her thumb over them, as if experiencing a phantom sensation.
With how exposed she is now, any scar an enemy might leave would be visible for all to see–the pain she endured, only to continue standing tall, as if the scars themselves were reason to be proud.
Heathcliff thinks, licking his lips–it’s enough to make a man jealous.
Better make sure no one lays not even a nick on her, then.
-
Right as Heathcliff slides the door to Ishmael’s office closed, she turns and begins to pull out her wakizashi.
“Oi.” He lets out, more bothered than anything. “What’d I do to deserve getting my pinky knobbed off?”
“Nothing.” She replies nonchalantly, holding out the weapon with the blunt end towards Heathcliff. “The only thing you’ll be cutting are the ends of my hair. If you could.”
“Oh.” He grabs it almost without thinking, and Ishmael is already trotting towards her desk before he can fully take in the situation. “Since when am I your stylist?”
“You know about hair styling so much, might as well hone your skills in it.”
“Well, I did cut my own hair for the longest time…” He grabs the chair on the opposite side of Ishmael’s and drags it unceremoniously to the Captain’s side of the desk. “Style mine own, too.”
“With how much hair gel you use, I’d be convincing you to find another stylist otherwise.” Ishmael sighs, pulling out the kanzashi from her hair and untying the rope tying it all together, letting her hair flow free as her back faces Heathcliff.
The wakizashi is sharper than any of the dull tools Heathcliff ever had to use to cut his own hair, and so Ishmael’s brittle ends give way easily. As he goes about, he and Ishmael chat absentmindedly about the other members, upcoming appointments, and what they’re getting for dinner later. Most of it goes one ear and out the other as they’re both just trying to fight the silence, and the mutual distraction is what allows Heathcliff to let the blade travel a little higher than it’s supposed to.
Ishmael seems none the wiser, and after Heathcliff announces he’s done, he stashes a few loose locks Ishmael wouldn’t miss in his pocket as he hands her her wakizashi back. With some team effort, they tie her hair back into its bun (the walk back to her bedroom isn't far, but important to keep up appearances since people might still see her on the way), and exchange goodnights.
In his room, Heathcliff digs up an engraved tomobako he kept after Hong Lu received a gift from a co-worker, and lent the box to Heathcliff when he noticed his staring. “You can use it to gift someone, too!” He propositioned, smiling frustratingly bright as he always does.
Does a gift to yourself count? Especially when it was stolen?
He doesn’t exactly have the morality to ask that as he gently ties the wavy inches of Ishmael’s hair with a rope and stashes it in the box, the clack making him jump amidst the deafening silence of his dark, lonesome room.
-
“Ugh, I’m sweaty.” Ishmael groans, paying no mind to the foreign blood staining her skin, as if it was somehow more preferable to her own natural musk. “Let us have a bath.”
“‘Aight.” Heathcliff shrugs, adjusting his scabbard over his shoulder as he naturally follows Ishmael’s casual pace, matching in step with her until her sentence fully buffers in his brain and he squints. “‘Us’?”
Water splashes as Ishmael scrubs her neck clean, and Heathcliff sits stock-still as he wonders what he’s supposed to be doing.
She could have brought him with her for protection, but the problem with that theory is that the bath house owner ruled his establishment as a strict neutral area where violence within the vicinity will be severely punished, either physically or monetarily. They have connections to multiple Syndicates (and some members of a Finger if memory serves him right), and thus, no one bothers to start fights there.
Also, they don’t have any weapons on their person in lieu of being completely naked.
Also also, he’s the only one Ishmael invited along.
So, uh. That’s interesting.
He tries to distract himself by absentmindedly splashing some water over his chest when he notices something, or rather lack thereof. “They ain’t got razors here, do they? Too much risk a bloke might start a fight?”
“Yeah. They recently started renting out electric ones, but they break easily. The owner purposefully buys them secondhand so when they break you’ve got to pay for damages.”
“Fuck that, I’d rather just do it with my own sword at that point.”
“If I see you using your katana to shave your peach fuzz, I will shave off your face.”
“Oh, like you haven’t begged me to use your wakizashi to cut your own hair?”
“That’s a secret…!” Ishmael whisper-yells as she splashes a fist in the water, and Heathcliff bellows out a laugh. She pouts for a moment, before turning her back to him. “For that transgression, help me out with my back. Or,” She turns her head slightly, just enough for her eye to pierce him through her sea of locks, “Should I wait to have you cut my hair again, and give you another souvenir?”
“Souvenir…?”
Heathcliff’s eyes almost bulge out of his head as the realization hits him like a freight train. Crap. Of course she knows. Nothing gets past the Captain. Damn it. Damn it. Shit.
“Well?” She urges, and Heathcliff huffs through his nose as he grabs a nearby sponge and lathers soap on it before he begins aggressively working on the Captain’s back.
“Want a massage with that, too, o, Captain?” He grits out through clenched teeth.
“If I say yes, what are you gonna take this time? My sweat or something…?”
“Oooooh Captain, you’re a real jokester, aren’t you!?!?”
“Are you planning to store some of this bath water to keep for later?”
“Say yes to the massage so I can kill you in your birthday suit!!!!”
They begin to tussle in the public bath like a pair of rowdy middle-school boys, and get some looks from the other customers, as well as the owner before both Ishmael and Heathcliff wave him off to show it’s all in good fun. Mostly.
“Seriously,” She brings her voice to a low tone, so their conversation returns to just being between the two of them. “Why are you being so weird?”
Heathcliff scoffs as the Captain has his head in a half-hearted headlock. She could easily snap his neck like this, but dying with his head pressed against the Boss’ chest doesn’t sound like a bad way to go, so whatever. “I dunno.” He shrugs, “Ever since you moved out, it felt… weird.”
“Awwww,” Ishmael coos, rubbing her cheek against Heathcliff’s like a doting mother, “Does widdle Heathcliff miss me~?”
“Shaddap.”
“So what, do you sniff my hair to help yourself sleep or something?”
“No! I mean, it’s in the room, but I don’t sniff it.”
“So it is a scent thing.”
“No! Yes? I dunno. It doesn’t feel like it’s ours, anymore. Or mine, for that matter.”
“You really are weird.”
“Can’t help it.”
“Hm.”
Heathcliff notices that the lock Ishmael had on his head had completely dissipated, and instead she's just keeping her arms over Heathcliff’s shoulders, her hands hanging in the air in front of him.
Like lava emerging from the confines of its rocks, the urge to leave matching marks begins to come back.
But just as he genuinely ponders whether he should go for it, Ishmael brings up a hand to tussle Heathcliff’s hair. “You don’t wash your hair a lot, do you?”
“It gets greasy like two days after I wash it! It’s a damn bother. If I’m going to be greasy forever, I might as well own it.”
“We’re making this a regular thing. You help with my hair, I’ll help with yours. At least I’ll have company while I wait for my conditioner to sink in.”
“Takes a good while to wash all that out, don’t it?”
“It sure does.” She sighs, pulling herself away from Heathcliff and leaning against the rim of the bath. Already missing the contact, Heathcliff saddles up close enough for their arms to almost touch.
“Won’t cutting it short be efficient? ‘s why I cut mine off.”
She looks at him in surprise, appraising him for a moment. “...Somehow, I can’t imagine you with long hair.”
He grabs a lock of his hair and twirls it around his finger, trying to squeeze out the gel and return it to its more natural form, to little avail. “Naturally kinda wavy? Curly? Like yours, pretty much. Grew it out ‘cause the girl I grew up with liked to style it.”
“Why cut it then?”
“She got tired… or, well, ‘s more complicated than that. But moreso, ‘cause it was more trouble than it was worth, not to mention how the wankers loved to pull on it… Just leaves more blind spots.”
“Well, no point in me cutting mine, then. I have you to cover my blind spots, don’t I?”
“Hmm.” He pulls his arm out of the water and throws it over the rim of the bath, strands of Ishmael’s hair tangling in his fingers with the motion. “Suppose you do, eh?”
–
Heathcliff bangs his cup on the table a little too loudly before he grabs the bottle and swills it around. “Better to just drink it from the bottle at this point. These cups ain’t enough for even a sip.”
“That’s the whole point.” Ishmael throws him a look, not as sharp as her usual glares due to the alcohol having taken considerable effect. “You’re supposed to savor it.”
“What, weren’t you a sailor, dame? Never chugged to escape the pain?”
“I did, more often than not. That’s why I want to appreciate it now that I have something better than cheap swill.”
“How exactly?”
The alcohol clearly hasn’t left Ishmael bereft of her agility. Before he realizes it, Ishmael has grasped Heathcliff’s cheeks between her fingers and is bringing her cup to his lips.
“Hmn!?”
“Slowly.”
He doesn’t exactly want to waste good wine, nor argue with a drunk person (not like he’s not drunk himself), so he does as she says and lets the umeshu slowly trickle down his tongue and throat, teasing his teeth as it all flows down like fire trailing down his body, all while Ishmael’s hold loosens and her fingers splay on his open chest instead.
He belatedly realizes she’s crawled into his lap, sitting up on her knees to make sure he’s not wasting a drop. Her gaze is hot like the sun, with her hair falling over both their frames, as if Heathcliff was the raging tempest and she the blazing sky during sunset.
“Mmn.”
Another realization–he’s drinking from her cup. The fact that his lips are where Ishmael’s were just a moment ago–there’s a hint of saliva left on the rim that makes him hotter than the alcohol ever could.
Ishmael doesn’t pull the cup away even after he finishes, as if in some sort of trance, and he has to wrestle her arm away before she cranes his neck so far it breaks. She loses her balance as he does, and Heathcliff catches her hip with his free hand. Her kimono slips, giving him a little peek, though it doesn’t faze him as much as the sudden hot breath she lets out against his chest as she refuses to pull away.
“Hey.” She breathes out, “I said don’t waste it.”
And with only that as a warning, she starts tonguing at Heathcliff’s chest.
“Oi. Uh.”
Bringing himself down to reality before his brain shoots off into space and never comes back, Heathcliff realizes that while giving him the umeshu, stray droplets escaped from the corner of his mouth and trickled down to his chest.
Specifically his right pec.
Which Ishmael had long since cleaned up.
“Hey, uh. Dame?” He pants, “Think you got it.”
“Mm.” She licks her lips as she pulls away, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. She risks a glance up at him, seemingly sobered up a little, before throwing another bomb at him. “You think you’ll be able to drink by yourself now?”
“I–yeah, sure? Maybe…?” If he says ‘no’, will she do it again? If he’s messier than before, she might help clean up even more if he plays his cards right.
“Let’s test it then.” She seems to think for a moment before pulling one arm out of her sleeve, fully unashamed of her naked form anymore as it was already in disarray. She properly sits up on the sofa, throws an arm over to the back, then with her free hand, pours Heathcliff’s undrunk cup over a hollow spot formed in her collarbone.
“Come on.” She drops the cup on the cushion, not really able to place it on the table or any solid surface lest she spill the umeshu and make a hypocrite out of herself for wasting it. “And remember. Slowly.”
That’s like telling a dehydrated man to take his time drinking water.
Heathcliff takes a deep breath to calm himself and scoots closer, brushing Ishmael’s loose locks behind her ear before he places his lips on the ridge of her collarbone. Ishmael tilts her head away to give him better access, but the angle at which she does it looks a little painful, so Heathcliff brings up a hand to cradle her neck so she doesn’t push herself too much in her drunken stupor. She told him to go slowly, but… How slow is too slow? How slow can he go before she starts making fun of him and calling him weird? Too fast and she’ll chide him, and too slow and she’ll find out he’s enjoying this a bit too much.
Ah, but if she didn’t enjoy this–enjoy him enjoying her… she wouldn’t have let this happen, would she?
The permission, the almost eager consent, almost makes him lightheaded.
Heathcliff laps up the umeshu from the dip in Ishmael’s collarbone, and the sound must travel to Ishmael’s ears quite nicely, as he can see her twitching with each swipe of his tongue. He continues even after the umeshu is gone and all that’s left is the continuous pour of Ishmael’s sweat as his licks turn into eager kisses down her neck, up her jaw. Little whines are his reward, and her eyes finally open when he grabs one of her free breasts to passively fondle it.
“Did good, didn’t I?”
Ishmael stares at him.
“Or am I not finished yet, lass?”
With a slow blink, Ishmael knocks her forehead against Heathcliff’s–an absurdly innocent gesture that brings a smile to his face, and in return, he’s rewarded with her toothy, prideful grin.
“No such thing as too good of a score.” Ishmael cranes her head back, showing her neck on full display like a predator goading its eager prey. “Come on.”
Heathcliff can’t leave many marks where Ishmael will be able to hide them. As Captain, she is made to be observed and feared. Untouched and unreachable.
Yet in Heathcliff’s hold, Ishmael feels more solid than anything in his life. Warm, close, with a scent that he would remember no matter where he goes. Of the sea, citrus and sweat–of home, or a place to stay. A safe haven where the two of them can meet.
Ishmael’s saliva trickles down Heathcliff’s bobbing throat, burning, engraving her essence into his very being, and Heathcliff breaks the kiss to push her down, eager to return the favor.
-
“Nervous?”
“Psh. If you can take it, so can I.”
“You’re sweating. Want me to hold your hand, you big baby?”
“Feck off. Aren’t there any painkillers I can take for a dash of relief?”
“Sure, but that means additional cost.”
“Does it come out of my paycheck?”
“Yes.”
And so, Heathcliff was allowed the delightful experience Ishmael herself had–that of uncensored, painful injection of augmentations on his body. And Heathcliff, very much more vocal than Ishmael for whenever there was something he didn’t like, was cussing up a storm while his Captain was having a field day watching the whole display.
“Bet you wish you got your hands on some painkillers after all, huh?”
“Nah–” He breathes, forcing a toothed smile Ishmael’s way– “But I am gonna get my hands on ya once I’m outta here.”
“Oooh, I’m sooo scared.”
“I’m fine, anyway. Hah… This is nothin’... I’ve been through worse.”
“I believe you. You don’t get scars like that just sitting around daddy’s office all day. Whatever it is he did. Taxes? I don’t know. I just assume everyone from T Corp. worked in taxes.”
“Afraid I can’t be bothered to remember at the moment. Ungh.”
He wants so badly to leave indents on her like she did on him, but it’s nothing close to marks left somewhere else where she can’t hide them, where he could latch on his teeth and leave scars that won’t fade for a good while, instead of his short, unattended nails, it’d be much better to sink his teeth in, make it clear who it was–
Ishmael squeezes her fingers against his, laying her other hand on top of his as well. It’s a gesture far too soft and innocent compared to his thoughts, to his life up until now, and that brings him more pain than the needle ever could.
“Don’t be so gentle.” He says, muffled into the cushion. “It’s a waste.”
“It’s a rarity.” She replies, “That’s for sure.”
And despite himself, Heathcliff laughs.
“‘specially from the Captain. Enough to make a man jealous, y’know.”
“Oh? I’ll just go give special treatment to someone else, then.”
“Hell no! Didn’t say I hate it… C’mere.”
Ishmael crosses her arms and places them on the free space on the cushion Heathcliff is resting on, laying her chin in the space between her arms. A teasing smile graces her features–it looks so natural and perfect on her freckled face that a smile naturally forms from him as well.
“Have you moved past your ‘just kill me’ stage of the procedure? Or should I get some ear plugs so I don’t have to hear you whine and moan?”
“Thought you liked that.”
Ishmael’s face falls into a deadpan frown, and Heathcliff cackles.
“I don’t plan on dyin’. I got people countin’ on me, don’t I?” He readjusts his crossed arms and chin into a more comfortable position, taking in Ishmael’s rapidly softening features, the way her lashes fall over her freckled cheeks, the strands of hair he desperately wants to make an excuse to fix, to touch. The slight pout as a result from smushing her face in her arms. “I’ve started to like my job. I wouldn’t have if it weren’t for the folks here.”
“‘Folks’.” She hums, “How vague.”
“Oi. Fishin’ for compliments, are we?”
“Who said I can’t be selfish?”
“Hah. Shellfish.”
“Shut up. You know what? I’m glad you didn’t take the painkillers now.”
Heathcliff slides up a little on his seat to bump his forehead against Ishmael’s, and to his surprise, she playfully reciprocates the gesture with a melodious giggle.
-
The routine had become as natural as breathing. Tying her hair as she fixes her sash, buttoning up his shirt as she gels his hair with much less quantity than he usually does yet with as much precision. They treat each other as reflections, trusting the others' perception of themselves without having to look in an actual mirror.
In front of the paper sliding door, Heathcliff kneels down, ready to open the door and announce Captain Ishmael’s entrance to the meeting board who are busy quietly chattering away.
Heathcliff looks up at her and mouths ‘Ready?’, to which she doesn’t respond immediately, fidgeting with her scabbard.
Instead of answering, she squats down and brushes her hair back. Heathcliff’s about to check her hair for any inconsistencies, when Ishmael brings his thoughts to a halt as she places a smooch on his lips, natural and innocent, as if it had already become part of their daily routine.
She pulls away, and catches Heathcliff’s gaze for only a split second before she stands up straight again, probably too embarrassed by Heathcliff’s bewildered, wide-eyed stare.
…That’s not fair. Doing it in a situation where he wouldn’t be able to properly reply…
But with Heathcliff, actions always spoke louder than words, right?
Heathcliff reaches out, brushing his fingers against one of Ishmael’s hands holding her sword. Admittedly a bit confused, if her hesitant release of her scabbard if anything to go by, she lets Heathcliff’s hand guide hers to his lips.
Emboldened by the audience right behind the thin wall, he lets his tongue slip through his lips and taste her skin, making her twitch at his invasive touch as he takes a finger into his mouth and lets his teeth catch on the base of her ring and pinky finger, lightly pressing.
He peeks up at her and is delighted to see the veins on her scabbard-holding hand showing through the skin from how hard she's gripping it. If he squints through the shadows, he’ll be able to see a vein popping through on her forehead, as well as a slight red coating on her cheeks.
Heathcliff pulls away, the saliva connecting him and Ishmael slowly dissipating in the morning air.
Wiping her hand on the inside of her sleeve, Ishmael once again straightens herself up, less tense than before.
Simultaneously, Heathcliff and Ishmael take a deep breath, then exhale.
Heathcliff knocks on the wooden frame of the door, stalling the chatter to a halt, before he slowly slides open the door revealing the sun herself to the world.
“Thirty-fourth Captain of the Kurokumo Clan, Ishmael, has arrived.”