Mel didn't know what to say. Bruce had never been so forthcoming around him, in all the many years he'd served with him on the ship. Hell, he was sure, half the time, that the man barely tolerated him. "What do you mean?" he almost slapped himself at this lackluster response. Look at him, already squandering a rare chance to get to know Bruce better.

But Bruce didn't grunt a "never mind" like he typically would. He sat down heavily, practically rocking the entire ship with the heft of his massive, muscled body. Mel was no small cookie, but he was practically a twig around this man. "I don't have anyone or anything outside this ship, Squirt," he let out a patient sigh. "I have only my name, and every day I march closer to the day where I'm more myth than man."

"You're not that old."

Bruce, miraculously, actually chuckled, a surprisingly pleasant sound from the brutish man. "Old enough that these knees are creakin' and my back makes sounds it ought not to."

Mel grimaced. "That sounds painful."

"That's cause it is."

They sat there. Mel couldn't help but spiral. Why would Bruce share this with him of all people? In their crew, he was always closer to the veterans, like One-Eyed Jack and Russel the Menace. Mel hadn't even managed to get an official nickname before Bruce's humiliating - and strangely enthralling - pet name became his standard ship name.

Bruce leaned back with a grunt, his hands resting on his stomach. His sharp, bearded face was a mask of deep thought, and Mel was scared to even breath wrong an disturb him. He'd seen men get thrown off the ship for less. Other than Captain Oz, Bruce was the ultimate authority.

"Do you..." Mel started, but he choked. God, he was such a coward. If Bruce is a coward, Mel must be a true wimp.

"Say what you gotta say."

That was about as patient of an answer he'd ever get. "Do you ever wonder what life would have been like on a different path? Somewhere on shore? Maybe a different job, a... a family?"

He didn't have enough time to start overthinking again before Bruce replied. "Every day."

Mel sat with that, waiting, twiddling his thumbs.

"But not away from water, nah. I wonder about being in the waters as a nobody. Free as a damn bird, going this place and that with no crew. Just Bruce, no Bruce the Great." He looked at Mel's reddened face and laughed a booming laugh that made Mel's chest squeeze. "Ya think I don't know what they say out there? I hear it all."

Mel shuddered to imagine what Bruce would think if he really heard it all. Especially what he'd gotten around to with one of the low level crewmates, thinking about Bruce's massive hands so desperately he always worried he'd accidentally shout it. He was never sure if his obsession with the co-captain was just his perpetually horny brain, hero worship, or maybe both. He couldn't help but shudder in both fear and excitement every time Bruce commanded a room, or appeared back on deck after a long meeting with the captain. No wonder the crew always whispered he must have multiple lovers at every port.

"You're thinking mighty loud, Squirt."

Mel felt the blush completely swamping him in a rush. "No no, just, thinking about it."

"About what?" Bruce's voice was obviously amused. How much did he know?

"About another life," he finally found the words.

Bruce's face went solemn. "And what about it?"

Mel pulled his knees up and circled his arms around them, hugging them to his body protectively. "It's stupid."

"Ain't stupid if I asked."

Mel looked at him then, finding those stunning dark eyes trained on him. He was so potent up close, he couldn't help but tell him anything he'd ask. "I think I would have liked to have a little fishing boat and a little house, maybe. Nothing... nothing big. I just like the waters, is all. But I don't have that kind of money, so this is home, I think."

Bruce hummed in understanding, and the sound sent a thrill south that made Mel flush again.

"That didn't sound too stupid to me."

Mel had never heard his voice so soft before, so gentle. By Bruce's standards, this was the verbal equivalent of a caress. "Thanks."

They sat there silently, each deep in thought, sneaking looks at each other here and there. The deck was empty, since the crew was downstairs celebrating a successful mission with some wine and meat. Mel had snuck out early, taking the opportunity to have a moment alone with the dark waves. The ocean had always been his home.

"Mel."

Mel's whole body was wracked. He hadn't heard a single soul speak his name in many years. He'd always been an underling, a crewmate, a cog in the water-bound machines he always found his way back to. And here this man, this mighty, brave man - despite his own denial, that is - brought it back from the dead. It was like a seeing a ghost, but more thrilling than terrifying.

"Yes?"

Bruce leaned over and slowly but firmly pried Mel's arms away from his knees. With an assessing look, he used his hold on Mel's wrists to drag him into his lap. He wasn't sure who the stuttered breaths were coming from, but he was too busy absorbing the sudden heat all around him.

"I'm going to kiss you."

"Okay."

"And then I'm going to get you very naked."

"Okay."

Mel's heart was nearly bursting by the time Bruce's massive hand gently moved some of his hair behind his ear. He'd never imagined Bruce could even move like this, like stroking a butterfly.

Bruce smiled. "Okay."

Mel thought, in that moment, that he'd never been more okay in his life.

Miya stared down at the absolutely enormous sword gleaming on the dusty wooden countertop in her garage. She wasn't sure how she'd gotten it, exactly, because she didn't exactly set out to get a sword on her way back from dropping her son at his dad's house after another temper tantrum. It was just there when she got out of the car, paper bags full of boxed wine, bread and salty butter tucked under her arms and her hair a frizzy mess from the perpetually open window of her shitty car. Honestly, she was looking forward for solitary quality time with cheap alcohol, white flour, a new Love Island episode and potentially, a sneaky little hangout with her vibrator.

She made sure the bottles weren't going to tip over at her feet before she made her way a bit closer to the metal monstrosity. Was it Ian's? But her son was more into girls, overpriced sneakers and leaving a mess than roleplaying games. He hadn't wanted a sword of any kind since he was five.

She wondered if she should be more worried about the sudden appearance of a giant sword in her little suburban home, but she wasn't. She'd worn out her capacity to capably emote about two fights ago.

"What in the fucking hell are you doing here?" she mumbled, carefully running a suspicious finger over the smooth, cold metal. She had to admit, it was beautiful, as far as uselessly massive weapons went. Perfectly smooth and shiny, with no visible fingerprints or specks of dust, it was nearly as long as her whole body.

"And why the fuck are you touching me without my fucking permission?" a tinny, whiny voice replied, and she practically jumped ten feet in the air, looking around in a panic. Maybe Ian was right and she was, indeed, crazy.

"Over here, grandma," the grating voice almost seemed to roll its eyes, cracking ever so slightly. "The metal thing in your house, yes. Hi."

She blinked. Had she been drinking? Had she hit such rock bottom that she fell asleep, only to imagine the voice of an obnoxious teenager coming out of a piece of metal? "Hi?"

"Well I can't exactly wave at you, can't I? Waving is your job. Last time I heard, people, with arms, carry swords."

She huffed. "I don't know if this is real or not, but if it is, someone has a sick sense of humor to send me Ian's inanimate doppelgänger."

"I don't know any Ians."

She put her hands exasperatedly on her hips. "Well unlike you, talking scrap, he's a real boy. Smells, hormones and all."

"Ouch, really hurt my feelings there with that killer line, lasy. I'm so offended. My non existent heart in my non existent chest is broken."

"You know, when I made that little bastard and shot it out of my body while his dad was stationed in the Middle East, I had a lot of dreams. I thought, maybe he'd be a nice boy, and we'd have nice talks in a nice house-"

"Where is this going?"

"And here I am. Ian hates breathing air in the same room as me, his dad is now openly fucking his colleague who was definitely just his good friend back in the desert, and I'm talking to a sword, potentially hallucinating, about to drink myself asleep."

There was a long silence. She rubbed her face, feeling her shoulders sink. This sword could protect someone out there. Maybe it could be featured in a cool movie with shirtless men who grunt and touch each other homoerotically. Instead, there it was ready to be wielded by her, who hadn't lifted anything heavier than these grocery bags in years.

"Look, buddy, I don't know how you got here. I'm sure you're a nice young- sword... but I am tired, and my arms are noodles, so I couldn't wield you much further than the curb. I think you should leave the way you came, which is an insane thing to tell an object."

"If I knew how I got here, I sure as fuck would be using that information to get the hell back to where I came from, but I'm apparently stuck with you, so deal with it."

"Wait..." her brows furrowed. "You mean you don't know how you got here? Do you even know where you're from?"

She heard a squeaky huff. "Of course I-" the voice cut off. It was quiet again. "Actually, I don't... I don't know."

Something maternal in her heart cramped at that lost, tinny voice. She couldn't imagine appearing suddenly, completely immobile, in a foreign place with a foreign person, completely unable to do anything without their help.

"I'm sorry."

The sword took another minute to reply. "Maybe your sorry ass can figure out a way to get me the fuck out of this hellhole."

And there went that maternal ache straight out the proverbial window. "You're a mouthy little shit, you know that?"

The chuckle it gave made the metal blade vibrate ominously, like a giant guitar string. "Apparently. But you'd be mad too if you got stuck with an incompetent old woman as your wielder."

"I am not old."

"That's what offended you? Really?"

"Shut up." She slid down on the stool near the counter.

They sat there in relatively companionable silence, or at least she thought so - after all, this thing didn't exactly have expressions.

"Have you ever even been in a fight?"

"Of course I've-"

"I see that's a big fat no."

The sword vibrated again. It didn't add anything.

She looked down at the thing. She carefully slid her fingers around the hilt, feeling its impressive weight. She assumed that with some effort and two free hands, she could probably move it inside, at least. Maybe Ian would think it's cool. Maybe he'd take one look at her sitting around talking to a sword and never come back home again.

"You gonna fondle me forever, woman?"

She sighed and gave him a few seconds of silent, disappointed staring. Apparently, it worked on swords just as well as pimply boys, because before long, an unsure, defiant "what" made the sword vibrate in her hand.

"Want to go watch some TV?" she asked.

"I don't know what that is."

"It has moving pictures with sounds. They tell stories. It's in a little square."

"Hmm."

She took the time to make sure her car and garage doors were both locked. She was about to pick up the groceries when that tinny voice piped up.

"TV sounds nice, actually."