Usually it came in the quieter moments—half-asleep on a Sunday morning, after a particularly good meal, or whenever Roy caught himself watching Jason laugh without realizing it. It was never something Roy did on purpose. If anything, the alpha always seemed faintly embarrassed by it afterward.
That didn't stop the sound from slipping straight through every wall Jason had left standing.
His shoulders, which had remained stubbornly drawn up even after settling into the nest, eased by another fraction before he could stop them. The blankets no longer felt like an admission of defeat. With Roy lying beside him, the nest finally felt like what his instincts had been trying—and failing—to build all along: somewhere safe enough to stop fighting for a while.
Jason reached up to rub tiredly at his forehead, only for his hand to stall halfway there as another wave of heat rolled through him. It wasn't painful, just insistent, leaving him breathing a little slower as he waited for it to pass. His body felt heavy in a way patrol never made it feel, every instinct urging him to stay exactly where he was instead of getting back up to prove a point. Jason shuddered, a low whine escaping him and before he could overthink it, Jason reached for Roy, wanting him closer.
It was automatic, the kind of expression that had become second nature whenever Roy managed to needle him at exactly the wrong—or perhaps the right—moment. Heat flushed higher across his cheeks, and he couldn't decide whether it came from the heat itself
He let Roy settle against him without complaint, one arm instinctively shifting around the alpha's shoulders before his conscious mind could object. The movement felt natural in a way that was deeply unfair.
"I don't..." He exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling instead of meeting Roy's eyes. "I don't think I have the energy to keep awake for much longer."
That was as close to admitting he was done fighting his own body as he could manage.
His fingers idly gathered a corner of the blanket, grounding himself in the familiar texture while another wave of warmth rolled through him. It was stronger this time, enough that he instinctively leaned a fraction closer to Roy before realizing he'd done it. He considered correcting himself.
But he didn't.
"Napping," Jason decided after a long silence, his voice quieter than before.
He glanced down at Roy then, the corner of his mouth lifting into the faintest hint of a smile. "And if you so much as tell anyone I voluntarily used you as a pillow..."
The threat fizzled out halfway through.
Instead, Jason simply let his eyes fall closed, the steady rhythm of Roy's breathing and the quiet rumble still lingering in his chest giving his racing thoughts something gentle to follow. For the first time since the warning signs had begun, he stopped trying to outrun what was happening.
Jason surfaced from sleep reluctantly, awareness returning in slow pieces instead of all at once. First came the familiar roll of the ship beneath him, steady enough that it barely disturbed the hammock slung across one side of the cabin, tucked away behind the curtain and close to the captain's desk. Then came the muffled voices filtering through the deck overhead, boots crossing weathered planks, the groan of rigging catching the morning breeze. Finally, Roy's voice cut through it all with entirely too much enthusiasm for that hour.
His own response was little more than an incoherent grunt.
One forearm dropped over his eyes as though it might somehow block out the sound, but the attempt lasted only a heartbeat before he exhaled through his nose and pushed himself upright. The hammock swayed in protest while he dragged a hand through sleep-tousled black hair, blinking against the golden morning light spilling through the stern windows. Sometime during the night the blanket had been kicked to the floor, leaving him dressed only in a pair of dark canvas trousers that rode low on his hips. Weeks beneath the Caribbean sun had bronzed his skin, and years spent hauling lines, climbing rigging, and fighting for nearly everything he owned had carved lean muscle across his shoulders, chest, and stomach. There was nothing vain about it; it was simply the body of a man who earned every meal with hard labor.
He yawned unabashedly before finally focusing on Roy standing in the doorway.
"...You are," Jason said, his voice rough with sleep, "an insufferable bastard."
Despite the words, the corner of his mouth threatened to lift. He scrubbed another hand over his face, then swung his legs over the edge of the hammock and planted his bare feet on the wooden floorboards.
He reached for the weathered shirt draped over the back of a chair without putting it on just yet as he walked towards his first mate. His gaze lingered on Roy for a moment, taking in the excitement written plainly across the other man's face. It was infectious, irritatingly so, considering the hour.
"So," Jason said at last, fully awake now, "tell me what you've seen."
Jason rolled his eyes with practiced ease, though the familiar response drew that same reluctant smile back to the corner of his mouth. "That's a dangerous assumption," he muttered, voice still carrying the rasp of sleep, but there was no heat behind it. There rarely was anymore. Not with Roy. Years ago, the exchange might have ended with a shove or a sarcastic remark sharp enough to draw blood. Now it had settled into something easier, worn smooth by time and shared hardship.
He stepped past Roy, clasping the other man on the shoulder in passing, and climbed the short staircase leading back onto the quarterdeck, the shirt still hanging loosely over one shoulder. The morning greeted him with a rush of salt air, crisp enough to banish the last remnants of sleep. Roy hadn't exaggerated. The sea looked as though someone had spilled molten gold across its surface, every swell catching the rising sun until the horizon burned with light. For a fleeting moment, Jason forgot about Spanish convoys, cannons, and the price that would be on their heads if today went poorly.
It almost looked peaceful.
Almost.
His expression hardened as he accepted the spyglass from Roy and crossed to the shrouds. He climbed with the ease of someone who had spent enough weeks aboard to trust the rigging beneath his hands, ascending until the crow's nest swayed gently around him. Resting one forearm against the rim, he raised the glass to his eye and swept it slowly across the horizon.
There.
Three sails.
Just as the rumors had promised.
The lead ship cut confidently through the water while the second held a disciplined distance off her quarter. The third lagged behind by enough that even Jason, with his limited experience at sea, could see the gap widening whenever the wind shifted. Heavy. Slower. Burdened.
Their prize.
Jason lowered the spyglass, already measuring the distance between them, the direction of the wind, and the hours of daylight left to work with. The weather was clear and if they could see them, they could surely see them approach now too.
He glanced back down toward the deck where Roy waited below. "Call the crew," he called down, a grin beginning to spread despite himself. "Looks like we picked the right morning to become pirates."
There was no hesitation left in him as Dick drew him closer, only a quiet exhale as he settled against him, his head tucked beneath Dick's chin exactly where Dick had guided him. One hand came to rest lightly against Dick's side, more to reassure himself than to hold on, and for the first time in longer than he cared to remember, Jason felt no need to stay half-awake. The constant vigilance that usually followed him into sleep simply... eased. Dick's heartbeat was steady beneath his ear, the slow rise and fall of his breathing lulling the last of Jason's frayed nerves into silence.
"Night, Dick," he murmured, his voice already thick with exhaustion.
Sleep found him almost immediately.
There were no nightmares. No green haze waiting behind his eyelids. No violent starting awake with his heart racing and his hands already clenched into fists. The night passed in uninterrupted darkness, peaceful in a way Jason had nearly forgotten was possible, and when morning finally arrived it was the warmth of sunlight spilling through the cracked curtains—not fear—that slowly coaxed him awake.
Jason blinked blearily into the golden light, momentarily disoriented until he became aware of the familiar weight wrapped loosely around him. Dick was still asleep, one arm draped over his waist exactly as it had been the night before, hair hopelessly mussed from sleep.
A small, private smile tugged at Jason's mouth, and he remembered. Remembered the sweet taste of Dick's lips on his own. The feeling of Dick's weight on his lap, holding him, touching him, wanting him—
Jason had only just begun to enjoy the unfamiliar peace of waking when the buzzing finally registered properly.
Not his phone The frequency of buzzing was different.
Dick's.
The phone, abandoned somewhere on the nightstand behind him, vibrated insistently against the wood before falling silent for all of three seconds and starting again.
Jason ignored it in favor of Dick's question. "Yeah." A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Better than I have in... a long time, actually." He hadn't woken with his heart pounding. He hadn't reached for a weapon before opening his eyes. He hadn't spent the first few seconds trying to convince himself where—or when—he was.
He'd just... simply woken up in Dick's arms.
The buzzing started again. Jason let out an amused breath and reached past Dick toward the nightstand, retrieving the offending phone before holding it out towards Dick.
"I think somebody's decided you're officially missing."
Ducking into the shadow of an alley, Grace's thumb jammed down on the trigger of her personal alarm. A recent Christmas gift, from the notorious Red Hood. Her boyfriend. She didn't really expect it to work, not when her cell phone had been rendered obsolete and everything around her was wrong.
Grace had walked the familiar streets of Gotham, from the University towards her apartment on the other side of the city after a day of lectures on the Pathology of Infectious Diseases. A fairly interesting day, though the lecturer had been different to her usual one. A sub, she had presumed.
It was a billboard that had first drawn her attention. Electronic, and well worn in, though Grace could have sworn the building it adorned was bare and supported by scaffolding just that morning. Poison Ivy had grown her vines all around it last month in an eco-terror attack. Something to do with poisoning the bay by Finger River, Grace couldn't really condemn her actions. Anyway, construction never worked that fast this side of the river.
One change, then another. A change in street name. A building missing. A commercial for a company she had never seen. Was she going mad? Had she been fear gassed and her ultimate phobia was small inconsequential but unsettling changes? No, that was ridiculous. Grace pulled out her phone to call her mom only to find that it had no signal. She reset it and pocketed it to keep her wits about her.
Sirens wailed past, the streets were full of the bustle of the evening commuters, going shopping or heading home, nightshift workers heading out in the city that never slept. Grace couldn't help but feel a sense of wrongness in the air.
As though the universe was sending her the answers she was asking for, a copy of the Gotham Gazette tumbled on the street towards her feet. It's headline drawing her attention:
Pamela Isley wins Mayoral election by a landslide.
What? Wasn't that Ivy's real name?
Stooping to pick it up, Grace thought for sure this must be some joke. She glanced at the date and saw that it was today's paper- Wait. The day and month were correct but the year... It was some twenty years ahead.
A fake paper. Right? Only the electronic billboard in the heart of the city square, cycling through news stories, flashed with that same picture. The same headline.
The vigilante had told her that she could call on him whenever she needed to. Grace had taken that to mean emergencies. For anything else, she had his cell, not that hers was working... Did this qualify? She wasn't injured. No one else around her seemed to be concerned by this news. No. She just needed to get home.
The final straw came in the form of the light coming from her apartment windows, as she squinted up from the street below. The silhouettes moving around were not meant to be there. At all.
Ducking into the shadow of an alley, Grace's thumb jammed down on the trigger of her personal alarm, wondering if it would work at all, and more importantly, what she would do if it didn't.
The sharp noise of the personal alarm had Jason jolting up from his project on the workbench and his head immediately turned to the screen to see where the alarm was going off.
Grace was in their home. Ty and Gabs, too. There was no indication that something was wrong, no break-in. Nothing. Jason grabbed his phone, dialling Grace's number, his heart clenched with worry and confusion.
This wasn't their usual alarm. It was an old one. A very old one...
And it was-
What?
Jason rose to his feet when he heard the phone was being answered. ''Grace?''
One moment the nurse had been edging toward the door, the next he was pinned hard enough against the wall to rattle the picture frame beside him, voices overlapping in a blur Jason couldn't separate from the pounding of blood in his ears. His attention never stayed on the man for long. It kept snapping back to Grace as she shepherded him onto the bed with surprising firmness, every ounce of her focus fixed on him despite the fact that she'd been the one to uncover the attack in the first place.
He let her.
Not because he thought he needed the examination.
Because she did.
Jason sat still while she checked his pupils, his mouth, his pulse, watching the concentration settle over her features with the same practiced precision she'd shown the night before while trying to stop the bleeding from his shoulder. Her fingers trembled, but not enough to affect her work. He could feel the fear in the way she searched him for something—anything—that would confirm she'd caught it in time. When nothing presented itself, he saw neither relief nor reassurance in her expression. Only the terrible certainty that Roman Sionis had reached inside the hospital itself.
When she reached for the cables and began disconnecting them with quick, efficient movements, Jason caught her wrist gently before she could move away again. His grip was careful, more an anchor than a restraint.
''We are leaving,'' Jason urged her. ''Dick, call B.''
Bruce's hand remained against his face, steady and grounding in a way Jason hadn't realized he'd needed until now. He had expected an argument. Expected to be told that he'd proven every warning Bruce had ever given him about letting someone into his life. That this was exactly what happened when masks slipped and lines blurred. Instead, Bruce admitted he'd been wrong.
Jason hadn't been prepared for that.
The words settled heavily in his chest, loosening something that had been wound painfully tight since he'd found Grace curled in that bathtub with a gun in her hands. He wanted to reject them. To insist that Bruce hadn't seen the bruises properly, hadn't heard Grace's terrified certainty that Sionis was coming for him, and hadn't watched her dissolve under the weight of guilt because she'd shot the man she loved trying to save his life. Hadn't seen how she—
But Bruce had seen enough.
And he wasn't blaming Jason.
For a long moment, Jason simply stood there, leaning ever so slightly into the hand against his cheek before he caught himself. His eyes drifted back to Grace, watching her gradually find her footing again in Maria's embrace, and that familiar ache returned. She hadn't even stopped crying before she remembered to check his stitches. Typical Grace. Even now, she'd pushed herself to the bottom of her own list. And this time, it was Alfred who intervened.
''Also, miss Williams. I will be more than happy to look after our Jason for you. You look like you need a rest and to spend some more time with your mother.''
Jason caught Grace's teary eyes, trying to reassure her as he was being held on his feet by Bruce.
Jason stood at the edge of the nest for what felt like an eternity, staring down at the carefully arranged blankets as though they belonged to someone else. Hours ago he had insisted it was nothing more than a pile of blankets, something practical he'd thrown together without thinking. Standing here now, with Roy's shirt draped over one arm and every instinct in his body pulling him forward, the lie was impossible to maintain. His pride fought it to the bitter end anyway.
With a quiet, resigned sigh, Jason finally crouched and climbed inside. The blankets shifted around him, settling almost instinctively beneath his weight until they supported him in all the places he'd been aching without realizing it. Some of the tension bled out of his shoulders before he could stop it. He scowled at that too.
Damnable body. Damnable instincts.
Roy's shirt remained clutched in his hands for another moment before Jason carefully folded it into the wall of blankets nearest where his head naturally rested. The familiar scent spread almost immediately, fresher than the lingering traces already woven through the nest, and Jason closed his eyes on reflex as a wave of relief rolled through him. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't some overwhelming surrender. It was simply... easier to breathe.
Opening his eyes again, he found Roy crouched just outside, making himself smaller instead of larger, patient enough not to presume he belonged inside simply because Jason had walked over here.
Jason looked at him for a long moment.
"...Yeah," he admitted quietly. "Better."
The word hung between them.
He shifted deeper into the blankets, then, after another stubborn pause that seemed to cost him more than any rooftop fight ever had, lifted his chin toward the empty space beside the nest's edge.
"You can come closer," he said, voice low and almost gruff with embarrassment. "Just... don't make a big deal out of it."
His gaze dropped immediately afterward, as though the invitation itself had taken every ounce of courage he was willing to spend.
Usually it came in the quieter moments—half-asleep on a Sunday morning, after a particularly good meal, or whenever Roy caught himself watching Jason laugh without realizing it. It was never something Roy did on purpose. If anything, the alpha always seemed faintly embarrassed by it afterward.
That didn't stop the sound from slipping straight through every wall Jason had left standing.
His shoulders, which had remained stubbornly drawn up even after settling into the nest, eased by another fraction before he could stop them. The blankets no longer felt like an admission of defeat. With Roy lying beside him, the nest finally felt like what his instincts had been trying—and failing—to build all along: somewhere safe enough to stop fighting for a while.
Jason reached up to rub tiredly at his forehead, only for his hand to stall halfway there as another wave of heat rolled through him. It wasn't painful, just insistent, leaving him breathing a little slower as he waited for it to pass. His body felt heavy in a way patrol never made it feel, every instinct urging him to stay exactly where he was instead of getting back up to prove a point. Jason shuddered, a low whine escaping him and before he could overthink it, Jason reached for Roy, wanting him closer.
The guard behind Dick wasted no time after the elevator doors opened, giving him a sharp shove between the shoulder blades that sent him stumbling out of the elevator. Jason moved instinctively, catching Dick's upper arm before he could hit the concrete. To everyone watching, it looked impatient rather than protective, another thug keeping valuable merchandise from bruising itself before a sale. Only Jason knew he'd judged the movement down to the inch, making sure his grip landed on Dick's sleeve instead of bare skin.
"Watch it," Jason muttered roughly, loud enough for the guards to hear. "Boss'll bitch if he shows up damaged."
"Don't want to lose your bonus?" one of them laughed, and Jason grunted, jaw tense as he let Dick go
The floor around them had changed while they'd been downstairs. More captives had arrived, huddled together behind a temporary chain-link partition under the watch of armed guards. Others were gone. Jason's gaze swept over the warehouse without lingering, instinctively counting exits, weapons, and unfamiliar faces. Crates had been moved nearer to the loading bay. A pair of vans sat with their rear doors open, men carrying supplies toward them in practiced rhythm.
Preparations.
Not for another intake.
For a departure.
One of the guards noticed Jason looking and smirked. "Looks like you're getting lucky," he said, jerking his chin toward the loading area. "Boss wants the expensive ones moved before dark."
Jason shrugged as though he couldn't care less. "Fine by me." But inside, his pulse kicked harder. So it was happening tonight.
Sooner than either of them had hoped.
Another guard stepped around Dick, giving him an appraising look before grabbing his chin and turning his face toward the warehouse lights, his thumb catching on Dick's lips. ''Almost a shame about this one...''
Something inside Jason snapped taut. His fingers curled so tightly that his nails bit through the leather of his gloves, and for one blinding second he saw red.
He saw the man's wrist breaking beneath his hands. Saw himself driving the man face-first into the concrete. Saw the rest of the guards reaching for their weapons. Saw Dick's cover—and his own—shatter in the same instant.
The fantasy lasted less than a heartbeat.
Jason swallowed it, forcing his hands to unclench. And he forced himself to breathe through the hot, familiar rage clawing up his throat.
Most people would've looked at Dick and seen exactly what they were supposed to see: another heavily drugged captive, pliant and unfocused, barely aware of the hand forcing his face toward the light. Jason saw the truth buried beneath the performance. He saw the tiny pause before Dick let his head be turned, the almost imperceptible control it took not to pull away from the thumb brushing across his mouth. Dick's shoulders stayed loose. His breathing remained uneven. His expression never broke.
It was a perfect performance.
Jason hated him for needing to be that good at it.
The guard finally released Dick with a satisfied grunt, giving his shoulder a dismissive shove that sent him rocking back a step. "Yeah," he called over to another man across the warehouse. "This one's definitely on tonight's list."
A clipboard appeared seemingly from nowhere. Another man crossed the floor, flipping through several pages before stopping beside Dick. He barely spared Dick himself a glance, more interested in checking boxes than looking at the person standing in front of him.
"Tag twenty-three," he muttered.
Someone handed him a narrow plastic wristband.
Jason's stomach dropped.
The man grabbed Dick's wrist without ceremony and cinched the band tight enough to leave the skin beneath it pale before scribbling something beside the matching number on his clipboard.
"Loading in forty-five," he announced. "Separate holding until then. And you,'' Jason's head jerking to the man at being addressed, gaze torn away from Dick. "Office. Need another run covered before the convoy leaves."
Another run.
Not the convoy.
''I can-''
"No fucking back-talking, boy," the man spat, and Jason tensed, his stomach dropping. ''Office. Now.''
For a moment he simply stood there, watching Dick's back, the oversized Wonder Woman shirt hanging loosely from his shoulders. The sight almost made him smile again. Dick had taken the clothes without question, without teasing, without making Jason feel foolish for asking.
Jason changed quickly, pulling on an old t-shirt instead of leaving himself bare, exchanging his jeans for the familiar pair of boxer briefs he normally slept in. His fingers caught briefly at the hem of the shirt before letting it fall, covering the pale, uneven lines that crossed his torso. It wasn't that he thought Dick would judge him.
He just wasn't ready for those scars to be part of this.
Not tonight.
Not yet.
By the time he climbed beneath the blankets, the mattress dipping quietly beneath his weight, the exhaustion had settled heavily back into his limbs. He looked over at Dick's turned back, warmth flickering through him at the care in that simple gesture. ''Okay, yeah. It's fine now. Sorry for - you know.''
There was no hesitation left in him as Dick drew him closer, only a quiet exhale as he settled against him, his head tucked beneath Dick's chin exactly where Dick had guided him. One hand came to rest lightly against Dick's side, more to reassure himself than to hold on, and for the first time in longer than he cared to remember, Jason felt no need to stay half-awake. The constant vigilance that usually followed him into sleep simply... eased. Dick's heartbeat was steady beneath his ear, the slow rise and fall of his breathing lulling the last of Jason's frayed nerves into silence.
"Night, Dick," he murmured, his voice already thick with exhaustion.
Sleep found him almost immediately.
There were no nightmares. No green haze waiting behind his eyelids. No violent starting awake with his heart racing and his hands already clenched into fists. The night passed in uninterrupted darkness, peaceful in a way Jason had nearly forgotten was possible, and when morning finally arrived it was the warmth of sunlight spilling through the cracked curtains—not fear—that slowly coaxed him awake.
Jason blinked blearily into the golden light, momentarily disoriented until he became aware of the familiar weight wrapped loosely around him. Dick was still asleep, one arm draped over his waist exactly as it had been the night before, hair hopelessly mussed from sleep.
A small, private smile tugged at Jason's mouth, and he remembered. Remembered the sweet taste of Dick's lips on his own. The feeling of Dick's weight on his lap, holding him, touching him, wanting him—
Jason huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head as Roy slung an arm around his shoulders. He made no real effort to shrug him off this time. The contact had become so familiar over the years that it hardly registered as unusual anymore, though lately he'd caught himself noticing it more than he ought to. Maybe it was the sea. Maybe it was the responsibility sitting heavier on his shoulders than the hand draped across them ever could. Whatever the reason, when Roy finally stepped back, the cool night air seemed just a little more noticeable.
"See that you don't," Jason replied, his voice carrying the dry confidence his crew had already come to expect from him. His eyes lingered on Roy for the briefest heartbeat, searching his face as though committing it to memory before the coming day tested both of them. Roy smiled too easily for a man who was sailing toward his first real engagement. Either he hid his nerves better than anyone Jason had ever met, or he genuinely believed they would win.
Jason found himself hoping it was the latter.
Without another word, he descended the narrow staircase into the captain's cabin. The room still smelled faintly of unfamiliar perfume, old varnish, and seawater soaked into timber over decades of voyages. Whoever had commanded this ship before them had lived comfortably. Heavy crimson drapes softened the stern windows, swaying almost imperceptibly with the motion of the hull, while polished cabinets and shelves lined the walls, crowded with weathered books, rolled charts, navigational instruments, and curiosities gathered from ports Jason doubted he'd ever heard named. A broad desk dominated the stern beneath the windows, littered with maps and candlelight, while a great chart table occupied the center of the cabin, carved so intricately it looked more suited to a governor's estate than a pirate's ship. It was excessive.
It was also his now.
Jason set the folded chart upon the desk before crossing to the stern windows. Beyond the wavering glass, the sea had become an endless expanse of black, broken only by moonlight scattered across the swells and the occasional lantern moving somewhere overhead as the watch changed. He rested one hand against the window frame, listening. The muffled thud of boots on deck. The creak of rigging under strain. Roy's voice drifting faintly through the timbers as he continued directing the crew.
Only then did Jason allow himself a small, tired smile.
Tomorrow, they would find out whether they were merely thieves who had stolen a ship...
Jason surfaced from sleep reluctantly, awareness returning in slow pieces instead of all at once. First came the familiar roll of the ship beneath him, steady enough that it barely disturbed the hammock slung across one side of the cabin, tucked away behind the curtain and close to the captain's desk. Then came the muffled voices filtering through the deck overhead, boots crossing weathered planks, the groan of rigging catching the morning breeze. Finally, Roy's voice cut through it all with entirely too much enthusiasm for that hour.
His own response was little more than an incoherent grunt.
One forearm dropped over his eyes as though it might somehow block out the sound, but the attempt lasted only a heartbeat before he exhaled through his nose and pushed himself upright. The hammock swayed in protest while he dragged a hand through sleep-tousled black hair, blinking against the golden morning light spilling through the stern windows. Sometime during the night the blanket had been kicked to the floor, leaving him dressed only in a pair of dark canvas trousers that rode low on his hips. Weeks beneath the Caribbean sun had bronzed his skin, and years spent hauling lines, climbing rigging, and fighting for nearly everything he owned had carved lean muscle across his shoulders, chest, and stomach. There was nothing vain about it; it was simply the body of a man who earned every meal with hard labor.
He yawned unabashedly before finally focusing on Roy standing in the doorway.
"...You are," Jason said, his voice rough with sleep, "an insufferable bastard."
Despite the words, the corner of his mouth threatened to lift. He scrubbed another hand over his face, then swung his legs over the edge of the hammock and planted his bare feet on the wooden floorboards.
He reached for the weathered shirt draped over the back of a chair without putting it on just yet as he walked towards his first mate. His gaze lingered on Roy for a moment, taking in the excitement written plainly across the other man's face. It was infectious, irritatingly so, considering the hour.
"So," Jason said at last, fully awake now, "tell me what you've seen."
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