The underside of HMS Undaunted was humid, thick with sweat and brine, its air soured by blood and seawater and the too-human stink of wounded men in canvas slings and lice-ridden blankets. The groaning of timber under the weight of the upper deck creaked above like the spine of some old, groaning beast, and the rhythm of the ocean rocked beneath—constant, ceaseless, back, forth, always shifting, never letting anyone forget where they were. Lanterns swayed on rusted hooks, casting dim, flickering light that trembled across the crates of salted rations, musket cartridges, and linens stained brown at the edges. Somewhere to the far left, a man muttered feverishly in his sleep, whispering for his mother. A bit nearer, the soft plop, plop of a leaking barrel echoed every few seconds, joining the occasional retch of a younger soldier emptying his guts into a pail. It smelled of iron and unwashed bodies, and under it all, the sharp tang of antiseptic vinegar used by the British medics.

Barry sat on one of the lower crates, stripped of his coat, shirt open and collar stained with both sweat and dried blood. His left side was bandaged hastily, the white wrap now blotched in angry red where one of the Blight Runners had clawed at him—shallow, but enough to make him wince when he turned too fast. The medic had just finished with him, a thin, stiff-lipped fellow who offered no words beyond instruction, and even less when Barry started arguing with the Frenchman who'd dragged him out of the mess in the first place. The moment their voices lifted just slightly above the hush of the ship's wounded, the medic had straightened, snapped shut his tin of salves, and muttered, "I'll not sit for this," before climbing the iron rungs up into the belly of the deck, leaving the two behind the nearest wall of crates.

And so it was just them now, tucked in the makeshift alcove of supplies and shadows, voices quiet but sharp, forced into whispers. Barry leaned back slowly, wincing, his breathing short but steady. His eyes met the Frenchman's with that same half-lidded disdain he always seemed to wear around him—equal parts exhaustion and condescension.

"Suppose I should say thank you," Barry muttered, voice low but laced with a biting dryness. "Though I reckon you didn't do it for me. Probably just didn't want the satisfaction of letting a Brit die before your eyes, hm?"

The Frenchman didn't respond immediately. His stance was taut, lean shoulders rigid beneath the dust-smeared blue of his stained uniform, eyes narrowed but unflinching. He still had Barry's blood on his sleeves. His jaw worked slightly, and when he finally answered, it was in a quiet voice honed sharp like a whetted bayonet. "You were about to be torn open like a barrel of fish, Barry. I acted. You'd prefer I didn't?"

"I'd prefer you shut up about it, is what I'd prefer." Barry exhaled through his nose, the breath catching faintly on pain. "Don't need charity from a frog, especially not when we're only playin' nice 'cause of the dead ones walking."

"You think I enjoy this alliance?" the Frenchman shot back, though he too kept his tone hushed. The crackling wood above masked just enough sound to let them hiss. "I'd rather be dead than depend on a redcoat with blood between his teeth and piss for brains."

"Oh, I am touched." Barry's mouth twisted into something that was not quite a smile. He shifted, hand brushing the bandage near his ribs, not flinching at the pain this time. "There it is—the noble disdain. Can't let the enemy have one up, not even when the real enemy's tearing the bloody world to pieces. Very French of you."

"Your arrogance is disgusting."

"And your face is boring, but I don't bloody complain every time I look at it."

The silence between them tensed like a pulled spring, broken only by the far-off groan of timber and a man coughing blood behind the next row of crates. The Frenchman's expression flickered—somewhere between disdain and something unreadable. Barry's eyes didn't leave his, despite the ache in his side and the burn in his chest. "You should rest," the Frenchman muttered finally, though his tone made it sound more like an accusation than concern. "You should piss off," Barry muttered back, then turned his head slightly, as if to disengage—but didn't. Not really.

They stood there, barely a pace apart, the dim light tracing over sharp cheekbones and bitten mouths, over tensioned jaws and bruised pride. There was something about proximity that made the air hotter than it should've been in a ship's underbelly. Barry's breath had begun to slow, but not because the pain was easing. His eyes dropped to the Frenchman's collarbone for a second too long before darting back to his face. He wet his lips. The rocking of the ship gave the illusion they were leaning into one another. "You could've let me die," Barry said, quieter this time. "Would've been easier. You hate me enough, don't you?" The Frenchman didn't answer right away. He looked past Barry, then back. His reply was slow, precise, quiet enough to barely register.

"You're not worth the trouble... but I'll decide when you die, not some rot-addled corpse." Barry scoffed lightly, not laughing—just letting the noise out, as if it made anything less sharp. He tilted his head, expression unreadable now, more subdued. Less venom, more weariness. "Shouldn't be sayin' things like that in the dark," he muttered, almost to himself. "Makes a man wonder."

The silence returned, thicker than before. A far-off scream on deck echoed faintly through the wood. The ship rocked again, a slow lurch as a wave passed under her hull. Neither of them moved. Neither of them left.