Archive of Our Own

It’s a normal day in New Tejas, and Ichabod is alone in his home.

It’s a small ranch house, nothing fancy, the perfect size for two people, despite the fact that it’s just been him for years now. It’s sparsely decorated – a painting above the fireplace, some trinkets on a couple small shelves, a collection of books near a simple desk. There are a few photos, too, spread across the shelves, but Ichabod doesn’t let himself look at them very much.

The one thing he does find himself drawn to nowadays is the dueling gun, set in a box on top of his bookshelf, untouched since his husband had gone missing. The box itself is made of a smooth mahogany wood, and Ichabod’s hands shake with something akin to nerves as he opens the two gold latches keeping it shut. He doesn’t take out the pistol sitting inside, but he lets himself run his fingers over the designs, the intricate etchings in the metal. Birds and horses, side by side, flying and running together across the barrel.

It’s sat alone in this box for years, formally put away after a year of searching, as a sign he was beginning to move on in the grieving process. If he was truly following formalities and traditions, he should’ve gotten a decorative one to replace Drey’s in the empty second spot of the case, but he’d never been able to find it in him to do so. It felt too final, like he was giving up.

Horsea, like the rest of the world, has its own culture, its own traditions. Ichabod looks back fondly on the days of teaching Drey some of them. Drey’s favorite had always been the idea of partners’ dueling guns: a pair of specially made pistols, with patterns and designs representing the couple, often purchased alongside wedding rings, as a sign of devotion to each other. Some people would carry them as their everyday weapon, a constant reminder of their partner, though others would display them in the home, like you would a picture of your wedding day.

He’d avoided dwelling on the gun before. After the first year by himself, he’d done his mourning. He’d made his peace with the loneliness, however far from truly moving on he’d been.

But meeting the Riptide Pirates after his ship sank on that trip to Liquidis had changed everything. On their boat, the Albatross, he saw the man he thought he’d only ever see again in his dreams.

Drey Ferin, roughed up and ragged looking, was as captivating on that ship as he’d ever been, and it had taken everything Ichabod had in him to not immediately pull the man into his arms.

But Drey hadn’t recognized him. Not as his husband, at least. There was maybe a flash of familiarity in his eyes, but it wasn’t the spark of emotion he’d always felt in their years together.

Ichabod could tell Drey had been through something. Maybe something even worse than what had happened before they’d met, though Drey never talked much about the hole in the sea past the odd mention despite reminiscing every once in a while about the Black Rose Pirates. The way he’d spoken so fondly of the ocean, of that crew, some part of Ichabod always wondered if Drey ever wished he’d returned to pirating.

Standing there on that unfamiliar ship, Ichabod hadn’t been able to tell if bringing up their past would unearth other, less pleasant memories, so he’d kept quiet. He’d held his tongue, though he couldn’t stop himself from staring longingly at the man when his back was turned.

He still wonders what had happened to him, a deep and desperate curiosity that he knows he’ll never be able to fully set aside.

His thoughts wander, and before he can do anything to stop it, a memory overtakes him. It’s a memory he’s turned over in his head more times than he can count, revisiting the details so many times they’ve started to muddle together.

It was a few months after their wedding, just over four years after Drey had shown up in Ichabod’s life, and the two had decided they would set out to try to find Drey’s old crew. There wasn’t much of a plan, just to head to the coast, find a ship, and start sailing, asking around, anything that might lead them to the people Drey still carried such fondness for. They hadn’t expected trouble. They hadn’t planned for anything to go wrong before they’d even made it onto the open sea.

But things happen, and trouble often sneaks up on you when you least expect it. In this case, it came in the form of a group of what Ichabod assumed to be bandits, though he couldn’t be sure, ambushing their campsite on the first night of their journey to the coast. It should’ve been safe; it was a well traveled road, and just a few hours outside of the port town they’d been headed to. Ichabod had even been the one to insist it would be fine when Drey had wanted to travel through the night, so it’s hard not to blame himself for what happened, despite the fact that he had no way of knowing they’d be attacked in the night.

It’s made worse by the fact that he couldn’t do anything but watch helplessly as Drey had been knocked out and dragged away, held back by the knife pressed against his throat by one of the attackers who’d managed to pin him down. When Drey and the people dragging him had long left Ichabod’s view, the last attacker finally pulled the knife away, retreating faster than Ichabod could retaliate.

He was left to stagger to his feet, alone. That part of the memory is the sharpest – that first moment when he realized Drey was gone.

He never was able to figure out why they’d taken Drey and not him, leaving nothing of his husband behind other than the hat he’d been wearing. A cruel joke from the universe, that it’s the hat Ichabod had given him as a gift when they first became close. The green feather, usually tucked into the band, had fallen to the ground nearby, a little dirty from having been stepped on. So Ichabod picked it up, tucked it back into place, and clutched the hat to his heart.

Ichabod had searched for months, to no avail. They had been close to the shore, near a port town, where they were meant to get a boat in order to start this next journey together. Ichabod had gone there to ask the locals, and there were navy officers scattered around town. He’d thought they would help, but despite his broken pleas, they hadn’t done anything. After months, he’d finally realized there was nothing more he could do. He found his way home, alone and heartbroken. He threw himself into his work to fill the void. It felt like all he had left. His shift in focus became part of why he’d been sent on the mission to Liquidis, leading to him meeting the Riptide Pirates to begin with. Fate is weird like that, he thinks.

He wonders what had happened to Drey to put him in the state he was in on the Albatross. Was it the doing of the attackers who had taken him? Or was there more to the story, things worse than being kidnapped in the middle of the night? Things worse than your ship being sunk in a whirlpool?

Ichabod had been worried, at first, about the fact that Drey’s arms seemed damaged beyond use, strapped to his chest with bandages and swatches of leather. But he quickly saw that the other man was clearly holding his own, capable of doing anything he set his mind to. A small smile had crossed his face as he realized Drey was just as stubbornly independent as he’d always been.

He’s reminiscing again, he realizes, taking in a sharp breath as he catches himself holding the gun, staring at it as if it holds all the answers.

He’s holding it. The truth of that sets in. It’s the first time he’s fully taken it out of the case since he’d set it there so long ago, and he’s broken a dam in his mind, letting questions pour in.

What would’ve happened if he’d dropped everything to bring Drey home with him that day? Left behind his mission, and just spilled his guts to the man he married? What would’ve happened if he’d actually said something?

Maybe Drey would’ve come back with him, and his house wouldn’t feel so empty anymore. Maybe Drey would’ve remembered, he would’ve looked into Ichabod’s eyes and realized the past they shared.

Maybe he would finally have had his husband back.

But Ichabod didn’t say anything. He followed his path, and let Drey follow his, settling for simply the knowledge that at least the man he loves is still alive.

Ichabod can’t help but wish he’d said something. His head hangs low as he sets the gun back into its case, alone. The box is far too large for just one pistol as he closes the lid, the same way the house feels too big for just him. Taking a deep breath to quell the grief slowly pooling in his chest, he puts the box back atop the bookshelf.

He settles into sitting at his desk, papers strewn across it as he continues working on blueprints for a sort of flying machine, but his heart isn’t in it today. Too many memories flood through his mind, sparking old emotions he’d been suppressing for too long. Teaching Drey to ride a horse, Drey teaching him how to swim, laughing at how bad the other was when they started those things.

The laughter feels so far away, so long ago, and Ichabod finds himself hoping he can find a way back to it someday.

Before he can even really try to focus himself, there’s a knock at his door, startling him out of his thoughts. He tries to take a moment to collect himself, but the knocking becomes more frantic. He’s not sure who would even be at his door at this time of day; it’s about an hour before midday and everyone he knows should be working right now. He makes his way over to the door anyway, taking another deep breath to collect himself before swinging it open.

“Can I help you?” He says, before realizing who’s standing in front of him, and the polite smile drops from his face in favor of pure shock.

“Yeah. Uh. Hate to show up unannounced, but we could use a hand.” Chip’s voice is the one that reaches his ears, but his eyes are trained on one of the men standing behind the kid.

What the hell is Drey Ferin doing on his doorstep after all this time?

The rest of the morning is a whirlwind. Ichabod barely processes as Gillion and Gryffon drag an unconscious goliath man into his house, dropping him onto the couch. He briefly catches that the man’s name is Arlin, a name he’d heard Drey talk about fondly on one of the few occasions he’d felt sentimental enough to say more than just a few words about his crew.

A specific memory hits him, one of a night when he and Drey had drank a little and Drey opened up more. He’d told a story about two men, Arlin and Finn, and a prank involving hot sauce and a glass of ale, or something. Drey had trailed off toward the end of the story, but it stuck with Ichabod nonetheless. Anytime Drey talked about the Black Rose Pirates was a time Ichabod treasured, as a sign that Drey trusted him with his past.

It’s nice to finally put a face to the name, despite wishing it could have been under better circumstances. He half-hears Chip giving an explanation, about going back into the hole in the sea, about finding Arlin, and getting spit back out onto the shore of Horsea.

“So how did you get to my front door?” He hears himself asking, as he walks around the room, looking for any medical supplies he might have lying around and trying to be discreet about flipping down some photos he had out of him and Drey. This is not the time for any of them to be asking questions about that – there are more serious matters to be dealt with.

“You can ask Drey. He just kept saying he felt like he knew where to go.” Chip sounds confused, and Ichabod stops dead in his tracks, turning around to face the group of people in his house.

He makes eye contact with Chip first, who shrugs, then Gillion who’s next to him, before finally landing on Drey. Drey, who hadn’t been to this house in over half of a decade, but somehow still got here on memory alone.

“I don’t fuckin’ know how I got us here. I really just felt like I knew where I was going. Have I been here before? Because I felt like I recognized you the first time we met, but I couldn’t place why. My memory is kinda fucked beyond belief, though.” Drey speaks so nonchalantly, it almost bothers Ichabod. He wishes he could grab him by the shoulders and tell him, tell him they’d been married, tell him how much he missed him, remind him of their lives together, but he’s scared. He’s scared that Drey realizing just how much he doesn’t remember will hurt him, scared that Drey won’t feel the same anymore after all this time, scared of losing him again.

“After you washed up near here the first time, I found you, and I brought you back here and got you all cleaned up.” It’s a half truth. Ichabod hadn’t brought him here exactly, he’d brought him to his old house. This place was one the two of them had moved into together about a year after Drey had shown up. In Ichabod’s mind, it’s still as much Drey’s house as it is his own, despite how empty it’s been these past several years. “It was a long time ago, though. Seems like you’ve been through a lot since then. Can’t expect you to remember just every old cowboy you met in those days.”

It’s Gryffon who catches his eye this time, before glancing over at a photo Ichabod had missed turning down. It’s one of Ichabod and Drey on their wedding day, both in fancy suits, holding hands. Ichabod’s eyes flash with a panic before Gryffon glances back at him, a knowing look in the panda’s eye as he flips the frame downward, hiding the picture. He gives a small nod before turning away. Ichabod makes a mental note to make sure to feed the man extra dinner or something to thank him.

Ichabod manages to find a health potion that probably hasn’t gone bad and a roll of bandages, and he steps over toward the man laying on his couch.

“I know the rest of y’all are pretty beaten up too, but if you want this one to wake up, it’s probably best I patch him up first. Then I can run into town for more supplies.” He sees the group nod in unison, all clearly worried about Arlin.

“Actually, I can patch him up, if you want to run into town now. I don’t want to rush you, but I think some of us could also use medical attention sooner rather than later.” Chip steps forward, and Ichabod doesn’t miss the glance that’s thrown toward Gillion. He finally notices the twisted way the triton’s arm hangs at his side, not to mention the patches of skin that almost look like they’d been torn off and barely healed.

“Chip, I’m probably better suited to provide medical attention-” Gillion also steps forward, his uninjured arm reaching toward the materials in Ichabod’s hands.

“Gillion, you are the exact person who needs medical attention sooner rather than later. If you mess up that arm any more, you might lose it for good.” Chip’s tone is so achingly familiar, carrying an exasperated fondness. It’s how Drey used to sound talking to him.

“Well alright then. I’ll leave you to it.” Ichabod hands the medical supplies to Chip. “Uh, Gryffon, if you’re up for coming with me, it’d be nice to have some extra hands…” He glances down at the large gun in the place of one of Gryffon’s arms. “Well, an extra hand.” For half a moment, he’d considered asking Drey, having some far-fetched idea of telling him everything while walking the same paths they’d walked so many times before, but it feels rude to ask the guy who can’t use his arms to help carry stuff. That, and as heartfelt as the idea feels at first, Ichabod realizes he’s still worried about being alone with the man, about potentially causing him any pain.

The people in town would recognize Drey, too, and start asking questions. That’s the last thing Drey would need right now, after whatever the hell just happened to him.

So Ichabod and Gryffon set off, the panda giving a curt nod to his two captains as he steps through the door. The beginning of their walk is in silence, before Ichabod speaks up.

“Thank you. For, uh. Moving the picture.” He starts, awkwardly.

“Don’t mention it. You seemed worried.” Gryffon’s voice is as gruff as Ichabod remembers it being a few months ago. “I know it’s none of my business, but I am curious as to what the history there is.”

“Well, I was being honest when I said he wound up on my doorstep after washing up here the first time. But I did leave out most of the story.”

Gryffon grunts in acknowledgement, an invitation to continue.

“Drey was here a long time. Something like four years. Living together for so long, well. We were all each other had, for the most part. Situations like those, sometimes you can’t help but fall in love.” It’s almost difficult to talk about, a lump forming in Ichabod’s throat as he takes a deep breath to avoid tears starting to fall.

“So that was a wedding photo.”

“Yes.” Ichabod states simply. There’s no need to elaborate.

“Damn. He was on the Albatross before I was, so he’s been there for at least a few months, and I know he was in prison before that… How long have you two been apart?”

“Almost six years.” Five years and ten months, if he wants to be specific. There’s no real point to elaborating though, so he leaves it at that. Not that it really makes a difference, it’s a long time either way.

The silence walks alongside them for a moment.

“And he didn’t recognize you.” It isn’t a question, it’s a statement of fact. A burning reminder of what Ichabod has thought about every single day since he met the Riptide Pirates.

“No. And he doesn’t need any more on his plate right now, so I don’t plan on reminding him any more of our past.” Tears are harder to fight now, with this confession, but Ichabod doesn’t plan on crying in front of a man he barely knows. There are more important things to deal with right now. He stares forward, keeping his eyes set on the path in front of him as if it’ll stop him from getting emotional.

“Did you move on?” The question catches Ichabod off guard.

“Did I- what?”

“It’s a simple question. Six years and you still have your wedding photo out, I want to know if you’ve moved on. I feel like I know the answer.” Gryffon is being more pushy about this than Ichabod would’ve expected him to be, but he supposes the man did him a favor, so he owes him a response.

“I miss him every day.” It’s the easiest question he’s ever answered. It feels like a weight off of his chest to even acknowledge it, to put words to his loss.

“He deserves to know.” Gryffon says quietly, turning his head slightly to make eye contact with Ichabod.

“I know. But I’m scared.” He replies, looking away, hand reaching up to brush away a stray tear.

“Of what?” Another simple question, but it holds so much more than that.

How is Ichabod supposed to explain how much Drey means to him? To say that if he tells Drey the truth and those feelings aren’t there anymore after everything the man had been through, Ichabod would be broken beyond repair? How can he tell Gryffon that he’s being selfish, that he wants to continue holding those memories of the past like they’re still true, and he’s scared that it’ll all come crumbling down if Drey remembers but things don’t go back to how they were before?

“What if we can’t go back to how it used to be?” He settles on, and the words sit heavy in the air between them.

“You can remember the past while still moving into the future, Ichabod.” The insightfulness is unexpected, but Gryffon seems genuine. “If Drey was happy then, he deserves to be reminded. We all know the man could use more good memories.”

Ichabod finds himself nodding slightly as the words turn over in his mind. He’s being selfish, not sharing this with Drey… He hadn’t thought of it like that before, but Gryffon’s perspective makes sense.

The rest of their trip is in silence, as they stop at the general store, picking up a few more healing potions and several more rolls of bandages, as well as enough food to feed the whole group for multiple days, if need be. Ichabod’s pantry is usually pretty bare, but he figures it’ll be important for the group to have full meals while they rest up.

The walk back is spent in near silence as well, until the two men are near Ichabod’s house again.

“I’ll talk to him soon. I promise. I just need to figure out what to say.” Ichabod doesn’t look at Gryffon as he speaks, but the responding grunt is enough of an answer that he knows it’s understood, so he swings the door open.

The room is quiet when Ichabod and Gryffon walk in.

It’s worrying for a moment, before they take in the scene in front of them.

Ichabod’s couch is small, but Drey has managed to shift Arlin enough to sit by the man’s feet, eyes trained on his old crewmate. In front of the couch, Gillion is sitting cross legged, Chip’s head slumped against his shoulder, drool pooling at the corner of his mouth. It makes sense, the kid must be exhausted. He imagines Gillion, Drey, and Gryffon are too, but he remembers enough of what Drey told him about the Black Rose Pirates to know Chip really looked up to Arlin. This must’ve been a big journey for him.

As the door latches shut behind the two men, Drey stands up to walk over to them.

“How’s everyone here looking? Did Chip get Arlin patched up at all?” Ichabod asks, his voice soft, trying to let the young pirate stay asleep.

“Yeah, but he still hasn’t woken up.” Drey’s eyes linger on the unconscious man, concern written across his face.

“I can’t say I’m surprised. When you first got here, I thought you were dead because you kept sleeping so deeply I couldn’t wake you up. Took a couple weeks before you were fully up and moving again, and even then you still slept a lot.” Ichabod recalls those days with a weird sort of fondness. He’d thought he was doing a favor for a stranger, and there were times he almost just sent Drey to the medics in town and just let them look after him, but they were always so overworked, it never felt right. It ended up being one of the best decisions of his life to help Drey back to health by himself.

“I wanted to ask about that actually.” Drey looks back to Ichabod, locking eyes with him. “How long was I actually here? I’ve been trying to piece together what happened in the ten years between the Midnight Rose sinking and when the kids broke me out of the BLOCK, but it’s all so hazy.”

Ichabod pauses for a moment. This is his chance, isn’t it? He should come clean, tell Drey the truth. It’s his opportunity to give Drey happier things to remember.

“Just over four years.” He instead answers simply, waiting to see if Drey will press further.

“That’s a lot of time together for you to be calling yourself just ‘some old cowboy’ I met.” There’s a look in Drey’s eye, something that Ichabod can’t quite place. It’s almost distrustful, which hurts more than he thinks anything else could.

A silence, almost tense, falls between them.

It’s broken by a small snore from Chip, which promptly startles the boy awake, and he jumps up, frantically looking around, reaching to his belt for a sword that isn’t there.

“You alright, kid?” Ichabod asks, thankful for the distraction. He pretends not to see the look he gets from Gryffon.

“Yeah… Yeah I’m okay.” His shoulders droop and he turns to face Ichabod. “You got more medical supplies and stuff?”

Ichabod gestures to the stuff Gryffon has set down on the small table in the middle of the room.

“It should be enough for whatever surface level aches y’all have got, but you’re gonna need some real rest too. You’re welcome to crash here as long as you need, obviously.”

“Thanks… But we can’t stay long. Gotta catch up with Jay.” Chip’s voice is determined, thinly veiling the exhaustion behind it.

Ichabod knows they need rest, but he also knows that when you’re trying to get to someone you care about, nothing can stop you. He’s deeply familiar with the feeling of trying to chase down someone who might as well be across the world from you.

Rather than ask any questions, he just gives Chip a soft smile.

“We’ll get you fixed up as best we can, and you can spend tonight here. Tomorrow we can get you back out on the ocean… Captain.” It gets a small smile out of Chip, who grabs a couple medical supplies and sits back down next to Gillion.

“Let me see that arm, buddy.”

The rest of the day passes in an almost-comfortable silence. Ichabod gives Chip a hand patching up Gillion’s arm, Gryffon gets a chance to lay down, and Ichabod gives Drey a once over, though he luckily doesn’t seem to have any serious injuries. While sitting there with him, words keep bubbling up in his chest, and he half opens his mouth before dismissing anything he’s about to say. He knows he and Drey should talk, but it doesn’t feel like the right time yet.

Before he even notices, the sun is setting and he realizes they must all be starving. So he makes dinner, setting the table for the most people it’s ever sat, and fighting the ache in his chest as he watches Drey sit down directly across from him as if it’s muscle memory, as if he’s fallen back into an unconscious habit from years past.

Chip recounts some of their journey over dinner, with Gillion chiming in occasionally, but the time is mostly filled with silence.

Ichabod’s house is not meant for this many people, but after they all finish eating, he raids his closet for as many blankets as he has, putting together makeshift bedrolls for his guests. Arlin is left on the couch – no one wants to move the unconscious man anywhere less comfortable. Gryffon takes the armchair, not the most comfortable position, but fairly plush. Gillion and Chip seem to be glued to each other, not a word spoken between them as they arrange a pile of blankets on the floor together. None of them take Ichabod up on the offer of his own bed. Not that he doesn’t try, but they all seem pretty set on their decisions.

Except Drey.

There had been enough blankets for the man to also make himself a spot on the floor of the living room, but as Ichabod makes sure the others are comfortable, Drey approaches him, startling him slightly.

“I know the rest of them are too proud for their own good, but I really could use sleeping in a real bed. My back doesn’t tend to agree with sleeping on the floor.” He mutters, almost sounding embarrassed.

“Oh! Yeah, sure, I can grab some of the blankets and set myself up on the floor in there, or out here if you’d be more comfortable with the room to yourself.” Ichabod stumbles over his words. Part of him almost suggests that they could just share the bed, they had done it for years, but he’s still scared. Scared of making Drey uncomfortable, scared to overstep any boundaries, scared of… Rejection.

“You don’t need to do all that. I mean… I’m sure we slept in the same room plenty of times in my years here, right? I wouldn’t even mind sharing the bed – it’s your house after all. I don’t want to kick you out of your own bed.” Drey’s response is nothing like what Ichabod expected. He stares, wide-eyed at the man in front of him, searching his expression for something, anything that says he remembers, or that this is some sort of joke.

There’s nothing there. Just the look of someone who doesn’t want to be too much of a bother. Drey gives him a weird look, and Ichabod realizes just how long he’s taken to respond.

“Yeah… Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.” He stutters out, nodding. “It’s fine by me, as long as you’re sure you’re okay with it.” He adds.

Drey just shrugs, nodding slightly. It’s enough of an affirmative to ease Ichabod’s mind, and he looks over the room once more to make sure everyone else is all settled.

“If any of y’all need literally anything, please don’t hesitate to wake me.” He gets a tired nod from Gillion, but Chip has already passed out, clinging to his friend’s side as if he could disappear at any moment. He can’t blame the kid. Gryffon grunts in acknowledgment, closing his eyes. “Alright, I’ll let you get some sleep.” He turns to his own bedroom door, taking a deep breath before opening it and allowing Drey to step inside.

It’s a strange mix of emotions, welcoming Drey into a room that had once belonged to both of them. It still does belong to both of them – at least, according to the deed to the house – but Drey wouldn’t know that. It feels so normal, yet so bizarre, to exist in this space with his husband again.

“Make yourself comfortable, I guess.” He finds himself saying, gesturing toward the bed. Drey hesitates.

He’s confused, for a moment, before he sees Drey looking down at his clothes. Ichabod realizes that Drey is worried about getting his sheets dirty, with all the filth on his clothes from the adventures that had brought him here.

“I don’t mind you messing up the sheets, they’re old and I can just wash ‘em.” He says, but it doesn’t seem to put Drey at ease.

“No I… Do you have any clothes I could just… Borrow? Just for the night.” Drey sounds nervous, like he thinks he’s overstepping. Ichabod wants to tell him that he never has to worry. Not here, not with him.

“Yeah, of course.” He says instead, swallowing the other thoughts. They’re too much, too loud for this quiet moment. He steps over to the closet, the one they once shared, and opens it. “Actually, I might have a few of your old clothes…” He mumbles, digging around. After a moment, he finds the bin he’s looking for in the back corner, and takes it out, opening it to find just a couple old shirts and pants.

He had gotten rid of a lot of Drey’s stuff, and always felt guilty about it, but it had helped him with the grieving process. He’d only saved a few items. He’ll never admit it out loud, but in the first year or two, sometimes he would wear Drey’s old clothes, as if he was still there and it was just another normal day where their clothes had gotten mixed together.

He holds out the most comfortable set of them to Drey, whose face is completely unreadable.

Drey just looks at him for a moment, making no move to grab them – and Ichabod realizes what he’s done, his face growing red with embarrassment.

“Oh. Fuck, I’m sorry– did you want me to grab Chip or someone to help you change? I don’t… I don’t know what you usually do.” He stumbles over the words a little bit, mentally kicking himself for not realizing that something like this might be difficult for Drey.

It’s just another reminder of the way things have changed, salt in the reopening wound of the past.

“The kids have probably both passed out already. If you… If you’re okay with it, I could use… Well, I could use a hand.” Drey mumbles, averting his eyes as if he’s embarrassed.

“Of course.” Ichabod replies, without a doubt in his mind.

The silence in the room is thick as he helps Drey change. There’s an awkward sort of tension, but Ichabod isn’t going to be the one to break it. Once Drey is dressed again, Ichabod sets the clothes he’d changed out of to the side, a problem for the morning.

“The uh… The bed is plenty big enough for both of us, just make yourself comfortable.” He gestures to the bed, before turning to the side to slip off his belts and sashes, getting into more comfortable clothing to sleep in.

After a few minutes, Ichabod finds himself climbing into a bed that isn’t empty for the first time in almost 6 years, and it’s… overwhelming. He’s fighting back tears just laying there, only a few inches separating him from someone he never thought he’d have back in his life, let alone his bed.

It’s not what he ever would’ve wanted the circumstances to be to have Drey back in his life, and he wishes he could pull Drey into his arms, hug him and tell him it’ll all be okay. But he can’t. All these years of mourning, the time spent working past the loss, moving forward, and making his peace with it, it’s all shattered.

At least he’d learned how to be alone. He’s not sure he knows how to not be alone anymore.

Eventually, he must have fallen asleep. He knows he did, because he dreams. It’s foggy, and distant, but he dreams of the past. He dreams of Drey, learning to ride a horse, and falling to the ground the first couple times. He dreams of their wedding, snippets of memory melding with the present. Drey looks more disheveled in the dreams, and his arms hang limply at his sides, but he’s in the dreams nonetheless. Ichabod dreams of the two of them, waking up in the same bed, legs tangled, Drey’s arms wrapped around him. He dreams of their adventures.

He dreams of the night Drey disappeared.

In the last fuzzy moments of sleep, he’s on his knees, wailing at the sky, begging for Drey to come home, voice ragged and broken.

He wakes up with a start.

And he realizes that, much like every day for the past five and a half years, he’s the only one in his bed.

For a moment, he thinks it was all a dream. That the Riptide Pirates had never shown up at his house, that he had just had too much to drink and his mind was making things up.

His breath catches in his throat, tears welling up in his eyes, which he squeezes closed. If he falls asleep again, if he can go back to that dream, that dream where Drey is back…

It does him no good. He’s well and truly awake, so he might as well start his day.

As he goes to sit up, he’s almost scared by the figure standing in his room. For a moment, he doesn’t understand, he doesn’t know who it is– but he would recognize Drey anywhere, even as ragged as he is now.

So it hadn’t been a dream. Drey is here. He’s still here.

Ichabod isn’t sure at first what Drey is looking at so intently, focused enough to not hear the sheets rustling behind him.

He seems to be studying something on the wall, and it takes another moment before Ichabod realizes. Despite himself, he inhales sharply, and Drey turns around at the sound, letting Ichabod see what he already knew the other man was looking at.

It’s a photo. At first glance, the picture is innocent enough. The two of them are standing side by side, Drey’s arm around Ichabod’s shoulder, wide smiles on both of their faces. In the photo, Drey is wearing his old hat, the one with the green feather that Ichabod had kept and worn all those years, the one whose feather he’d passed along to Ollie. That’s not even what stands out about the image, though.

The damning part of it, the part that Ichabod’s eyes are always drawn to, is their wedding rings.

It was taken only a few weeks after they had gotten married, and both of their ring fingers are clearly shown. It’s not clear enough to see that the rings match, but if Drey has been piecing things together anyway, it’s probably enough for him to finally connect the dots.

“Good morning, Ichabod. I hope I didn’t wake you.” Drey’s raspy voice pulls Ichabod out of his trance. He realizes he’s staring, and quickly shakes his head, centering himself. It doesn’t matter much – by the time he finds himself able to talk, Drey is facing the picture again.

“Drey…” He starts, fighting against his own voice, which is threatening to crack.

“I’m starting to think you weren’t just some old cowboy I knew.” Drey’s tone is soft, but almost accusational. Any further words die in Ichabod’s throat as he feels tears begin to well up in his eyes.

With nothing to say, he pulls himself out of bed, standing to walk over to Drey. He stops just before reaching the other man’s side, staying just a step behind him, looking over his shoulder.

There’s nothing memorable about the day the photo was taken, nothing except the fact that the two of them had been together. He finds himself looking it over in almost the same way Drey is, trying to take in every detail. They both look younger, so much younger, with fewer lines creasing their faces, less gray in their hair, so much light still left in their eyes.

After a moment, Drey looks at him, glancing back over to the photo, then back at him. His eyes trace Ichabod’s face, hovering for a moment at his lips, as if remembering something, but then darting quickly away.

Ichabod finally finds it in himself to talk again.

“I wasn’t sure you’d ever… connect the dots, so to speak.” His voice is low, shaking despite his attempts to hold it steady.

“I’m still not certain I have.” Drey’s eyes trail back up to meet his own, searching for something, but he can’t tell what. “But I think I’m starting to.”

“I don’t know what you’ve been through. I didn’t want to overwhelm you with how much you’d forgotten.” He’s making excuses. It’s partially true, yes, but he can’t bring himself to acknowledge that it had mostly been fear.

“I’d rather you have just told me the truth at the start, but I think I get it.” They’ve shifted so they’re fully facing each other now. Drey had always been ever so slightly taller than him, but with the way he slouches now, they’re perfectly eye to eye.

“Do you want me to tell you now?” He offers, taking a deep breath. They’re standing closer together than would be comfortable with anyone else, but Drey shows no signs of discomfort, which puts Ichabod at ease. “It might be a long story, but if you want to stay, we’ve got nothing but time.”

“I think it can wait a little longer, then.” Drey responds, and before Ichabod even realizes, the two are leaning in, and his hands find their way to Drey’s waist, fully following his muscle memory.

The moment before their lips meet feels like an eternity, Ichabod wondering if somehow he’s misreading the situation, if he’s overstepping some unseen boundary, if he’s going too far, but then Drey’s mouth is against his and all the thoughts melt from his mind. Drey’s lips are rough, chapped and dry, but Ichabod doesn’t care, leaning into the kiss like it’s oxygen, like it’s keeping him alive.

Ichabod has had a home for a long time. A place he’s lived in, a place that’s his.

But nothing has ever felt quite as much like home as Drey Ferin.

The kiss lasts only a few moments before the two pull away from each other, and Ichabod tries to fight the smile away from his face as they part. He doesn’t do a great job, but he must look like a mess, because as he smiles, he also feels tears running down his cheeks.

“Drey…” He says, for the second time this morning. The quiet moment doesn’t last long, though, and he hears a crashing noise coming from the other room, like something’s been knocked over, followed by a yelp that sounds suspiciously like Chip.

“You might want to go check on him.” Drey says, a sly smile on his face, as if he hasn’t just turned Ichabod’s entire world upside down.

“Yeah… I guess I should.” He concedes, because what else is he supposed to do? “We should talk about this, though. Soon, please.”

“Yeah, of course.” The two linger for a moment, eyes locked together, before Drey motions his head toward the door out of the bedroom. “You should go make sure the kid didn’t break something first, though.”

Ichabod lets out a small laugh, turning around and stepping out of the room. His hand finds its way to his lips as he opens the door, fingers ghosting over them as if to solidify the memory in his mind, to remind himself that it really happened.

When he steps into the living room, he sees Chip hurriedly stacking books back up onto the shelf, Gillion starting to stand up from the floor behind him. Gryffon and Arlin both seem to still be asleep, though Gryffon’s breathing pattern would suggest he’s awake, just keeping his eyes closed to not have to deal with the current situation.

“Shit, fuck- Sorry, Ichabod, I didn’t mean to knock anything over-” Chip stumbles over his words, still obviously groggy. What had he been looking for this early in the morning, when he clearly needs more rest? An unfamiliar frustration crawls under Ichabod’s skin, something pulling at his heartstrings, wanting to chastise the kid, not for causing problems, but for not taking care of himself.

Then he notices the box sitting on his desk, the one he was sure he’d put back up onto the shelf the day before, and the frustration fades into a dull ache in his heart.

“You know you can just ask me about things, right?” He tries to hide the exasperation in his voice, but it sneaks through anyway. He leans down to pick the last book off of the floor, placing it back into its spot on the shelf. The rest of the books are out of order, but at least Chip had made an effort.

There’s silence for a moment, before Chip decides to speak up, his voice a little frantic.

“I thought I would take a peek around for any other medical supplies you might have, and… I dunno, the box looked expensive so I thought it might have something in it? I swear I didn’t open it, I knocked the books over while taking it down.” He’s rambling, a panic in his eyes. “I’m sorry, it was stupid, I should’ve just waited.”

“No, it’s fine. Calm down, you’re fine, you were just curious. But you’re lucky I’m forgiving – most people around here would shoot you point blank if you touched a box like that in their house.” The words aren’t light, but he also wants Chip to know he isn’t in trouble.

“What… What’s in it?” Chip’s curiosity continues to get the better of him, his eyes wide as he asks the question Ichabod had been steeling himself for.

Ichabod just sighs.

“This is a case for dueling guns.” He starts, motioning Chip to take a seat as he gently lifts the case. Chip sits back on the floor, pulling Gillion to sit with him.

Ichabod hears the door creak behind him as Drey steps out of the bedroom. He gives a questioning look at the group, before seeing the box in Ichabod’s hands, and there’s a flash of recognition on his face before he, too, takes a seat, kicking a chair from the table to face what apparently is becoming some sort of teaching moment.

Ichabod takes a deep breath before continuing.

“Dueling guns are an important part of Horsean traditions. They’re a matching pair of pistols, usually bought or made alongside a set of wedding rings for a couple.” He sees a questioning look in Chip’s eyes, but the kid doesn’t say anything yet. “Most people will display them in the house after marriage, more of a symbolism deal, but others will actually carry them as real weapons. I’m not fully sure what it originates from, but it’s something about the ‘till death do us part’ kind of thing.”

“So your… partner…” Chip speaks up, apparently trying to tread lightly with his words. “They have the matching one?”

At this moment, Ichabod looks to Drey. There’s a solemn look in the man’s eye, one that Ichabod understands immediately.

“Well, had it.” He takes a deep breath. Before Chip can interrupt again, he pushes on. “Tradition states that, if someone is widowed, they place both pistols back into the case, together. A sign that you’re always together in some way. Of course, sometimes things happen, and the gun is lost, or stolen, but in those cases, the original maker will provide a decorative, non-functional replacement to the widow.”

He opens the box finally, and the silence hangs in the room for a moment, as everyone takes in the lone pistol sitting there, the one he’d held in his hands just yesterday in a moment of grief. He knows they don’t fully understand the significance – they didn’t grow up with this, to them it’s just… a gun, sitting uselessly in a box. But the weight of it holds him down, an anchor tethering him to this pathetic display of self loathing.

To Ichabod’s surprise, it’s not Chip who asks the next question. It’s Drey, his rough voice shattering the tense quiet of the room.

“Why didn’t you ever get a replacement? To put in the case with yours?” It’s an innocent question. He should’ve gotten a replacement years ago. He’d even been asked about it once or twice, by people who understood, several had even offered to reach out to get one made for him, to lighten that burden, but he’d never been ready. Even having mourned, having tried to move on, it never felt right to get it replaced.

Ichabod just looks at him, tears threatening to fall for the second time this morning.

“I just kept hoping he would come back.” It’s a sliver of the truth, a watered down version of the story, but it’s enough to get his point across.

He doesn’t want to have this conversation anymore. The emotions, locked away in that box for so long, have resurfaced, raw and intense, tearing at his heart in a way he didn’t know possible. It’s too much, with Drey being here again, to talk about him like he’s gone.

Without thinking, he slams the case shut, replacing it in its spot on the shelf.

“In any case, Chip, I’m not mad at you, but it is considered very disrespectful for anyone other than the widow to handle the dueling guns’ box.” It’s meant to be final, to say this discussion is over, he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, but the stares from everyone in the room– well, everyones who’s awake– tell him it’s not going to be left behind that easily.

Gillion raises his hand, as if asking permission to speak, and Ichabod gently nods toward him, granting it. The silence is heavy, so he welcomes the chance for it to be broken, even if he doesn’t want to answer any more questions.

“Do you know what happened to him?” Gillion’s voice is uncharacteristically quiet, treading on eggshells.

“I’m sorry.” Drey interrupts, and everyone turns to look at him.

“What?” Ichabod hears Chip’s voice echo his own, knowing he’s asking the question for a far different reason, but he doesn’t care.

Drey presses forward, standing up and taking a step toward Ichabod.

“I said I’m sorry. Ichabod, I can’t imagine what you’ve been through in the past… what, six years, it would be?” There’s a sadness in his voice, settling across his words. “I know there’s nothing I can do to give us back that time, and I still don’t fully know what happened, but… I know I have happy memories here. With you. It’s all hazy, and I’m missing so much of it, but being here has stirred up a lot for me.”

Ichabod can feel the shocked silence filling the room, he can practically feel Chip’s eyes swiveling back and forth between him and Drey, he can practically hear the gears turning from how hard the kid is thinking, but it’s all so far in the background.

All that exists to Ichabod right now is his husband. His husband, who is alive, standing in front of him, apologizing for something that he couldn’t have stopped.

“Drey, please don’t be sorry.” Ichabod’s voice is cracked, fraying around the edges. “It’s not your fault. It isn’t your fault, none of it is your fault.”

The tears finally fall, breaking the dam and streaming down his cheeks. He sees a wetness in Drey’s eye, too, but the other man seems to be holding himself together a little better.

“I just wish I could even tell you what had happened.” Drey’s voice, already so raspy, is barely a whisper. “You deserve that much.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re here, you’re home now. That’s what matters.” Ichabod’s arms wrap around his husband, hugging him with a sort of desperation, like if he doesn’t hold on tight enough he’ll slip from his grasp again – be taken away again. Drey’s chin fits perfectly into the crook of Ichabod’s shoulder, like their bodies were made to fit together, like two puzzle pieces finally returning to their match.

It’s odd, not to be hugged in return, but the way Drey leans against him tells him that even if his arms can’t return the embrace, he’s trying. It’s different, it’s never going to be like it was, but it’s… nice. Ichabod could get used to this, he thinks.

A small cough breaks through the otherwise quiet room, startling Ichabod backward from the embrace. He turns to see Chip looking sheepishly at him.

“I’m… I’m really sorry. To interrupt this moment. I will say, I have questions, but… Gil and I need to hit the road soon, to catch up with Jay.” He genuinely sounds apologetic, to his credit.

“Right… Right, yeah.” Ichabod clears his throat, wiping the tears from his face. “Let’s get you going.”

The house is swept into motion as he packs a bag of rations and what potions they had left for the journey. Ichabod doesn’t even think to question who’s going until Chip starts walking through the plan, to head back to the coast and find a ship. That stops Ichabod dead in his tracks, and he looks at Chip, Gillion, and Gryffon for a moment before turning to Drey.

He looks at his husband, the man who just came back to him after so long, the man he waited half a decade for. He tries to search Drey’s expression, to guess his answer before even asking the question, but Drey just looks at him with something that reminds him of years past.

“Are you going with them?” He breaks the silence. “That’s… I mean, that ship is your home now, isn’t it? They’re your family?”

He’s trying to look at it objectively. He wants what’s best for Drey, he wants his husband to be happy, and if he’s going to be happiest back on the sea with his pirate crew, then that’s what Ichabod wants for him. It’ll hurt like hell, but in the end, it’s always going to be about Drey for him. He’s always going to pick whatever option is best for his husband. It’s the least he can do.

Drey’s expression is unreadable. It’s confusion, it’s annoyance, it’s fondness. He just stands there, looking for a moment, before laughter begins bubbling out of him.

He steps forward, and Ichabod recognizes the look on his face now. It’s admiration, it’s warmth, it’s tenderness.

It’s love.

And as Drey bumps his shoulder into Ichabod’s, a gentle, playful gesture, he says something that fills Ichabod with a sense of hope and joy he hasn’t felt in years.

“I just got home. Why would I leave again so soon?”