Archive of Our Own ^beta

The worst week of Uma’s life happens when she’s maybe fifteen.

There’s a lot of bad weeks on the Isle, and at first this one had been just another shitty draw.

It’s the middle of summer, when the barrier acts sorta like a greenhouse, trapping all the heat in, making you feel like you’re brining in sweat, and delirious.

Delirious from hunger especially- food from the barges doesn’t keep well in Isle heat.

Uma hasn’t seen Harry in a few days, which in and of itself is not unusual. They’ve all dropped off the map for a few days before. It’s part of why she hadn’t started looking for him when she first noticed he wasn’t around. The other part is pride. They were supposed to meet up, Harry didn’t show, and she thought he’d blown her off, wanted him to come crawling back, appropriately apologetic.

In any case, it’s been two days, and Uma’s not that patient.

Harry isn’t in any of his usual haunts. Gil hasn’t seen him. He’s not in any of Uma’s hideouts either. Most damning is that CJ’s worried, and gods know Harry’d do anything for his little sister.

Even Harriet hasn’t seen him, and she might not run with them anymore, a year older and busy working up through Ursula’s ranks, but Uma trusts her. She takes care of her siblings.

But Harry’s always been in the habit of picking up food for his old man, or at the very least, alcohol for him to drown in. Hook would probably be dead without him too- usually too drunk to walk down to the chip shop, let alone fight for a scrap on the barges.

So, she swings by the gutter Hook Senior likes to lie in.

—

Hook’s apartment is shit, Harry having kicked him out of the slightly larger one he grew up in so CJ is safe from her father. It’s barely got a window, a mattress, and a bathroom. Hook is there. Harry isn’t. The picture it paints isn’t pretty.

See, the thing about the Isle heat is that not everyone reacts the same. Hook, for example, is reminded of the warmth of Neverland, the smell of his own sweat mixing with the sea air along with his own delirium- part hunger, part drunken stupor -makes the swimming of his head the swaying of a deck.

Plenty of people on the Isle have episodes. But Hook has them violently.

Uma gets to the apartment well enough, though she leans heavily on her sword all the way up. Stairs have never been her strong point.

The first clue something ain’t right is the door swinging open.

Harry always closes it. Latches it too. Every time. Says if Hook is too drunk to open it, he shouldn’t be allowed out. Uma watches the door swing on its hinges. The heat is smothering already. Sweat is thick on the back of her neck.

“Harry?” She calls into the room from the threshold. Best not to get too close to a mad drunk, even if you’re carrying a sword. It’s dark inside. The one window is covered, and heat seeps out of the room.

“Hook?” She hazards, just in case. At that she hears a disjointed mumbling. Her eyes have started to adjust. She pushes the door all the way open to let more light in.

Hook is sitting up on his mattress in the corner, surrounded by bottles, still mumbling something about Peter Pan, like always. There’s a bag of food by the door, knocked over. It smells rank, but no more so than the usual shit.

She’s about to leave, because Hook seems no more or less crazy than usual, when the old Hook speaks, clear enough to hear.

“F-fucking Pan. Finally got the rat bast-bastard. Now he’ll be the one with a hook.” He’s crowing it now, laughing all unhinged like, waving a sword around with one hand, slapping his thigh with his stump as he laughs, eyes crazed.

It’s Harry’s sword. Uma knows, not because it’s particularly identifiable, but because she knows that Hook doesn’t have his own. Harry took it. And then she spots the blood on his blade. And the blood on the floor. And the blood on Hook’s shirt.

“Finally got ‘im! Peter Pan!” Hook says, joyous as only a madman can be, and Uma’s stomach drops.

—

The trail of blood from Hook’s apartment is relatively fresh, a stained brown that had blended in with the dirty fire escape on Uma’s way up. She has to go slower than she’d like to be sure she’s following it. It takes her too long to get into one of the skinny little side alleys away from the pirate lodgings.

At first it looks like nothing’s down there, but Uma’s gonna chase this thread until it runs out, because not knowing is only worse.

She walks down to the end, where trash and other scrap has been built up and pushed back. She kicks a box, sure this is another dead end, but deeply relieved when a groan sounds from the heap. Fuck.

“Harry?” Her voice is way too frantic for comfort, but it doesn’t matter, because she’s digging through the trash like a miner after gold, and the voice that is definitely Harry’s keeps moaning like he’s dying. He can’t be dying.

When she gets to him, fairly quickly, He seems- not alright, but not dead yet. Half dead maybe. His eyes are glassy, his face is shiny with sweat, his shirt is practically a different color from when she last saw it, be it from blood or sweat or garbage. She almost doesn’t notice at first, too busy searching for a head wound or a knife to the gut, or something. Then she sees the way he’s cradling his hand to his chest.

—

It takes a lot of work to get him back to the hideout with the good bandages without making themselves targets.

He’s not all there, definitely feeling the blood loss, but can walk, so she manages. But for the first time in her life, she’s thankful for the heat making everyone sluggish and stupid, because they make it up to the hideout alright, even if her legs are aching.

She has to peel his shirt away from where the drying blood has glued the fabric to the wound, to see it properly. That’s when she gets a good look at his hand. It’s gruesome.

Uma’s seen plenty of fucked things, the Isle isn’t a pleasant place, but god.

His left hand is cut near through. He probably caught the sword mid-swing, before it hit his head. The cut goes between his middle and ring fingers, curving toward his thumb, where the blade must’ve stopped when it hit the bone. It goes near all the way through, almost cleaving his hand into two separate pieces. It’s no clean cut either, from what she can see, through all the blood, it’s got edges ragged like anything and the way the sides of his hand are hanging, he’s broken, maybe shattered, a few bones.

He’s probably got a few other lesser injuries Uma doesn’t know about, but the hand is what’s got her actually afraid. They’ve had scrapes before, hell, Harry’s stitched half the marks she’s got, same as she’s done his, but this? This is different.

Uma hadn’t thought Harry’s old sword was sharp enough to do this kind of damage. Hadn’t thought Hook himself was strong enough. She'd wanna hurl if it wasn't a meal she couldn't waste.

She washes and wraps it as carefully as she can, and even still he curses with pain. When they’re done, both of them breathing heavily, she gives him the rest of the water and scrounges up some food for him. He eats as fast as anyone can with one hand

By the end of it he seems almost like himself.

“We’re gonna need to stitch that up.” She says, suddenly so, so tired.

“It’ll be alright.” He says, but he’s breathing through his teeth the way you do when things hurt.

“No! No it won’t be Harry!” She feels crazy. Like the air isn’t moving in the room. “Fuck! We have to find someone who does medicine or some shit! A fucking witch or-“

“No.” He cuts her off, still breathing real ragged, but angry now. “I’m not having you owe anyone shit. I’ll stitch it up myself if I have to.” He’s growling like he does when he’s pissed, not quite yelling yet. Uma stares for a second, dumbfounded.

“Are you stupid?“ She’s fucking incredulous, half way to yelling in his face, he’s the dumbest person she’s ever met and her second mate is Gil.

“It’d be stupid to rack up debt with fucking witches!” He’s yelling now, like she is. He’s in her face, like he usually is when they fight, loud and angry and breathing her air. “You can do it! I trust you!” He says, and then forgets himself, waving his hands before it hits him. “Fuck!”

The fight drains out of her, there one second and gone the next. She slumps down onto the mattress they’d pushed into the corner. He follows.

They’re sitting on a broken mattress, in one of the shit buildings they’ve claimed as theirs, arguing about who’s going to sew his entire left hand back together, if that’s even going to do anything.

“Davy fucking Jones. You’re going to kill yourself like this Harry.” She says, and he’s still curled over his hand, like he was in that fucking alley. Uma gets up, ignores the pain ringing from her joints. “I’m going to get the shit I’ll need to patch that hand. Fucking bilge rat.”

“Aye.” He says, shitty and stupid, and still bleeding on her mattress. He doesn’t move much as she leaves, and she doesn’t stop walking until she’s slammed the door to the building behind her, breathing heavy in the street.

—

She does sew his hand together, as promised, but it’s a beast of a task, with how ruined it is. He spits and curses all through it, and she sews her tightest neatest stitches, and straightens the bones there.

At the end of it, he looks at her, and tries one of his stupid smiles.

“It’ll be fine, Uma.” He says her name like how he says it when he wants her to agree with him, wants her approval.

It’s not though. Her stitches are only decent at the best of times.

She watches his hand flop like something dead maybe once, before she makes a decision.

—

Uma drops round to let Gil know she’s found Harry, that she might need him later, and none of the details. And then she ditches Harbortown right quick.

Technically Uma has the needles and thread and moonshine from the chip shop that she’d need for this at any number of stashes, but she’s also not really one for healing. Never was the nurturing type, even if it meant the scars on her own face healed nasty and deep, so long as they healed. Which is fine, when the hurt in question is some accessory picked up after a fight, or some botched parley, but with something like Harry’s hand… No matter how much he’s going to bitch, Uma can’t let that lie with some alcohol and clumsy stitching.

So she heads up– not to the burbs– she’s not racking up debt with Ginny Gothel and her ilk just yet. Instead she heads to downtown proper. Where Mal operates.

Her pride goes down bitter.

She finds one of the knee-biters that hang around the fae part of town, a little scruffy thing, maybe eight.

“Kid.” The kid doesn’t look up, most of ‘em know better than eye contact at this age. “Find Mal, or one of her lieutenants. Tell her Uma will be waiting ‘round town center.”

The kid looks up, soot-faced and cautious, and squints at Uma. Recognition flashes near instantly, and the whelp scurries off.

Uma finds an alleyway to lean up against, take some weight off her legs, and settles in to wait.

—

Mal finds her fast, but still takes long enough that Uma’s antsy when she comes sauntering up with a shitty little smirk. She looks the same as last Uma saw her, wild purple hair, scrap shit leather jacket, stupid green eyes. Still, the notch in her ear where Uma yanked an earring out mid fight last month is scarred over and visible. She’d be proud of it, and the other marks she’s put on Mal, if not for the reason she’s here. This isn’t their usual parley shit.

Mal’s flanked by her two lieutenants, Jay tall and imposing and the De Vil kid small and shifty.

“Uma.” Mal says, because there’s a script to these things. Uma doesn’t follow it, not this time. Instead, she takes her hands out of her pockets, and holds them out, open, flips ‘em. Unarmed. She isn’t even using her sword as a cane like usual, not that she lets anyone know it’s more than an intimidation tactic. Mal’s surprise shows for maybe a second and then the mask shutters back in place.

“Giving up so soon, shrimpy?” She goads, because things can’t be simple, it’s just not how they go. “Barely even a gang war huh?” Mal’s fishing for a reaction and normally, it would work. Mal gets under her skin like nothing else, but Uma can’t right now.

“I need something from you.” Uma says, keeping her hands visible.

Mal raises an eyebrow.

“The girl you picked up to replace me,” Uma knows Evie’s name, but if she’s too honest Mal will take the chance to cut her down, and Uma won’t get anywhere with this. It’s stupid, but it’s for Harry. “The witchy one. Grim. She does poultices and shit yeah?” Uma says, even when she knows the answer. There’s a script to these things.

“What do you want with Evie? You hiding a cut under all that, Shrimpy?” Mal says, arms crossed. More confused than defensive Uma figures.

“Harry’s old man’s been hallucinating in the heat.” Mal twitches, and her eyes flick to De Vil, because she’s fucking soft, with scraps like him in her crew. Uma keeps going. “Thought he was Pan or something and lost it. He’d been gone a few days, I go looking, find him a little ways off from Hook’s place giving away blood like it’s free.”

Mal’s jaw tenses. So does Jay’s in the back.

“How’d Hook get him.” She asks, all her posturing gone.

“The way I figure, Hook aimed to kill, and Harry did a right shit job of catching the sword.” Uma raises her left hand, palm out, and traces the line of the cut for them to see. “I can sew a cut up after a fight fine and all, but shit like this? Above my goddamn pay grade. It’s not anything. But I’d rather your witch than one of Gothel’s.”

And then, thing of all things, Mal nods.

Uma’s not sure what she was expecting, but the ready agreement hits her with so much pansy ass relief she almost stumbles, nevermind her legs.

“Jay, go get Evie.” Mal snaps, and he nods. She turns back to Uma. “Where’s this happening.”

“Nah.” Uma’s not opening her turf to Mal’s whole posse. “Just your witch.”

Mal stiffens. De Vil twitches, and Uma guesses he’s been listening the whole time.

“Evie doesn’t go alone.” She says. God. Uma needs their help.

“Just you and her then.” Uma bargains, and Mal nods.

“Where.”

Uma considers just giving the address. It’d be faster, and better than moving Harry. Fuck it, they’d find out anyway, the isle’s a small place.

“Mid Harbortown, two rows off from the chip shop. We got the whole building but I’ll be outside.” She says.

—

Harry’s passed out when Mal and Evie arrive. He’s curled around his hand though, and he’s gonna wake up when Uma moves him.

They don’t have time for this.

“Harry!” She says, loud and stiff, the voice she uses when Gil gets on her nerves. He jerks awake, confused, eyes scanning the room. When he recognizes her he calms, and then immediately stiffens back up when he sees their guests.

“What the fuck is this?” He says, loud and mostly angry. “I said no debts with witches didya think I meant a doxy an’ a fae!”

Mal growls. “You better watch your fucking mouth, Hook.”

“He didn’t mean it.” Uma says, not looking away from Harry, who’s acting like a cornered animal, hissing and spitting with no way out.

“I did fucking mean it!” He yells and he’s pushed himself back, moving into a crouch, already pulling a knife from his boot. He doesn’t touch his father’s hook though, even though it’s still on his belt.

Uma moves toward him and she can hear Mal and Evie following.

“Get the fuck away from me.” He says, so close to deadly but Uma can see how much he’s sweating, the blood staining through the cotton-scrap bandages, the wild look in his eyes. He’s worse than he let on, even rotting in an alley.

“Harry come on you didn’t think I could sew this back up? fucking look at it!” It’s the same argument as before but she’s not sure sleep has helped him.

“I don’t care!”

“You need better than just stitches Harry.” She says, trying to be calm and captain-like.

“Uma what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Patching up your hand. Now you can fucking fall in line, or I can go get Gil and have him hold you down, and as easy as that would be I don’t think you want that.” She says and really it’s the audience that keeps her threat icy and cool instead of screaming right back. She sees the hesitation flicker on Harry. He’s soft on Gil, soft as any of them can be here, and Gil cries when someone kills a rat, even if it’s for the meat. He wouldn’t do well seeing the mangled wreck Harry’s got for a hand right now. He’d do it if Uma told him to, make no doubt, but he wouldn’t like it, and that would mess with Harry.

Still, Harry’s not quite so soft as to cave like that, especially with others around. He’s too stubborn.

“Fucking do it then-“

“Stop it.” It’s Evie, which is unexpected, because given how fragile she is with the whole snow white look-alike thing, Uma kinda figured her for the timid waif type, even if she’s a witch. Her voice is cold and hard. “Posturing like that isn’t going to stop you from getting gangrene and rotting all the way from your fingers to your empty head, and what use will you be to your captain then?” She says, unforgiving. Her mouth, painted a pretty red, is set in a hard line.

That shuts him up, at least. His eyes bug, just a little, and he looks at Evie, eyes flicking from her to Uma. He looks scared.

“Harry.” Uma says.

He caves.

“Fine.”

Evie snaps into action. she strides forward, dropping her bag next to the mattress and digging through. Mal comes up beside her.

“Where do you want me E?” Mal asks, and Evie hums from where she’s spreading a cloth over her lap, her supplies spread around her on the floor, needle, thread, a little pair of sewing scissors, alcohol, some jars of what Uma assumes is some weird poultice potion shit, wood to splint with, and cotton strips. She grabs a strip of leather.

“Harry, if you could lie down on your back, and get ready to bite down on this. Mal you’re assisting. Uma if you could make sure he moves as little as possible.” Evie snaps out directions quick and efficient. Then, she holds out her hand for Harry’s.

Uma, moving around so she can hold down Harry’s shoulders when Evie starts in earnest, catches the uncomfortable flopping of his fingers as he thrusts his hand out to Evie.

She takes the hand delicately, placing it on her lap, inspecting the stitches. She looks at Uma.

“You did these?” Uma nods. “Not the worst I’ve ever seen.” She concedes.

Mal does a little laugh at that. Uma glares at her, but Mal isn’t even looking her way, disinfecting Evie’s scissors.

Evie remains focused.

“I’m going to start removing stitches. Uma you might need to start holding now.” She turns her focus to Harry, who is looking at her shifty, like he still thinks something will go terribly wrong. Evie’s not vindictive like that. She’s gotten revenge like any old Isle brat, but she’s not vicious like the worst of them. It’s why Uma asked at all. Evie continues. “After the stitches, I’ll be applying alcohol, and then a poultice to the wound, setting the bones that we can set cleanly, and restitching the wound. Then it just needs to be bandaged. Alright?”

Harry just grunts his assent around the leather already clenched between his teeth.

The entire process is a bitch. Evie gets to it well enough, cutting through stitches in an obviously practiced way, hands gentle but precise.

After Evie removes the thread Uma’s job becomes considerably more difficult. She’s not really paying attention to the instructions Evie pits at Mal as she works on the hand, more focused on keeping Harry’s arm lying flat and still and trying not to hear the way he goes from breathing these heavy hissing breaths to grunting these pained begging sounds, tries to not look him in the face, where his eyes are squeezed shut and his teeth are pressing into the leather strip, his arm twitching, probably on accident, beneath her as Evie moves methodically to her left.

When it’s over, Harry’s panting like he ran a lap of the whole Isle, and he stays awake just long enough to spit out the leather in his mouth before passing out.

Evie finishes tying off bandages and packs her things, before motioning for Uma to follow her to the edge of the room.

“I want you to disinfect the wound and replace, or wash and reuse, the bandage he has on now, everyday.” And then Evie frowns. “I think I saw the beginnings of wet gangrene, and if you see any sign of it tomorrow you need to find me.” She says, some kind of concern bleeding into her voice. “If it is wet gangrene, he might have to lose the hand, if not more.”

Fuck. The old Hook was right. Uma hates that more than anything.

“What am I looking for.” Uma says, and she can see Mal in her periphery, her arms loose at her sides. She doesn’t seem relaxed, but she’s looking at Uma, not Harry. It’s weird.

Evie lists off signs and symptoms, and they make their way out.

—

Uma puts off changing Harry’s bandages for the first half of the day. Instead, she does her rounds, waits enough tables that her mother won’t send someone after her, and tells Gil the whole truth.

It isn’t pretty, that conversation. But telling him Harry’s asleep and he should act normal seems to placate him. And if she throws in that everything will be alright, that’s her business.

When she goes back, Harry’s awake.

He’s made his way into a few bottles of moonshine too. Gil would handle this better, he always does with Harry.

“Am I just like him now Uma?” Harry drawls, and she almost turns around.

But Evie said to change his bandages, and Uma has to know if the gangrene’s a problem.

“You haven’t lost that hand yet, Harry.” She says and motions for him to show it to her. He flops onto his back the way he was yesterday.

She unties and peels back the cotton carefully. The first layer is fine, but around the wound the fabric is damp with fluids and blood. A foul smell rises to greet her.

“But I’m going to, aren't I?” He says, and she glances up as he looks over at her. His eyes are red-rimmed and unfocused. She looks back down.

The wound is swelling. Uma can see the blisters forming. She doesn’t say anything. Just douses the wound with one of the half empty bottles scattered around him, and rips a few fresh strips of cotton.

She very carefully replaces the splints she might’ve moved, wraps his hand, and tells him to eat before she leaves. She has to tell Gil this too now.

—

She’s out trying to find him when one of the wharf rats comes tugging at her coat. She snatches the kid by the wrist in case he’s picked up anything out of her pockets. He hasn’t.

“Mal’s waitin’ by the chip shop.” He says, and Uma pauses before she drops his wrist. The kid tugs his arm once and then looks up, on the scared side of wary.

“Go find Gil. Bring him round the Chip Shop.” She says, and lets him go.

The little rat flips his hand out instead of running off. Uma hasn’t got time for urchin little knee-biters, but she drops a cigarette for him to trade away into his waiting palm anyway.

Mal’s apparently reigned in her flair for the dramatic, because she’s waiting to the side of the shop, and not inside, the way she usually does when she’s feeling bold and wants Uma’s attention.

Uma drags her off to an alley, and unlike usual, because things aren’t this week, Mal goes quiet.

“What.” Uma demands, when they’re suitably alone.

“E was asking after your boy, hates to leave a patient so quickly.” Mal says, almost smiling, the way she does.

“He’s got gangrene.” Uma doesn’t even mean to say it, really. Mal’s face drops so quick Uma almost forgets that they aren’t even allies anymore.

There’s a tense little moment there. Uma swallows, tries to pull herself back into the girl that could snap at Mal in her sleep.

“Can your girl do the big chop for us?” Uma asks, trying desperately to be joking, even a little, but the desperation is bleeding through and she can hear it just as well as Mal probably can.

“Evie’s not strong enough for a cut like that.” Mal says, but her face is all weird, staring at Uma in the lowlight of the side street.

“Swords then? I can do it, she can do the care after.” Uma suggests, not even feeling what she’s saying at this point.

Mal frowns, a real genuine thing.

“No.” She says.

“The fuck do you mean, no?” Uma asks, trying to pull her voice into something angry instead of frantic.

Mal looks at her, considering. Her face sets into something flat and grim. Not quite enough to be worrying, just decisive.

She steps back, and then turns.

“Come on, I got an idea.” She says, and starts walking.

Uma doesn’t have shit else to do besides follow, so she does.

—

Mal takes her up through downtown.

Mal walks a little too fast for Uma to be comfortable, but Uma’s not about to show anymore of her cards, so she keeps up without complaint.

Eventually Mal stops, turns down one of those narrow alleyways downtown has too many of, and ducks in a side door.

—

They’re in the backroom of a shop, not the plain wooden thing Uma might expect. It’s painted with purples and sigilwork, which isn’t too rare but puts Uma on edge, and the only other doorway is curtained with beads and raggedy but colorful carpet.

When Freddie Facilier jumps up from the rickety table in the room, Uma realizes where she is.

Mal nods a greeting to Freddie.

“Need to talk to your old man.” She says, and Freddie nods back, disappearing through the curtain.

“Mal.” Uma says, and Mal turns casually. “This a fucking joke?”

Mal turns back to the doorway.

“Facilier’s your best bet, unless you’re looking to shake hands with Gothel.” She says, voice flat, not even goading.

Uma wants to argue, but Harry needs the best she can get him, so she swallows it back, leans against the wall to wait.

—

Facilier swings through the curtained doorway after a couple minutes, and folds himself into the low wooden chair the table has to offer.

He’s clearly come from the shop proper, still in his raggedy waistcoat, matching hat, and showman’s grin.

“Lady Mal,” He drawls with his gap-tooth smile, “What can a Witch Doctor do for you and yours?”

Uma bristles at the association. She hasn’t made her name known yet, still low level as far as pirates, but she’ll be captain soon. She isn’t anyone’s, certainly not Mal’s. She holds her tongue though, better to let Mal handle it, even if it’s grating. This is too important.

“Not mine.” Mal says, simply. “Case of gangrene down by the docks.”

Facilier sobers, his performance dropping with his smile. He takes off his hat and rubs a hand over his head.

“What pirate comes to you before Gothel?”

“This one.” Uma pushes off the wall. She doesn’t unsheathe her sword, though she could use the support. She won’t make any threats she can’t back up.

Facilier meets her eyes, looks her up and down.

“You must be Ursula’s blood then.” He says. “And it’s not you that’s rotting.”

Uma doesn’t like showing her hand, but her reputation is an easy sacrifice, and only to one person. Besides, both Facilier’s daughters live with him, and Freddie’s already fourteen. He’s a gamble, but the odds don’t look all that bad.

“My second caught a knife swung by his daddy. Didn’t find him soon enough.” She says. “Me and mine aren’t bad allies to have.”

Facilier tilts his head.

“You’ve got plans for your mother’s industry.” He says, and almost smiles, like it’d please him if not the situation. “I like an opportunity for growth. And I don’t abide bad parenting.”

He stands to his full height, leans forward, and stretches a hand over the table.

“We can settle your end later.” He says.

Uma shakes his hand.

—

Deal made, Facilier gives them an address and swirls back into the shop.

Uma follows Mal out, tired.

Uma pulls out her sword to use as a cane, walls no longer support enough, and doesn’t bother reacting to Mal’s twitch. Her knees hurt. She regrets doing her shift at the chip shop earlier, her mother’s will be damned.

She still has to tell Gil and get Harry, and that means a conversation on top of walking back to the docks and then up to Facilier’s hidey-hole.

“You need extra hands bringing your boy up?” Mal asks, and Uma bristles.

“Go get your witch. I can handle it.” She snaps, and Mal rolls her eyes.

“I can send Freddie after Evie. You need a set of hands you’ve got mine.” Mal says.

“I won’t be owing you more than I already do, princess. I can handle it.” The insult is old and tired, but it’s easy. Mal frowns.

“Whatever,” Mal sneers, but they’re both playacting the usual fight. Mal walks out the alley the opposite direction, deeper into her own territory. “Don’t waste my time. If I don’t see you in two hours, I’ll send someone.” She tosses over her shoulder. Uma scowls in response, not that Mal sees it.

She turns toward the docks, puts her sword away, and starts walking.

—

The knee-biter from earlier followed through, because Gil is waiting by the chip shop like she asked.

Uma spots him worrying out front from four houses down, and a minute later he’s running up to meet her.

“Uma!” He says, frowning, and she feels bad for leaving him, even if she hadn’t meant to. She knows he hates being out of the loop.

When he comes to stop in front of her, he lets her grip his arm for support as she pulls both of them into the building Harry’s laid up in.

They stand just inside the door in front of the rickety wooden stairs, and Gil stares at her, confused, while she tries to find the words.

She must take too long, because his eyes well up.

“Harry’s not dying.” Uma rushes out, voice quiet. Harry might be asleep but the walls aren’t thick.

Gil swallows and nods. The tears don’t fall, but he scrubs his face anyway.

“We’re taking him up to Facilier’s. His hand’s too far gone to keep.” She says, clumsy, trying to be gentle for Gil.

He nods again, mouth twisting. Uma doesn’t know what to do with him, doesn’t know how to handle him like this, or handle this at all. He presses his face into her shoulder, and she twists her fingers in the back of his shirt.

Gil takes one deep breath pressed into the collar of her vest, and then straightens, face set.

They go upstairs.

—

They’ve strapped Harry down in the room Facilier set up, and he’s already drunk, Uma could smell it on his breath bringing him over.

Leather straps belt his left arm flat to a table— the only furniture the room has to offer, besides the chair Harry’s half tied to—and another strap around his waist keeps him mostly in the heavy wooden chair, though he’s listing sideways into Gil.

Evie, who’s been tying up his legs, stands, brushing dust off her clothes.

She reaches over to the table and grabs another length of rope, leaving the table empty save for a pot of water.

“I need to get at his chest and arm, it’s important he’s kept stable.” She says, and Uma goes to step back.

Harry’s head lolls toward Evie, and Uma watches as his eyes snap into focus, flinching at the length of rope in her dainty hands.

“No.” It’s Gil. He’s been standing as close to Harry as possible since they laid him down into the chair Evie and Facilier set up, except now his hands have come up protectively to grip Harry’s right arm, and he steps forward, frowning like he does when he thinks something is wrong.

“I can do it.” Gil says, matter of fact.

Evie pauses, had when Gil first spoke, and Uma glances between the two of them and then back at Harry, half hidden behind Gil’s broadness.

“I can do it.” Gil repeats, like that’s the thing to even focus on, like they have time for this. He holds out a hand for the rope.

“Gil.” She tries not to be so short with him, knows that he’s just trying to be gentle with Harry, and sometimes it’s weakness and usually she’s there to protect him, but she can’t save either of them from this.

“I’m good at knots.” Gil says, like this is simple, like it’s easy. Like being nice here will make the rest of it better.

“Gil it doesn’t matter. It won’t change anything.” She’s not pleading, she doesn’t plead.

“I know,” Gil says, and then, “But it might be easier for him.” Gil’s never been as stupid as people like to think, even though he cries too easy and cares too much, and Uma hates him for it a little bit. If he could just be the way the rest of them are, and not let every emotion play across his face and into his words, then maybe it would be easier to pretend it’s not as bad as it is. That it’s not the worst that things have ever been.

Uma can’t think past what’s about to happen, can’t deal with this, doesn’t want to fight Gil on this right now, not on top of the rest, not while Evie’s watching. So she nods.

“Fine. Whatever. You can tie him.” She turns to Evie, schooling her face into something close to neutral. “That okay?”

Evie looks— not conflicted, but she’s got a sad little frown on, biting her lip. Pity maybe. Uma doesn’t think about it.

“As long as it keeps him from slumping over or moving.” She says, offering the rope, and Gil nods like he’s received an order.

Uma watches him, measuring rope between his hands, threading it behind the chair and over Harry’s chest. Watches Harry watch Gil as his shaky hands make sure knots, not quite blank eyed, but with the uncomfortable honesty of drunks.

Mal walks back in, loud. She’s not dressed any different like Evie is, she looks the same as she ever does, battle jacket on, scraped up hands. She waves a bottle in the air.

“We got some chloroform for him.” Mal says, serious, and just like that Harry’s face flips from weird listless drunk to something terrified.

“You can’t.” He says, frantic, looking from Mal to her and back again. “Uma, Uma, Uma you can’t.” He’s almost garbling the words between the alcohol and his accent.

“Harry they’re gonna cut your hand off, of course they’re gonna fucking chloroform you.” She says, but gods the look on his face.

“It’s my hand! Mine! You can’t!” He’s not even making sense, leaning forward from where leather holds down his arm, straining against the rope Gil’s carefully wound across his chest. “I can’t just wake up and be HIM!” He yells, rabid like anything. Breathing heavy.

His right hand is still free, and he reaches out desperately, clutching the edge of her sleeve.

Uma looks at Gil, crouched in front of the chair, rope in hand, who’s staring at Harry like there’s nothing sadder in the goddamned world. He’ll be no help. She caves.

Uma shakes her head at Mal, who looks all weird and fucked up, but regular rules don’t apply right now. Gods, she’ll regret this and she knows it, but she can’t betray him like this, not when this is part her fault. Her mouth tastes like iron.

“Fine.” She says and Harry relaxes, slumps down, fight leaving him. Gil looks at her now, though, shocked. Uma can’t meet his eyes.

Facilier walks back in anyhow, and the room changes. Facilier is a tall slick man, his hair’s combed down and back, and he’s stripped of the ratty old waistcoat she’s used to. Instead, he’s wearing a dark shirt with the sleeves pushed back, and an apron over it. He looks almost professional, if not for the small worn down back room they’re doing this in.

He looks to Harry, and then to Uma.

“He’s awake.” He says.

“He’s staying that way.”

Facilier raises an eyebrow at that.

“I strongly recommend-“

“I don’t care.” Uma sets her jaw and stares. She needs him to do as he’s promised more than she needs her pride, but hell if she’s letting him question her just because he’s grown and she’s not.

“Right then. Get something for him to bite.” He says, and puts a large bag down on the table. He looks up at Uma, and he feels so far from the slick smiling salesman it unsettles her. “When he starts moving, you all are gonna need to hold him down.” He says, grim faced.

Uma swallows. Looks to Gil. Gil just looks back at her, eyes big and gutted. He nods just the littlest bit. She nods to Facilier.

Evie, who’s been fluttering around with her dark hair tied back and her own apron on, starts tying off Harry’s arm with some cloth and a stick as a winch. Facilier pulls out something wrapped in cloth, tied with a cord. He unrolls it onto the table methodically, and Uma realizes they’re his medical tools— knives mostly, a saw even. She feels sick.

“Have they been boiled?” Evie asks, back to the firm-voiced witch she was before.

Facilier nods. “Just before I arrived Miss Grim.” He lifts up a wickedly curved knife to wipe it down.

Harry whimpers at the sight of it, drunk and vulnerable. Before she can really do anything about that, Gil’s got Harry by the face, cupping his cheeks and making sure he’s looking at Gil, not anything Facilier pulls out. He’s not doing anything besides that, just holding Harry’s head in place, looking him in the eye.

She doesn’t know what the two of them have. It’s not something she looks too closely for. So long as they fall in line when she needs them, it’s not her business whether they’re soft together. She looks away.

Mal is looking at them though, and that doesn’t sit right.

“Watch something else, princess.” She hisses over, and for once, Mal doesn’t argue, just looks at her all weird, pinning her under the same stare. And then she stops. Mal turns away, staring at the empty wall.

“I fucking hate it here.” Mal says, quiet.

Uma hums. It’s too nice, for them, it’s not the script.

“Yeah.” Uma says. She can hear Gil murmuring to Harry all quiet, and wishes she couldn’t.

“C’mon.” Mal says, and turns to leave. Uma just looks at her. “We gotta get something for him to bite, and I gotta put this away.” She waves the chloroform bottle with the rag wrapped around it. Mal is offering her an out.

“Fine,” Uma says.

Mal is offering her an out, and she’s taking it.

They leave quietly.

—

They stand there for a minute. Just inside the other room, door closed behind them.

Uma’s breathing heavier than she thought.

She’s on the brink of something, one of the episodes that Gil’s prone to after a bad night.

Mal doesn’t do anything. Uma’s glad for it. She doesn’t need Mal’s sympathy.

Uma’s breathing levels out after a second anyway, and Mal turns to her. Pushes the bottle of chloroform into her hands.

“I thought you were putting this away?” Uma says, stupidly.

Mal’s eyes are hard.

“I know what he asked, but you might want it later.” She says, before grabbing a wooden spoon off the table by the wall. “We should get back in. Facilier’s alright and all, but he’s not much patient.”

Uma nods. Puts the chloroform in her pocket.

“Give me the fucking spoon.” She says, because things have been weird, and she doesn’t like it.

Mal does.

They go back in.

—

Facilier looks up when they get back inside.

He and Evie are washing their hands up to the elbow, in the pot of water still on the corner of the table. Uma watches Facilier dry his hands methodically. He looks up.

He doesn’t give them that gap-tooth grin he’s so known for. Just nods.

Gil has moved away from Harry now, to the side, but close enough to hold him down when the time comes. Uma supposes that it’s about to be the time. Harry’s craning his neck to keep looking at Gil, like he’s the only thing in the room. She glances down, and Gil has tied down his right arm now, but has left Harry’s hand free enough for him to hold. She looks away.

“We’ll be startin’ about now, Captain.” Facilier says, and meets her eyes. He doesn’t talk down. With all that he’s done Uma’s starting to get why Freddie doesn’t mind her old man too much.

Uma nods at him. She tosses the spoon to Gil.

“Put that in his mouth.” She says to him, because Gil does better with direct instruction, and then she turns to where Facilier and Evie have set up on the little table. His arm is laid out, palm up. It’s an ugly sight, maybe even uglier now that she knows she won’t see it again. “How’s this gonna work.” She says to them, and Evie looks to Facilier.

“I’ll be playing head surgeon, with little Miss Grim over here acting as my assistant.” Facilier says, the weird smooth twang he talks with, a too normal set to his voice for a man about to do what he is. “We’ve got your boy’s arm tied down as possible. The tourniquet will keep the blood from flowing, and hopefully pressure will take some sensation away. I’ll be going in fast as I’m able, and then Miss Evie will handle the sewing up.” He finishes. Evie nods.

“You done this before, Facilier?” Uma asks. Facilier gives her a wry smile.

“Once or twice. I’m no expert, but I was in school before I did anything to get myself locked away. Racked up a lotta debt for this kinda thing, and never got out.” Facilier says, honestly, and it’s more than she’s expecting. She had him pegged as more witch than doctor.

“Alright.” She says.

—

Harry’s still there enough to bite down on the spoon handle, which she’s glad for, at least.

Gil stands over him, not saying anything. Uma’s next to him, for support, or something, because she can’t do much else.

They should’ve knocked him out. The rope will help but she should’ve been strong enough to chloroform him. Would’ve been better than making Gil do this. Hold him down while they saw off a part of him.

“We’re ready.” Evie says. Uma nods at Gil, who gently places his hands down.

Uma doesn’t look at Facilier as he starts.

—

She can hear the slick sound of a blade through meat and then Harry starts screaming.

He screams and thrashes, and Uma can see Gil’s hands on his chest and her hands on his right arm, and the way his eyes are open but he’s not seeing anything and the sound warps around where he’s biting down on the wooden handle.

He’s crying, she realizes.

—

Harry howls like a death knell, like something really truly dying, like the screaming of a rusty hinge, like nothing Uma’s ever heard.

It feels like the only sound in the world. Her ears ring with it, loud and unbearable and she’s heard screams before, they’re not uncommon, but never like this.

Uma wants to not be here, she wants this not to be happening. She wants to be sitting with them in one of their hideouts, while Gil and Harry sit too close to each other and she plans her next attack on Mal, how to take the captaincy her mother won’t give her.

She makes the mistake of looking at Gil, who’s staring at Harry’s face, tears streaming down his own, who swings his whole head to look at Uma, and she thinks maybe he says her name because his mouth opens around something but she can’t hear it because of all the screaming.

She can’t do this.

Uma fumbles in her jacket pocket for the bottle, because she can’t, no matter what Harry wants. She nearly drops it for how bad her hands are shaking, and she hates herself for it, the weakness of it, can’t even move her hands around the sound.

She has no idea how much time passes, how long she spends, Harry’s voice pressing on all sides, watching Gil stand there and shake.

And then she’s dousing a rag in too much chloroform and shoving it over Harry’s face.

He locks eyes with her from over the rag. His black paint is days old and smeared and it makes him look unreal, face contorted in wild animal pain and angry. That’s fine. She can take his hatred if he makes it through this.

He gets in a few more gasping half breaths before he quiets entirely.

—

She picks up the rag there as she re-corks the bottle. Not sure of what to do with them now that the job is done.

The quiet is almost, almost worse.

Harry’s head lolls like something dead.

Uma pulls Gil’s hands away from where he’s still holding Harry down, trying to be gentle the way he needs.

—

The whole thing takes maybe an hour.

When it’s over Gil is still crying.

Harry’s face is empty and smooth and he looks deader than sleep, but Uma can see his chest rising and falling.

Facilier is wiping down his hands in the corner.

Evie ties off the bandages. Unstraps Harry’s arm.

“He’ll be alright.” She says, far too nice for the people they’re supposed to be. There’s blood on her apron. On her hands.

—

Evie’s explaining how to make sure his stump’s healthy, when Facilier walks over.

“I hate to put y’all out, so soon,” He starts, and the last thing she needs is sympathy.

“We weren’t planning on staying.” Uma says, stony. He nods to her.

“One thing before you go, Captain.” He says, like he wishes he didn’t have to.

He’s holding a cloth bundle in his hands, and Uma’s stomach drops.

She’d forgotten, and it had been stupid to forget, but she’d forgotten all the same that once his hand was gone, it would still be there.

“I can burn it for you, if you like.” He says, face twisting.

Uma shakes her head. Takes the bundle, holding it by the knot keeping the cloth together, unwilling to touch the weight of the thing, even through the fabric.

The cotton is rough under her fingers.

She nods at Facilier, jaw tight.

—

Gil, who’s been standing by Harry, looks up.

“We’re going.” She says, and he does nothing but nod.

Uma walks over, tugs at the knots over Harry’s chest and arm one handed, trying not to think about why. Eventually Gil comes back to her, and takes over the untying, leaving Uma to lean heavily against the table.

Eventually and all too quickly Gil frees the last rope. Lifts Harry into his arms.

Uma leads him out, empty hand on the sword at her waist.

Mal’s standing by the door when they leave.

“Uma.” She says.

They pause, all three of them. Uma pulls out the chloroform to shove into Mal’s hands. Drops her hand back to the pommel of her sword.

“Don’t expect me to thank you.” Uma says, half ready for the fight that feels like it’s coming.

Mal’s jaw twitches.

“I don’t want any thanks from you.” Mal says.

The debt hangs in the air.

“Your girl can get a couple bottles of moonshine for free for her trouble. The doctor too.” Uma says.

“That’s not your whole debt.” Mal says.

“I know.” Uma says, and pushes past her, out of the stifling little room and into the Isle heat.

—

Harry wakes up the next day.

Uma isn’t there- she’s back at the chip shop, working off the food she’s gonna steal later.

She gets back to the building at the end of her day, and then has to climb two flights of stairs on aching legs to the loft space with her bag of food. It’s quiet, so she makes sure her footsteps are loud enough that Gil can get himself sorted by the time she gets up there.

Harry’s sitting up.

“Harry.” She says, and her voice doesn’t even sound like anything, just his name because that’s all there is.

He looks at her. Gil must’ve washed the paint from around his eyes, because his face is bare.

He doesn’t say anything.

She manages to keep her hands around the bag.

“I brought food.” She says, and walks over.

—

Harry doesn’t talk the whole time, but he’s awake and he’s sober so there’s no better time for it.

Uma grabs their trash as an excuse to get up, and goes to get the hand.

When she gets back Harry’s lain down again, curled over and facing the wall. It’s a vulnerable position, and the easiest way not to look at her.

She sits across from the mattress, easing down as painlessly as her knees will allow.

“Harry.” His shoulders twitch. And then he rolls over. Sits up.

Gil, who’s been sitting at Harry’s bedside, glances between them nervously.

She sets the hand down between them none too gently. It thumps on the floor, sound blunted by the cloth.

Gil winces at the impact.

Harry looks at her, and he seems lucid, or as lucid as she could hope for.

They all just sit there, quiet. The air is still. Uma can hear Harry breathe, still a little ragged.

His eyes flick down from her face to the bundle between them.

He swallows. She watches his adam’s apple bob.

It isn’t jarring. It’s not like he’s suddenly terrified. She just watches the truth of it settle in him, like water filling a glass.

“That’s it then.” He rasps.

Uma nods.

The bundle itself just looks like a lump of cloth. Like it could be anything. Uma had wrapped it a second time in an old sheet when they got back, and the sheer amount of fabric swaddling it at the very least serves to dampen the smell.

Though not completely. The longer they sit there, the deeper Uma breathes, the more the gangrene-meat-rot scent lingers in her nose and the back of her throat.

Harry reaches for it, and then stops.

She watches, unmoving, as he gags once, and then turns and vomits on the floor.

Gil reaches for him tentatively, his fingers brush Harry’s back, and Harry shudders. Gil flattens his hand to Harry’s back, and his next shiver is milder as he leans back into the contact.

Uma gets up to get him water.

—

When she gets back Harry and Gil are still uncomfortably close together, but Harry accepts the water. Drinks thirstily.

She collapses next to Gil again, avoiding the vomit.

They all go back to staring at the bundle.

“Fuck.” Harry says, and his voice is thick. “Fuck it. Why— why don’t we give it a fucking sailor’s burial.” He laughs, walking the line between empty and hysterical. “Toss it in the fucking sea.”

—

So they do.

They walk out to one of the cliffs, far enough from harbortown proper that no one’ll see, a little procession.

Gil supporting Harry, Uma carrying the bundle.

They come to a stop at the crumbling edge. It’s not much of a cliff, not very high or imposing, the murky Isle waters thick with rocks.

Harry sits roughly, a few feet back from the edge. They stand next to him.

“Give it to me.” He says, only slightly hostile, and Uma crouches to pass it over.

He kneels over it in the dirt, braces a knee on the edge of the sheet, and tugs at the knot.

They watch him unwrap the first layer of fabric.

It falls away, and the smell is awful, the thick stench of rot, worse than old food, heady and cloying.

A humid breeze from the surf blows towards them and the smell overwhelms. Uma coughs. She can hear Gil coughing on the other side of Harry. Harry gags again, presses his right hand— his only hand, she can’t help but think— to his mouth.

The light is bad, but Uma’s always had better vision in the dark than most, and Harry looks halfway to a wreck. His bare face making every expression seem worse, more visible. Vulnerable without the thick black of grease paint.

“I— I don’t want to see it.” He says, haltingly. Voice thick the way Gil’s is when he cries. “Fuck.”

Facilier’s little cotton bag just sits there.

“But it was my hand.” He says, like he’s pleading. He looks up at Gil, then over to her, and he might be crying. She pretends he isn’t.

Uma reaches for it, and the fabric is just as rough this time.

She picks at the knot, hands shaking, eyes watering from the smell. There’s a wetness to the cloth there hadn’t been before. Bile rises in her throat and she swallows it back.

When it finally loosens she puts it back in front of Harry.

The cloth comes undone under his fingers.

—

It’s a sight.

The hand— Harry’s hand— sits palm up in its nest of fabric. The fingers are stiff and curled, even the broken ones. It’s dark, but Uma can still tell it’s a pale ugly color, can still see the dark line of Evie’s useless stitches. She tries not to look too closely at the raggedy severed edge.

The swelling is hard to see now, but the wound is crusted with pus, and the blisters are still blackened.

The smell is only stronger now, dizzying.

There’s a soft thud as Gil sits down.

Uma looks over. Harry swallows again, throat flexing. Trying not to vomit again, if she had to guess.

He tears his eyes away from the mottled corpse of his hand, and looks at the dirt around them.

Harry leans forward and picks up a rock. It only just about fits in his hand, a heavy thing.

Uma watches, sees Gil watching. Harry lifts it over the hand.

His hand, the one still attached to him, shakes under the weight, off balance. He moves to steady the rock, reaches up with his left, and Uma doesn’t even see the moment he makes contact, just the awful full-body flinch, hears the strangled sound he makes.

The rock falls, landing with a sick, wet, crunch.

They all wince.

Harry’s eyes are closed when Uma looks at him, so she pulls the whole mess toward her. Ties it back up in fabric, knots it twice, lets the whole ugly thing be concealed by old stained cotton.

When she’s done Harry’s standing.

He holds his hand out, and she passes it to him.

And then they all walk to the cliff's edge.

—

They stand, and there’s nothing honorable about it, nothing sacred, nothing fair.

Harry winds up and throws, a quick underhand toss the way he passes her too-soft apples, and they all lean forward to watch it fall like a coin down a well, tumbling into dark water.

Uma wants to leave. She’s tired of standing, and the smell is lingering in the air, but Harry doesn’t move so she stays.

Gil starts humming something. It takes a second to register, some old mourners drinking song, sounding weird in his clumsy voice.

After a second she picks it up too. She doesn’t know the words, doesn’t know enough to try, but it’s something to think about.

It’s hardly a procession. Barely a send off.

Harry curls his hand— his one hand— around his left arm, just above where the bandages start.

—

They’re barely any distance from the cliff before Harry buckles over, crumples like something broken.

He vomits into the dirt, but there’s not much in his stomach and it quickly morphs into empty dry heaving, ragged breaths between retching, tears streaming down his face.

Watching him makes bile rise in her throat, some nameless emotion climbing up along with it, feeling like everything in her wants to claw its way out. Like if she let herself it’d all pour out of her, violent.

Briefly, the thought of killing Hook senior crosses her mind. No one would miss him. It would be easy, even, drunk that he is.

But the body would be a pain, and that would get people talking, get eyes on her, and she’d be able to do more for Harry with her plan in motion than by stealing a vengeance from him.

Instead she watches him, watches Gil rub his back, and swallows it down.

—

They don’t talk about it.

Instead, Harry leads the way into their hideout half stumbling, pushes away from Gil, and tugs the last bottle of alcohol from the cabinet.

He’s burned through their store in the past few days, and Uma’d be mad if not for everything else.

He sits down, braces it with his knees to pull out the cork and takes a swig. Uma watches him swish and spit what must be the taste of vomit from his mouth.

And then he turns to her, face hard even if it’s clear he’s been crying, and offers up the bottle.

Uma doesn’t drink, mostly. Not enough to get drunk anyhow, when alcohol’s best used on a wound, when she knows how the drunks act.

She takes it.

It’s warm, and it tastes awful and burns worse but the heat settles in her stomach like a balm.

She passes the bottle to Gil.

—

Uma wakes up the next morning with a headache, but there’s nothing for it except to get up. She goes about finding a different building to hide out in, and then works her shift, and then makes Gil move Harry into the new hideout, and by the end of it she feels like she’s lived three days in the span of one.

But she’s always been busy, and if her plans go the way she knows they will she’ll only be getting busier. She can handle herself.

—

Harry doesn’t talk to her much those next few days, but he doesn’t drink either.

—

At first, Uma’s in charge of taking care of Harry’s hand. Evie gave her the instructions, she stitched him up before, she figures it’ll work.

Harry doesn’t take to it.

Maybe the second time he snaps at her, she goes and gets Gil. She knows it probably won’t make much difference, but Gil’s more patient than her.

—

A couple days later, Uma finds Mal.

She does it mostly to pass on a few bottles of Ursula’s best stuff for Evie.

Mal shows up with Jay, but the De Vil kid’s gone.

Mal takes the bottles, passes them off to Jay, and then stares at Uma.

“That all?” Mal says, mean like normal, and nods to Jay. He looks at Mal funny, but he leaves.

“Don’t think I mean anything by it.” Uma says.

Mal laughs a little, rolls her eyes.

“Relax shrimpy, just making sure you don’t forget your debt.”

Uma spits at her feet.

“You’re not holding this over my head.” She says, flicking the knife in her sleeve into her hand. Mal’s face sours into something more familiar.

“Stop me then.” She says. Uma lunges.

They fight like they usually do.

—

It’s fun, fighting Mal. Hurts like a bitch after, isn’t easy, but it’s fun.

Mal lets her win, and it’s the most normal Uma’s felt this whole week, even if the insult stings.

She presses the knife to Mal’s throat, sitting over her hips.

“How’s my debt?” Uma says, and Mal just grins.

Mal twists her hips then, and jabs a shiv Uma hadn’t noticed into her leg. Shoves her off.

They retreat to opposite ends of the alley.

Uma inspects the cut on her leg, among others. Mal is picking at the slash Uma’s left on her arm. It’ll scar. Both of them scar every time.

“How’s he doin?” Mal says, quiet.

“He’s alive. No rot.” Uma says.

—

—

Years later, when they’re all comfortable in Auradon, when they all eat everyday, and Harry and Gil can walk in the sun together, she asks about it.

Harry’s sitting in Gil’s lap fiddling with his prosthetic. It’s not his father’s old hook, it’s a high quality fancy one that Ben got him, as an act of good faith. He can hold things with it and everything, something that still catches them all off guard at times.

He takes it off to rub at his stump.

It’s been coming around that time of year again, when the air on the Isle would get warm and thick, the heat crawling down your throat to choke you.

It isn’t as hot here, and it’s cool inside Uma’s room, but they can all feel the phantom of it, they all remember.

Harry wraps a loose hand around his wrist, just above the healed nub.

“Did you blame me?” Uma asks, because she put that thought away a long time ago but something about Auradon makes her want to peel herself open and look at every piece. Wants to know the answers to questions she could never ask. Harry looks up at her.

“I was mad at you.” He says, “For a while, after the chloroform.”

She expected worse, honestly. Not sure how much worse exactly, but she could trace the sound of his screams from memory, she doesn’t know how to shoulder less than all of it. Harry keeps talking.

“I kept lying awake. Thinking about how it felt to sleep like that. Worried I’d get hooked.” He’s not looking at her anymore, and Gil puts his book down to rub gently at Harry’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry.” She says, words thick in her throat.

He shakes his head.

“What were you supposed to do? Let me rot?” He says, only a little condescending.

“I let you sit there for days, if I had looked sooner-“

“And? We all went missing sometimes Uma, you couldn’t’ve known.”

“Still-“ She starts.

“Uma.” It’s Gil this time. He looks at her, all nice and soft the way he is, the way he can be now. “We’re okay now.” He says. Simply, like it fixes everything that they’re in Auradon. “It’s not gonna make Harry’s hand grow back, but at least here King Ben will buy him fancy prosthetics, and at least he’s alive to wear them.”

—