An Officer's Room in Belem

"Jonathan, how do you think you will recover your strength if you do not eat? Take it, I beg."

"I do eat," Padstowe said, defensively. "Just not all of what they give me. Please, I am not the one who has just nearly been knifed to death."

"I have already eaten," Stephen lied smoothly, "and I obviously have more strength than you do."

"You have not eaten," Padstowe stared stubbornly back at the doctor. "There are no crumbs on you neckcloth, or spots of food on your shirt or cuffs."

"That is because I do not eat like an animal, Jonathan, and I brushed the crumbs away."

Padstowe declined to comment further, and merely returned a blank stare to Maturin.

Stephen pointedly placed the piece of bread on the bedsheet by Padstowe's hand, and stood up, reaching out for his waistcoat.

Padstowe equally lifted the sheet so the bread rolled away down the bed from his hand, and rested back against the pillow, closing his eyes.

Stephen looked up, needle balanced between his fingers. "You- Do you want to go to sleep, Jonathan?" he asked softly.

"If I may," he opened his eyes again and turned his head to the doctor. "You say I need rest to get better..."

"Of course," Stephen said tonelessly, closing his eyes.

Padstowe settled back down, closing his eyes and letting out a sigh as he relaxed again, seeking the sleep he had not long ago been dragged out of.

Stephen watched Padstowe for a minute before he soundlessly buried his face in his hands, then ran his fingers through his hair, gripping it at the nape of his neck and biting back a sob. He imagined Jack's reaction had he come back to the ship or their house with a stab wound and all this guilt and horror and loneliness bottled up inside him, and then he cursed himself violently for wanting such a comfort when Carneiro and her baby and Pereira, lay dead in that cold, dark, blood-soaked room, and God knew how many others.

Padstowe had just began to dose when he heard the muffled sob from next to him, and he opened his eyes to see Maturin with his face buried in his hands.

"My God, Stephen, what is the matter?"

Stephen looked up, shocked; he had been sure Padstowe was asleep. "I-" he started, his breathing ragged, "I did not mean to wake you, Jonathan: I am sorry, it is nothing."

"Stop telling me that!" Padstowe hissed. "It obviously is not the case! Please, tell me what troubles you so much."

Stephen flinched at Padstowe's tone. "It was-" He steadied himself. "I cannot, Jonathan. You do not need to know."

In the darkness Padstowe's eyes turned as hard as flint.

"You suffer more by not telling me," he said. "You do not trust me to see if I can offer consolation, or indeed help. You insult me, maturin, and you leave me twice hurt; firstly because I hate to see you so, and secondly because you will not let any man console you."

"Please, do not be so hard," Stephen said, pleading. "Do not make it harder - you do not want to know, Jonathan. It is all too-"

"Do not tell me what I want to know, or what I need to know. Maturin, can you not see that your misery is only made worse by your not sharing it. I want to know what troubles you, so that I may help if I can. I cannot if you refuse to condfide in me."

"You cannot help. It is already done," Stephen said, unable to bear meeting Padstowe's eyes, twisting his hands, ignoring the sutured cut.

"What is done?"

Stephen gripped his hands, a sob choking him, his eyes looking about the room. "The list." He looked defeated. "The list."

There was a beat of silence.

"In what way?" Padstowe asked quietly, although he already thought he knew the answer.

"He is too fast. I did not think he be so fast, so reckless. He has already-"