Fiddler's Green

III

Our tale has only just begun, my friends, with Mary having barely adjusted to the determined rock of the ship in the waves. The small compartment reminded her of the pub, oddly, though the only sound was the din of the water desperately trying to climb the wooden planks of the boat.

"Miss Watson?" Peter's voice echoed through the crack in the door. She snapped out of her thoughts, rushing to hide behind the door so that she could open it. This was all for a purpose, she told herself. She needed to get back home to find someone who could send her back. The days had trudged by as she'd allowed herself to dream of what would happen when she would return. She would make sure it would be as if she had never been gone, planning on how to explain her aging. Oh, if it was only just a dream! Alas, she had woken up many times in the past four years and not in the bed she had been used to before she had found herself in London.

Peter walked through the door, carrying with him a sack that presumably kept her food for the next day. Some days, she had felt like a prisoner, the only conversations held when she bickered with the ship's cat about modern politics and ethics, the only response given a solemn blinking. He sat down, opening the package to reveal some hard tack and some dried meat.

"My apologies," He said, anxiously arranging it. "I was unable to decide how to transport the stew without having it slop all over the knapsack."

Mary smiled, breaking off a piece of the water biscuits. They chewed in silence until they were full, the rock of the waves suddenly calm now that they were in each other's company.

"What does this ship do? And what is your job"

"We're a fifth-rate frigate, miss. Meant for scouting for merchants and privateers. I am a mere gunsmith., one of 300 men." She raised an eyebrow, packing away the rest of the food to sustain her until Peter could bring more.

"Have you ever met one? A pirate, I mean." asked Mary.

"Not as of yet, miss." Rolling her eyes, she pushed the food into the corner with the rest of her measly belongings.

"You can call me Mary, you know."

"Pardon?"

"No more of this 'miss' business, Petty Officer Parker. I'm a modern lady and we're doing business." Talking with Peter might make it feel like nothing had changed. His face changed to one of shock. Oh, how she wished that she had a pencil to sketch the crisis that played out!

"So, why did you become a sailor?" It was a query that had haunted her since they had met. The Peter she knew was a city boy, someone who so desperately wanted to do the right thing and be recognised for it that he allowed himself to be the punching bag. But these two were years apart in terms of life and actions.

"I have always held a great fondness for the water, I suppose." He said after hesitation. "I grew up with my Father's brother and his wife in London after my parents succumbed to Cholera when I was young. Adventure called to me from the sea. I used to go swimming in the river. When I was old enough to join, I signed up, if only because I wished to be a grand knight."

There is a strange thing about how traits can track across the lands, across the worlds, across the universes to places that one didn't even know existed. There was a strange yet familiar kinship shared with this Peter who had the same face as the one she used to know. Would Peter be the same and she would be the only one changed?

"And you?" He returned. "An answer for a question, I would say."

"What do you want to know?"

"Who is waiting for you in New York? Why do you wish to return so badly?" Mary turned away from him, looking out into the dark sea, suddenly and eerily quiet from the view in the porthole.

"Everyone," She replied. "I came to England by accident. I want to get back to my Mom. She's all I have."

"You have no friends?"

"I don't know." The water attempted to break through the glass of the only view to the outside. "I used to sit with these two losers. Absolute dorks, both of them. I think I took advantage of it- I didn't tell them that I considered them friends. But maybe I didn't really realise how I felt until they were gone... How 'bout you?" Peter seemed enraptured, grasping on the single bit of concrete information that she had given him.

"I work with a fellow gunsmith named Edward Leeds." She could hardly look at him, instead choosing to analyze the patterns of the ship's wood that she'd already memorised.

"Ned?" That wasn't meant to slip out. How was it that she had seemingly lost control of her tongue? Peter chuckled, and she remembered just how small the cabin was.

"Aye, I suppose I could call him that. We are tasked with the manning of the ship's guns, of which there are 46." Mary raised her eyebrows, still refusing to look at him. Perhaps she was afraid of confronting what she had been avoiding: this wasn't the Peter she knew from home. He didn't know her. He didn't know Ned.

For a moment, maybe, there had been hope. A tiny flickering thing after four years that she wasn't alone. She didn't know how much time had passed back home, if any, but she had hoped that someone may have come looking for her. To think that it was Peter, even for a moment, had been a gift.

In truth, though, she had wondered if she was worthy of being missed. Isolating herself and diving into her studies had seemed like the sure way of finally making her mother proud, living up to be a girl that her Dad would want to come back for, going to college and actually doing something. But those dreams were those of a sixteen year old whose problems were wondering how she was going to pay for lunch until her next paycheck and balancing school and work.

"Thank you," She told Peter, and she meant it. "For everything." He nodded, looking so much like the friend- could she even call him that?- she had left behind. He began to reply when the door swung open with a bang.

A stout and barrel chested young man in the same blue and white double-breasted uniform as Peter stood panting in the doorway, clutching at his abdomen as the white shirt he wore underneath his coat turned red.

"Ned." Mary hadn't meant for it to slip out, but she rushed forward without thought as he began to collapse, falling onto his back.

"What's going on?" Peter began pressing at Ned's wound at Mary's behest as she tore the sack into strips, frantically trying to make a bandage. She'd just found both of them; they had to survive.

"P-privateers boarded the ship." Ned said, his breath coming out in short gasps.

"Pirates?" Mary asked, and she finally met Peter's eyes, and suddenly panicked. This could throw her whole plan into chaos: one more person knew about her than she wanted to. From her recollections, Ned was never the subtle kind. His breath slowed.

"No!" Peter cried, pressing down even harder. "Leeds! Edward! Ned!"

Minutes had gone by so quickly as Ned's hand slowly lost its grip on Peter's and his eyes rolled back into his head. Peter let out a breath, his shoulders tense, refusing to remove his hands from his friend's stomach.

"Officer Parker," She tried, grabbing at his shoulder. As terrible as it was, their survival was paramount. Maybe she had compartmentalized quickly. He ignored her, staring at his bloody hands in shock, kneeling by his friend's body. Innocence lost.

"Peter," She tried again. He snapped out of it, removing his hands to stare at his palms and he resumed breathing.

"We have to go. The pirates." She tried to explain, her sentences coming out in fragments. He nodded, clearly in shock.

"Pirates?" A voice came from the door. "Why wouldn't you want pirates?" She knew that voice, turning her head to stare at the familiar voice and delivery that she had only seen from TV. In a breath, she met eyes with Tony Stark.