light_mischief | [come sail away] ic inbox (season 1)

The bag disappears and the door shuts just as soon as it opens. With all the speed of a semi-professional athlete terrified of other people seeing her change, she's out in her usual dark gym clothes, her suit folded up and packed away.

She gives a silent nod of the head in approval at the choice of food; it's the principle of the thing, that he paid some form of attention to the sort of thing she ate, that brings her the most comfort. At least until she starts picking at some of the salad, and fuck she's hungry. Hungry enough that it manages to bypass her misery, and before long she's back on the couch, having set aside the cake and bread for later.

"Thanks."

She'd probably die before she admitted that she felt better from it. She settles back on the other end of the couch, knees drawn up to her chest.

"And sorry, again. 'm not angry at you."

She knows she's not subtle with her angst, at least.

It's very likely that Skulduggery isn't entirely awake while she eats, able to slip into that twilight meditative state for the first time in a week or... three? Who knows. He isn't keeping track of days anymore. But he's aware enough to rouse when she returns to the couch, tilting his head to regard her and her... is that third apology of the day?

"Apology accepted," he says. "And your anger is understandable. I feel it, too. And I feel... a little lost, maybe." He quickly lifts up his hand, pinching his forefinger and thumb almost closed. "A little bit. Because I am incredibly, wildly out of my depth, and I normally do not admit that to anybody, so try not to go around repeating it everywhere."

He figures it's an apology in itself, admitting that he's also in the dark with her.

Edited 2022-05-20 09:01 (UTC)

At this rate, give it another week and their primary form of communication will be through apologies.

"Good," she answers.

"Well, not good that you also don't know what you're doing," she corrects, "I just hate it when you act like you know everything. If I have your back, I have to know I can trust you, that you're being honest with me, ehn? I can't do that if you act like nothing is wrong. We're in a shit situation."

Life sucks and then you die, after all. Darcy stifles a yawn, trying her best not to give Skulduggery the out of telling her to get some rest.

"You can be optimistic if you want. Just don't lie to me and act like this is a sure thing."

Skulduggery laughs quietly at that. "Oh, God, no. None of this is a sure thing at all. We have no idea what the captain really is, we have no idea how to kill him, we have no idea how to bargain with him... we have no idea where we are and no clue as to how to get home."

He ticks their problems off his fingers as if counting out change at a corner shop, then shrugs it off. "The thing is, it doesn't matter to me if success is certain or not. I simply will not give up until the war is won, or I'm killed in the process. Even then..." He then spreads his arms out. "They tried that once, and look where that got them."

"Then we agree on that. Either he goes, or we both do."

It's more than just a comfort with death and a love of friendly digs that connect the both of them. Darcy, for all her aggression, is most comfortable when aimed right at a target, something she can smash through. She's stubborn, and not too bright, and she sees herself reflected in the dogged determination of her friend. She won't lie down and give up simply because that's the kind of idiot she is. The situation might still be hopeless. But she wouldn't be facing it alone.

She offers him an outstretched fist. C'mon, Skully, this is a big moment, be cool about it.

"Agreed."

Easier said than done, but at least they're on the same page: brash, headstrong, angry idiots, both pointed at the same target.

It probably says a lot about the company he started keeping before this whole ship thing, that he does in fact reach right out and bump her fist with his own.

Darcy withdraws her fist and immediately stifles another yawn with the back of her hand, her eyes watering with exhaustion. She really ought to go back to her own cabin, but... fuck it, she's feeling bold again.

"Do you mind if I have a nap in here for a bit? Just on the couch, I'll stay out of your way."
She doesn't really want to admit that she'd feel safer with him around, but if he's anything like her, she doesn't need to.

There's no hesitation in his reply, hand gesturing towards the neater and less lived-in side of the room. "The couch is where I sleep," he replies. "Go use the bed, like a proper human being."

After all, he doesn't need to worry about sore joints and stiff limbs after sleeping on a couch. Darcy also looks like she could use real sleep -- not that he'd say as much and risk upsetting her again.

"I also sleep on the couch," because hey, if she sleeps on the couch then it means she's not here for the long haul, right?

"You're also a proper human being, and it's your fucking cabin. You use the bed."

"Well, no, I'm not," he replies. "I don't actually sleep. I... sort of meditate. But I don't use a bed. Back home, I have a very comfortable chair that I like to use." He pats the back of the couch. "This sofa is almost as comfortable, so really, it's not a big deal."

And, because he's a gentleman, he adds, "Also, you're the guest. So, you take the bed."

He's definitely not arguing about it. He grabs his hat off the desk and puts it over his face, just to prove he's not arguing about it.

"I'm respecting my elders," she retorts, just before Skulduggery decides that his side of the argument is over.

Well, two can play at this game. Darcy does not in fact take the bed, instead curling up on her side of couch in a similar position as to how he found her. It's... honestly pretty uncomfortable, but it's about the principle of the thing. The principle being that she has no respect for his authority, and that she refuses to sleep for longer than a nap in an uncomfortable position will allow for.

Uncomfortable for Darcy, but Skulduggery barely notices. What he does notice, as he lifts his hat momentarily, is Darcy's stubborn form stuck on the other end of his couch.

Well, fine. She can sit there and have an uncomfortable nap, if she wants, but Skulduggery's not going to make it easy on her, sprawling his legs out over the sofa and, you know, if he has to nudge Darcy to get comfortable, then that's on her. When he nudges her again, though, that's on him.

Darcy glares back with a look fit to give a shark a heart attack. Which he probably can't see, because of the hat. She leverages her sword and all the grace of her practice with it to carefully steal his hat, putting it on her own head and give him a smug look from under it. Nobody ever accused either of them of being mature about things.

He almost says, I don't think you're entirely respecting my authority, but the deja vu keeps his mouth shut. He half expects a threat to stamp the thing into the ground, just like Valkyrie had when he'd tried to refuse her.

Guiltily, he wishes he could go home for just a moment.

"If it makes you feel better, fine. You can have the couch."

He climbs off the offending furniture, going instead to the matching living chair and sinking into that, instead.

Skulduggery concedes the couch and Darcy in her sleepy delirium is haunted by the words of Undine some days earlier; playing was the point, not winning. She huffs a little, able to stretch herself out to a more comfortable position now, returning his hat to the nearest flat surface so it wouldn't get squished. She folds her arms and settles in, her eyelids too heavy already.

There are nearly fifteen minutes where Skulduggery is blissfully unaware of his surroundings, which is about ten minutes longer than he's used to aboard the Eterna. They don't last, but they are appreciated, even when he finds himself startled to be awake and in the same location he was meant to be. It's a deeply unfounded paranoia, but he can't seem to shake it.

Darcy is still asleep. He's not sure how long it'll be, but that nebulous timeline doesn't stop him from draping a blanket over her. The dresser is his next stop; the third drawer has his guns and a few recently-located boxes of ammunition, as well as a stack of traced photographs from the photo stand. Those are functionally useless, now, but he's unwilling to toss them. For now, he settles for taking out one of his unloaded pistols to clean it. He hasn't had to use it yet, but it's good practice to keep.

In her dreams, a girl obliterated paces the ocean floor. A ghost is a memory not yet reckoned with. The person who used to live here will never come up for air again.

Darcy's rest is patchy, but more than she's been getting. She sees his shape as she drifts in and out of consciousness, a sign she's being watched over, and the familiar sounds of weaponry being cleaned blurs here and home. For a moment she expects to see Avery and Kael cleaning their guns, discussing underworld politics and upcoming investigations while they think she's still asleep. But the room is silent but for the sound of sliding mechanisms, and the dead mostly remain where they are buried.

She pulls the blanket tighter, trying to blink away the bleariness, watching him for a moment without drawing attention to herself.

He's at it for longer than he might admit before he notices he's being watched, falling into the habit and focusing his attention solely on the task at hand. It's the same as doing a crossword puzzle or reading an airport paperback, and the repetitive, familiar habit manages to soothe him.

He does notice, eventually, though, and he tilts his head so that his empty eye sockets can meet her gaze. "Just in case," he says, although he knows she doesn't need any explanation.

"Just in case," she repeats.

Darcy sits herself up, rolling out her stiff neck and shoulders.

"I didn't just come here to nap. We should probably talk about what we learned at the party, get the story straight before too much else happens."

Skulduggery sighs. "We don't have to," he grumbles. Nonetheless, he sets his gun aside, settling with his arms on his knees. "But we should. Hm. Do you want to start, or shall I?"

Back home it wasn't all punching ghosts. Some of the dead had specific banes and powers that had to be worked around: dealing with a ghost out in a parking lot was much different to trying to move on a poltergeist entrenched in a haunted house. So it's fairly natural for her to launch right into it.

"I'll go first: I can't stab him."

She starts with, because hey, someone needs to state the obvious.

"Whatever he is, he isn't... tied to his form. He can change it, including how solid it is, and there's no lungs or anything internal. Maybe, or it could be he's too strong and I couldn't drown him yet."

She scrunches her face up as she tries to recall the conversation.

"He said a lot of edgy shit I didn't really pay attention to. It was all 'muahaha, I like evil people, I want to be entertained'. You know, bullshit. But... He offered me a bargain, when my sword was stuck in him, and I can't work it out."

To be fair to her, she did stab him. It just didn't have any effect. Skulduggery obviously isn't going to be the one to point that out, and anyway, the fact still remains that the form the captain wears now is apparently indestructible.

Well, not indestructible. He'd very clearly let himself be injured, and that wound hadn't regenerated as quickly as the others had. He doesn't know if more catastrophic damage would've done the trick. Maybe he should have tried, instead of... what the hell he decided to do.

"For what his word is worth, he said that was his form. 'Inasmuch as anything can be.' So either we need to find his weakness in this form, or somehow put him in another, more vulnerable one." Not that he likes that idea. It relies a lot more on rules from his reality than he'd prefer, and it also relies on some kind of host.

"...So, I should probably mention that his head was... darkness." Admitting that you recklessly stuck your hand into a cosmic headwound is best ripped off like a bandaid, apparently.

"And you trust him on that?"

It was a genuine question, albeit tinged heavily with her own disbelief. She admittedly wasn't a fan of the plan either; back home they had several centuries of ghost lore and information from other Krewes in case of particularly powerful ghosts. Here, what, were they going to spend hours seeing if he had a counting compulsion? Was repelled by bullets made of lead from a stained glass window? Was allergic to bananas?

But she settles in to listen when Skulduggery brings up the head wound.

"I saw Clarke crack his head open, and then... Honestly, I didn't look too hard at what you were doing, I didn't want to get puke on my suit."

"Yeah, I... Hm." Skulduggery has the good sense to seem embarrassed by the admission, tapping his feet in an arrhythmic beat. "I trust what he's told me is the truth, only because we don't have another option. It's not like I can ask Friday -- she's just a construct of his. It's the same as talking to his answering machine."

As to what he saw... "Maybe I should've been more careful, but he said it probably wouldn't hurt, and. Well, it didn't." He lifts the offending hand and wiggles his fingers. "Every phalanx accounted for. I... just sort of..." He mimes again with his fingers, "Wiggled them around a little."

He doesn't know how to explain it at all, but he tries vaguely anyway. "When I... touched it? I suppose? ...It affected my vision. Everything was this bright white, except for the people. And the captain."

"Please-" Darcy brought a hand to her mouth, "less wiggling."

She's seen some gross shit in her time, and while her mind may have hardened, her stomach had not. Even if the inside of his head was darkness and void and not... brain. Ugh. At least the ship hasn't had maggots anywhere aboard it yet.

"Okay- say more, what do you mean 'except for the people'?"

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