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

Right, she's still in the suit. She'd discarded the jacket, the button-up shirt loose and unbuttoned over the turtleneck. Her clothes were still somewhat damp in places, with a smell of chlorine about them. She felt gross, and worse that Skulduggery had to be the one to point it out to her. It wasn't his job. Not this, not feeding her, not comforting her, not protecting her.

But she can't help but want it anyway. Everything is unfair, and awful, and more than anything she wants to lay her head in his lap and cry about it. She sniffs, "maybe in a minute. My bag in my room has my clothes in it."

It's a long, long few moments that she wrestles with herself for. She parrots in her head all the stories she tells herself about who she is, the sharpness and the toughness and the bravery, the coldness, how she doesn't need anyone and has never needed anyone.

Even if they're not lies, she's tired of always having to live them.

She carefully leans in the other direction, resting her head on Skulduggery's bony leg and staring pointedly at some spot at the other side of the room.

Oh.

Skulduggery at first doesn't expect the move, and then he finds himself momentarily unsure of how to proceed. If this were Valkyrie, he'd know better -- he'd be able to hug her, pet her hair, and tell her it was going to be alright. But Darcy is more prickly, and he's already proven himself perfectly capable of stepping on her toes without meaning to.

But the hesitation only lasts until her weight settles on him. He's not a comfortable spot to lie, he knows, but at least Ghastly's suit adds some sort of softness. One hand lands lightly on her shoulder, patting her before reaching up to smooth her hair away from her face. He half expects her to knock the gesture aside, but he does it anyway.

Darcy tenses almost instinctively at the hand on her shoulder, just for a moment, then she eases, knowing that Skulduggery wasn't going to try and move her, or chastise her for being a baby about this. There's a small sigh as he moves the hair from her face and her weight settles further into the couch.

"Sorry," she says again. For making him take care of her. For getting herself hurt, again, even if only her pride and her feelings.

"It's alright," he repeats again, softer this time. "I know. You had to try."

She'd done what he hadn't been willing to. Of course, he hadn't because he'd already seen that nothing they could do would phase the captain. If spears and swords and a hole in the head weren't going to stop him, then what could Skulduggery have done? Set fire to the room? Shot the bastard? It wouldn't have mattered. Trying to destroy the captain in his current form is as useless as trying to shoot a Faceless One.

(And hadn't that been part of the novelty? The curiosity of some eldritch god welcoming human interaction, speaking freely and maybe even truthfully to them? Here was a creature that was nearly as powerful as the ancient Gods he'd had to kill before, and he was just... looking for entertainment. Both sides have brutal methods, and both end in subjugation of some sort, but... it's still different, isn't it?)

He sighs. Says, "I'm sorry, too," and means it just as much as she had.

Like the scorpion must sting the frog, she knew he was right when he confirmed that she had to try. Because she did. If she hadn't, she'd still be knocking on the Captain's door, begging to fight him, still not reckoning with the danger she had been tempting. It's... hard for her not to feel hopeless. The idea of embracing nihilism over the situation feels like a nice comfortable grave to tuck herself into. Not a good time, but something familiar. Comforting. She wouldn't need to do anything, struggle further, she could just give up. The Captain was beyond anything she'd ever comprehended. Even the dead had things they would answer to, ways to harm them, banes and flaws and weaknesses. It felt like fencing against someone with a perfect guard, every touch on her only drove the score higher towards an inevitable defeat.

Darcy remains silent for a minute, bringing her hand up to her cheek for a bit more cushioning against his bony leg.

"You were right, though. And you can gloat about that, if you want," she offers weakly, "I was useless."

"No," Skulduggery sighs, tilting his head against the sofa's back. "I'm not going to gloat. And you weren't useless. If he'd been anything else, that would have been enough to kill him."

He's just... different from anything either of them have encountered. Something strange and unnatural and unkillable. And while she didn't injure him, didn't kill him, there's still something to learn from the encounter. It'll just take time to figure it out.

"We know more than we did before, and we have time now to go over that information. We'll learn from the experience, just as we would from any other battle." He pats her temple with a finger. "But that can wait until you've eaten and rested up."

Another sigh from Darcy. Instinct told her to lie about not being hungry or tired, but even she couldn't keep ignoring her body forever. Some things you do just to stop yourself from feeling better. Some things you do just to see how bad you can feel.

"I wish you'd gloat," she grumbles, "I was being stupid, I knew it and you knew it and I did it anyway."

She doesn't want him to be delicate with her. There's a tension that's been left unresolved from the party still in her, prolonged by her inability to deal with it on her own. Darcy wishes the Captain had killed her. maybe then she wouldn't be feeling so horrible. She could deal with physical pain, this... not so much.

He chuckles and nods his head. "Well, I was right," he points out, playful but maybe a little vindicated, too. It isn't that he doesn't like gloating -- of course, he does, his ego practically dictates so. It just feels like such a hollow victory. Unworthy of his pride. "But you're also a teenage girl with a sword. It would be impossible to expect you not to do something a little stupid from time to time."

In case she takes his words as more of an insult than a statement of facts, he flicks her earlobe. "You had a good reason to be upset. And the next time he upsets you, you'll remember not to let that affect your judgment."

"No I won't."

She waves off his hand like trying to get rid of a fly.

"I've always had a hot head. My coaches always said it was the only thing in between me and getting anywhere. And it keeps nearly getting me killed back home, too."

It feels like admitting some great secret, even though it's obvious to anyone who interacts with her for more than a minute. The shame is probably in her lack of control over it, the fact it rules her so comfortably. It's more than just snapping at people who bump into her in the hallway. Aggression was key to her sport and how she approached life, but it was too soaked into how she saw the world by now. If someone bit at her, she bit back. If someone insulted her, she'd swear fit to turn the sky blue. And if the Captain mocked her again, she knew she'd take the bait. Every time.

"He didn't even need to raise a hand to me. You saw it. I'm... just going to hurt our chances."

Skulduggery knows that feeling better than Darcy probably knows. He knows what it's like to let anger blind you; to find yourself unable to stand the injustices in front of you and to need to confront them, regardless of how it will end. He wouldn't be here now, both in spirit and body, if it weren't for that unstoppable rage.

"He didn't raise a hand to anybody, and he still wounded all of us. This is the nature of war, Darcy -- we lose battles, and we use those losses to fuel our future wins."

He flicks Darcy's ear once more. "I know what I'm talking about, here." Because he does. She should know; she knows how and why he died.

It... should be helping, it should be comforting to know that a man who has lived this long and seen as much as he had wasn't thinking their odds were hopeless.

But of course, it was hard to take 'I know what I'm talking about' without also hearing 'I know better than you'. She bristled physically, but bit her tongue. Fuck, maybe it'd take a magic evil cruise ship for her to finally learn to just follow someone else's lead without bitching about it. Darcy set herself upright wordlessly, rubbing her ear.

"I should have that shower."

There's that prickliness he'd been afraid to stumble into. He lets her go without a fuss, arm falling over the back of the couch, watching her sit. He can guess the vague shape and size of his offense this time, at least, although he doesn't think there's much he can do to make up for it.

He waits on that for now, opting for the more direct care he can offer. "Alright. The pirates cleared out a while ago, so everything should be clean enough." He tilts his head. "I'll go to the buffet while you're doing that, if you'd like me to. At the very least, I'll get you a change of clothes." That will give her both the time and privacy she needs, as well as give him a chance to try and figure out what to say to... well, hopefully bolster her spirit. It won't be good for her to lose her will now.

"Sure," she answers flatly. She almost adds 'no junk food' but it's not like she's going to eat much anyway.

Darcy disappears into the bathroom with a louder than intended slam of the door.

Inside, away from prying eyes, she peels off the detritus of the party with no small amount of disgust. At herself, for going along with it, for letting herself get this bad. At least away from Skulduggery Darcy can go through the regular motions; tears welling up over nothing, chased by a pervasive numbness, a sense of dread without cause. As familiar as the sword she takes into the shower with her, for fear of it slipping through the floor and out of her grasp.

She's in for pretty much the entire span of Skulduggery's absence, sat on the shower floor once again holding the weapon to her, a small Marionette effect to keep the water from rusting it. It's a pathetic scene and Darcy knows it. But the heat of the water and not feeling coated in chlorine and God knows what else is at least a little relieving. She recites a couple of psalms as she usually does, and doesn't bother to dry off magically, waiting for Skulduggery to pass her a change of clothes when he returns.

Ah, the slamming door actually manages to reassure him. Teenage angst really does hit differently depending on which end of exhausted you are.

He doesn't take his time, exactly, but he doesn't rush to her room. Her bag is easy to find, and he trusts it to have everything she'll need -- he's not about to start snooping around when he has no idea where anything is.

After that is the buffet; the last few days have made it more familiar territory for him, but he still doesn't eat, so he's not sure if any of it is actually any good. It doesn't matter, though; Darcy's more likely to pick at her food than anything, and he's only ever seen her eat bland food to begin with. So he gets mostly what he expects she would get; a salad, a plate of rice and chicken, with a breadroll that will be good if she can't eat until later. He also grabs a can of ginger ale and a plate with some chocolate cake on his way out, two things he can bet she wouldn't go for normally, but that might be good to have for now.

He gets back to the room and doesn't hear the shower running, although the room itself has returned to the high humidity after a hot shower. He sets her bag by the door for her to grab, then puts the food out on the desk for her when she gets out. When he's done, he ends up back on the couch, contemplating an actual nap at some point.

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.

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