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

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.

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.

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