"The individual has always had to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe. If you try it, you will be lonely often, and sometimes frightened. But no price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself." - Friedrich Nietzsche
"Thank you." Her response was sincere, despite feeling as if she were betraying someone else by being out there but it wasnât often that they were off the ship and Sweeney couldnât remember the last time sheâd left under Rowanâs watch. He worried too much, just as she did about him but if knew the times she slipped out from beneath that gaze   Sweeney didnât want to think about as her eyes drifted to the ship and thought of him on there. He would know sooner or later that she left. âNo,â she replied, pressing on a small smile before walking forward to put more distance between the two of them for one of the few times in almost her entire life. âNo, Iâm good.â
Braddock watched her step towards the tree line with a harried step, a steady step, and a small, sad smile of her own pushed at the corners of her mouth. How many times had she herself walked with such a rigid back, sorrow in her eyes? She remembered that time, so long ago as it was, and a sigh huffs through her nose, the doctor striding to keep up with her new assistant. She gently guided them due west, as her query for more berries was on that side of the island, and they walked for a spell in silence, neither comfortable nor uncomfortable, till Braddock asked, "So, Sweeney dear. Anything exciting going on?"
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Leveeâs eyes narrowed. Her teeth were gritted from the resonating pain in her arm, but if her suspicions about where she was were correct, her anger wouldnât cease any time soon. Whoever this woman was, she had obviously saved Leveeâs life â but that wasnât the Devilâs first train of thought. She was used to running on animal instinct, always assuming the worst in people, and the soft side of her rarely ever showed. It was difficult to be gracious when the stranger in front of her was speaking to her in such a condescending way. As soon as she would be able to get her hands on Duke, sheâd kill him for landing her in such a situation. âWhere am I?â Another demanding question. Although she had relaxed her body ever so slightly, she couldnât bring herself to feel at easy in the presence of the woman. Her wild eyes studied every bit of the stranger, searching for some sort of threat or danger. She didnât seem threatening, but her intentions were still unclear.
As the girl relaxed, in increments, Braddock did as well, though she maintained her professional vigilance. The doctor couldn't tell she had had agitated the girl further, as her mannerisms were simply her's, but she could tell the other was still very much on edge. "You're aboard the Jolly Roger. I'm Doctor Braddock, and I saved your life some odd days ago," the woman says evenly, fingers flexing oh so subtly against the arms of her chair. "You mind telling me your name?"
Chains of Ribbon, Bars of Gilded Gold | Past-SelfPara
(warnings for suicide, blood, bodily fluids, anxiety inducing material, and anxiety attacks)
"Don't wish me happiness - I don't expect to be happy, it's gotten beyond that, somehow. Wish me courage and strength and a sense of humor - I will need them all."
>> Anne Morrow Lindenbergh
"...You've been crying."
She scoffs openly at that, spreading her hands out over her heavy skirts, smoothing the folds in the satin. She almost wishes she had her fan to hide her face, or maybe to fiddle with, but she'd left it in the dining area, and to leave the sanctuary of the parlor now would be asking to be shackled again. Clementine can't bring herself to look at him, though.
"What ever do you mean?" she asks, tone like chipped china, pretty, but flawed, and he doesn't answer right away. All the same, she can almost make out the expression on his face from the silence if she flutters her eyelids, allows her imagination to pull up the fond design of his features: green eyes crinkled at the edges, mouth quirked in that sad little smile. His eyebrows are knit gently, a single, deep line in his brow, and his voice-
"Clementine."
She trembles a little, waving her hand as if to beg him to no, not now, please, but he's already moved to take the seat next to her, and she can barely keep herself from making the despaired noise that escapes her as he rests his hand on hers. She leans on him, but she still makes the appropriate protest.
"Martin, my aunt-"
"I'm holding your hand," he states with soft rebelliousness, and it's as good an "to hell with her" as she's bound to get from him. His fingers are warm upon her knuckles, soft and dry like autumn leaves, and the feeling brings such a tremendous calm over her, it's almost frightening. He knows her so well, though, holds her so dear, that she's almost not that surprised by the way her heart slows to match his. But it's not enough; it rarely is. Still, she stays in that moment, and she leans into the comfort of his shoulder, daring the heavens to look down on her and judge her unworthy of even this. If they do, then she must truly be a lost cause; she is a pretty bird, wings held down by lace and ribbon, song choked by pearl strands and jewels, and she is held in a gilded cage at the whim of her very existence. It is a beautiful cage, crafted with a delicate hand filled with good intent and years of love and care, but it is a cage, none the less. She thinks of every other unfortunate soul that would murder a man for the seat she is occupying right now, but she still feels empty inside.
Martin's thumb traces the back of her knuckles almost thoughtfully, and her dreaded thought process is derailed by his comforting gestures. She wishes he had caught her during her engagement portrait so that she didn't have to sit so uncomfortably in this whale-bone and lace contraption, but she knows her aunt would have sent her away to be properly locked up in fine ribbons and fire-heated curlers the second he so much as breathed around the entry way. She sighs at this thought, dipping back into her looping melancholy, and feels a sudden rush of hopelessness over take her once more at her outlook on life. Oh, how she should have just declared herself invalid, or unable to bear children, and lived her life out as a spinster! How her mother would have raged, but then at least she'd be free in her solidarity, unmarried and unknown.
But Martin loved her. She knew this all too well, acknowledged with intimate subtlety that if he had not held such fine affections for her, she might have gone on to be a spinster out of necessity. It was he who had gone far out of his path to save her from a life of misfortune and ridicule...but had she wanted to be saved? Had she wanted someone to give her life purpose? Her mother had said that's what all husbands were for, to give women a sense of fulfillment, as well as children and a stable home. But...she was not her mother, that she knew well enough, too. Was that what she had wanted all along, though? To be loved and cherished above all else? But at the cost of -what? her dignity? her humanity? Was she really as unstable as her mother implied for having greater expectations for herself?
I did not want to be saved, she thinks, swallowing the bile that's begun to rise unbidden, This is not what I wanted at all. I wanted...I want...something more. A shiver runs down her spine, a cold sweat beginning to prickle at the small of her back. She feels ill as she suddenly understands what she has been fighting to hold down her entire life, and the sudden realization sent her reeling momentarily, her hand snatching itself from his.
"Lamb?"
"I just...a moment, I beg of you."
He's quiet while she slumps against the opposite arm of the couch, sweat beading feverishly along her brow. This was all wrong. She was all wrong. She wasn't fit to be married, or to be loved. She had convinced herself she could live on as a proper, docile wife, simply a toy with no real will or power meant to make the next line in a generation and then die quietly in bed, had let her mother toy her into the idea of marriage, claiming wisdom and motherly love, but it wasn't true. She had been born wrong, wrong for her time, wrong for Martin, just...wrong. She had been broken from the start, to want such ruin for herself, but how she craved it all the same; if she could have held out longer, perhaps she wouldn't have come to dread life by her lover's side, but her thoughts demanded their time in the sun, and she was suddenly too helpless to keep her demons at bay. Freedom! her heart screams, pounding with fervor against her ribs, free yourself from this dread! He will heal in time, but you are meant for somewhere different. Fly from here, or die a thousand deaths every day you live, for you are nothing more than an ornament for these creatures and you know it.
Clementine doesn't realize till Martin's hand is on her elbow that she has stood, shakily but determined, from the couch, and his voice is soft but insistent in her ear- "Please, if I did something wrong, my love, tell me, for I meant you no harm or ill feeling-" but she's too far gone now.
"I'm sorry to have frightened you, my good sir, but I feel...particularly light headed," she says faintly, lying through her teeth straight into his adoring face, and now she is starting to feel honestly sick, sick of herself, of this room and the boning puncturing her skin under her right breast. "I think I need to lie down for a bit. Will you-" and she falters momentarily, something deep in her brain clicking and trying reset, but she bullies her way through, "-will you tell my aunt I've gone for a rest in my chambers and not to disturb me till supper? I feel right dreadful, I don't-"
"Should I call for a doctor?"
"No, no," she smiles weakly, and dares herself to look into his eyes as she bids him one final, unannounced farewell as she nears the staircase, "Do not fret so. I will be...better soon."
He says nothing more than to press a quick, chaste kiss against her temple before he lets her ascend to her bedroom, and that is the last she thinks she'll see of him. There's a knee jerk response that almost finds her calling him back to the staircase, words of love and pleas of eloption on her tongue, but they die there where they were born.
When she does make it into her room, she's on the verge of hysterics, biting her lips till she tastes blood in an attempt to control her ragged breathing. The fire poker is too dull for a clean cut, nothing high enough for her to hang herself on. For a moment, her vision goes spotty, and she falls heavily into her desk chair, grasping at her chest like she might expire from pure madness. That's when her gaze falls on the letter opener, too slim and blunt to be considered a dagger, but it will serve her purpose. Clementine picks it up, testing the point with the pad of her finger, and surmises that with enough force, she can drive it through her chest right into her heart. Poetic, she thinks, how dreadfully poetic. With more of a plan in mind, she begins to breath more regularly, and she sets the knife down on her desk once more as she tries to decide what to do next. When had things gone so askew? Perhaps she should have realized something was amiss when she no longer cared about her inevitable death, when she had begun to fantasize the idea of simply escaping her unideal existence. Was she truly such an anomoly? Had there not been at least one woman before her who had shrunk from the idea of carrying on such a pointless role? Perhaps there had been, or perhaps there had been some who had done better by themselves, but she assumed the reason she did not know their names was because they were society's most well-kept secrets. "No one talks about the dead or the unholy lest they should cast the eye of God upon themselves," her mother had said once, and Clementine has the feeling she now knew why.
Hadn't life been meant to be a glorious thing? And here she was, about to throw it away. A whimper escapes her, leaving her to feel the true emptiness inside her chest, the hollow roar of nothingness where her emotions and self-preservation had gone and died long before only to resurface now. Letters, she thinks, of goodbye. None of them will understand, but at least they won't have to wonder. She tries to figure out whether she should give each of her kin an individual letter, but she realizes that would take too much time, too much effort, and she should try to make it as painless for them as she wants to for herself; she addresses one to her parents and another to her brothers, and tries very hard to get down just right how she feels, but the words end up sounding coarse all the same, and her tears begin to smudge the ink of the last page or so. She wonders who will find her first and prays desperately it will be her aunt, or her father, for her brothers will be shattered. First Clifford to pneumonia and then her by her own hand? All in the same year? Carlisle would be inconsolable, and the twins-
A sob chokes her violently out of her thoughts, and again she finds herself slumped onto herself, pitiful, imperfect. She has just enough will yet to pen a last letter to Martin, spilling her thoughts onto the parchment, her love over flowing in words too blunt for them to have said aloud, and she leaves the three bunched together open faced at her beloved work space, no envelope to hold them, no fanfare for when her scheme is figured out all too late.
She stands with a bit of difficulty and goes to the window overlooking the family's small courtyard, fingering the letter opener hesitantly as she looks out over the serenity, her mind unexpectedly gone quiet as she nears her end. Her eyes, too bleary from crying, can just make out the swooping of the swallows in the mid-spring skies, and her face softens, an almost dreadful peace over taking her. She lifts the letter opener slowly to her breast, pressing the tip delicately into the flesh there, and takes one last, wheezing breath right as she places the ball of her palm onto the pommel. She blinks once or twice before she finally gets the nerve to do it, and right as she brings her hand down to do the deed, her eyes catch on something out in the harbor.
A yelp escapes her as the knife almost finds it's mark, though imperfectly; in her distraction, it veered up instead of angled down, slicing a relatively shallow but heavily bleeding wound from cleavage to collar bone. It's the first time in her life she can think of that she's seriously hurt herself, and she feels...shocked. And then immediately afterward, she's hurriedly pushing at the latch on her window and throwing open the shutters to relieve the contents of her stomach all over the rose bushes below. She heaves, once, twice, three times, crying and gasping as everything is evacuated violently out of her system, and she lies herself across the windowpane feeling lightheaded from the whole episode.
I bloody almost just took my own life, she thinks, and that only makes everything spin a little faster. Woozily, she props her head up after a moments pause to look again at the docks, and sees what had ultimately saved her from a dagger to the heart: a ship, it's crisp white sails perfectly outlined by the ocean, is making for harbor far beneath where her aunt's meager summer estate lies. It looks like what she thinks freedom would, bright and worry free, and the crisp smell wafting in from the brine on the wind tastes like life unhindered. Placing a tentative hand over her wound and starting to apply pressure to keep the blood from staining her dress, she suddenly thinks this whole ordeal might have been a blessing in disguise as a plan takes root in her brain, almost as mad as her attempt on her own life had been but moments before.
This bird will not be caged much longer, she thinks, wiping away the tears in her eyes with her free hand, and she's not hopeful, not yet, but something like the feeling blossoms in her chest.
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Whether she fainted from pain or blood loss was a mystery, but it might have been fair to say it was a mixture of both. When she provoked Duke into stabbing her, she hadnât expected the consequences to be to such a magnitude â actually, she hadnât expected anything of the consequences, considering she didnât even think of them. That was her issue; rushing headlong into things for the thrill of it without bothering to think of the outcome.
When she woke up, every part of her body came back into feeling slowly, as if her entire being was restarting after almost being shut off. She stirred, and moments later, her eyes fluttered open. Immediately, her forehead creased, and she blinked a few times. Where the hell was she? Her eyes traveled around the interior, the wallsâŚ. and finally, her gaze landed on a stranger. The sight of the woman scared her, and Levee jumped. In a second she was in a sitting position, her hand automatically going to her hip to where she normally kept her knife. But the knife wasnât there, and the sudden movement send a pounding rush to her skull and a stabbing flash of pain down her arm. She winced, looking down to see her bicep heavily bandaged. Only then did she remember. Levee began to process everything. How did she get here? Where was she? From what she could gatherâŚit looked like the pirate ship. Her attention shifted back to the stranger. When she spoke, her tone was as demanding as her sore throat would allow it to be. âWho are you?â
"Who I am isn't nearly as important as you staying bloody still," Braddock says, out of her chair within moments of the other waking up. She doesn't try to restrain her, necessarily, as any unknown is a potential danger, but she does put out a hand, voice authoritative. The girl is obviously shaken up and on edge, but the doctor is steady, trying to show that she's not a threat; she keeps feeling around for something around her waist, probably a weapon, but Braddock isn't stupid enough to keep something like that out in the open. "Just take a deep breath and relax. I'm not here to hurt you. When you've calmed down, I'll tell you my name. Alright, poppet?," she says, tone firm but gentle. "You're safer here than most places."
Braddock didn't have very much to fear from Neverland. Crazed denizens and wild beasts aside, she could handle herself very well, but beyond that, she knew when to keep herself out of a fight. As such, when her supply route took her close to Devil territory, she knew what things to look for, how close was too close, and she followed her set rules pretty religiously to avoid trouble. The doctor can tell, though, looking down at the sad mass of a dying girl, that someone obviously wasn't trying very hard to avoid a similar circumstance. Braddock crouches down quietly, checking for a pulse, and is silently amazed that there still is one, weak and fluctuating, but still present. She clucks softly under her breath, brushing the matter hair off the young girl's forehead, and turns her immediate attention to the knife deeply wedged within the other's upper arm. It'd been twisted savagely, but it had also served the valuable purpose of keeping the girl from bleeding out, and the doctor took that as a moderately good sign, despite realizing that the real work was close at hand. Braddock sighed, sparing a thought for all of the errands she still had to run, and pushed her satchel out of the way to instead get a good, proper grip on the girl, propping her up gently before hoisting her into her own arms, being mindful of the knife. Hook won't be pleased, she thought as she maneuvered the small body to a position more easy to carry, and began to make her way back towards the ship as quietly as she had come. The girl was small in frame but awkwardly bony, but the older woman took her time and, while she did exert herself greatly, made it back to the Jolly Roger without complaint from passenger nor body. The process of getting her into her office was facilitated by deckhands who had come to her aid as she had neared the ship, and then it simply turned into a pretty standard procedure, one Braddock was comfortable with after years and years of in-field experience. After an hour or more of intensive but relatively smooth removal, sterilization, and patching up, Braddock sat back on her haunches and simply waited, for Hook or the girl to regain consciousness, which ever one presented itself first. Perhaps she hadn't avoided trouble as easily as she had thought...
Jukes couldnât remember the last time heâd made somebody laugh. He supposed there were the rare occasions where Adelaide was amused enough by his secrets told that she managed one, but he was certain that those didnât count. After all, though Jukes himself subscribed to the belief that âmisery loved companyâ, hilarity at othersâ misfortunes wasnât something he considered to be genuine comedy. Usually. But to hear Braddock laugh was something new. Something heâd even go so far as to describe as pleasant. Though he wasnât actually sure if the noise itself or the fact that it was Braddock laughing at his antics that caused him the greatest gratification.
Either way, he enjoyed her laughter and the endearing snort that prefaced it to their full extent. Even happier to keep her attention captivated, he slowly traced a story for her of his most painful tattoos. Those that were on his upper body at least. There was one on his right inner thigh that had made him grateful for his inability to make any sort of noise; the sounds he wouldâve made would have been embarrassing, he was sure.
Without missing a beat, Jukes held his gray, hazel-flecked eyes with Braddockâs warm, brown ones, an expectant smile on his lips. He was all too pleased when she decided to play along with him, his eyes roaming her inked skin as she displayed it for him with both genuine intrigue and respectful admiration. The designs were gorgeous and he found that all he could do was smile softly, nodding in awe of each one she presented for him. Beautiful, beautiful. It was almost with disappointment that he came to realize her tattoos were coming to an end once she pointed to the rose behind her ear. Eyebrows furrowing gently, he found it hard to appreciate the whole of it hidden behind her hair as it was.
Before he could think any longer on it, he found himself leaning in, his fingers poised to lightly push aside her hair so he could see better. He stopped himself short though, realizing his mistake before it happened. Instead, he smiled lightly, tapping his fingers to his own scalp and pushing away imaginary hair behind his ear. Can I see it better?
He wasn't nearly as intimidating when he smiled, which he suddenly seemed unable to repress, and she thought she rather preferred him this way; his openness was inviting, and she wondered how many other people had simply walked away from him without stopping for even a moments conversation. She almost began redoing her blouse back up when she noticed movement out of the corner of her eye, but when she looked up, he was in the same position he had been. He did catch her eye, though, miming the tattoo behind her ear, and she obliged without a word, tilting her head and skirting her hair out of the way for him to see it better behind her ear. "Made my skull rattle," she says, eyes crinkling slightly when she smiles at him again.
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For a man whose default was dispassionate reservedness and keeping tally of people and their business from afar, Jukes had forgotten the appeal of actually engaging. It was nice to volley ideas off of someone else for a change instead of merely acting as a receptacle for othersâ sights, sounds, and secrets. The moments he saw Adelaide werenât as often as heâd have expected and they lasted only just long enough for him to remember what speaking felt like before she shut him up again. It was nice to have someone to communicate with, even if in unconventional ways. Most importantly, it was great to be understood. He couldnât count the number of times other shipmates got frustrated with his inability to speak or interpret his gestures and gave up. Braddock was different. And he was grateful for that.
One of his eyebrows arched on his forehead, mirroring hers, and he nodded his agreement. A proper nap. Wouldnât everyone love one of those? He hesitated a moment, sensing a lull in the conversation, before he anchored himself from his crouch. Phantasm stayed relaxed wound around his neck, soaking the heat from his skin as he sat down across from her properly. It was as his mamba curled closer to him with the rush of wind that he noted Braddockâs hair pulled by the current of air and he clucked his tongue in amusement. As a joke, he once more mirrored the doctorâs actions; lifting his fingers, he combed through tangles of imaginary knots in his nonexistent hair as she trailed her own fingers through her twisted locks. With a smirk, he then glossed his palm over the top of his shiny, bald head before looking back out at sea.
It was only once she blurted out a question beside him that he looked at her again, glad that it wasnât the end of the conversation. Eyebrows threaded together, he gave her a quizzical look and pointed toward her own visible tattoos that lined her fingers - Did yours hurt? But with a thought, he paused and shrugged, giving her question validation. Slowly, he smoothed his fingers over the top of his skull, down the tanned skin of his throat, the curves of his ribs, and twisted so that she could see him trail the knots of his spine. These? He seemed to ask as he locked eyes with her again. These ones hurt. A tiny smile and a proud nod though told her that he didnât regret a thing.
Braddock watched him curiously through her thick lashes as she fumbled with her hair, at first not quite understanding why he'd gotten her attention again as he began to make combing motions around his own head. It took a second longer for her to process what he was doing, and when she did, an almost startled snort erupted from her, followed closely by genuine, enthusiastic laughter. It's not that she had thought him incapable of being silly, or making a joke, but the surprise was palpable, all the same, and his humor was lighthearted. The doctor caught her breath in time to watch him scrub his sun-kissed hands over his spotless scalp, his smile wide as he watched her with the same keenness she payed him.
By the time he began answering her questions about his inked skin, she had fully settled again, brandy-colored eyes twinkling with satisfaction. Her hands, which had been wrung together in a bit of absentmindedness, halted as Jukes began to demonstrate the extent of his tattoos to her, twisting almost languidly so she could get the best view. Their eyes met, and she held her breath as if she could actually hear him speak if she was attentive enough. There was a urge born from curiosity and novelty that almost made her reach out and brush the knots of his spine, but unfamiliarity stopped her, stayed her hand from the unknown. The doctor smiled almost whimsically as he smiled at her over his shoulder, the picture of gratification, brows knit together as if still waiting for her to answer him. She sighed, placated, and moved to undo the already loose ties of her linen shirt, trusting her bodice to do it's job as she shimmied the cloth down her right shoulder to expose a medium-sized approximation of a flower, faded with time and sun. "This one wasn't too bad-" she says nonchalantly, but when she exposes her other shoulder, she snorts again, "-but this one was a right bitch," indicating the fine detail of the plant life lovingly rendered against her skin. She turns away from him, adjusting her shirt to a proper height again, and lifts her hair, exposing her most intricate endeavor running from her hair to far below where her shirt stops. "This one took days...but it was well worth it," she whistles with an almost whimsical tone, rubbing her fingers over the nape of her neck where she knows the braiding, looping design disappears into her hairline. She looks over her shoulder at him in much the same fashion he had at her, and smiles, bright and all teeth. "My hands were the least painful, which was weird, but this rose-" and she presses her fingers to a spot behind her ear, "-probably hurt the worst by far. I don't regret them, either."
Hook inhales, once again tasting the comforting salty air as it filled his lungs. He suddenly appears more peaceful: as if the malice that can so easily spring from him is tucking itself away in the presence of the sea. His eyes wander over to Braddock only then, their intensity matching the small rolling waves of the ocean, which at the moment, is calm. âNothing to report.â he says with a small shrug. Indeed, since Panâs return, the island was far less treacherous than they had endured, and though it was still deadly, it has returned to a nature Hook understands. âEverything seems to be at peace, for now.â he adds; itâs clear in his voice, at least to anyone who knows how to listen to him, that he has intentions laced in his statement, though that may be a newly forming plan or the simple musing of an idea.
Braddock meets his gaze head on, expression softening slightly. She rolls her shoulders like the tide, long, languid, stretching into a more relaxed state only to be brought back under control. "For now," she drawls with her customary smirk, already picking up his pace; over years of study, she's come to never be more than one step behind his thought process, his intense gaze and subtle mannerisms cues she has learned well. The doctor retracts her proffered pipe and puffs on it in a moment of consideration, contemplating the silver lining of the waves before sniffling, the scent of salt fresh in her nose. "Not for long, I'm sure," she half-sighs, half-whistles, pushing the hair off her forehead, a much more straight forward question licking her lips. "Are you heading back to the ship, then?"
"Iâm.. fine." It was a pathetic lie but it was the best she could do with all things considering as her gaze drifted from the water to the ship thatâd become her home in such a short amount of time. "I donât think Iâve been on a walk in years. I wouldnât even know where to begin."
"Well, I'll make sure to go slow then and show you the way," the doctor said, her smile going from mildly concerned to genuine earnestness, "You wouldn't mind helping me gather a few supplies, along the way, would you? What I came out here to do in the first place, but...I got rather distracted." Braddock padded over to her boots higher up on shore, dusting off her feet before tugging them on, sparing a glance behind her for her crew mate. "Need to stop by the ship for anything?"
A bubble of good-natured humor rose from his chest as he watched Braddock peruse both him and Phantasm. However, before the sound could even pass his lips, it dissolved just as quick, smothered into silence against his cursed vocal cords. Still, his shoulders shook lightly with the laugh as the mamba twined itself around his inked throat, seemingly as docile as a domestic corn snake. He knew nobody understood his connection with the mamba and, to be honest, if he hadnât birthed the venomous snake from his own tattooed ribs and trained her, he wouldnât have understood it either. But for years, she had been his one true companion, the best of his eyes and ears, and so she earned a place in his heart that otherwise remained unoccupied.
As her fingers grazed his upon the exchange of the pipe, he tried his hardest to quell his flinch of surprise. A recluse through and through, whether by choice or through circumstances, Jukes was unused to the sensation of touch unless it was the feel of scales beneath his palm, an occasional punch in the arm of camaraderie from a fellow shipmate, or the commanding hands of Adelaide requesting more information. Taking his hand back with what he hoped was casual nonchalance, he was content to watch Braddock enjoy the last of her pipe, a small smile of uncertainty on his face as he attempted conversation. Her laugh proved to be a pleasant sound, evidence that she knew what he was trying to communicate. It broadened his smile as she answered.
At her mention of tea, he mimed a saucer in one hand and a tea cup in the other, pinching the imaginary handle of the cup between middle finger and thumb and faking a sip. With a smirk and a wink, he nodded his approval - Good choice. And a great excuse to get out of chores. Still pretending to have the tea cup in hand, he cupped his other hand around an imaginary neck of rum and âpouredâ it generously into the cup of tea. Grimacing, he mimed the sloshing and spilling of alcohol as he tipped the fake cup to his lips before smiling a deeply contented grin and closing his eyes to symbolize a nap - A lazy afternoon. I had tea too but with an addition of rum. Lots of rum. And then a nap. Iâd say thatâs a good day. Wouldnât you agree? He asked the last with a little shrug, hoping she was able to understand all that he mimed.
The more comfortable he became in conversation, she noticed, the more intricate and lively his signs became, and she had but minor difficulty understanding what he was trying to say. Jukes had made a comment on tea, presumably one of approval, and then began to act out a myriad of signs along the lines of having something stronger than tea and then perhaps resting for a bit. His smile and accompanying shrug brought an end to the spectacle, and she felt like there was a question at the end as his eyes studied her for a reaction, lips curled in a smile. She surmised, as quickly as she could what with being unaccustomed to this form of communication, that he was wondering if she thought he'd had as good of a day as he did, or at least hoped that was what he meant. Braddock answered with a shrug of her own, noncommittal as it got. "A little drink never hurt anyone. Most of the time." The doctor quirked a teasing brow as she straightened her back, crossing her legs to get more comfortable as the breeze whisked around her ears, ruffling her loose locks into a gently tangled coil. "A proper nap sounds rather nice though, doesn't it? Hm." She ran a hand through her hair, sighing contentedly out her nose, eyes subconsciously tracing the ink along his hands. She had tattoos, too, multiple ones at that, but his were far more intricate, a lot more in-your-face. Braddock looked down at her own hand, the faded dots and lines of ink covering the creases of her knuckles, the boniness of her long fingers, and compared them to his own, bone mirroring bone but the skin thicker, coarser, sun-roughed. She chewed on her lip for a moment, rubbing her own hands together as her thoughts bubbled, before blurting out- "Did they hurt? Your tattoos, I mean."
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It wasnât often that others engaged in conversation with him. And he didnât blame them. After all, a conversation required reciprocity and Jukes wasnât one to offer any. Even fellow shipmates he knew he mustâve spoken to on a daily basis years ago he managed to ignore. Likewise, they often ignored him. But what was the need for conversation when he knew everything about them to begin with? Start to finish, he could write novels on the inner workings of the ship and leave no detail uncovered. He didnât need conversation or the companionship of the other pirates. What he needed was excitement. Something new, something original, something novel.
His curiosity piqued by the peculiar doctor, he was interested in her choice to stay and continue a discussion that would never go beyond her interpretation of his gestures and expressions. Still, if she was willing to continue, he had nothing better to do. So, he nodded simply at her first question as she leaned back against a mast; Old. An old friend indeed. Even curiouser than before, he was surprised when she leaned in to offer him her pipe. And few things, if any, surprised him. He hesitated for just a moment, the offering such a rare occurrence as to render him motionless, unsure. The spell broke in the next moment though and he reached out, cupping the pipe in his fingers and bringing it to his mouth with a smile.
As he puffed, leisurely and slow, his smile broadened at her next question. Not that he was ever used to conversations, but if he had them more often, the ones about his pets would be his favorite. Inclining his head in a nod, his eyes turned bright with affection as he stroked along Phantasmâs back. She is indeed a favorite. The favorite. Enjoying the feel of the wind along the nape of his neck and the sound of the soft lilt of her accent, he extended his arm to hand the pipe back. In doing so, he made sure Phantasm slithered to his neck first, sensing Braddockâs caution. With that, he clucked his tongue again, trying to find a way to get his own question across. Pointing to the sky, he unfurled the fingers of his fist - Sunny day - before making a rocking motion with his leveled palm, indicating the ship, and then smoothing the motion - Calm seas. Good day, yes?
His striking hazel eyes, tucked within inked sockets but soft with admiration, lurked along the curl of the snake twisting around his arm, and she could almost feel rather than acknowledge the affection in his gaze. Jukes' tattooed fingers smoothed along the reptile's scales, and Braddock almost asked what the beastie's name was, if it had one, but she knew he'd be unable to say, much less sign, anything accurate, and the conversation was still pleasant in it's newness for her to risk miscommunication. As it were, his consideration with his pet was lost on her, as she could not perceive something so slight between man and creation, but she noticed the black creature move elegantly away from the arm extended to her, and her eyes tracked it's movement as it rested leisurely about the other's neck. Her fingers brushed his as the pipe was exchanged, and she took a moment to puff the last strains of tobacco before knocking the ash out of the bowl and pocketing it. Braddock had always fancied herself more of a social smoker than anything else, but she had noticed more and more as of late that her pipe found itself in her hand more so than in her satchel. Not that she'd die from bad lungs; immortality did have it's good points. She made a mental note, all the same, to ease up on her already meager supply, and licked at a chapped patch along her lip as he got her attention once more with a click of his tongue. She studied his hands, moving casually but jauntily through motions; he was making a comment on the weather, she realized, depicting the calmness of the water and the nature of the day, and she began to nod with more fervor as her understanding grew, a soft, good-natured laugh spilling from her lips at his perceived small talk.
"Ah, yes. A right beautiful day. Went off earlier to take a walk 'round the island and get me chores put away before it could wander off but...got distracted by the view and a cup of tea." She smiles earnestly, blocking her eyes to look up into the blue sky above. The doctor looked back at him, nodding her chin his way. "And you? Has it been a good day?"
