[Seawater has a tendency to seep. It doesn't matter how well a ship is built or how tightly a barrel is sealed; at some point, the sea finds its way in.
Stede Bonnet has the same tendency, apparently. It's difficult to pinpoint exactly when it became so natural to have the man almost always at his elbow--or, if not, just within shouting distance and liable to appear without much provocation. A little easier to pinpoint when there had become a normalcy (expectation) to being invited to linger in the captain's quarters over a glass of something tasting distinctly more expensive than alcoholic. A little clearer exactly when the casual brushing and patting and bumping into one another had become careless deliberate contact in their moments of proper privacy.
(Maybe, Edward acknowledges in moments of drowsy awareness, he's the one who's seeping. Maybe Stede is the ship, and he's the one creeping in at the seams, insinuating into nooks and crannies; corrupting.)
Tonight, there's grit, salt, and dried blood caked on his arms from the long day's work. When he runs a gloved hand through his hair, he can feel where curls have turned to tangles which will have to be worked free. It's a normal enough state of being. It's a piece of who he's always been and had always expected to be.
And it's a sign of how far things have seeped that he shows up without particular invitation and the half-request, half-expectation:] Bath. And-- [An all-encompassing gesture at his hair, the names of the scented oils forgotten (or, more likely, never retained).] And drinks.
[Just to be clear on the final crucial component of the visit.]
lmk if this needs tweaking o/
Stede Bonnet has the same tendency, apparently. It's difficult to pinpoint exactly when it became so natural to have the man almost always at his elbow--or, if not, just within shouting distance and liable to appear without much provocation. A little easier to pinpoint when there had become a normalcy (expectation) to being invited to linger in the captain's quarters over a glass of something tasting distinctly more expensive than alcoholic. A little clearer exactly when the casual brushing and patting and bumping into one another had become careless deliberate contact in their moments of proper privacy.
(Maybe, Edward acknowledges in moments of drowsy awareness, he's the one who's seeping. Maybe Stede is the ship, and he's the one creeping in at the seams, insinuating into nooks and crannies; corrupting.)
Tonight, there's grit, salt, and dried blood caked on his arms from the long day's work. When he runs a gloved hand through his hair, he can feel where curls have turned to tangles which will have to be worked free. It's a normal enough state of being. It's a piece of who he's always been and had always expected to be.
And it's a sign of how far things have seeped that he shows up without particular invitation and the half-request, half-expectation:] Bath. And-- [An all-encompassing gesture at his hair, the names of the scented oils forgotten (or, more likely, never retained).] And drinks.
[Just to be clear on the final crucial component of the visit.]