munebox | Call me Out

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"There is no port that will have us. Dead men tell no tales."

He stood again, seeing as she was now whole again. What he took note of was her short prayer. Good. Perhaps, at the end of her vigil, there would be something better waiting for her. For now, he afforded himself a better look at her now that she wasn't bleeding. Sure, her clothes were still soaked in her own blood, but she no longer had the face of someone dying. And the fact of the matter, she was a lovely woman to see. Though at the back of the mind, he wondered if it was only because he had not seen one for so long. The wenches of Tortuga look like angels after months at sea is what Gibbs once told him, before going off to find one of those wenches.

Well, damn, he was supposed to be a supernatural ferryman of the dead. He wasn't supposed to stare.

"I'll try to find you separate quarters. They won't be much, but they'll be private."

...Her mouth hung open a moment, and she nearly refused the offer. I've lived with pirates for a long time, now, Captain -- I won't be needing separate quarters. But then again, wasn't there a strange sort of power in perceived powerlessness? Let him think she needed to be accommodated, and perhaps he may continue to accommodate her. With a gentler look, she nodded her head and made a grand show of smoothing her wind-whipped hair. Play the gallant ferryman for a fool, Whitby, and maybe you'll come out on top.

"Of course. Separate. That will do. Even still, your men won't like having me aboard. Pity that old man saw me. Pity he knows me for a woman."

Pity, indeed. Inwardly, her spirits soared. She was bone-tired of pretending to be a man. She'd been bone-tired of it five months ago when she'd foolishly trusted her crew's loyalty and revealed herself to be what she was -- and not even a Slayer's assets could persuade half her crew from mutinying against a woman captain.

"They'll have to learn to live with it. I suppose it can't be any worse than adjusting to the idea of traveling underwater and traveling between the worlds of the living and the dead."

In any case, these were sailors of all creeds. There were many who held no such superstitions. But for now, he moved back to the railing, turning his back to her so he could watch the water. He'd done his duty with her and it had left Will feeling more wistful than usual.

...She wasn't so certain. Some ways were more set in stone than others -- old grudges and childish fears. But she doubted only so she could be prepared for the worst. For now, though, she stood and followed the captain to his rail. Her movement felt easier; her body responded. How gratifying.

Whitby dropped her elbows on the wood and allowed her chin to sink onto her hands -- back bent and eyes cocked to the left, watching Will Turner's profile as a hawk might.

"For tonight, Captain Turner," she deferred to him most prettily, "I'll make do with the fo'c'sle."

He caught her in his peripheral, his head turned just enough to remind himself where she was. And so he nodded. He would not be fool enough to offer his own quarters to her tonight. But he would be telling his father to keep an eye out for her. There was one man on this entire ship he could trust implicitly. And that was the man responsible for putting him in this mess in the first place.

"Then I'll leave you to it, Miss Whitby." He turned around. "See to the riggings. I want to catch the wind when we surface." As the captain, he always had a sort of twinge. A calling of knowing where he needed to be. This was no exception. "The East Indies are calling."

"...That how it works, eh?"

Callings. And oh, what a conversation it's been for them. Her manner softened as she slid by, instinctively knowing her way 'round even this ship. She was excited to see the stars when they surfaced -- what would they look like, pricking through the water? Would it even still be night? Her lip curled as she considered this questions.

"Sleep well, Captain," Whitby bowed a deep farewell and spoke a touch too sweetly.

"And you," he answered in a tone with a practiced detachment.

She'd be left alone for some time after that. He was captain, which meant there was other things that demanded his attention. It was a routine and one he was long past bored with, but he was dutiful all the same. And so that occupied his time for much of the journey, ever a distant sight.

Until they arose above the sea. But it was not stars or sunset that greeted them. It was cold rain, hard and cruel, with a storm that would shatter any other ship. But not the Dutchman.

No one could sink the Dutchman.

It would wake the crew who were still in their bunks, but Will was already at the wheel, barking out orders to the crew.

Robin savoured her time alone. She stole it in seconds -- ignoring the rigging for a good long while in favour of stripping off her heavy frock coat and the light vest beneath. Left to only the light, grungy linen of her shirt, she found she didn't suffer from the cold. And she found her belly-wound better knit together than it had previously been. The woman laughed into the inky, wet darkness. I've done it! A Slayer, certain to die, had cheated death and lived still. Oh, how her Watcher would have cringed to hear it.

By dying and undying, by signing up with Captain Turner's crew, and by not relinquishing her birthright, she'd done what every pirate knew to do: she'd taken it all, and she'd given nothing back. Soon enough, Whitby expected she could writhe her way out of the Dutchman's grip as well. But until then? She would play the dutiful crew-woman, see to the riggings, and follow every order. Or at least be seen to be doing so.

With this in mind, the Captain's roared commands roused her from a self-satisfied nap stolen on a trestle of coiled rope. Her soft boots slid onto the deck and she popped up at the first sound of men being called from their berths. And oh, what a sight met her! Whirling maelstroms dancing among the sails. Playing games with the cloth and rope -- sometimes cheeky, sometimes violent. The storm brought the façade of life to her cheeks and a glint in he eye. Chaos excited her, so long as that chaos was not hers to tame.

Whitby -- formerly Captain -- slunk her way down to the main deck with a smug smile on her face. She paused to mock-curtsey at just about any sailor who dared stare a moment too long at this newly arrived soul. This new slave to the mast. Already, the grumblings had begun -- some crude, and some superstitious. Most negative, laughing at the thought of a woman hand. Robin found it unnecessary to prove herself, opting instead to make glaring errors and beginner mistakes. Let them underestimate her, and let her learn the lengths and breadths of the captain's patience. Learn whether he was a punishing man.

Currently, she was fastening a length of rope to an aft rail -- and doing it sloppily besides. A clumsy knot, bound to come undone as the storm continued to rage and pluck and flirt with the Dutchman's trappings.

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