Work Text:
By the time Joe's finished the model, carved perfectly to his specifications, it's been a week since the dreadful encounter.
He hands it to Will delicately, and Will turns it over in his hands.
"How's it look, then? Good enough?"
Those who look at Joe think of him as rough. He's carpenter's mate: he's got to be. Yet his work requires precision, artistry even. It was he who fixed their dear figurehead lady when the Acheron had reduced half of her to splinters, and it was he who put the wheel back together while Mr. Lamb started on the mast. It's easy to see, holding the Acheron's model in his hands. The way the bow curves, perfectly fit to the breadth of each deck, of the fo'c'sle and the waist and quarterdeck, the space for the carronades and such.
It helps that he watched Joe work at it, entranced with the motions of carving as much as with the grip of his fingers, the deftness of his hands focused on their task.
He'd felt something then, something that had been there when they'd play-fought, or when Joe had pulled him out the water, his hands strong beneath Will's arms, on his torso and hips. He liked being held—he wanted to hold Joe back.
A bump on his shoulder. Joe is there, eyes glued to him. It's affectionate, Will realizes, the way Joe looks at him. Always affectionate, for him.
"It's perfect," Will says, heart skipping, and Joe's smile blooms.