Work Text:
The Atlantic rolls in heavy swells beyond the train window, steel-gray and restless, flecked with whitecaps that burst like shattered glass against the horizon. Eleanor watches it first—the vast, swallowing deep—before her fingers tighten around the package in her lap. Wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine, it’s unassuming, but Hick catches the way Eleanor’s thumbnail worries at the edge.
"You’re fussing," Hick says, nudging Eleanor’s knee with her own beneath the scratchy wool blanket draped over their laps. The berth is narrow, forcing them close, thigh to thigh, Hick’s shoulder a warm press against Eleanor’s ribs.
Eleanor exhales, faintly irritated, faintly amused. "I don’t fuss."
"You do. Like a hen." Hick grins when Eleanor swats her arm, but the motion tugs the blanket askew, and cold air licks at their legs. Eleanor huffs, adjusting it, and Hick lets her, content to watch the way December light slants across Eleanor’s profile—the slope of her nose, the stubborn set of her mouth.
"Open it," Eleanor murmurs at last, thrusting the package into Hick’s hands.
The paper tears easily. Hick unfolds the layers, and there it is—a beret, deep navy, soft as a sigh beneath her calloused fingertips. It smells faintly of wool and cedar, of Eleanor’s drawer sachets. Hick’s throat tightens.
"Turn around," Eleanor orders, and when Hick does, Eleanor’s fingers brush the nape of her neck, lifting her hair to tuck it beneath the beret.
The kiss that follows is accidental at first, just the press of Eleanor’s lips against Hick’s temple as she adjusts the angle. Then deliberate—another, softer, to Hick’s cheekbone. Hick closes her eyes. The train rocks; the ocean heaves. Somewhere, a whistle blows.
"You’re warm," Eleanor murmurs against her skin, and Hick feels it—the slow dissolve of her edges, the way her body leans into Eleanor’s without thought. Cradled there, between the berth and the beret and the boundless deep, she lets herself be held.