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Ishmael opens the door to the cabin and shuts it with her back before any of the warm air can escape, she lets the firewood nestled under her arm drop the floor with a thud as she takes off her parka and places it on the coathanger. She stomps on the doormat beneath her to get rid of the spare snow on her boots before sliding them off.
A savory-sweet scent lures her to the kitchen where her wife is standing over their camp stove. Ishmael sneaks up behind Queequeg and grips her arms around her, resting her head against the larger woman's upper body. She feels Queequeg jump a little bit where she's standing, with Queequeg letting out the faintest little squeak. This interaction made Ishmael smile wide. How can someone so imposing be so damn cute?
Thankfully, her jump was not enough to knock over whatever was in the pot on the stove. "What are you cooking?" Ishmael chirped. "Stew" Queequeg stated definitively."Mmm, what kind?" Ishmael replied. "Venison stew." Ishmael let go of Queequeg and stood on her tippy toes to give her a quick kiss on the cheek. "Sounds delicious."
Ishmael walked over to the fireplace in the living room to feed it with the new kindling she brought in from the woodshed. The cabin was small, consisting of the living room, kitchen, and a bedroom for the two of them. It wasn't much, but it was home. Infinitely more of a home than the Pequod could ever be.
The backstreets weren't exactly an easy place to live, but the two of them got through it. The winters were harsh but not nearly as harsh as the Great Lakes were, and the combined strength of the happy couple was enough to deal with most trouble that came their way. So long as they don't leave the cottage during the Night, things should be okay. That was their hope, at least.
"It's ready." Queequeg says softly, barely loud enough to carry over to where Ishmael is kneeling. Ishmael walks back to the kitchen and takes out the two matching China bowls from the lowest shelf of the overhead cabinet and lines them up to be filled. Afterwards they each grab their respective dishes and take a seat on the couch, shoulder to shoulder as they nurse their hearty meal.
The stew isn't the tastiest thing in the world, but it warms Ishmael inside and out. They both slurp the broth in harmony as they come to finish off their meals before leaving the empty dishes on the coffee table they carved together.
Ishmael topples over and lays in Queequeg's lap. Though Queequeg's thighs are toned and a bit uncomfortable, there is still nowhere else in the world she would rather rest her head. Queequeg’s hands move to cradle her.
"You got a little something." Ishmael gestures over to a general area on Queequeg’s chin where there's a broth stain. Unwilling to let go of her wife, Queequeg stretches her tongue out to try to mop up the mess but narrowly misses it. Ishmael laughs at her clumsiness and decides to lean up and get it for her instead with a single lick. Queequeg blushes deeply. Ishmael lowers herself back down, satisfied.
Upon doing so and getting a full look at Queequeg again, she notices a patch of white at the top of her leftmost braid. "Do we have a gap in our roof? Did it snow on your hair?" "No." Queequeg replies quite simply. Ishmael reaches up to try and wipe it clean but instead of the texture of snow she's greeted with a fleshy feeling. As she brushes up against the speck of white it grows and spreads and she's greeted with the sight of a pallidified Queequeg. "This was never possible. Never for us." Queequeg utters.
Ishmael wakes up with a startle, she had fallen asleep on her bench while Mephistopheles was in travel. She wipes the tears welling in her eyes and puts on her best poker face. The last thing she wants is one of the more sociable sinners trying to ask her what's wrong. Her stoicism is usually the one thing saving her from such a discussion.
Ishmael still feels a gaze burning through her. Shit. She looks across the aisle to see Outis staring. Ishmael knows what she's probably thinking. It's what she's always thinking. That Ishmael is weak compared to her. That she's not as talented, not as disciplined. By showing even the slightest bit of emotion Ishmael has given Outis more ammunition.
Rage rises in Ishmael. Before she knows it she's crossed the distance between them and looms over Outis. "Stop looking at me. Mind your goddamn business." Outis doesn't break eye contact. "I know that look". Outis mutters. Now that Ishmael is next to Outis, she sees what Outis's face really means. It's not judgement, it's pure understanding. It's the look of a kindred spirit.
Ishmael's legs grow weak and she sits down next to Outis. The two are at a stalemate, saying nothing more while Ishmael's mind races. She feels like she's about to break down completely. She desperately wants to avoid it, so she tries to do anything she can to push away the feeling.
She springs her lips upon Outis's applying pressure in a desperate bid to redirect her emotions. Outis pushes her off. "You know that is not what I was looking for." Outis reprimands her before wiping off the slobber on her face with a hankerchief from her pocket. "Disgusting...." she mutters.
No longer able to hold it back, Ishmael starts sobbing and Outis pulls her into her shoulder. The two stay there for a while. Outis asking no questions, just allowing Ishmael to feel. To feel her grief, to feel her longing, to feel everything Ishmael had been fighting back for so, so long.