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The deck of the Salty Shark was an absolute wreck, but it was no where near as bad as the state of the other ship— a pirate ship, the Captain it belonged to detained within the brig chained up to the mast. Some vicious looking cookie who had been terrorizing the trade routes for a few months now, their name unimportant to you in the moment as your boots dragged across the scorched and chipped deck; the smell of jam and ash still thick enough in the air to burn the back of your throat. Those who weren't crowded by the infirmary were doing what they could to wipe away the evidence of the battle, or tugging the cannons back into their places— now that they were no longer needed— strapped down tight and secure.
It wasn't your first encounter with pirates, or really anything that threatened to drag the crew down into the sea… but it was one of the more devastating attempts the ocean had thrown at the ship.
No casualties, none that you were aware of at the moment—one could only hope that it would stay that way within the aftermath of the battle.
But cracks and jam were one thing. Infections were another.
No one died yet. At least no one within the Salty Shark's crew, but many were injured judging by the line snaking around the infirmary; if you weren't convinced, the ship's medic buzzing around like an over active hummingbird would have been more than enough confirmation. The way their hands picked through debris ridden wounds vaguely reminded you of the way some shrimp picked away at algae; fingers quick, precise as tiny hunks of shrapnel were plucked out and away from the gore—discarded to the side, but never in the way.
Cookies of the opposing crew had managed to escape; as grim as it sounded some fell overboard off the side of their own ship— none of your own you hoped— or flung off of the Salty Shark during the scuffle. Turned right around quick as soon as their own captain was captured and detained, none all that interested in being forced under the Republic's scrutiny; their ship already far into the distance, just a bit more than a blip on the horizon. Or perhaps it was the faint sting of your soot ridden eyes tricking your perception.
To give chase, or to tend to the wounded—The choice inevitably rested on Captain Caviar Cookie's shoulders: turn the ship around back to the Creme Republic's harbor and escort the pirate captain to the hands of the Elders; or risk dooming his injured to the harshness of the sea?
The very same cookie's voice boomed through the lingering noise littering the busted deck. "Make way— move it!" The Captain barked as he hauled a staggering sailor towards the infirmary; a thick droplet of jam rolled down their head, leaving a faint stain of red in it's wake. The order was all it took for the sea of cookies to part, those worse off remained rooted to the spot. Cracked dough caked in dust and jam, gunpowder smothering the natural scents of their flavors— it'd probably stick for a while even after a good shower.
Few cookies tried what all they could to ease the states of the wounded. Sailors who only had nicks and scrapes soothed the deep throbbing cracks of their comrades; no broken off limbs but their crumbs still littered the floor all the same.
There wasn't anything you could do for them. You weren't well versed in first aid, nothing more than what most cookies on board already knew; apply pressure to the wound, be careful to not deepen the cracks of the dough, keep everything clean, don't pull out any foreign objects yourself—the easy things to remember.
You'd be of more use trying to get everything back in order instead of further crowding the infirmary with clumsy hands that didn't know any better. So you turned your back against the scene of gore to scramble to one of the broom closets on deck— not to mop the deck like you usually would… no, that'd be reserved for later after the torn apart wreckage scattered across the deck was plucked up and discarded. Not to mention the holes… the edge of your boots danced around the scattered craters. Bullet holes freckled the wood, and if the dark ring burned around the edges weren't there—if you hadn't ensured every hole was plugged during each of your voyages—you'd have almost thought they'd blend right in. Like they'd always been there.
Tiny holes were easier to fix than the mess a cannon ball could leave behind. For a group of pirates that had been so talked up within the Republic one would think they'd be smarter. They didn't have cannons. Or maybe they did and simply didn't use them—maybe they had gotten cocky enough to attempt raiding the ship themselves and chose to double down even after the Salty Shark started hurling it's defenses.
What a load of idiots.
The handle of your bucket, which you deemed fit enough to serve as your personal trash can, squeaked softly as the body swayed loosely. A piece of wood, some torn cloth from a coat— a pirate or a sailors you didn't know— did it really matter?
To you it didn't. The moment it was cast into the bucket it had already slipped to the back of your mind. A few bullet casings scattered across the deck were cast into the bucket, proper disposal of the shells far from the first thing you were thinking about. Swords that most definitely didn't belong to the Salty Shark crew were left abandoned for the time being, far too big for your tiny bucket.
You'd come back for them, you decided.
Hand them off to Captain Caviar Cookie later to decide what to do with them. Or maybe hand them to Candy Diver Cookie… they had a (albeit barnacle covered) sword somewhere…
…you think…
The cookie had a lot of random things within their collection, things you were sure they had found along the sea floor but bubbles and clanks weren't exactly easy to understand.
If anything the odd sailor at least had a knack for collection.
Or maybe hoarding was more apt.
A lost pin engraved with House Caviar's symbol was tucked away into your pocket to return to its owner later. A shattered piece of shiny black… something. Bendable but not fully flexible. Into the trash bucket it goes.
Then another piece.
…And another.
…And another…
Not an intentional trail, just scattered enough to be random but just close enough for their glint to catch your eye to the next piece as the sun peeked through the thick clouds overhead.
Reflective. Shiny. The shards reminded you of the visors of the helmets some of the sailors wore, the material not too different from the mussel shelled caps Oyster Cookie's envoys donned. It might have even been the same material now that you thought about it. Thinner but the same overall look and feel.
…Not that you were feeling up the hats of the envoys.
Each shard found made itself home inside the bucket. One piece. Then two, three… four. The fifth shard made you pause.
Barely there right next to it a few droplets of bright red jam soaked into the wooden floorboards. Not fully dried out but it didn't look all that fresh. Still damp where your knuckle had brushed against it as your fingers clasped the shard.
Not too far away the trail picked back up, and thickened. Never enough to make you bolt away for help or panic.
Perhaps a sailor- or maybe even a pirate- had been wounded and had already gone off to seek care.
…But then, why did the trail thicken? Would it not taper off in the opposite direction? Your teeth clicked together faintly as you halfheartedly plucked up scraps of rubble as you tried to envision the scenario: maybe the wound had been covered on the way to the infirmary—or maybe…
The line of thought trailed off as your eyes— still glued to the deck under you— caught on the edge of a pair of boots.
Staghorn Cookie stood with their back pressed against the outer wall of one of the ship's upper cabins, their helmet pushed up on one side.
The fingers of your free hand twitched around nothing as you observed the faint rock of their body, their heels planted hard against the wood. You waved silently, but it wasn't until you called out that the sailor lifted their head up to stare at you, head tilted off to the side—
You've never felt your heart drop faster in your life and Witches you hoped you'd never have to feel it ever again.
The visor of their helmet shattered.
A shard embedded deep into their dough—or perhaps sliced right into the soft jelly of their eye.
You hoped the piece was simply lodged into the thin layer of pastry that made up their eyelid. The shimmy of the shard as their glazed eyes lazily fixed on you told you otherwise.
Left—right—then left again—up—the black shard of mussel shell glided across your face in tune with the track of her stare.
It wasn't until you stepped closer that the calmness really clicked.
The sailor didn't realize she was injured.
Or—at least—didn't acknowledge the severity of it as their mouth pulled open—even the innards sounded dry as the sugary bones of her jaw creaked. Popped once. A second time, only to be muffled as the sailor interlocked their sharp teeth back together.
"You uhm… you doing alright there?"
It was a stupid question but it was the only thing you could have thought to say. Would bringing up the shard snap them out of their stupor? Would it prompt her to try to reach for the broken piece of the visor?
You knew first aid for regular wounds.
But what about eyes?
Surely the "don't remove the foreign object" rule still applied, right?
Staghorn Cookie's punctured eye fixed right onto you, eyelid still pinned down against itself.
Left—up—centered—steady—steady as she could manage with eye contact as her shaking body peeled off of the wall of the cabin. "Probably better than you," the shard tipped downward as her other eye dipped down, "Your knees all banged up."
It was. Your knee cap had slammed against the deck during the scuffle. While fleeing more like it. Really the pain was more in your ankle, a sore ring where the lower portion of your leg faded into your foot. You'd check it later.
Your fingers pinched the worn sea-salt-stenched fabric that clung to your thigh, warm jam nearly gluing the piece to the front of your leg.
It stung, but you'd live.
"Ain't nothing I can't handle," You mumbled softly as your eyes practically burned a hole in the space under Staghorn Cookie's jaw, fixed right onto the soot stained collar of their coat. Thick jam dribbled down the curve of their cheek and spread into the shades of gray and black.
Dark. Muted.
It was easier to look at the gooey splotches than at the drying out flakes on their clammy face.
Staghorn Cookie's wide blown out eye remained fixed on the blotted out redness of your knee— "Most of everyone' getting checked out at the infirmary, nasty attack…" You mumbled softly, prompting the sailor's gaze to crawl up your thigh until the blue stare made itself home on your down turned face. Staghorn Cookie merely clicked her teeth.
"I thought ya said that knee of yours wasn't bothering you?" Staghorn Cookie's teeth interlocked together in a toothy grin; lopsided, cheek hitched just right enough to bring forth another dripping of jam down their cheek; something they didn't seem all that aware of as they took a staggering step towards you. "It's better to get checked, isn't it? I mean…" You trailed off.
"You're worried about me ain't ya? Or are you tryin' to use me as an excuse to get yourself checked out?"
Casual. Light. Even a faint huff of laughter tailing the end of her words. The words fell so naturally from her mouth despite the glaring issue.
Adrenaline.
You've heard of it—seen it in action even—it'd be weird if you haven't. Seasoned sailors springing into motion when the seas get rough, on guard in an instant to barrel down the length of the ship at any sign of trouble. The heavy breathing and the sweat wasn't a stranger. That familiar almost euphoric airiness tinging their words as the sailor's body shook with the weight of being alive— but at the cost of awareness, nerves just about buzzed into oblivion until the inevitable crash.
All the more reason to coax them before the reality of it all slammed into them like the meanest maelstrom.
Or before they simply dropped. A chill ran up the curve of your spine at the mere thought of them falling face forward against the dirty deck. A clean deck wouldn't be much better. At the least if you could get them to the infirmary where there was at least half a dozen hands that had a far clearer idea than you on how to handle something like this.
Your words rolled between your teeth as they ground tightly against one another.
"No one's gonna make fun of ya for banging yourself up," Staghorn Cookie added with another shaking step. The hinge of your jaw tightened, tongue pressed tight against the inner curves of your teeth like a cage.
Tighter.
Then loosened.
There was only so much time before either they noticed the wound or their mind caught up with their body.
"I don't know about that, remember that one time Blue Coral Cookie was going a little too fast and clocked his hip on the corner of a table?"—hardly a wound that screamed for immediate medical attention, but you don't think you've ever seen a cookie drop so fast—"I don't think we let him live that one down for a few days at least."
Staghorn Cookie's humored snort cut itself off as your fingers found the back of their hand. "What? You want me to check you in too?"
"I'm just a little worried is all," You mumbled softly as your fingers found the spaces between hers—be it shock or simply giving in—Staghorn Cookie allowed you to loop your digits through their own. Even through the material of their glove you caught the way their heat pierced right through and saturated the roughened dough of your hand. Tense fingers laced in between a set that were still aware of their place in the world.
Their thumb smoothed over the pointed knuckle of your own— or was it you trying to soothe them?
The answer didn't matter to you all that much as the worn down bottoms of your boots dragged across the wooden deck, half a second later Staghorn Cookie's own feet stepped into tandem with yours.
Step. Step. Drag. Step.
Now that Staghorn Cookie had mentioned it, the rolling pain spread through your leg couldn't be pushed to the side. You'd drag on across the length of the deck regardless.
"Where is Blue, anyway?" Staghorn Cookie finally piped up as their fingers flexed against your own.
Your own fingers twitched against theirs; "I think I saw him going down under the deck for something— probably grabbing some extra stuff for the infirmary, it's swamped." You craned your neck to give Staghorn Cookie a weak grin. "For a bunch of pirates that got the Republic all worried, they're a bunch of cowards."
Your mouth dropped back into a loose line as your eyes dragged to the jam stained bridge of their nose— flaked strawberry jam cracked along the curve of dough. It nearly looked like their face itself had cracked open; you're sure you'd believe it if you were just a little more out of it.
A little more worried. A bit more afraid.
Not that you weren't.
"It's a bit shameful, isn't it? Turnin' tail as soon as their Captain got caught-" Staghorn Cookie scoffed through their teeth. "Betcha they're gonna think twice before messin' with the Republic again!"
Staghorn Cookie's fingers twitched around yours once more.
"You really think so?"
"With a buncha cowards like that? I'm sure. Far as I know, none of them even tried to stick around for their Captain—"
As the two of you rounded the corner, your head pulled up to the tallest mast of the ship. Just as it had been, the lantern was still chained securely against it. From down here, only the down turned head of roughed up frosting was all that could be seen. Whatever cap the pirate once wore long discarded and lost.
"Not to… hype ourselves up… but I'd like to think we'd fight harder if someone took Captain Caviar Cookie," You mumbled, eyes dragging back to the battered deck. "Pretty sure he'd do the same for us."
"I'd do it if it were you," Staghorn Cookie muttered. "Do it without a second thought," their footsteps picked up just a bit- until her shoulder brushed against yours.
You glanced at them.
"I think you'd do that for any of us- Blue Coral Cookie, Candy Diver Cookie… Bayberry… Kelp…"
"Kelp Cookie would throw a fit- "I can save myself!" probably," Staghorn Cookie scoffed, before their face softened— ignoring the wild brightness still lingering in their unsteady gaze, the way it flitted this way and that across your dough nearly made you squirm, "but that doesn't change the fact that I would."
A pause.
The only sound between the two of you was the gentle creak of the wooden planks beneath your feet, and the ever growing sound of muttered conversation as the infirmary drew closer; glasses of disinfectant and vials of balm from Witches knows what plants passed around with just a bit more care than mugs of seawater juice.
"Hell, I don't think I'd let them get as far as draggin' you off the deck. Think I'd knock their teeth out before they could so much as pick you up." Staghorn Cookie's teeth clacked together roughly as the corner of their mouth tugged into a tight grimace.
"You make it sound like I don't know how to defend myself-" You gasped softly as the other sailor lightly knocked their shoulder into yours, hands still interlocked enough to keep you from stumbling too far from their side.
"Now you're just putting words in my mouth!" They snickered, and yet— their hand remained firmly fixed against yours.
Fingers still tensed and rigid, but you didn't miss the soft roll of their thumb against yours—not this time.
It'd only been then that you had noticed how tight your grip had become. Or maybe it was never as loose as you were intending it to be.
Slackened— still there even as you arrived, as the sailors rapidly parted at the mere sight Staghorn Cookie's partially gouged eye.
A sailor who took the sudden new piece of information in stride—as much as one could at least. If the twitch of their hand inside yours, just before it slipped out, told you anything—they might have been more offended that you had tricked them— because of course, they knew you.
Why would you waste time over what was simply a scraped knee?
The look in their eyes was still wild—different now that the illusion of normality had been shattered.
They didn't reach for the shard or panic like you had thought they would and—in the moment as Bayberry Cookie ushered them away—you nearly felt silly for believing such an idea.
You'd only hope that they'd understand as the faint remains of their heat ebbed away from your empty hand.