Work Text:
Ishmael was trying.
Admittedly, her attempts were made worse with how your quarters reflected your mental state. It was distracting, to say the least, when the very room she was in was fighting against her as she sat stiffly on the edge of your bed. She was half tempted to tug you to her room to wallow instead; surely this place couldn't be helping you feel any better.
She had never seen you like this, and it scared her. Was it the next Bough looming closer? Had someone done or said something to hurt you? Did she? Any placating words died on her tongue before she could speak them, feeling too shallow or too close to lies each time she tried.
She eventually sighed, deflating a bit. “I'm… I'm no good at this.”
Her hand was uncertain as it reached out, her weathered palm grounding and stable against yours. Even if she didn't know what she was doing, she didn't want to up and abandon you to deal with it on your own.
Ishmael thought back to the times she'd received comfort. From Queequeg, from a few other sinners, from you. Everyone's approach was different, and so she knew that everyone was different. Where Ishmael liked to keep busy, to force her mind to focus on a task she could devote herself to, you may not. Maybe tying the same knots over and over again wouldn't help you. Sharpening a harpoon until you'd whittled away at it for hours and cuts littered your weary hands might not be your therapy of choice either. Did you want to talk about it? Would you be solution oriented or just need to complain?
If her pride would allow her, she would go fetch one of the other sinners. At least a few of them would have some sort of wise words of advice, or know how to do this ten times better than she did. But the idea of leaving you, of handing you off to someone else to fix it, put a bitter taste in her mouth.
So as you had asked her, months ago on the Great Lake when her mind was all but rent asunder, she decided to just ask you.
“What do you need me to do?”
Your voice was muffled, hoarse and fragile, and it made her throat constrict around the words she couldn't force out. You faced the wall still, like you were afraid of facing her, but your request told her that at the very least she was still wanted at your side. “Just stay here. Please.”
She could do that.
For just a moment, Ishmael unlaced her fingers from yours. Her boots were kicked off, lying haphazardly on the floor. She stripped her jacket off next, lying it on the foot of the bed. She'd never climbed in beside you so carefully before, like she was worried one wrong movement would drag you further down. The way her arms wound around your middle was more cautious than you were used to, more like the way she was when this was new and each touch felt unfamiliar.
She could faintly feel your heartbeat against her chest, smell the scent of your favorite soap on your skin. Your body still trembled against hers, as you tried to hold back any more of those sobs that had come out the very moment she asked what was wrong. Her lips brushed your shoulder as she spoke. “Is this okay?”
One of your hands found hers again, and you squeezed. She followed your lead and pulled you closer, applying pressure as if she could force your body to stop shaking. She held onto you the way she did for weeks after the Lake, when everything was still settling in. Like one of you was bound to drift away.
Bit by bit, the miserable effects of your room faded. Still not completely gone, but enough that she couldn't justify bringing you to her bunk instead. Not when you just now melted against her, sinking into the mattress.
“...do you want to talk about it?” Ishmael finally asked once she worked up the courage to break the silence, voice muffled against the material of your uniform top.
All you responded with was a soft sigh. Your breaths were shallow, your pulse had slowed. Even your grip on her hand had loosened, but she made no move to let up on you. She just pressed her knees against the backs of yours, and rested her face in the crook of your neck.
She would ask you again when you woke up, whether that be a few minutes from now or the next morning. Maybe you would want to talk about it, maybe it would resolve itself. It was likely that she would continue to stumble through, that she would panic if you started crying again.
Either way, she would keep you close. For as long as you needed, she would act as your safe harbor. Just as you had done for her.