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This was hell. This might have actually been hell— you must have died at some point, and you were only just now noticing. What on Earthbread could you have done to warrant such a vile end? Which cookie did you royally piss off that had you in so much pain?
Maybe you died before the Salty Shark even made it back to the Republic. Perhaps a run in with pirates spelled your doom, a harpoon slammed right through your guts— it'd explain the ache. Your brain must have blocked that memory out, and forced you into this personal little hell of yours.
Yes… you never docked— nor did you attend watch the days after to ensure no nosy cookies got too close to the naval ships. You had actually bled out on the deck, hand gripped around the cold length of metal that decided to make itself home in your dough—
"I wasn't sure what size pads to get—" Blue Coral Cookie's mildly aggravating voice pulled you back to reality.
You hadn't died.
Instead, your body was simply… fulfilling it's natural cycles, monthly like you owed a debt. No matter what you did; treats, rest, ibuprofen… it never seemed to be enough.
You were quite literally under the fin of a greedy loan shark that was never satiated.
Some may call you dramatic, but truthfully: you wished your little delusion was reality. At least then it would be a one and done deal, and everything that you supposedly experienced after was just a feverish wish for survival.
You'd bleed regardless. Regardless of it stained the Salty Shark's deck, or the sheets.
At least you wouldn't need to clean the deck if you were dying.
"…Also wasn't sure if you wanted the wings or not so I got both—" Blue Coral Cookie continued when you didn't immediately give him a response, "Mediums fine… I think."
A pause.
"I hope—" as a soft bounce darted across the foot of the bed. Why Blue Coral Cookie thought to plop the pack of pads onto the bed rather than tucking them into the bathroom was lost on you, but you didn't have the nerve to complain. You'd simply grab it on your way up.
Which hopefully won't be for a while.
"It's fine… I'm just grateful you actually went to the market… If I had known I was getting low sooner, I'd have…" You trailed off. Misery aside it was a genuine comment, Blue Coral Cookie technically didn't have to pull himself out of your shared bed— which you were sure was a lot more comfortable to him at the moment then it was for you— and pull his shoes on to part his way through the markets. "It must have been busy…"
The bed dipped further under his weight, as he settled himself into his usual space; his dough slipping effortlessly in the vague divot he managed to work down into his side of the cheap mattress you purchased together a while ago.
Still in great condition, given that both of it's rightful owners wouldn't sleep in it for weeks at a time; instead suspended in some mildly uncomfortable cot, crammed into the same cabin with a couple dozen other sailors. Luckily for you, you had already long since grown used to Blue Coral Cookie's snoring. What was a chorus? Simply more background noise.
Getting to hoard as much bedding as you'd like, now that you were back home, felt amazing though. Painful cramps aside, there was still a small comfort to be found within burrowing under layers of blanket like a glorified jelly worm.
The bed sank deeper as Blue Coral Cookie made himself comfortable in bed; one thump… and a second, as he kicked his shoes off. The odds of him tripping over them later were far from zero; a consequence of not instilling the habit of leaving them elsewhere despite your reminders. You'd laugh when it happened, maybe. Or maybe you'd groan, if the slam of his face into the floor roused you from an uneasy nap.
You might have to tear him a new one for that, if it were to happen.
"It's no big deal," Blue Coral Cookie mumbled. You could practically hear the shrug in his voice, "Besides there were a few goodies I wanted to snag up for myself… and I figured, well, I may as well have gotten you a little something something too."
You felt it— something dropping to your side, and you swear it took all you had to crane your neck against the layer of thick blankets you've entrapped yourself in to get a peek.
A box of chocolates— assorted, bars. Not the fancy kind but it definitely wasn't the bottom of the barrel. Not the kind that'd leave that weird tacky film in your mouth or that off almost bile like after taste. Plain chocolate, some bars with added nuts or fillings…
As well as a bottle of tea. Nothing special and in all honesty you cared more about the chocolates. It was a shame though, given that everything below your stomach felt like it had decided it'd be a brilliant idea to twist itself into a tight knot.
A pretzel sounded rather nice, actually—
"How're you holding up? You look like you're gonna hurl," the other cookie broke your train of thought, his calloused hand briefly curling around the curve of the tea bottle— "Do I need to get a bucket?"
Had it been anyone else at any other time you may have swatted them away, choice to believe they were being irritating on purpose or not. Lingering pain had a funny way of making someone irritable and snappy.
Instead your teeth rolled against one another as Blue Coral Cookie shimmied around on the bed, his eyes— still completely hidden under his thick curls— no doubt scanning across your exhausted face for any further signs of illness. You saw it, the way his own jaw rolled; like he too was trying to pick the right words to say.
You'd never kick him out or have him sleep on the couch. Not over anything like this, at least.
Still he chose his words carefully just as he always did during your monthly. A small part brought on by actual fear that you'd (at best) throw a pillow at him, the rest an honest attempt to make the worst of it as easy as he could. It wasn't as rough at home than on the Salty Shark. Sea sickness always seemed to rear it's head in every few weeks.
Your head shakes— once— before quickly stilling. One would think you'd learn to stop doing that. Happens twelve times a year, and yet you never seemed to pick up that you probably shouldn't jostled your skull around.
"No— I'm fine. It's just cramps." Curt. Shorter than you intended but it got the point across as Blue Coral Cookie's thumb continued it's circling along the bottle. "Thank you, for the chocolate— you didn't have to,"
Blue Coral Cookie simply clicked his teeth, before his hand finally wrapped around the bottle of tea; pushing it elsewhere. The box of chocolates followed soon after, set on your nightstand to spare it from your shared body heat— for as casual as he tried to play the entire shift off, it was… rather dragged as the sailor tried his damnedest to reach over your bundled body.
"Can't I be considerate? Jeez set some standards! It gets boring being perfect you know," He snickered.
The bed rocked faintly as he weaseled himself against your side, his skin still faintly chilled from the outside. He smelled vaguely of… salt. As well as sea water, and faintly of tobacco. He still smelled of burnt cinnamon from that morning— he was hardly a cook, and he had taken it upon himself to try to surprise you with breakfast. French toast that was somehow soggy inside and burnt to a crisp outside. Really it was a rather impressive feat.
"No but really, do you need anything? Water? Pills? I can make you something if you don't want chocolate right now—"
"I don't want you almost burning down the kitchen again." You muttered— and hoped it sounded as light as you meant it to be. "…I just want to stay in bed for a little while longer," You mumbled.
You hardly gave the sailor a chance to really respond, no— you had already committed yourself to nestling your shoulder somewhere against his chest.
Blue Coral Cookie may not have been the brightest, but he wasn't entirely helpless with cues— with a soft "oh—!" his arms worked as seamlessly as they could to wrap around your flushed body, heat spiked against the chill still laced along his form. You could get over the tobacco, if it meant a brief break from the ache rolling itself through your body.
"Alright—" Blue Coral Cookie murmured, lightly sputtering as your hair caught in his face. The entire thing was hardly graceful as he moved his jaw this way and that until he found a decent enough spot to rest his own head. "I guess it's a good thing I've picked up something easy for tonight, no cooking,"
You simply hummed in response as Blue Coral Cookie's hand awkwardly trailed along your side, still buried under the layers of blankets wrapped tightly around your body. The tips of his fingers drumming along the length of your upper arm, just firm enough to feel through the layers of cotton. It was small, but it felt nice— his own little wordless act of comfort.
In all honesty you think you preferred this over some big grand fuss he could have dished out— bed boundedness aside you don't think you'd be able to tolerate him tailing behind you like a lost dog in the event that you needed something. It was only really the first few days of your monthly that were this unbearable, if you were lucky maybe you could get up out of bed and get a few things done. You'd never be able to do that if Blue Coral Cookie committed himself to being as annoying as possible.
You thought that with love, of course. Always with love.
"So long as it's not instant noodles, again," You sighed quietly.
You chose to believe the sailor's hiss was simply just a bit. Instead your head nestled deeper into the crook of his neck, and took in the scent of his dough. Never once did you think scraggly wannabe facial hair that'd be better off shaven would feel so cozy against your cheek… so long as you ignored the itchiness of it.