Someone new steps onto the island, and a chill drags through the air even before anyone knows he's there. It's as if Casa Burnsides hefts a sigh at another lost soul, gathered to its beacon. Merle is carefully pruning the locust tree, though he suspects it will never produce sap, but that's a side effect of the Astral Plane, he thinks. John sits, knees up, on the front porch, just watching him. Every so often, Merle will hazard a look at him, and John will still be there, regarding him with some interest. But the very second he hears something like a footstep, sand crushed underfoot with a very distinct sound, one he knows better than anything else, something like a muscle memory, Merle's ears perk up and his head rockets to the side, to the dock, and there is one ragged looking gnome, familiar in his cut and stature. He's mooring a sailboat to the dock, and it rocks ever so slightly in the tide of souls, its sails heavy. The way he stands, loosely, weak, as he takes hold of the bollard, leaning against it like his legs are giving way. From what he can tell, Davenport moves numbly, like he's too cold to function. He's reminded, absurdly, of the Ice Plane. Of watching Davenport nimbly flit across the frozen surface, only to return half a slab of ice. He moved the same way then too, when he was freezing to death.
John lingers back by the porch, letting Merle stagger forward to the dock. It begins as an amble, petrified almost, like he can't get his legs to listen, before he breaks out in a full-aught run as fast as his little legs can carry him. His legs are stiff when he reaches the gnome. Kravitz didn't accompany him this time, which seems weird to him, but Merle recognizes the boat as the same one that sat docked down at Bottlenose Cove, every time Davenport came in from the sea. The sails are fuller, this time, though, and that thought thrills Merle, because he knows how easily Davenport could tease a good headwind into taking him where he needs to go. Still though, he fears what this means.
There's no water in the Astral Sea, but still, somehow Davenport's hair and clothes are very damp, Merle discovers. His orange hair is streaked through with silver and it's messy and windblown, hanging down to his shoulders in knots like he'd been tumbled about underwater, and dripping and that gives his heart a wrench. It wasn't like that when he left. He wonders if this is just how Davenport chose to look, but the wet scares him. He doesn't want to ask.
He's wearing a chain around his neck, and the rings on it jingle under his shirt. Rings, plural. A sour taste arises in his mouth and he's quiet, brow furrowed. Davenport's hand comes up to cover it. He doesn't say a word but his expression twists in recognition and visible pain the instant he locks eyes with Merle. It hits Merle that he didn't know, that Davenport hadn't been home since.
Merle's fingers close around Davenport's face, cradling the curves of it. His expression crumples, and he presses his forehead to Davenport's. The gnome's hands come up to his shoulders, before he enfolds Merle close to his chest.
Merle touches the rings, and it's an ache that builds in him when he realizes they're matching. Davenport covers his hand with his own and holds on. His mouth tastes like salt, and it's rough, and Merle's eyes are burning when he grabs hold of Davenport's jaw, and he plunders the captain's mouth with his own, and he's holding onto him like he'll never let go. Davenport tries to speak, but all that comes out is a pained croak, and then his arms come around to clasp at Merle, folding tight behind his back. Merle has never heard him sob the way he does now.
The captain is chilled to the bone, every layer he wears soaked through like he got a good dunk into the sea. The wind must be cutting through him every time it blows. Merle figures he's got a good headstart on the gnome, and waits until he's finished, coming up close to the dwarf, because being wet like this is unpleasant as hell . It's quiet, the only sound Davenport's boots sinking into the loam like some heavy thing, burrowing deep into the murky sand, the crunch of Merle's galoshes into the sand muffled, buried by the sound of Davenport struggling to the cabin. He stops, leading Merle to slow.
Davenport stiffens there, a good few yards from the house. His shoulders set, and when Merle follows his gaze, Lucretia stands there like a startled cat, framed by the window closest to the door, frozen. She looks younger than he's ever seen her, like a little girl, terrified like that, and when Davenport's face shifts into something like discomfort, Merle knows. He knows .
He takes his arm, and ever so gently guides him away. "There'll be time enough for that later." He pauses by John too, and there's a moment where he looks as if he's about to speak, but doesn't. But can't. The way his hands clench into fists at his sides is not lost on Merle. He can feel the jump of his tendons, like steel cables under his skin, so cold, and the set of his jaw. He knows it like he knows himself. The only thing for Davenport was to get him to walk away. "C'mon," Merle says, softly, easing him up the steps and into the cabin.
Merle gets him into the washroom, which didn't seem like it'd been used often, or even before. He suspects maybe the cabin adapted to the needs of its occupants, and today they needed a snug little washroom to hang Davenport's dripping woolens. It was warm, though, and that's what matters. He draws Davenport's outer layers off, and they drop, wet, to the tile floor. His skin is so much colder than Merle thought it was, under his coat.
The gnome swallows hard, and he lifts his chin, and he's not saying anything , but the silence is enough to fill the room. Merle's fingers hesitate on the buttons closest to his throat, and he can feel the way Davenport is struggling. His skin is cold, and when the rough pads of Merle's fingers brush his throat, he doesn't seem to feel it.
Merle peels his shirt off, and Davenport's chest heaves, like he's fighting his breath, like it hurts. His palm skims up Davenport's ribs, feeling the way his chest expands with each shallow breath. Davenport takes hold of his wrist, and that's the one part that doesn't tremble, his grip unwavering. Merle can't help but compare it to something unyielding, like iron. His eyes, blue like the ocean, so easy to fall into and get lost in, hold onto Merle's, and the dwarf is hit with a wave of just how much he missed him. His mouth presses to Davenport's and in an instant, Davenport is surging to him, as if desperate for some kind of contact. He's ice cold, and it burns under Merle's touch.
" Pan , Dav, what the hell happened to you?" he knows, of course, what happened. Or at least he can guess well enough since Davenport isn't talking. It's an emotional question, not even needing a response. Instead of a response, he closes the difference, bracing across the space between them, and catching Merle's mouth with his own, for just the briefest moment, before his hand comes up, fingers trembling to thread through Merle's beard, and he holds on, closing his fist around it. Davenport doesn't pull away, his breathing shallow, aching, and he's still bone-cold, clammy. It makes Merle shiver just being close to him.
Hanging there beside a window that Merle is sure was not there before, healing beams of liquid gold dance through the dusty pane, throwing the whole room into a glow, lighting the whole room in cream, there sits some new, clean, dry clothing. There's a soft sweater, and it looks homemade, and he wonders if it's another one of Magnus' handiwork. It's plain, a dark naval blue, but it matches the cold-weather seawear that John somehow managed to find. It's slightly oversized, hanging low on Davenport's waist and bunching at the wrists, like it was made for a human instead, he thinks maybe Lucretia, but it's warm . The pants the cabin supplies him with are nearly perfect, only coming up a few inches too high on Davenport's ankles. His socks and boots are soaked through, and Merle lets them dry in the windowsill. Instead, he slips into a neat dry pair of loafers, a pair that fit him to a t. Merle wonders if that was the cabin's doing, if maybe those were the kinds of shoes Davenport likes the best.
Merle runs a towel through Davenport's hair, then his fingers to comb the salt and the knots free, and the gnome lets him, settling his aching bones atop a small crate. Merle stands behind him, and the captain presses his back to Merle's body. He can feel the cold radiate off of him like the man was nothing more than frozen marble. His feet dangle, aimlessly swinging back and forth, and it's cute in a way. He loves that about him, his boundless energy. When he pulls back, Davenport's hair is mussed, and the ponytail he suspects it was once in is very clearly no longer. He pulls it back off the gnome's face, and ties it himself. Merle's fingers trail down the back of his neck, and he's shocked to discover Davenport is still no less icy than he'd been when he was outside.
He leads the captain out, and Davenport's hand slips easily into his. He's cold, down to his bones, down to his very core, and it makes Merle's stomach tighten in a way he does not like, and doesn't want to think about.
In the kitchen, Jules puts a kettle on to boil and stokes the fire. The room is warmer than the washroom, and the cozy little area is thrown into orange light from the fire blazing in the hearth. He lets go, carefully, fingers plying out of Merle's heated grip, and he hops up onto one of the seats. Merle's. It's shorter than the others, and there's a booster on the seat to let him rise above the table setting.
Davenport sits at the table, silently, and he's not moving an inch. A cup of tea - no coffee on the Astral Plane, apparently, after all - sits in front of him, steaming. His hands are folded in front of him, and he's dead staring ahead of him.
Julia sits across from him, and she hasn't said anything either but the way she looks at him is pitying in a way, and more kind than anything else.
"What happened? I thought Kravitz would-" Magnus leans in to whisper to Lucretia from in the hall.
"No, he washed up like this." she says, leaning back to press against him. A fear flashes across her face and she covers her mouth with her fingertips. "His clothes needed hanging up to dry." she adds, softly. "They were soaked." The look Magnus gives her is one of panic, and it's as if they both know, but don't want to say it. It hurts Lucretia, deeper than she ever thought it would. A part of her wonders if he will ever speak to her again.
He's in layers after Merle dressed him, but he doesn't seem to have gotten any warmer. His face is wan, drawn, and he's numb, his orange hair pulled off his face. He's freezing. Julia reaches across the table to take his hand.
Surprise crosses Davenport's expression, but muted, as if his senses have been deadened and gaze shifts toward Julia's. He doesn't recognize her, but he covers her hand on his with his own. It's a gesture enough for Julia to take a halting breath, and she wants to ask what happened to him, Merle can see it in her face from across the room. The words never come, and Davenport turns away, gaze impassively piercing the windows to outside.
He studies the garden, as much as he could see it from where he sits, at least. The trellis Julia had made had vines creeping across it, the beach roses fighting for dominance, having spread across the whole of the fencing and climbing the trellis. Merle knows Davenport recognizes them as something they had growing wild, surrounding the cove.
Merle casts a look toward John, who is forcing his gaze away. He reaches for John's hand, and John lets him take it. Davenport's eyes are nowhere near him but he can feel them nonetheless boring into the space between his shoulder blades.
It hurts in a way that Merle can't easily put into words, a low digging between his ribs, like he's hollow there. It aches, more than it did when Davenport was living. He's not sure if it's because Davenport arrived the way he did or if it's because he seems so helpless all of a sudden, and it's hard to see him like this. A brief pang of guilt surges through him at the thought that maybe this was what it was like when Lucretia took him from himself. He considers it, following Davenport with his eyes. He must be so frustrated, under the exhaustion. It breaks Merle's heart again and again.