Despite whatever aches plague him, there must be something to the simple exercise of doing - of moving about the room, of reorienting the cabin's space toward some other purpose, turning the lamp down - for by the time Flint joins him again some of that sense of battery has slipped away. Or has been papered over, or is simply harder to make out in the lower light. Or tucked elsewhere, for turning over in his fingers later when he is alone again. Regardless, he is a duller, less sharp thing. Which is for the best; the space is narrow for one person much less two, and there are pointy elbows and stiff knees and bruised shins and cut sides and Maker knows what else to contend with already. No need to bring any additional rough edge into play. They can hardly afford further injury.
"Make yourself comfortable," he says, hand very brief at John's knee before fishing away after the laces at the inside of his boot. He shucks them at the speed his pain will tolerate. "I'll find some way of being beside you."
It's so dark outside beyond the cabin's stern windows. The sea is black, the sky is jet, and the muted glow of the oil lamp is just warm enough to erase all texture and light from all things both inside and out.
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"Make yourself comfortable," he says, hand very brief at John's knee before fishing away after the laces at the inside of his boot. He shucks them at the speed his pain will tolerate. "I'll find some way of being beside you."
It's so dark outside beyond the cabin's stern windows. The sea is black, the sky is jet, and the muted glow of the oil lamp is just warm enough to erase all texture and light from all things both inside and out.