Nicki wasted only a second to gaze at Jax just where he should be at the helm. She relished the sight of him, his thick thighs tensed, his broad shoulders fighting with the wheel, keeping them on course thought the storm screamed around them. Soon enough he would need to come below and let the Dusk have her head, but for now he was steering them deeper she presumed, to where it would be safer. Just a moment and then no more. She turned, striding across the deck, eyes sweeping for those who needed her only to see that everyone had heeded her words and gotten below. Or been washed overboard, she thought ruefully. It was done, no matter the end. She shrugged off her ruined coat and let it fall to the deck to be washed to the sea, an offering for an angry ocean. Just as she shrugged out of her coat, she shrugged out of her borrowed title of Captain. Now she was needed more as a Doctor so that they might all have their Captain back. Her Captain, Thomas. She said the name in her mind softly, reverently with a softness that few would credit her. She heard a voice calling to her over the roar of the angry wind and spotted a skinny body bent against the wind calling to her. The boy.

She wasted no time in getting to him, gripping his skinny arm and pulling him along with her. 

“Yes, yes, I know. The captain needs me. Come, you have two hands, you can be of help.” Her honey was shouted over the winds loud enough that the words were not stolen and the boy nodded his ascent. She pulled him with her and stepped into her cabin and began to thrust things at him, heedless of the rain slanting in. She knew her books were up high and nothing else in the cabin was worth her worry. When his arms were full as were her own she herded him out, ignoring his wide eyes and the way they followed her and made the short journey to the Captain’s cabin. Her shirt was soaked through, torn and plastered to her form. Her golden curls tight to her head, tendrils running like roots across her cheeks and along her neck, bedraggled suited her though. For all that, she looked considerably less wretched than Antonia who lay with her head on the bed beside a far too still captain, a lily in their hand, her expression speaking of the world about to end. 

[i]Fuck that[/i], Nicki thought.

“This isn’t a funeral.” She barked. “He isn’t dead, not on my watch. Move please.”

Without waiting for her order to be complied with, she strode into the cabin, deposited her burdens on a nearby surface and moved Antonia aside with a gentle application of force. Nicki wasn’t unkind though and left Antonia near the bed, but up by the head giving Nicki plenty of room to do her work. Hands touched the rough throat of the captain, feeling no pulse behind the unshaven skin. She saw no breath making his throat rise. The wound was troublesome but secondary to this whole dead bit the captain was pulling just then. It could wait. 

She said nothing but simply straddled the captain, one thigh on either side of his slim hips. Her face was a furious, determined mask as she put one fist, then the other in the center of his chest and pressed down, swearing under her breath. 

“You will not die this day Thomas Lightfoot. I won’t let you. Death can fuck itself, you are not done here yet.” 

She repeated the compressions a few times, each one accompanied by a variety threats and admonitions that spoke loudly of deep affection never before given voice. Then she leaned forward, fingers hooking his chin, opening that still, expressive mouth and pressed her lips to his, breathing into him, forcing air, hopes and expectations into his lungs. 

“Come back to me Thomas, come back to us all.” She said pulling back, her honeyed voice rich with command before she bent to breathe for him again.