#salt drops

[swifty-fox]

In typical me fashion, I was so busy getting out the end of Salt Drops i forgot to post these beautiful art pieces I commissioned @moontashpena for a few weeks back....

our little crab fisherman,

[swifty-fox]

Salt Drops, Chapter Five: the song of the homesick gael

The Bering Sea has a different taste than the Atlantic. Different more so still, than the waters of Lake Michigan. The salt, for one, and the cold. The freshness. The way it isn’t content to sit on John’s lips, but slips right inside to coat his teeth and his tongue. It’s hard to tell if the salt is so strong because of the water, or the smell of fish, bait, boats crusted with barnacles and other parasitic things that mistook the thick, sea-faring hulls for the ribcages of whales. The docks are the same, if a little more weathered, the wood nearing bone-white like a moldering skeleton, but the vessels aren’t the same fleet they were a decade ago, though John recognizes a name here and there. 

So much of that week was lost in a haze of coffee, exhaustion.

Salt water and sea air and endless, endless ocean. 

Cigarettes. Whiskey. 

Floodlights shining through a porthole onto a rumpled pillow. 

John shoulders his bag, the weight a familiar drag that he easily compensates against. He’s already smoking, lit stick dangling from his lips hands-free. The hustle and bustle is the same, a constant state of motion as men move back and forth loading rope and bait and belongings, shouting at each other, shouting at the gulls lurking above, shouting at the sea herself, saying hello. John’s familiar. A part of it. He knows how to wind through the chaos without disrupting it. He steps over men snoozing against bags of gear, waiting for there to be something to do or someone to find them something to do. The sky is a soft gray above, a promise of rain and unquiet seas; a drizzle that will start to fall soon. John can smell a little extra freshness on the breeze– water with no rot to it, no bite. It’ll bloat the wood soon, turn it slippery and dark like it was freshly laid. Rain is a good omen. 

If the fishing is for something other than Alaskan Crab. 

Thank you to @the-ghost-of-jason-todd for the edits! This week my graphic maker hasn't felt well so if you read this be sure to wish Fin well in the comments!

[swifty-fox]

Salt Drops, Chapter one: Sea-Hoardings

Up near the bow of the ship, tucked away from any sort of chore or activity, likely because it’s the prime spot for the worst of the wind and spray, John’s gear is damp almost instantly, his hair blown back from his face as he gets a perfect view of the open ocean through the open maw of the harbor. It’s the perfect spot to feel the waves begin to grow bigger, grow rougher, each rise a longer pause before the fall until John feels like a bug stuck to the forehead of a galloping horse, each audible impact of the boat coming back down to the bottom of a wave a solid whump that makes John shiver.

The water is foamy and gray, a few bits of debris floating here and there on the surface. Probably only sixty, seventy feet deep here, but too cloudy to show any hint of fish or bottom. John can taste them, though. 

It hits him now, as the land passes him by and then fades out of sight of his periphery. The reality of what John has gotten himself into. There’s no getting bored, or getting tired, or giving up and going home. This is the most enormous, adult thing he’s ever done; no kiddie rails, no safety net. He’d signed an agreement that the boat isn’t liable if he dies. He’d listed his mother down as the recipient of any wages, if that were to happen. This is a real test. John finally doing something with himself. Or at close to it. 

Thank you to @the-ghost-of-jason-todd and @whiskeygospel for my edits and my graphics you are the wind in my sails.

[swifty-fox]

Salt Drops, Chapter Eleven: as the tide comes in

He drags his hands over John’s chest, feeling the shift of skin, sinew, bone, the glitter of gray hair amongst the darker strands. He digs his nails in, weighing the shape of the man on top of him against the memories of a boy pressed flush behind him. He closes his eyes, hearing the sound of the storm outside. Like the crash of waves against a porthole window. Remembers with perfect clarity the overwhelming feeling of John against his back, skin to frozen skin, breath hot, the way he smelled of sweat and salt. How the crease of his elbow had tasted under Gale’s lips, parted just enough that he could hide the kiss in the middle of all the intense feeling. 

“Can you–” He catches himself, flushing hot with shyness. 

The words are spoken right up against John’s lips, garbled for how there’s hardly any room. They barely come out legible, but John hums curiously anyways. Gale swallows, audible and hating it as his chest clenches tight. He clears his throat slightly and tries again. “Can we–” 

John’s thumb traces over his cheek, from the corner of his eye down to the curve of his jaw, a soft, encouraging touch. Gale’s so hard he aches. He’s grateful for whatever ability John seems to have to read him, lids lowering with understanding. 

“Like last time,” he finally says to the soft room.

Thank you to @the-ghost-of-jason-todd for the edits! 

[swifty-fox]

Salt Drops, Chapter six: cosmism

“Nice sweater, by the way, Buck,” John calls, ignoring the way Harry’s brows furrow in confusion at the name.

Gale half turns and looks down. For a moment, his face shifts into a look of shy surprise, self-conscious awareness. His cheeks pinken, and again, John sees right through to the boy he used to be. Gale smiles. Faint, self-contained and fond. “Ah, thank you. Marge made it for me.”

The name is familiar, plucked out of a handful of conversations over meals and pot-pulling. It isn’t the first of Gale’s sweaters made by her hand that John has complimented. He hadn’t been the only one last time with someone waiting for him back home. Hating to be second at anything, he can’t help but look down to Gale’s finger. Bare and empty, void of even a line of lighter skin like John’s. But maybe he’s the sort to take it off while working, perhaps he wears it around a chain like some fishermen tend to. The neckline of the sweater is high enough to obscure anything, but John sees no lump beneath.  

“Get your things stowed,” Gale tells him, quietly drawing John’s attention back to his face. If he knows where John’s thoughts had wandered, his face and words give no indication. “Then meet us up on deck. We’ll sign the papers after.”

John finds a grin in him, pushes himself off the table as well. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

Gale smiles, small and composed. 

Thank you to @the-ghost-of-jason-todd and @whiskeygospel for my edits and my graphics you are the wind in my sails.

[swifty-fox]

Salt Drops, Chapter Nine: sea-mad

“Easy, John,” Gale says. “Easy. Can you hear me, Bucky?” 

Crosby comes skidding back, spraying them with water, making John flinch and twitch. With Chick’s careful lifting, they secure the collar around John’s neck, pushing the skin of his jaw awkwardly up, immobilizing his spine and any damage that might have been caused. Gale checks its placement all around.

“Lucky you’re a firefighter, huh Buck?” Curt asks.

The pot clangs against the side of the ship. 

“Firefighter, Curt, not EMT,” Gale says, pushing himself to standing. “We need to move him off the deck.” 

John lets out a quiet groan, then tries to sit up. He’s immediately pushed back again by several hands, Gale’s kneecaps clipping against the deck as he kneels again, pushing a palm against the center of John’s chest. “Hey, hey, hey, Bucky, need you to keep still for me.”

“Come on, man,” Curt says, “Captain’s orders.” 

Thank you to @the-ghost-of-jason-todd for the edits! 

[swifty-fox]

Salt Drops, Chapter Seven: all's well

“Boys said you don’t gamble.”

“I don’t.” Gale sounds mildly affronted, gaze moving from the blinking electronic maps to John’s face. “I believe in honest competition, though. It’s different now. A lot of guys got priced out.”

“But not you.”

“I know where the crab is.”

“Good luck charm Buck,” John teases, grinning when Gale flushes slightly in the dull yellow overhead light. Most of the wheelhouse is dark, a softness to the late evening that fills the space. Nothing but the creak of the boat and the call of gulls swooping past the window like pale ghosts. 

“Think that was mostly just ribbing the kid on the boat. Not supposed to be on here until you’re sixteen, but even before that I was helping plot the routes.”

“You’re sure no kid anymore,” John says quietly. 

Blue eyes flicker back to John’s, a quiet wariness to them. “Neither are you.” 

Thank you to @the-ghost-of-jason-todd for the edits! This week my graphic maker hasn’t felt well so if you read this be sure to wish Fin well in the comments!

[swifty-fox]

Salt Drops, Chapter two: to a firefly by the sea

When he finally lifts the next block, resisting the urge to wipe the mucus from his tip lip with one cod-covered wrist, a second pair of gloves reaches for the one stacked beneath it. John looks to his left and finds a slim figure, slightly shorter than him, with broad but still skinny shoulders, lifting as well with a quiet grunt. John heaves his in first, stepping back out of the spit of the chopper a second too late to not get sprayed again. Cleven’s boy does the same, though with far more grace and less coating by flying offal. 

“Any tips?” John asks, brushing his gloves off. 

“Keep your mouth shut.” 

John’s companion does just that, lips pressed tight together and brow furrowed as he lifts with a grunt. When he turns, John holds a fishy hand out to shake. “Bucky,” he says. 

“Gale.” He takes John’s hand, a firm clasp, single shake, too young to be taken as reserved so it just comes off shy. Gale’s cheeks are suntanned and wind-chapped, his hair blown off his forehead and stuck there by salt. 

“Gale? That’s what they named my buddy’s grandmother.” 

“Well, it’s my name.” Gale reaches for another block, hiding the flush in his cheeks. 

Thank you to @the-ghost-of-jason-todd and @whiskeygospel for my edits and my graphics you are the wind in my sails.