Queequeg would help you tend to a little garden. set down her harpoon, trade it for gloves and soil. for something you made. it's small, still- a bit withered. you've been away from home for too long. but Queequeg never had a home to begin with- it's beautiful. even if the plants are crisped and brown. even if the soil is bone-dry. she kneels at your side. watches you trim away dead branches and rake new soil with a tilt to her head.
her hands twitch. reach for yours; hesitate. you glance up at the harpooner, at the pinch between her brows, the flicker of nervousness in her eyes. your fingers gently intertwine. a guide to each step, teaching her how to care for living things without a voice. like her, a little. all ruined tongues and throats, choices she made without regret. she brushes a smudge of dirt on your cheek, and it only smears further.
you laugh. a smile tugs at her lips, soft and fond, then hitches as you tuck a small blossom behind her ear, a lovely reddish orange.
how beautiful a monster can be, when adorned with petals and love.
