ggd

[mekachu04]

There is a soft feeling at wearing Kidd's cloths, but when Dive hands her Jeans back to her, she almost cries again.

She's not ready to face to quiet of her own quarters still, the way her laugh echoes off empty walls, the sounds bouncing hollow around the stripped room. The girls eyes follow her across the room in the crew quarters though, the /knowing/ that she can't deal with right now, not on top of everything else. She knows she came back wrong, and the crew are trying to adjust, to be supportive, but right now she'd like some space. Somewhere she can't feel them staring at her.

Kidd's been too paranoid to sleep without his arm; the hammocks netting catching in the metal joints too easily, and they've procured several fold away futons for him over the last day or so. He'll probably drag them down to the crew quarters until they get off this island, but right now they're among the collection of replacement furniture he'd haphazardly collected in his quarters while Killer & Heat had been away.

Killer sinks down into the pile, letting the chaos of the room swallow her up. She can laugh and cackle to her heart's content, no horrid worried looks they think she can't see being shot across the room at every fit. She'd lost it when Dive had handed her their Jolly Roger, unfolding their battered flag to find blue jeans and cotton salvaged inside. The mask might hide her tears but nothing can hide her laughter anymore.

Her clothes have been carefully laundered and mended, her blood washed out, no lingering smells of those horrible cells Kaido had her in before she was handed over to Orachi. Delicate patchwork has been worked to the tears, closing the rips seamlessly at a distance. Up close, the woman who'd had Killer's things had sewn little patterned motifs into the work, ocean waves and spirals, and Killer can't breathe, body shuddering, throat raw from how funny the little gesture is.

She hadn't been able to stop laughing then, too. After she'd eaten the fruit, Oraochi had his men take her helmet. Made sure to leave it just out of her reach, watching her struggle to get it back as she lost her mind in front of his men. When that got old, he's stripped her to her small clothes and left her chained in hall so even the prisoners could see.

The whistles and catcalls let her know, there were no friends in this prison, and she was left there until she'd laughed herself hoarse, choking on blood. It hadn't taken the men much longer after that to assault her the first time, and really, the only thing she could focus on was how they'd cut her bra off - couldn't they at least respect how expensive those where - how hard it was to find comfortable, well fitting, active wear for women out here?

That too had been salvaged; the elastic band was a lost cause, but Killer's mystery mender had replaced it with a soft cloth band, replaced the torn cloth around the cups with the same soft, sturdy fabric. Instead of stretching to hold everything in place, there was laces down the front to tie it down instead.

Killer unbuttoned Kidd's shirt, wincing at the healing cuts Roronoa had left on her pulling as she took it off, and pulled the bra on instead. The crafter had kept the original cups and the fabric in the back, so the spacing and the cuppage was good; Killer just had to re-lace the front, and account for the bandaging to her left side. She was having a good laugh at the comfortably snug fit when the door creaks open, Kidd's heavy steps wandering over.

He doesn't say anything at first, just hovers; she can't help but giggle over how strange their dynamics have become since reuniting, just trying to focus on tying her bespoked bra closed and tucking the tails securely out of the way. Finally he plopped down on the wood floor in front of her, picking at the folded clothes before her.



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there's something soft and warm about kidd's clothes; having been left exposed and bare for such much of this hell island, the ridiculous prints and soft button up the closest thing she was to being home right now and as grateful as she is for the option of her own things to wear, she'd not ready to give Kidd his clothes back.

"Keep my shirt for a bit longer," Kidd assures her, looking at the stitch work in her own shirt; "Until we can get your range of motion back." He has a point - pulling the tee on and off is going to hurt like a bitch.



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he crowds her on the pile of bedding,



"don't loom" she muttered, voice annoyed but fond, and he grins has he - carefully - collapses on top of her. The noise she makes could only be described as a squawk, and Kidd chuckles as he dead weights on her, right arm careful to keep most of his weight off her side.

The giggles are almost sincere, tinted only by her lack of choice in voicing them, and Kidd traces the