There is something jarring and terrifically sad about seeing Mercy snap at him without restraint. There's an incredible honesty to it, he supposes, a new intimacy between them. A final layer of polish scrubbed off, and now what they have is so ancient and worn that it can only be exactly what it is.
What it is might be still angry, for anyone keeping score. But here on unfamiliar waters, they have only each other, and John isn't past leaning on that. He will never be past loving her, no matter what she does to him and what he'll do to her in return.
She goes poking at his puppeted sailors, half-frowning past the water still dripping off her chin, and it is both a little funny and very Mercy. John relinquishes control, splays his hands like defeat.
"Knock yourself out," he says. "I'll find you something good and pirate-y to wear."
He steps away to find a humorously oversized ruffled shirt, and leaves her on his deck among the dead.
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What it is might be still angry, for anyone keeping score. But here on unfamiliar waters, they have only each other, and John isn't past leaning on that. He will never be past loving her, no matter what she does to him and what he'll do to her in return.
She goes poking at his puppeted sailors, half-frowning past the water still dripping off her chin, and it is both a little funny and very Mercy. John relinquishes control, splays his hands like defeat.
"Knock yourself out," he says. "I'll find you something good and pirate-y to wear."
He steps away to find a humorously oversized ruffled shirt, and leaves her on his deck among the dead.