[ Darcy very nearly recoils at the touch, a breath hissing out of her. Clarke's hand may as well be a live wire against her skin, uncomfortably warm and alive as it touches blood that is just on the verge of too cold to come out of a living person. Darcy's skin temperature and the blood are very, very close, almost like... a corpse, having come to equilibrium with the air or water around it. The wound joins other scars on her chest, too. Other stabs and slashes, and... ragged claw-marks. A couple of distinctive bullet scars. Almost all are faint and silvery, as if very very old, or if they healed exceptionally well. Darcy breathes through the discomfort, clenching her jaws to further halt any tears. When Clarke removes her hand, she misses it. ]

Stede had this idea that we were going to hug the Captain until he killed us. I was trying to fuck with The Captain, and to get Stede to see what that would actually be like.

[ Darcy replaces the gauze over the wounds and applies pressure once again, using her other hand to rub her face. ]

I don't think he was even looking.