For a good, solemn moment, Fiske relished in the sweetness of his teeth sinking into fresh canteloupe, the warm colours of various light sources highlighting their frames, the soft rabble of good company as everyone settled down onto the four tables... Until his table suddenly surged in laughter at the sound of their dear Captain’s signature booming vocals. Fiske blinked, increasingly regretting not being attentive the night before with each comment and witty remark that were being sent his way. Waving his hands upwards and downwards, as though he could somehow lower their amusement with his shy gestures, he grumbled in jest at their comments. “Aye, aye, glad to be of entertainment...” His furrowed brow couldn’t help but lift, and his sour face couldn’t help but brighten as he observed the crew’s smiles. Perhaps an inexperienced, younger Fiske would’ve been incredibly strict on himself, letting his angst direct his behaviour, but after so much exposure to the tight-knit ‘family’ that was the crew of Hrið, he had started to learn to lighten up. After all, a good mood made for a healthy person, didn’t it? “Hm... But I suppose this way, I’ve really imprinted my notations into<span style="font-style: italic">muscle memory</span>, huh?” A snicker managed to escape the corner of his mouth before continuing, “Regardless, it’s good to see you’re all doing well.” He tilted his head down as to not reveal blushed and thankful cheeks, quickly finishing the rest of his meal.<br/><br/>Kri’s voice turned to Fiske, who could feel the skin around his cheeks and mouth tense in concern in regards to the young man’s scar. “Is that so? Feel free to stop by my door when you’re ready and I’ll take a look, in that case,” he replied with a gentle nod. Fiske was quite fond of Kri’s sword wound scar, and hoped whatever Kri was concerned with wasn’t too much of a problem. It held the memories of the first time Fiske had ever really performed a serious procedure on any of the crew, of the long and painstaking time it took for the white haired young man to lay onto his medical table as the doctor’s long digits curled around needle and thread, sewing with careful precision to execute the neatest stitch he had ever laid burning, focused eyes on. Yes, he thought, this was why he hopped onto this vessel in the first place. It was with confidence after that memory that he could truly call himself a medic in practise. There were people to protect here.<br/><br/>Finished with this plate, he stood up and stretched his legs. Dark green eyes glancing over to the other row of tables, he chuckled at Kjoljandr’s interpretive performance and slowly moved over to them. “Not only can you cook wonderfully, you’ve lived a second life as a natural performer in theatre, haven’t you?” Kole’s previous comment concerning modern technology really reassured Fiske as he curled a smile at Kole’s bright eyes. Yes,<span style="font-style: italic">compooters</span>were definitely incomparable to the wonders of his good old, reliable practices, and was glad someone else reckoned so too. Turning his head to Isa, Fiske gestured the hand signings necessary to convey his next point as he spoke. “When you find the time, could you stop by my office and collect my rubbish? My late night ventures spawned a lot of mess, ahah...” He muttered before mindlessly scratching his beard. The girl was a keen lip reader, but Fiske took to studying sign language as soon as it was mentioned among the ship as valuable. After all, it was of upmost importance to the man to be as useful as he could be. How else could he repay them for such kindness and warmth? It was only logical.