Asuma blinked. He'd faded out a little, waiting for Tsume to get done with whatever she was doing, and now the world came rushing back. Mostly, there was still sea. The clone at the wheel gave him a searching look beneath dry amusement.

"Need a hand up, old man?"

"Bite me," Asuma told it, tossing off a one-fingered salute, and hauled himself to his feet. There was a definite sensation of cracking skin between his shoulderblades. A tiny, cringe-worthy buzz from faintly grating skull bones. He took a breath, swallowed down nausea, and steadied himself against the side.

Crewman's shirt. Right.

He glanced down at the one he was wearing--the one that required no moving or hunting or bending of any kind to reach--and decided that was good enough. It was big on him; it would swamp Tsume completely. He figured she'd probably like that.

Now, getting it down to her...

In the end, it was just a question of walking. He kept a hand against the nearest upright surface that seemed halfway solid--walls, doors, one wise-cracking clone that wanted to check he wasn't about to pitch over--and made it back belowdecks with a minimum of fuss. A silver of light glinted around the edges of the galley door. The air still smelled like stew.

Stiffly, Asuma peeled the rough canvas shirt off.

"Hope you didn't want anything else," he said to that crack of light. "Because you might be out of luck. Though, I agree that a tiara might really set the look off..."

There was a flicker of movement. A bare slice of naked skin. He'd seen a lot more than that in their naked hours of captivity...

He held the shirt out, tipped his head back, and studied the ceiling.