It's home... or the husk of home at least.
Their personal effects have been stripped out, the machinery and appliances gone. Nothing but bare wood and cabinetry.
They'd gone to find clothes for Killer first, only to find nothing at all. Her quarter's were completely bare. Her clothes, her masks, her knives. The mattress, the drapes from over the windows, the bottles of lotions and conditioners she hoarded in the privacy of her own room. Her drum kit, her music dials, her cook books, her collection of miniature little butterflies and wolverines - started by a tiny Kidd almost two decades ago.
Everything. All gone.
Kidd finds much of the same in his own workshop. He doesn't bother checking his quarters, flexing the rusty scraps of his makeshift arm in aggravation.
Crew quarters are just as bare. If it wasn't nailed down, it's gone. The Punk hasn't been so desolate since the day Kidd bought her. Killer is chuckling weakly at his side, clutching those awful robes to herself, and Kidd knows she's barely keeping it together.
He can't be in this room. He can't stand the hollow echo that should be filled with talking or snoring. He closes his right hand around Killer's bicep, guiding them both out.
The galley is worse - Kaido's people stole his fucking fridge. The deep freezer has had it's power cut, only still there because no one's been able to finish unbolting it. It's about the only thing he's happy to see emptied - enough food to feed a crew of 30 rotting away would have been a nightmare he wasn't sure he could have dealt with right then. Killer's meticulously collected cast iron pots and pans are gone; her pasta roller, years worth of collecting across the South Blue and Grand Line of spices and herbs, not even the custom shelving he'd made for her. Nothing has been left behind.
He's about to slam another cabinet door in iteration, only for Killer to start laughing across the room; the high pitched breathless wheezing that's been clawing its way out of her until she can't stand it anymore and starts to claw her own face. Kidd's at her side where she's kneeling in time to pull her hands away before blood is drawn and she slumps against him, cackling. She nods to her discovery, exhausted against him as she can't fight the bubbling up laughter anymore; one cabinet missed, under the false drawer of the sink, still fully stocked with sanitation supplies. Not just cleaning, but prep supplies. Hairnets. Food safety gloves. Face masks. An emergency first aid kit. The fucking fire extinguisher.
It all they have left, and Kidd pulls the first aid kit free without hesitation. The kit is meant for kitchen burns and minor cuts. Something quick and best case to hold over until the can get over to the sick bay - which is also stripped bare. It has some pressure pads and gauze, but nothing for stitches, nothing for assault and torture. Nothing for fake devil fruits.
But there's a bottle of povidone iodine in there and Kidd is more than willing to empty it comepletely on the cuts weeping though Killer's bandages that she's refused to let him look at so far.
They've been together too long; she knows exactly what he wants as soon as as he opens the kit.
The kitchen is maybe the one room on the the Victoria Punk they haven't fucked in; Killer had a very strict idea of kitchen cleanliness. And being one of the few rooms she might not have her mask on for taste testing as she worked, Kidd had found this rule very hard to stick to, but also one that he'd never tried to press his luck with. Asking her to disrobe here felt like some kind of blasphemy now. Like it was sullying the sanctity of the place.
"Far to late for that," Killer murmured between painful chuckles, pulling the knotted sash free and letting the clothes fall open.
The wrapping around her chest wasn't for any sense of modesty, nor did it look like she'd ever been offered any since they'd been captured. They'd denied her small clothes, and he clenched his jaw, teeth grinding at the bruises left on her hips and thighs. Killer pulled her arms out of the sleeves. The wraps on her arms ended at her elbows, more bruising on her biceps. They were a different material than the wrap on her chest. Been worn longer, rougher and stained with dirt and the blood of other men.
Kidd turned back to help her with the chest wrap only for her to smack his hands away. Fair, he regarded the left hand, it's a tetanus shot waiting to happen, and that's the last thing Killer needs to worry about right now. Given the nature of Kidd's fruit, the whole crew is up to date on their boosters on that one, but who knows what the stupid SMILE fruit effects.
He goes to help with his right and she pushes him away again. Kidd remained unsure, hand frozen where she'd pushed him. He keeps his gaze firmly focused on her eyes so when she does look at him - she knows he's waiting for instructions. He hears in her chest how hard she'd fighting the laugh, breath vacillating to deep painful gasps and holding it entirely.
Finally, she meets his gaze; he sees the panic and fear there and he very carefully keeps from reacting, letting her settle and center herself. She looks back to the cabinet. "Glove... put a glove on. Don't touch the blood."
He doesn't quite understand, but he'll take whatever measures she wants. She even helps him put it on, and he drapes the brittle bloody rags over his left arm, assuring her he's planning on replacing the entirety of it with something not... well, rusting.
She starts bleeding again quickly, once the wraps start to loosen. She needs stitches. Badly. The starburst across her chest is deep, cutting into the ribs, her left tit mangled and gruesome and Kidd had a pressure pad against it as soon the wrappings are loose enough, Killer giving a laugh sob in pain as the pad is soaked almost immediately.
One handed, Kidd can't do much but hold pressure to the deepest of the cuts; the rest is still bad, but this was the worse. "Killer... Killer? Kil-kil, look at me, come on."
Killer's breath shudders and she nods that she hears him, but doesn't look up. He can see the tears falling.
"Kil-Kil, get the iodine, and pour it on a new pad for me."
Her hands shake, but she does, prepping a pad and holding it ready to swap out when Kidd moves his hand. He tosses it up, hoping to get it in the sink, but not caring either way, before holding the new pad in place to free her hands up. She's gasping and shaking, and he winces in sympathy, knowing the burning against such a deep would must hurt terribly. He gives her a moment, and then Killer is reaching for the medical tape to hold it in place better.
The rest of the cuts are still deep and bleeding, but the ribs have down their job, keeping the damage away from the more important organs. Lower though... and Kidd made her lean back against the cabinets to deal with the lower five or six inches that cut into her gut to hip, and again across her navel.
More iodine, more pads, more tape.
They emptied the bottle before re-wrapping her whole torso with every stitch of gauze in the kit. It wasn't enough. Killer started to unwind the wrappings on her face, the same rough thin strips as her arms. No where clean enough for something like this but they were running out of options. The wrappings on her right arm gave them just enough to keep it all held in place; Kidd frowning at the dark bruises to her wrist, raw ripped-open calluses across her palm, and knuckles busted and torn.
Kidd tried to pull the glove off with the metal fingers of his left hand, the latex ripping nearly in half and his flings it up again into what he hopes is the sink in annoyance. Killer is chuckling softly against him, he can tell she's past her limit, long since run out of even fumes. He pulled his coat around her, lifting her up out of the Wano robes. Her eyes are puffy from crying, but she's out of tears. Getting manhandled by Kidd is not usually an appreciated gesture, but Killer made no noise of protest as he carried her, making sure to keep the thick fur between her skin and his left arm.
There's no soft bed to tuck her into, not even a hammock left to lay her down in, the empty rooms larger now then he can deal with. As Captain, Kidd also has his own bathroom - one that Killer uses more then him with her hair anyway - and it has locks in it that even Kidd can't brute force without his powers. They've never needed to use it as such, but Kidd wanted Killer - any of his crew honestly - to have a place to go in an emergency. The crew's wash room has a similar design, but it too large a space for just the two of them tonight.
They need to rest for at least a few hours, and then Kidd needs to figure out how the two of them are getting the Victoria Punk moved somewhere safer before they get noticed. And then figure out where their people are.
Get their people free. Stock up on food. Clothes. Get Killer stitched up correctly. Kill Kaido and get the fuck off this island.
Easy.
Until then...
Kidd locks them into the small room. Killer is naked minus the wrapping to her torso and arm and Kidd's coat. He sits on the closed toilet seat, working his boots off as Killer squats down to check the under-sink cabinets, wondering if they'd get lucky a second time.
Killer gives off a bark of laughter, and yes, they have lucked out. Kidd will have to recheck the other bathrooms later. More cleaning supplies, shower caps, a hair dryer, another first aid kit. Spare light bulbs, extra toilet paper. Killer's menstrual cups and an emergency box of pads. A box shoved behind the sink bend, full of smaller cases, and Killer tosses one of the small cardboard boxes up to Kidd, who catches it one handed and grins.
Red nail polish.
Killer would repaint his hand, the two of them curled up naked in the dry bathtub, Kidd's coat as a blanket, the ceramic basin holding their body heat well enough. Killer would end up painting her own right hand red too before she drifted off, sleeping easy against his chest, the first good sleep she'd had in months. The first time she'd been safe enough for sleep in months.
