it's just a bloodstain

JACK

Now that's surprising. Enough that Jack's eyebrows raise a fraction before Flora tries to obliterate his mind via psychological warfare, and the captain is grimacing and resisting the urge to swat some of the healing water at where he thinks she's sitting, if for no other reason than to break her train of thought. "Fine. Fine." He growls. For now, anyway, until he can learn more and make whatever judgements he pleases from the information.

Rubbing at his forehead as Flora twists the ring on her finger and reappears, the captain is left gazing over the Doubletake with a flat gaze that sees much more than it lets on, even without telepathy. He's seen the sorts of bruises on the queen's throat in brothels all over Torchline, seen the blood and tears and the empty look in the eyes of prostitutes too poor to stop plying their trade but without much left to give until someone choked them a little too long, a little too hard.

To see them on Flora is something else, and Jack doesn't quite know what to do with the ball of something hot and prickly that awakens in the pit of his stomach. "I'm sure," he says of her injuries, nodding for her to sit more fully in the fountain even as he starts to unbutton his shirt. "We'll wait, then. An' you can tell me what happened."

romancing yourself is possible, narcissistic
and recommended