JACK
There are very, very few people who can hey at Jack and get his attention; fewer still who can grab at his hand and expect to keep their fingers, but Flora manages both with little more than a grumble from the captain. Glancing up at her with blue eyes made darker by the world outside, what might just be words to anyone without his particular skillset are instead cemented by something shared and dark and unpleasant, yes, but also quite unique. Trust Flora to find the diamond in that particular rough.
"No, I don't s'pose you would," he agrees softly, accepting the offer of her glass with his free hand, the other captured and turning to allow her fingers to press against the muscles beneath.
Really, he ought to have been expecting her to challenge him at every point - it's practically her trademark by now - but it's with quiet surprise that he regards her over the lip of the glass. All the unnecessary blood on my hands, too? he almost says. Or, even if all the help I give is accidental? An occasional byproduct of his business dealings, Jack can hardly be called a humanitarian even in very loose terms.
He stays quiet, though, as if perhaps some part of him wants to believe her. On all but one thing, anyway. "I can sing," he objects haughtily, passing the rum back. They're sea shanties and accompanied by the crew on long voyages rather than the soft acoustic sets he bets Flora has in mind, but it's nonetheless true.
And gods, he knows what she's going to say about Mort before it ever leaves her lips, and he doesn't need to be a mindreader for it. Shaking his head softly, Jack almost want to shrug her off, to tell her that this is the problem with love. That she'd do these things without question, that he could use her and take and do and be all the things that Remi says he is, and that she'd give it all just the same. Instead, with shoulders - fine, yes, they do feel much less tense - slumping, he gives her hand the faintest squeeze.
"When it comes to my family, it's best the dead stay dead. I appreciate it, though."
"No, I don't s'pose you would," he agrees softly, accepting the offer of her glass with his free hand, the other captured and turning to allow her fingers to press against the muscles beneath.
Really, he ought to have been expecting her to challenge him at every point - it's practically her trademark by now - but it's with quiet surprise that he regards her over the lip of the glass. All the unnecessary blood on my hands, too? he almost says. Or, even if all the help I give is accidental? An occasional byproduct of his business dealings, Jack can hardly be called a humanitarian even in very loose terms.
He stays quiet, though, as if perhaps some part of him wants to believe her. On all but one thing, anyway. "I can sing," he objects haughtily, passing the rum back. They're sea shanties and accompanied by the crew on long voyages rather than the soft acoustic sets he bets Flora has in mind, but it's nonetheless true.
And gods, he knows what she's going to say about Mort before it ever leaves her lips, and he doesn't need to be a mindreader for it. Shaking his head softly, Jack almost want to shrug her off, to tell her that this is the problem with love. That she'd do these things without question, that he could use her and take and do and be all the things that Remi says he is, and that she'd give it all just the same. Instead, with shoulders - fine, yes, they do feel much less tense - slumping, he gives her hand the faintest squeeze.
"When it comes to my family, it's best the dead stay dead. I appreciate it, though."
when I look at something, I see it for what it could be
when I look at something, I see how it ends
when I look at something, I see how it ends
Code stolen from Queen Sky
- Secret Telepath
- Functionally Immortal (Forever 35)
- Two small star tattoos beneath his left eye
- Click for The Ark!
