i'd wipe the dirt off your name with the shirt off my back
Bassian’s worried little face is what does it. Flora leans over the railing again, her grin slipping as she clocks Bassian looking like he’s about ready to dive in after some phantom body. Murph’s not much better, brows low and set like this is definitely going to turn into a rescue mission. With a groan and a roll of her eyes, she waves a hand toward the crew.
"No, no one’s overboard!" she calls out, exasperated but mostly at herself. "False alarm! I got my flags crossed—I thought this was the impromptu ex bf chat one" She blows a kiss through the air to Bassian, fingers fluttering like a wink, before straightening and planting her hands on the polished rail of the Sugar Tide.
But then Jack speaks, and whatever playfulness remained on her face falls away like a wave pulling back to reveal stone. Under the island? Her mouth opens. Closes. Her spine goes rigid with the kind of full-body tension that always comes before a fight or a flight or a very pointed letter written in all-caps.
"What" she demands, voice sharp and high with disbelief. Her gaze skims across the open air between their vessels like she might suddenly spot the zipline that absolutely does not exist between them. When none appears, she turns back to Jack, and gods if the look she gives him isn’t urgent. Not panicked—Flora doesn't panic per se—but tight around the edges like the moment might split if she doesn’t say the right thing. "Can you stay a minute?" she asks, and this time there’s no teasing curl to her voice. "I just...if I'm about to become the solo leader of Torchline, it'd be nice to know the full story."
Her eyes flit toward the wheel of her skyship, toward the stained glass sail where it still fluttered like she’d done something right with it, then back to Jack. You could come here, her thoughts suggest, but it'd be easier over there.
Not just because it’d be easier to listen from the Ark's deck than from this smaller, more exposed perch. Not just because the Ark feels like power and presence and things built to last. And maybe, just maybe, she'd like to sit down and hear the whole story without worrying about whether her sail’s trimmed right or if her ship's hovering with just the right amount of smug to meet the approval of the captain.
"No, no one’s overboard!" she calls out, exasperated but mostly at herself. "False alarm! I got my flags crossed—I thought this was the impromptu ex bf chat one" She blows a kiss through the air to Bassian, fingers fluttering like a wink, before straightening and planting her hands on the polished rail of the Sugar Tide.
But then Jack speaks, and whatever playfulness remained on her face falls away like a wave pulling back to reveal stone. Under the island? Her mouth opens. Closes. Her spine goes rigid with the kind of full-body tension that always comes before a fight or a flight or a very pointed letter written in all-caps.
"What" she demands, voice sharp and high with disbelief. Her gaze skims across the open air between their vessels like she might suddenly spot the zipline that absolutely does not exist between them. When none appears, she turns back to Jack, and gods if the look she gives him isn’t urgent. Not panicked—Flora doesn't panic per se—but tight around the edges like the moment might split if she doesn’t say the right thing. "Can you stay a minute?" she asks, and this time there’s no teasing curl to her voice. "I just...if I'm about to become the solo leader of Torchline, it'd be nice to know the full story."
Her eyes flit toward the wheel of her skyship, toward the stained glass sail where it still fluttered like she’d done something right with it, then back to Jack. You could come here, her thoughts suggest, but it'd be easier over there.
Not just because it’d be easier to listen from the Ark's deck than from this smaller, more exposed perch. Not just because the Ark feels like power and presence and things built to last. And maybe, just maybe, she'd like to sit down and hear the whole story without worrying about whether her sail’s trimmed right or if her ship's hovering with just the right amount of smug to meet the approval of the captain.
