i'd wipe the dirt off your name with the shirt off my back
Flora lets the wind catch in her hair as she leans a little further into the Ark’s rail, lips pursed in a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. "I can teleport too, y’know," she says lightly, chin lifting with something almost smug—but more than a little hollow beneath it. "So if it had been me down there, I wouldn’t have been stuck for long." Her shoulders roll back, casual and confident and deliberately breezy, the way one might toss a flower into a grave and pretend it’s just another bouquet.
But the next thing Jack says—you're more'n capable—makes something pause in her, makes her chest tighten around a little knot that’s already been pulled too taut these past few days. She smiles again, smaller now, twisting at the corners like something withered by sun. "Funny thing," she says, trying to keep it light but not quite managing. "No one’s ever asked me to go. Not once. Not for any of the big missions, not for the big fights." Her brows rise a touch, lashes lowering as she glances toward the horizon.
When Jack confirms he’s fine, her nod is immediate; sharp, clipped, professional. But gods, it’s stupid how disappointed she is by it. Not that she wants him to be hurt, of course not—but she wouldn't have been mad if she’d had a reason to touch him, to reach across the space between them under the guise of care and not desperation. Even as she swallows the feeling down, she knows he’ll hear it in the flicker of her thoughts: that pulse of something too warm, too raw, that she drowns quickly in crashing waves of worry for Hadama.
She nods again, steadier this time. "Yeah. Hadama’s smarter than most people give him credit for. He’s probably already working out three different exits."." Her voice is almost playful, like she’s trying to convince herself too, if only to keep the meagre thread of conversation that they've got going.
But the next thing Jack says—you're more'n capable—makes something pause in her, makes her chest tighten around a little knot that’s already been pulled too taut these past few days. She smiles again, smaller now, twisting at the corners like something withered by sun. "Funny thing," she says, trying to keep it light but not quite managing. "No one’s ever asked me to go. Not once. Not for any of the big missions, not for the big fights." Her brows rise a touch, lashes lowering as she glances toward the horizon.
When Jack confirms he’s fine, her nod is immediate; sharp, clipped, professional. But gods, it’s stupid how disappointed she is by it. Not that she wants him to be hurt, of course not—but she wouldn't have been mad if she’d had a reason to touch him, to reach across the space between them under the guise of care and not desperation. Even as she swallows the feeling down, she knows he’ll hear it in the flicker of her thoughts: that pulse of something too warm, too raw, that she drowns quickly in crashing waves of worry for Hadama.
She nods again, steadier this time. "Yeah. Hadama’s smarter than most people give him credit for. He’s probably already working out three different exits."." Her voice is almost playful, like she’s trying to convince herself too, if only to keep the meagre thread of conversation that they've got going.
