Flora
She doesn’t need to look directly at him to know something’s wrong. It’s in the slump of his shoulders, the way the popsicle hangs between his fingers like an afterthought, the dark smudges beneath his sunglasses that no amount of bravado can cover. Flora’s seen it before—more than once, over the years. The ragged edges of a mind worn too thin. Jack had only ever needed to explain it to her once for her to pick up on the signs, back when knowing him had meant learning the limits of what his gift could take before it cracked open like sea ice under a rising tide.
And now here he is again, standing like he’d been flayed from the inside out and barely stitched back together. It should make her soften. And it does, a little. Enough to quiet the retort that had been forming, the one about poison or lemon or how she’d rather bite her own tongue off than take suggestions from him. But that doesn’t undo the last thing he said to her. That doesn’t put her back in the Ark with his voice in her ear telling her she meant nothing and to just go.
So when he raises his popsicle like a toast and mumbles about orange, her lips part—but only to accept the one handed to her by the vendor—a refreshing bitter lemon. Her fingers are still wrapped around the stick when she finally answers. "You look like hell," she murmurs conversationally, stepping out of the line and toward the railing.
"Bassian beat you at checkers again?"
And now here he is again, standing like he’d been flayed from the inside out and barely stitched back together. It should make her soften. And it does, a little. Enough to quiet the retort that had been forming, the one about poison or lemon or how she’d rather bite her own tongue off than take suggestions from him. But that doesn’t undo the last thing he said to her. That doesn’t put her back in the Ark with his voice in her ear telling her she meant nothing and to just go.
So when he raises his popsicle like a toast and mumbles about orange, her lips part—but only to accept the one handed to her by the vendor—a refreshing bitter lemon. Her fingers are still wrapped around the stick when she finally answers. "You look like hell," she murmurs conversationally, stepping out of the line and toward the railing.
"Bassian beat you at checkers again?"
I trace the evidence, make it make some sense
why the wound is still bleedin'
why the wound is still bleedin'
Code stolen from Queen Sky
