flora
Jack’s rebuke only earns a smug little grin from Flora as she tucks herself back behind the helm for a second, smoothing down her wind-tangled curls and catching her breath. The warning in his voice is familiar—weather-worn and sharp around the edges—but not sharp at her. So when he hauls himself into view and starts rattling off his report, Flora listens with genuine effort, nodding at appropriate intervals even though half the terms fly past her like hels on a gale. "Right—sails fine, thaw and oil the...twisty bits, hull’s gonna freak out later." Her brow knits as she tries to mentally pin it down. "I might need you to repeat some of this when it doesn't feel like we're going to freeze," she mutters, rubbing her fingers together to coax warmth back into them.
But his next comment—the one about the Ark—lands with more effect than she expects. A small sigh escapes her, a puff of breath that clouds in the cold as her shoulders ease. "Thanks," she says, soft and a touch sheepish.
At his demand for explanation, Flora lifts both hands in theatrical surrender, a half-laugh sighing through her. "I thought I could make it," she admits, wide-eyed as if to say the lie detector determined that was a lie. "It’s not even Deepfrost yet! I figured if I stuck close to the coast I’d be fine. But then—" She gestures vaguely skyward, "a storm rolled in, clouds ate the horizon, and suddenly I'm staring down icebergs."
When he throws in his price—deck-swabbing and all—Flora blinks at him, unclear if he's being funny or suggestive or worse, serious. "Swab your deck, is it?"” she echoes, eyes narrowing with mock offence. "We both know how well that'll go." Sex would complicate things, and if Jack had meant genuine manual labour, he'd best prepare himself for the headache of complaining from Flora's mind he'd have to endure, and after so long together, there was no way he'd think that was worth it.
With a grin still tugging at her lips, Flora tips her chin toward the stairs leading below deck. "Can I offer you a whiskey or a rum to warm you up?"
But his next comment—the one about the Ark—lands with more effect than she expects. A small sigh escapes her, a puff of breath that clouds in the cold as her shoulders ease. "Thanks," she says, soft and a touch sheepish.
At his demand for explanation, Flora lifts both hands in theatrical surrender, a half-laugh sighing through her. "I thought I could make it," she admits, wide-eyed as if to say the lie detector determined that was a lie. "It’s not even Deepfrost yet! I figured if I stuck close to the coast I’d be fine. But then—" She gestures vaguely skyward, "a storm rolled in, clouds ate the horizon, and suddenly I'm staring down icebergs."
When he throws in his price—deck-swabbing and all—Flora blinks at him, unclear if he's being funny or suggestive or worse, serious. "Swab your deck, is it?"” she echoes, eyes narrowing with mock offence. "We both know how well that'll go." Sex would complicate things, and if Jack had meant genuine manual labour, he'd best prepare himself for the headache of complaining from Flora's mind he'd have to endure, and after so long together, there was no way he'd think that was worth it.
With a grin still tugging at her lips, Flora tips her chin toward the stairs leading below deck. "Can I offer you a whiskey or a rum to warm you up?"
what doesn't kill me makes
me want you more
me want you more
