flora
"What innuendo? I have put your crew through enough. Surely I owe them something for that." The bluff was an easy one to make, given that none of them would dare do more than shoot an appreciative glance Flora's way, even if she offered them a handful. The mention of reporting to Murphy draws an exaggerated wince that’s half-playful, half entirely genuine.
"Fashion emergencies count too," she calls after the captain, waving the feather boa once before draping it over a hook. With a sigh, she nudges the two glasses back into the cupboard—no sense pouring if Jack’s already outside—and tucks the rum against her hip, bottle neck hooked through gloved fingers. It was a remarkably Jack thing to do—never sitting still, fixing what needed doing—such that she really shouldn't have bothered with the glasses in the first place.
Topside, the wind had her tugging his coat around her all the tighter, and as Flora steps to the rail, expecting to find Jack hovering or straddling the rigging with his usual reckless ease, instead she finds a staircase; rough stone, freshly coaxed from the Crag—leaned solidly against the Sugartide’s hull like it’s always belonged there. Surprise blooms bright across her mind as she peers down at it.
"Sorry, what?" she calls down, fingers tightening around the rum as she peers over the rail. "I leave you alone for two minutes and you're out here playing mason?" she calls, disbelief laced with a wry grin, before hesitating only a heartbeat before starting down, careful on the uneven steps, coat flaring like a sail in the wind. Reaching the packed ice below, she offers the bottle out, breath fogging in the chill. "Here—warming priority for the man patching my poor girl back together."
"Fashion emergencies count too," she calls after the captain, waving the feather boa once before draping it over a hook. With a sigh, she nudges the two glasses back into the cupboard—no sense pouring if Jack’s already outside—and tucks the rum against her hip, bottle neck hooked through gloved fingers. It was a remarkably Jack thing to do—never sitting still, fixing what needed doing—such that she really shouldn't have bothered with the glasses in the first place.
Topside, the wind had her tugging his coat around her all the tighter, and as Flora steps to the rail, expecting to find Jack hovering or straddling the rigging with his usual reckless ease, instead she finds a staircase; rough stone, freshly coaxed from the Crag—leaned solidly against the Sugartide’s hull like it’s always belonged there. Surprise blooms bright across her mind as she peers down at it.
"Sorry, what?" she calls down, fingers tightening around the rum as she peers over the rail. "I leave you alone for two minutes and you're out here playing mason?" she calls, disbelief laced with a wry grin, before hesitating only a heartbeat before starting down, careful on the uneven steps, coat flaring like a sail in the wind. Reaching the packed ice below, she offers the bottle out, breath fogging in the chill. "Here—warming priority for the man patching my poor girl back together."
what doesn't kill me makes
me want you more
me want you more
