The Ark
She watches him through the thinning veil of smoke, ocean-blue eyes catching the lanternlight and turning it darker, deeper, until something like recognition settles there, but older and more intimate. Her smile comes slow and sinful, the kind that will ruin a good few members of his crew without ever raising its voice. "I know. You're not the sort to make the same mistake twice." Whether it was meant to refer to the fire or to Flora hardly seemed to matter; for all the accusations levelled at Jack, he was the sort of man who learned quickly from his mistakes.
Colour blooms along her cheekbones, heat carried there by the smoke as she lifts the cigarette again and draws more carefully this time. The drag stays in her chest longer, learned now, and when she exhales it curls around her face like fog sliding off water. She nods once. "Not the same," she agrees, glancing down at herself—skin, curve, breath—as if he could possibly miss the implication. "Doing it in a body."
She looks back up at him then, studying the set of him the way she always has, by weight and balance rather than expression. Eyes have never told her much, and she’s learned Jack by the way he stands, the way his boots settle, the way his centre shifts when he’s thinking too hard, and without circling it, without softening the question, she asks, "so what happens next?" Her gaze drifts across the deck—the crew still adrift in her wake, cards semi-forgotten, music uneven—then back to him, head canting slightly as if feeling the ship’s own slow arc beneath her feet.
"Do you flip the coin when you're done with the day and send me back? Or leave me with the crew? I could relieve Murph early, or maybe you'd tuck me into one of the empty cabins up by the masthead." Her eyes find his again and stay there, steady and unhurried. She is nearly naked, siren-bright, heat rolling off her in quiet waves, and when she adds, "or would I stay with you?" there’s no pull in it. Nothing needy or suggestive; just a ship asking her Captain what their course is meant to be, as she's done a thousand times over.
Colour blooms along her cheekbones, heat carried there by the smoke as she lifts the cigarette again and draws more carefully this time. The drag stays in her chest longer, learned now, and when she exhales it curls around her face like fog sliding off water. She nods once. "Not the same," she agrees, glancing down at herself—skin, curve, breath—as if he could possibly miss the implication. "Doing it in a body."
She looks back up at him then, studying the set of him the way she always has, by weight and balance rather than expression. Eyes have never told her much, and she’s learned Jack by the way he stands, the way his boots settle, the way his centre shifts when he’s thinking too hard, and without circling it, without softening the question, she asks, "so what happens next?" Her gaze drifts across the deck—the crew still adrift in her wake, cards semi-forgotten, music uneven—then back to him, head canting slightly as if feeling the ship’s own slow arc beneath her feet.
"Do you flip the coin when you're done with the day and send me back? Or leave me with the crew? I could relieve Murph early, or maybe you'd tuck me into one of the empty cabins up by the masthead." Her eyes find his again and stay there, steady and unhurried. She is nearly naked, siren-bright, heat rolling off her in quiet waves, and when she adds, "or would I stay with you?" there’s no pull in it. Nothing needy or suggestive; just a ship asking her Captain what their course is meant to be, as she's done a thousand times over.
Her touch is like a tempest, her whisper is a breeze,
but when she has a temper, she'll bring you to your knees
but when she has a temper, she'll bring you to your knees
Code stolen from Queen Sky
Siren's Wake | After she leaves a space, traces of her presence linger briefly: a faint scent of salt, the sound of distant water, a restless feeling in the chest. People rarely notice it consciously.
