JACK
It's a familiar feeling, Jack realises, that spreads its wings inside her and catches on the warm breath of morning, because it's one that has echoed in his own chest whenever there are waves to slice or clouds to chase. His footsteps are a steady heartbeat on the deck, drawing the immediate attention of the crew who haven't long awoken themselves. Murphy steps automatically away from the helm, a little tired around the eyes from his vigil, and he tosses Jack a lazy salute (and The Ark a respectful dip of his head) before he departs to get some sleep of his own.
Turning to glance at her over his shoulder, his smirk mostly hidden by the fluttering collar of his shirt, Jack looks simultaneously like himself and like the wiry young man from back then - just as sure but not as reckless, just as bold but not as quick to anger. "I know how to sail you," he agrees, gaze lingering on her for a beat or two longer before, his silhouette lined with gold fingers of sunlight, he reaches for the wheel.
Tearing his attention from her as a woman and giving it fully to her as a ship is an exercise in discipline, and he isn't ashamed to say it. The rest of the crew are in need of that reminder too, as it happens; more than one set of eyes lingers on The Ark and her ample curves, the wild mane of her hair, the perfect plum of her lips, and it's only Jack's sharp whistle that snaps them around.
His orders are clear as they ever have been - more so, perhaps, carried by the air magic in his blood, and it's that very same magic that catches and fills her sails when the men adjust the rigging. The wood is sun-warm beneath Jack's palms, every grain and chip and splinter branded into his fingers, and once all is as it should be, he turns them into the wind, turns them west towards the Spillwave.
Turning to glance at her over his shoulder, his smirk mostly hidden by the fluttering collar of his shirt, Jack looks simultaneously like himself and like the wiry young man from back then - just as sure but not as reckless, just as bold but not as quick to anger. "I know how to sail you," he agrees, gaze lingering on her for a beat or two longer before, his silhouette lined with gold fingers of sunlight, he reaches for the wheel.
Tearing his attention from her as a woman and giving it fully to her as a ship is an exercise in discipline, and he isn't ashamed to say it. The rest of the crew are in need of that reminder too, as it happens; more than one set of eyes lingers on The Ark and her ample curves, the wild mane of her hair, the perfect plum of her lips, and it's only Jack's sharp whistle that snaps them around.
His orders are clear as they ever have been - more so, perhaps, carried by the air magic in his blood, and it's that very same magic that catches and fills her sails when the men adjust the rigging. The wood is sun-warm beneath Jack's palms, every grain and chip and splinter branded into his fingers, and once all is as it should be, he turns them into the wind, turns them west towards the Spillwave.
fight so dirty but you love so sweet
talk so pretty but your heart got teeth
talk so pretty but your heart got teeth
- Secret Telepath
- Functionally Immortal (Forever 35)
- Two small star tattoos beneath his left eye
- Click for The Ark!
