i look fly, i look good

JACK

It says a lot that Jack has been well aware of this maelstrom of fabric and flesh going on inside the boutiqe, and has done absolutely nothing to come to the tailor's rescue. Indeed, as the man bursts out onto the pier, flushed and worried for the integrity of his pants as much as his stock of garments, it will be to find said Captain inhaling slowly on his cigarette and barely regarding him behind the dark tint of his glasses.

"Am I, now," he drawls, peeling himself away from the dock post and stepping aside the tailor to duck into the boutique, where the full extent of The Ark's destruction can be seen in every popped stitch and pool of material. Jack, his cigarette still hanging between his lips, tilts his sunglasses down enough to raise his eyebrows at her, before a laugh rumbles out of him, low and smoky, and he dutifully crosses the room to her.

"I'm surprised he remembers his job at all, love," he says, fingers deftly straightening lace and tugging the ribbons into proper position, ensuring the eyelets have enough to give before he starts to go to work. "Here I thought you'd have opted for somethin' easier to get out of," he remarks idly, nosing towards a soft satin blouse hung over the corner of a mirror, or a pair of sleek leather pants half folded against the counter.

you're the last of a dying breed; write our names in the wet concrete
I wonder if your therapist knows everything about me

Code stolen from Queen Sky