i look fly, i look good

JACK

The moment stretches between them like something Jack thinks he might be able to reach out and touch, that curl of heat that begs him to follow it against her soft skin to see what else might catch. And he might have done just that - he's shifting enough to close that distance, in fact - but The Ark is already moving, grace and leather prowling across the boutique to the dock just outside the door.

Jack doesn't move. He doesn't have to. He can hear every word whether whispered or shouted, can sense the way the tailor's mind scrambles clean of every coherent thought other than BOOBS, can practically hear the way all the blood in his body drops beneath the waistband of his pants. It's perfect, the man stammers, and the Captain feels the first flicker of a snarl wanting to curl up his lips, stifling it with the effort of a man practiced at keeping a neutral expression.

But when The Ark returns like nothing remarkable has happened, like this is a normal occurrence for the tailor and his greedy hands and too-tight pants, the smell of ozone hanging in the air is unmistakeable. Jack's arm hooks snugly around her waist to draw her flush against the warmth of his side, and though the tailor is happily bumbling along, nodding to all of her requests, the sight of the good Captain manages to sober him up considerably.

"You can have it delivered to my ship," he tells him curtly, and it's only the fact that she'd said she liked the outfits that stops him seriously considering sinking the entire floating boutique to the bottom of the Arclight instead.

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