i look fly, i look good

JACK

With anyone else, Jack would have sealed himself in that cabin for the rest of the day, building up the walls he'd started to take down brick by brick, taking back any amount of ground he'd given, or considered that he'd given. But The Ark isn't anyone else. At any other time she'd have been the one at his back in that cabin, beams and planks and the sway of her beneath his feet as he'd pace or brood or, at best, simply try to sleep this off.

It doesn't mean he emerges right away - he's still got to give himself a few minutes to cool himself off too, a feat achieved with a few swallows of strong liquor and icy fingers pressed to his temples. But he does emerge.

His footsteps are lighter, contrite almost, along the deck towards the bow. Murphy has wisely taken his leave at the sight of the Captain, wanting nothing to do with whatever hairline cracks have appeared between sailor and ship, and so when he arrives beside The Ark, they're alone.

"You know that tailor? The one whose hands you put on you?" he mutters, voice quiet, rough, but gentle. "After we left, he'd have felt a lot like this. 'Cause he wanted you, not just the way you want new clothes, or the ring on my hand, or sorbet. He wanted you in a way that made him feel like he was on fire, an' he couldn't have what he wanted. Does that make sense?"

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