flora
The crossing is short but stretched thin by the drop, and when she steps onto The Ark it isn’t the creak of wood or the scent of peppermint that hits her, but the way no one meets her eyes; crew who once would’ve smiled or waved, now too absorbed in rope and sail and sky to glance her way. It shouldn’t surprise her, and it doesn’t, but it still lands somewhere tender and unguarded, like pressing on a bruise she’d pretended wasn’t there. She follows him without asking where they’re going, but when he passes the path toward his cabin and continues on, something cool and unwelcome tightens along the inside of her throat, not enough to choke her but enough to remind her how quickly privileges can vanish. They might be estranged, they might be angry, they might be everything they are now, but they’re not strangers, and being treated like one scrapes.
The chartroom greets her with light and glass and the open blaze of sunset spilling in. As Jack drops into his chair like a king settling into a throne and props his boot on the varnished table, casual as ever, peppermint bark shifting between his teeth, his opening shot over the bow won't land quite the way he might have expected. A soft, breathy laugh slips from her before she can stop it, more exhale than amusement. "Guess I did rub off on you in the end," she says, tone light and almost conversational, meaning he'd become a petty bitch, without needing to spell it out.
For half a heartbeat, though she considers letting it devolve. Letting the sharpness come, letting herself say the things that would hurt because she knows exactly where to aim. The urge is there, bright and immediate; instead, she draws in a slow breath and turns away from him, fingertips brushing the edge of the table where her finger traces a clean rectangle in the faint layer of dust, the ghost of where a map must’ve sat until recently.
"Here are your options, Jack," she says crisply, voice steady, still not looking at him. "Kaisel and I will make a promise, before Safrin, not to share your secret. In return, you’re bound not to retaliate against either of us for knowing what you can do." Her engagement ring flashes as her hand settles against the table. "I didn’t ask to know this," she continues, controlled and precise. "And I’m sure you’d take it back now if you could. So this way, everyone can just go on their merry way about it."
Only then does she turn, her aqua eyes searching out his, bare and bright without kohl to sharpen them, the colour almost luminous in the fading light, and though his gaze is lined in black and cooled to steel, she matches it without flinching before shrugging, the motion small and almost casual. "Or," she says, the word landing cleanly between them, "we tell everyone. You’re banned from Torchline. And whatever retaliation you try to enact, I’ll make sure to double it with every bit of power at my command."
The offer stands between them, stiff and imperfect but unmistakable; he might have the bigger ship, but she has the bigger arsenal and despite the tightness in her jaw and the way her pulse drums steadily beneath her skin, this is still an olive branch extended with deliberate hands.
The chartroom greets her with light and glass and the open blaze of sunset spilling in. As Jack drops into his chair like a king settling into a throne and props his boot on the varnished table, casual as ever, peppermint bark shifting between his teeth, his opening shot over the bow won't land quite the way he might have expected. A soft, breathy laugh slips from her before she can stop it, more exhale than amusement. "Guess I did rub off on you in the end," she says, tone light and almost conversational, meaning he'd become a petty bitch, without needing to spell it out.
For half a heartbeat, though she considers letting it devolve. Letting the sharpness come, letting herself say the things that would hurt because she knows exactly where to aim. The urge is there, bright and immediate; instead, she draws in a slow breath and turns away from him, fingertips brushing the edge of the table where her finger traces a clean rectangle in the faint layer of dust, the ghost of where a map must’ve sat until recently.
"Here are your options, Jack," she says crisply, voice steady, still not looking at him. "Kaisel and I will make a promise, before Safrin, not to share your secret. In return, you’re bound not to retaliate against either of us for knowing what you can do." Her engagement ring flashes as her hand settles against the table. "I didn’t ask to know this," she continues, controlled and precise. "And I’m sure you’d take it back now if you could. So this way, everyone can just go on their merry way about it."
Only then does she turn, her aqua eyes searching out his, bare and bright without kohl to sharpen them, the colour almost luminous in the fading light, and though his gaze is lined in black and cooled to steel, she matches it without flinching before shrugging, the motion small and almost casual. "Or," she says, the word landing cleanly between them, "we tell everyone. You’re banned from Torchline. And whatever retaliation you try to enact, I’ll make sure to double it with every bit of power at my command."
The offer stands between them, stiff and imperfect but unmistakable; he might have the bigger ship, but she has the bigger arsenal and despite the tightness in her jaw and the way her pulse drums steadily beneath her skin, this is still an olive branch extended with deliberate hands.
you're under the feeling like teenagers in cars
it ain't robbing or stealing if the moment is ours
it ain't robbing or stealing if the moment is ours
