bottom line, we made it out the first time still in love and half alive
The Ark slips easily into the conversations Jack draws them through, the shift as natural as water finding the shape of her hull. She doesn’t have the luxury of feeling his hands through timber and iron—no pressure against her rail, no weight against her boards to read the set of his thoughts—but decades beside him have taught her his currents well enough. She moves with him without hesitation, her presence at his side both inviting and carefully unreadable, ocean-coloured eyes offering nothing to the questions she can practically see turning behind the faces gathered along the pier.
And there are plenty of them.
Here in Torchline, Jack has always been a different sort of creature than the one he’d become in King’s End. There, people had kept their distance with a wary sort of respect, happy enough to profit from his dealings without getting too close to the blade. Here, though, the attention burns brighter and sharper; men who want to be him, others who’d sell their souls to drink beside him, and a few whose hands would close around a knife given half the chance. The way their gazes follow the Captain now draws a slow, jackal-bright smile across her lips, the kind that suggests she finds the whole thing deeply satisfying.
By the time they reach the oyster shucker the harbour’s noise has settled into a comfortable roar around them, and the Ark flashes the man a dazzling grin as Jack places their order. "Extra hot sauce," she adds, her voice smooth and easy as the shucker begins sliding oysters onto a sheet of newspaper already damp with brine. It’s hardly a grand presentation—just shells piled over ink-smudged paper with wedges of lemon, salt, and a bottle of hot sauce thumped down beside them—but the first oyster she lifts glistens with that clean, pale sheen that promises it’s barely been out of the water. She drowns it in hot sauce before tipping it back, letting the cool brine slide across her tongue before the burn follows it down her throat, sharp and bright and perfect.
The sound she makes at the taste is low and satisfied, indulgent enough that the shucker swallows hard while pretending not to stare. Chuckling softly, she nudges Jack toward a nearby bench with the edge of her shoulder as she reaches for another oyster, though her gaze drifts farther down the pier where a cluster of men linger in the uneven glow of a torch, their posture loose in a way that suggests their minds absolutely aren't. Not needing to nod toward them but merely imagining them in her mind, the Ark offers the oysters to Jack. "Who’re they?"
And there are plenty of them.
Here in Torchline, Jack has always been a different sort of creature than the one he’d become in King’s End. There, people had kept their distance with a wary sort of respect, happy enough to profit from his dealings without getting too close to the blade. Here, though, the attention burns brighter and sharper; men who want to be him, others who’d sell their souls to drink beside him, and a few whose hands would close around a knife given half the chance. The way their gazes follow the Captain now draws a slow, jackal-bright smile across her lips, the kind that suggests she finds the whole thing deeply satisfying.
By the time they reach the oyster shucker the harbour’s noise has settled into a comfortable roar around them, and the Ark flashes the man a dazzling grin as Jack places their order. "Extra hot sauce," she adds, her voice smooth and easy as the shucker begins sliding oysters onto a sheet of newspaper already damp with brine. It’s hardly a grand presentation—just shells piled over ink-smudged paper with wedges of lemon, salt, and a bottle of hot sauce thumped down beside them—but the first oyster she lifts glistens with that clean, pale sheen that promises it’s barely been out of the water. She drowns it in hot sauce before tipping it back, letting the cool brine slide across her tongue before the burn follows it down her throat, sharp and bright and perfect.
The sound she makes at the taste is low and satisfied, indulgent enough that the shucker swallows hard while pretending not to stare. Chuckling softly, she nudges Jack toward a nearby bench with the edge of her shoulder as she reaches for another oyster, though her gaze drifts farther down the pier where a cluster of men linger in the uneven glow of a torch, their posture loose in a way that suggests their minds absolutely aren't. Not needing to nod toward them but merely imagining them in her mind, the Ark offers the oysters to Jack. "Who’re they?"
we didn't die, but no guarantees this time, but fuck it lets do it again
Siren's Wake | After she leaves a space, traces of her presence linger briefly: a faint scent of salt, the sound of distant water, a restless feeling in the chest. People rarely notice it consciously.
