bottom line, we made it out the first time still in love and half alive
The Ark’s gaze flicks briefly back toward the door at Jack’s aside, a note of genuine interest sharpening her expression as she considers the man they’ve just left behind. "Oh yeah? Think he could teach me a thing or two?"
The thought lingers only a moment before she lets it settle away, her attention returning to Jack as he pulls out her chair. She slips into it with an easy grace, crossing one long leg over the other as she leans slightly toward him. At his if I had to guess, her lips curve into a crooked, knowing smile, wine-dark and wry, the expression carrying just enough amusement to call him on his feigned ignorance without saying a word.
She listens as he explains, nodding faintly, though her nose wrinkles slightly at the mention of pirates, the distaste immediate and unhidden. There’s something careless in the way they treat their ships—like wagers to be won and discarded not unlike racehorses—that sits poorly with her, a contrast too sharp against the way Jack had always handled her, for the Ark to be anything but disapproving towards them.
Her attention shifts as someone approaches to take their order, and she doesn’t so much as glance toward a menu before speaking. "I’ll have whatever’s best," she says smoothly, before her eyes lift, catching the server’s, and for a brief moment something in them deepens; blue darkening, brightening, pulling just slightly. The Ark doesn't need to be a telepath to know that what he was planning was just bringing her a glass of something expensive. "I mean something that isn’t listed on your menu," she purrs, her voice carrying a curious lilt to it as she holds his gaze for a moment before letting it drift across the room. When it returns to Jack, there's something thoughtful and faintly amused in her expression.
"They’ve all got an eye on you," she notes, "even when they’re pretending they don’t." A faint curve touches her wine-dark lips. "They’re harder to read than that lot back at the docks, though, I’ll give them that." Her fingers tap lightly once against the table, as if testing something that isn’t there. If she could feel them the way she was used to—through the weight of a step, the drag of a hand along her rail, the idle rhythm of fingers against her hull—she’d have a much idea about what they were thinking. But here, across the haze of smoke and low light, they blur at the edges, their intentions slipping just out of reach in a way she doesn’t much care for.
The thought lingers only a moment before she lets it settle away, her attention returning to Jack as he pulls out her chair. She slips into it with an easy grace, crossing one long leg over the other as she leans slightly toward him. At his if I had to guess, her lips curve into a crooked, knowing smile, wine-dark and wry, the expression carrying just enough amusement to call him on his feigned ignorance without saying a word.
She listens as he explains, nodding faintly, though her nose wrinkles slightly at the mention of pirates, the distaste immediate and unhidden. There’s something careless in the way they treat their ships—like wagers to be won and discarded not unlike racehorses—that sits poorly with her, a contrast too sharp against the way Jack had always handled her, for the Ark to be anything but disapproving towards them.
Her attention shifts as someone approaches to take their order, and she doesn’t so much as glance toward a menu before speaking. "I’ll have whatever’s best," she says smoothly, before her eyes lift, catching the server’s, and for a brief moment something in them deepens; blue darkening, brightening, pulling just slightly. The Ark doesn't need to be a telepath to know that what he was planning was just bringing her a glass of something expensive. "I mean something that isn’t listed on your menu," she purrs, her voice carrying a curious lilt to it as she holds his gaze for a moment before letting it drift across the room. When it returns to Jack, there's something thoughtful and faintly amused in her expression.
"They’ve all got an eye on you," she notes, "even when they’re pretending they don’t." A faint curve touches her wine-dark lips. "They’re harder to read than that lot back at the docks, though, I’ll give them that." Her fingers tap lightly once against the table, as if testing something that isn’t there. If she could feel them the way she was used to—through the weight of a step, the drag of a hand along her rail, the idle rhythm of fingers against her hull—she’d have a much idea about what they were thinking. But here, across the haze of smoke and low light, they blur at the edges, their intentions slipping just out of reach in a way she doesn’t much care for.
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.
