bottom line, we made it out the first time still in love and half alive
As Jack begins to speak, The Ark's attention settles in fully, the surface brightness of her gaze going glassy and sea-deep, as if she’s listening not just with her ears but with something that runs along a keel, along tensioned rope, along the subtle pull of currents beneath a hull. His hand gestures, and her eyes follow without turning her head, mapping what he says onto the room with quiet precision.
The Seahawk earns a faint, thoughtful nod, the name brushing past her like a tide she doesn’t quite remember riding. But the moment he mentions the Banshee, something in her stills. Not outwardly—not enough for anyone else to mark—but there’s a tightening beneath the surface, a shift in pressure that turns the water of her thoughts colder and heavier. Her shoulders draw just slightly, her mouth thinning as she glances at Jack, the line of her lips dark and deliberate. "I remember the clipper," she says, her voice smooth but edged, like glass worn thin by salt. "She's the only ship Murphy ever pulled me off of."
Despite her size, the Ark was faster than she had any right to be, stronger than many, her hull built to endure what others couldn’t, and Murphy—steady, stubborn Murphy—had never once asked her to match the Banshee stride for stride. He’d turned her instead, chosen retreat where she might’ve pushed, and she'd always wondered at that, at least insofar as she'd been able to. The clipper was faster, but that didn't mean the Ark couldn't have pushed her to waste resources in trying to run away. That the Banshee's hull had never been mysteriously peppered with holes, that her ribs hadn't been splintered, that there'd been no quiet sabotage in the dark told the Ark that the feud wasn't one that Jack was inclined to feed or sharpen. Still, something protective coils low and tidal in her chest, a dark swell that doesn’t quite break.
The Mariette softens her again, just slightly, and she nods. "I almost wish he was," she murmurs under her breath of Muphy being with them, the thought slipping free before she bothers to dress it up, and when her eyes flick back to Jack there’s no apology in them, only a small, shameless lift of her shoulder. Murphy had given much to her over the years and she wouldn’t mind returning the favour. Though... perhaps there’s something to be said for a quiet return, for arriving without blood in the water. At least on their first proper night out.
Leaning back into her chair, she tips her head, the movement languid, the line of her throat catching the low light as her attention drifts—not away from him, never fully away—but outward, brushing over the room again with new context stitched through it. "Do you think they’ll wonder about me? About how I came to be?" Her gaze slides back to him, darkened blue and intent. "And to try and do the same with their own ships?"
The Seahawk earns a faint, thoughtful nod, the name brushing past her like a tide she doesn’t quite remember riding. But the moment he mentions the Banshee, something in her stills. Not outwardly—not enough for anyone else to mark—but there’s a tightening beneath the surface, a shift in pressure that turns the water of her thoughts colder and heavier. Her shoulders draw just slightly, her mouth thinning as she glances at Jack, the line of her lips dark and deliberate. "I remember the clipper," she says, her voice smooth but edged, like glass worn thin by salt. "She's the only ship Murphy ever pulled me off of."
Despite her size, the Ark was faster than she had any right to be, stronger than many, her hull built to endure what others couldn’t, and Murphy—steady, stubborn Murphy—had never once asked her to match the Banshee stride for stride. He’d turned her instead, chosen retreat where she might’ve pushed, and she'd always wondered at that, at least insofar as she'd been able to. The clipper was faster, but that didn't mean the Ark couldn't have pushed her to waste resources in trying to run away. That the Banshee's hull had never been mysteriously peppered with holes, that her ribs hadn't been splintered, that there'd been no quiet sabotage in the dark told the Ark that the feud wasn't one that Jack was inclined to feed or sharpen. Still, something protective coils low and tidal in her chest, a dark swell that doesn’t quite break.
The Mariette softens her again, just slightly, and she nods. "I almost wish he was," she murmurs under her breath of Muphy being with them, the thought slipping free before she bothers to dress it up, and when her eyes flick back to Jack there’s no apology in them, only a small, shameless lift of her shoulder. Murphy had given much to her over the years and she wouldn’t mind returning the favour. Though... perhaps there’s something to be said for a quiet return, for arriving without blood in the water. At least on their first proper night out.
Leaning back into her chair, she tips her head, the movement languid, the line of her throat catching the low light as her attention drifts—not away from him, never fully away—but outward, brushing over the room again with new context stitched through it. "Do you think they’ll wonder about me? About how I came to be?" Her gaze slides back to him, darkened blue and intent. "And to try and do the same with their own ships?"
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.
