bottom line, we made it out the first time still in love and half alive
Jack’s correction lands, but it doesn’t move her, not really. Yes, his care and attention to keeping her hulls free of seaweed and barnacles and outfitting her with sails meant to catch and warp the wind had her traveling faster than she had any right to, and yes her bays had been used more than her cannons had, but even so. "Funny," she says, her voice smooth and unbothered, "how many last resorts we've found ourselves in over the years." Her gaze lingers on him a moment longer, not argumentative, not quite yielding either, but perhaps with a touch of arrogance that Jack might have identified with more in his younger days.
Her fingers begin to move against the table, an idle rhythm that mirrors his own without her noticing, each tap leaving behind the faintest trace of moisture, little beads gathering and slipping along the grain of the wood like condensation drawn from nowhere. "Not that you were ever fooled by appearances," she adds, a slow, sly curve touching her mouth as her eyes flick briefly to his. If he had been, she wouldn’t be here at all; she’d be so many rotten boards by now at the bottom of the marina.
When the fresh drinks arrive, The Ark reaches for hers without hesitation, lifting it to her lips. The gin bites cold and sharp before blooming warm, the strange inversion of it catching in her throat and chest alike. She doesn’t pace herself, chasing one burn with another as if there’s something in her that wants the heat.
She smiles low and wolfishly at his comment, her eyes darkening slightly as she sets the glass down again. "I doubt anyone would think the captains had anyone to blame but themselves," she murmurs, tone easy, almost careless on the surface, though the undercurrent is anything but. "If they turned up drowned or with a knife in their backs after having given their ships life." Her shoulders lift in a small, languid shrug, as if the thought is nothing more than idle speculation, something to pass the time between drinks. "No real reason to start wondering who else might’ve had a hand in it."
Her fingers begin to move against the table, an idle rhythm that mirrors his own without her noticing, each tap leaving behind the faintest trace of moisture, little beads gathering and slipping along the grain of the wood like condensation drawn from nowhere. "Not that you were ever fooled by appearances," she adds, a slow, sly curve touching her mouth as her eyes flick briefly to his. If he had been, she wouldn’t be here at all; she’d be so many rotten boards by now at the bottom of the marina.
When the fresh drinks arrive, The Ark reaches for hers without hesitation, lifting it to her lips. The gin bites cold and sharp before blooming warm, the strange inversion of it catching in her throat and chest alike. She doesn’t pace herself, chasing one burn with another as if there’s something in her that wants the heat.
She smiles low and wolfishly at his comment, her eyes darkening slightly as she sets the glass down again. "I doubt anyone would think the captains had anyone to blame but themselves," she murmurs, tone easy, almost careless on the surface, though the undercurrent is anything but. "If they turned up drowned or with a knife in their backs after having given their ships life." Her shoulders lift in a small, languid shrug, as if the thought is nothing more than idle speculation, something to pass the time between drinks. "No real reason to start wondering who else might’ve had a hand in it."
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.
