i want to taste you again
"Finch." Jack speaks without opening his eyes, without so much as moving, the cigarette hanging between the fingers of his free hand to leave whorls of smoke twisting through the air around his head. The young thief doesn't need to know how he plucked his arrival out of the ether, and Jack is content to let him imagine that his impressively silent footfalls are nevertheless branded in a rhythm against the Captain's consciousness.
The reality is a rhythm of a different sort. A half-familiar beat of nerves wrestling with frustration alerts him first, each thought setting his web of telepathy to vibrating, until Jack can track the shape of the man approaching his map room with startling clarity. Opening his eyes and dropping his hand from his face at last, one steel-capped boot propped against the table, Jack regards the scarred face and warbling restlessness beneath the surface with a blank expression at first.
His eyes, blue as shards of a Longheat sky, hold Finch hostage for a second or three, then finally move back to the course he'd been charting. Jack drops his boot back to the boards and rolls to his feet, setting the cigarette between his lips. "About time," he says, holding out a hand - calloused and bedecked with rings - in silent expectation as he regards the maps and charts.
He knows. Of course he knows; the absence has been a scream in Finch's thoughts from the moment he stepped over the threshold and into Jack's magic. But there's knowing, and there's hearing it paint the air in word and cadence. And the Captain would like the latter now.
The reality is a rhythm of a different sort. A half-familiar beat of nerves wrestling with frustration alerts him first, each thought setting his web of telepathy to vibrating, until Jack can track the shape of the man approaching his map room with startling clarity. Opening his eyes and dropping his hand from his face at last, one steel-capped boot propped against the table, Jack regards the scarred face and warbling restlessness beneath the surface with a blank expression at first.
His eyes, blue as shards of a Longheat sky, hold Finch hostage for a second or three, then finally move back to the course he'd been charting. Jack drops his boot back to the boards and rolls to his feet, setting the cigarette between his lips. "About time," he says, holding out a hand - calloused and bedecked with rings - in silent expectation as he regards the maps and charts.
He knows. Of course he knows; the absence has been a scream in Finch's thoughts from the moment he stepped over the threshold and into Jack's magic. But there's knowing, and there's hearing it paint the air in word and cadence. And the Captain would like the latter now.
like a secret or a sin
JACK
- Secret Telepath
- Functionally Immortal (Forever 35)
- Two small star tattoos beneath his left eye
- Click for The Ark!
