wish I could bottle the taste
The Ark slips into place at Jack’s side as if she’s merely been there all along, the dark fall of her coat brushing against him and the cold following close at her heels like something she hasn’t quite managed to shake. She’d lasted only a few minutes after he’d gone before the silence aboard herself had become less restful than hollow, the kind of quiet that made every small groan of timber and shift of ice feel too large in the dark. There’s no chance of sneaking up on him with the way his mind touches everything, and so when a second cup of mulled wine is already waiting for her, she doesn’t bother pretending surprise. Pleasure suits her better anyway, softening the blue of her eyes as she takes it from him and folds both hands around the heat.
"Everyone but Murphy is in bed," she says by way of explanation, shrugging one shoulder as if this is reason enough for leaving the ship to stretch her legs after him. It is, mostly. Murphy is reliable in the particular way of men who prefer their orders plain and their solitude unexamined, and with the others tucked away from the cold and the dark, there’d been no sense in lingering only to listen to the water bite at her hull and the wind try its luck against her seams. Not when Jack is here, warm in the shape of himself beneath all that bundling, with spice and wine and smoke drifting thick through the cleared streets around him.
She draws a slow breath over the rim of her cup before taking a sip, the heat of it blooming across her tongue and down her throat in a way that doesn’t quite reach far enough, but still earns a low hum of approval. New Haven is too wholesome by half, all bright bonfires and coloured flames and music wandering cheerfully through the black, with families wrapped in blankets and children sending sleds shrieking down the packed snow as if the world hasn’t misplaced the sky entirely. The Ark watches it all with a look that’s more curious than charmed, her gaze moving from the pink flare of the largest fire to the stalls heavy with steam and food and wool, before settling back on Jack with a curve of her mouth that turns warmer for him than for any of the celebration.
"Everyone but Murphy is in bed," she says by way of explanation, shrugging one shoulder as if this is reason enough for leaving the ship to stretch her legs after him. It is, mostly. Murphy is reliable in the particular way of men who prefer their orders plain and their solitude unexamined, and with the others tucked away from the cold and the dark, there’d been no sense in lingering only to listen to the water bite at her hull and the wind try its luck against her seams. Not when Jack is here, warm in the shape of himself beneath all that bundling, with spice and wine and smoke drifting thick through the cleared streets around him.
She draws a slow breath over the rim of her cup before taking a sip, the heat of it blooming across her tongue and down her throat in a way that doesn’t quite reach far enough, but still earns a low hum of approval. New Haven is too wholesome by half, all bright bonfires and coloured flames and music wandering cheerfully through the black, with families wrapped in blankets and children sending sleds shrieking down the packed snow as if the world hasn’t misplaced the sky entirely. The Ark watches it all with a look that’s more curious than charmed, her gaze moving from the pink flare of the largest fire to the stalls heavy with steam and food and wool, before settling back on Jack with a curve of her mouth that turns warmer for him than for any of the celebration.
'cause i'd drink up the look on your face
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.
