wish I could bottle the taste
The Ark snickers under her breath as her blue eyes lift towards the larger hill beyond the bonfires, where colourful jackets scatter and streak across the snow in shrieking little bursts. For a moment she scans the slope as if Bassian’s particular disaster of a shape might be picked out by instinct alone, though with the dark pressed close around New Haven and every body bundled into wool and fur, he’s only one more moving piece on a hill full of them.
Her gaze drops to one mittened hand, and she flexes her fingers inside the wool, feeling the shape of them and the almost-there want beneath it, the strange pressure that sometimes gathers in her as if something warm might rise if only she knew where to open. "Sometimes it feels like I might be able to do that," she says, voice quieter now, her eyes still on her hand rather than the hill. Heal, she means, not needing to clarify, knowing Jack will catch the sense of it well enough. Her mouth twists with faint irritation, not sharp enough to be failure and not soft enough to be longing, before she glances up at him and gives a small shrug beneath the weight of her coat. "I haven’t managed it yet, though."
She feels him still in the way he does when his attention slips below the surface of things, and rather than pry, The Ark takes another sip of her mulled wine, letting the spice and heat roll over her tongue before her gaze follows the subtle angle of his nod as she shifts closer to the Captains. "I’d have thought the Sharpshot would be up in the region she just worked so hard to claim," she whispers back, amusement smoothing itself into something cooler.
Her gaze drops to one mittened hand, and she flexes her fingers inside the wool, feeling the shape of them and the almost-there want beneath it, the strange pressure that sometimes gathers in her as if something warm might rise if only she knew where to open. "Sometimes it feels like I might be able to do that," she says, voice quieter now, her eyes still on her hand rather than the hill. Heal, she means, not needing to clarify, knowing Jack will catch the sense of it well enough. Her mouth twists with faint irritation, not sharp enough to be failure and not soft enough to be longing, before she glances up at him and gives a small shrug beneath the weight of her coat. "I haven’t managed it yet, though."
She feels him still in the way he does when his attention slips below the surface of things, and rather than pry, The Ark takes another sip of her mulled wine, letting the spice and heat roll over her tongue before her gaze follows the subtle angle of his nod as she shifts closer to the Captains. "I’d have thought the Sharpshot would be up in the region she just worked so hard to claim," she whispers back, amusement smoothing itself into something cooler.
'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.
