her fight and fury's fiery, oh but she loves like sleep to the freezing
The Ark laughs with him, low and fond. Despite how she scolded Bassian for stomping too hard across her deck or spilling something sticky over her boards because he’s too far into his cups to find his mouth properly, the irritation never runs deep. The crew are hers in an old, uncomplicated way, held close beneath the curve of her care whether they’re graceful or reckless or too stubborn to know when they ought to come in from the cold.
She rolls one shoulder as she steps into the cabin, as though the stiffness running through her might be shaken loose as easily as a chill caught beneath cloth, though there’s a larger ache below it that belongs to black water and a hull held too long beneath ice. The warmth Jack draws into the room begins to work through her almost at once, loosening the close, brittle pressure of the cold from the air and from the tide of her mind, and she gives no more sign of how keenly she’s wanted it than the unhurried way she shrugs out of her thick coat; beneath it, she’s wearing one of Jack’s shirts over fitted leather pants.
Sinking down at his desk, her fingers find the rolling papers and pouch of tobacco, beginning the quiet work of arranging both between her hands as she turns a dry look over her shoulder at him. "How did you know?" she asks, all false surprise and lazy amusement. "It’s like you read my mind." Amusement aside, as the thought of it forms behind her eyes, she shudders lightly and returns her attention to the cigarette taking shape between her fingers, the motion careful despite the lingering stiffness in them. "We’re already going to need to do a few repairs to my hull from all this ice before we start our runs to Hak Etme," she says, smoothing the tobacco into place and rolling the paper shut with a practiced pass of her thumb. "The last thing we need is to add broken bones."
She rolls one shoulder as she steps into the cabin, as though the stiffness running through her might be shaken loose as easily as a chill caught beneath cloth, though there’s a larger ache below it that belongs to black water and a hull held too long beneath ice. The warmth Jack draws into the room begins to work through her almost at once, loosening the close, brittle pressure of the cold from the air and from the tide of her mind, and she gives no more sign of how keenly she’s wanted it than the unhurried way she shrugs out of her thick coat; beneath it, she’s wearing one of Jack’s shirts over fitted leather pants.
Sinking down at his desk, her fingers find the rolling papers and pouch of tobacco, beginning the quiet work of arranging both between her hands as she turns a dry look over her shoulder at him. "How did you know?" she asks, all false surprise and lazy amusement. "It’s like you read my mind." Amusement aside, as the thought of it forms behind her eyes, she shudders lightly and returns her attention to the cigarette taking shape between her fingers, the motion careful despite the lingering stiffness in them. "We’re already going to need to do a few repairs to my hull from all this ice before we start our runs to Hak Etme," she says, smoothing the tobacco into place and rolling the paper shut with a practiced pass of her thumb. "The last thing we need is to add broken bones."
sweet and right and merciful, all but washed in the tide of her breathing
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.
