her fight and fury's fiery, oh but she loves like sleep to the freezing
They move around one another with the ease of long practice, Captain and vessel finding the spaces the other leaves without needing to look for them. Whatever old wariness lives in The Ark around flame has no purchase here; the little teardrop above Jack’s fingers is his, shaped and held and made harmless by the same hands she put her faith in every day. She places the cigarette between her lips and leans forward without hesitation, letting its end catch before she draws back again, the first pull of smoke settling warmly through her chest and easing her shoulders down another fraction.
When she offers the cigarette up to him, it’s done without ceremony, a familiar sharing more than an invitation. Her gaze stays on him, though, blue and knowing beneath the loosened spill of red hair, because she can feel the unease in the small furrow of his brow without the need to read his thoughts. Repairs aren’t new. Ice, damaged boards, the tedious work of keeping her seaworthy through weather that wants to take pieces from her—none of it is new. But she knows how he takes every imperfection personally, how quickly practical work can become a private failure in the quiet storm behind his eyes.
Boring as the Spillwave was, it was warm, and the Ark's smile grows crooked as smoke slips between her lips. "I’ll bet you right now that Bassian comes out of LongNight with a story about wrestling a landshark, if we go." Meaning of Torchline changes something subtler in her, with the Ark raising a brow, her head tipping just enough that red curls spill over one shoulder, and for a quiet moment she only regards Jack. She knows he’d berth her there in an instant if she asked it of him, old ghosts and old grudges be damned, because that is the shape of his devotion: not loud, not clean, but absolute where it counts. But neither of them has ever demanded a course of the other simply because they could. Their wants have always had to be worth the cost to them both.
"We could," she says casually, though the words rest softer than they sound, before tilting her head again and fixing him with that steady blue stare. "Unless, of course, you were planning on making an honest ship out of me with all these transport contracts you’ve picked up recently." The curve of her mouth is almost teasing, but the offer beneath it is real enough: if the business in Hak Etme was lucrative enough to turn him honest, at least for a time, she'd be right there with him.
When she offers the cigarette up to him, it’s done without ceremony, a familiar sharing more than an invitation. Her gaze stays on him, though, blue and knowing beneath the loosened spill of red hair, because she can feel the unease in the small furrow of his brow without the need to read his thoughts. Repairs aren’t new. Ice, damaged boards, the tedious work of keeping her seaworthy through weather that wants to take pieces from her—none of it is new. But she knows how he takes every imperfection personally, how quickly practical work can become a private failure in the quiet storm behind his eyes.
Boring as the Spillwave was, it was warm, and the Ark's smile grows crooked as smoke slips between her lips. "I’ll bet you right now that Bassian comes out of LongNight with a story about wrestling a landshark, if we go." Meaning of Torchline changes something subtler in her, with the Ark raising a brow, her head tipping just enough that red curls spill over one shoulder, and for a quiet moment she only regards Jack. She knows he’d berth her there in an instant if she asked it of him, old ghosts and old grudges be damned, because that is the shape of his devotion: not loud, not clean, but absolute where it counts. But neither of them has ever demanded a course of the other simply because they could. Their wants have always had to be worth the cost to them both.
"We could," she says casually, though the words rest softer than they sound, before tilting her head again and fixing him with that steady blue stare. "Unless, of course, you were planning on making an honest ship out of me with all these transport contracts you’ve picked up recently." The curve of her mouth is almost teasing, but the offer beneath it is real enough: if the business in Hak Etme was lucrative enough to turn him honest, at least for a time, she'd be right there with him.
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.
