her fight and fury's fiery, oh but she loves like sleep to the freezing
The sound of Jack’s laughter warms the waters of The Ark’s mind further still, the choppy drag left by the cold easing into something darker and more languid as she grins up at him, jackal-sharp and entirely pleased. She draws deeply on the cigarette when it comes back to her, holding the smoke for a moment before letting it leave in a slow whorl that twists into the fire-red spill of her hair and vanishes there. "Well, that wouldn’t be much fun for either of us," she says, easy as a shrug, though the look she gives him makes plain that an honest ship paired with a captain who refuses the same would leave nothing between them worth crossing. Just a broad, dull spill of water, flat enough to rot on.
As he moves back to the desk and leans against it, she shifts in his chair, brushing a few pieces of correspondence aside to glance at what lies beneath. "All I was saying," she continues, glancing up through the fall of her curls, "was that if these were the sorts of contracts you wanted to take more often, I wouldn’t fight you on it." She can carry crates as readily as contraband, can let Hak Etme make them respectable for a while if that is what he wants from the shape of their future. He was immortal after all, it wasn't so surprising to expect periods of relative peace from him.
But then her expression goes casual in a way that doesn’t quite reach the deepening dark of her thoughts, the sea of them growing still and expectant beneath the surface. She taps ash into the tray beside the papers, blue eyes staying on Jack’s. "But," she says, soft enough to make the word feel like a hook sliding beneath the water, "if you did want something else other than hauling cargo crates across the continent in the meantime, I might have an idea."
As he moves back to the desk and leans against it, she shifts in his chair, brushing a few pieces of correspondence aside to glance at what lies beneath. "All I was saying," she continues, glancing up through the fall of her curls, "was that if these were the sorts of contracts you wanted to take more often, I wouldn’t fight you on it." She can carry crates as readily as contraband, can let Hak Etme make them respectable for a while if that is what he wants from the shape of their future. He was immortal after all, it wasn't so surprising to expect periods of relative peace from him.
But then her expression goes casual in a way that doesn’t quite reach the deepening dark of her thoughts, the sea of them growing still and expectant beneath the surface. She taps ash into the tray beside the papers, blue eyes staying on Jack’s. "But," she says, soft enough to make the word feel like a hook sliding beneath the water, "if you did want something else other than hauling cargo crates across the continent in the meantime, I might have an idea."
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.
