THE ARK
The Ark gentles only slightly at the warning, though not enough to truly release him. She knows Jack too well for that; give him an inch and he’ll limp his way up to the deck, bleed into her boards, and bully the crew into pretending nothing is wrong. At his order, though, her chin dips as her blue eyes go distant and she reaches into herself. Above, the helm gives a telltale wriggle beneath Murphy’s hands, the signal they’d worked out early to show she was taking hold, and The Ark rises away from the rotten heat of the Feverlands, smooth and certain.
Only then does she pull back long enough to press the glass of rum into Jack’s good hand. "Here," she murmurs, before taking over the ruined buttons of his shirt. The fabric is stiff with blood, tar, and swamp filth, and as she peels it open her breath hisses between her teeth. In too many places, the shirt has dried fast against the wounds beneath. Rather than tear it free, she sets her fingertips above the worst slice along his ribs and lets saltwater bead cool and clean against his skin, running downward to soften dried blood and muck. It won’t feel good, she knows, but better her water than whatever the swamp has left trying to grow in him.
While it soaks in, she unlatches the leather strap across his chest and drops the cache onto the desk with a dull thud. "This better have been worth it," The Ark mutters, irritated less with the bag than with the bargain it apparently required of the Captain. When she looks up, her oceanic gaze is hard, some part of her taking his injuries personally before her eyes find his, and the edge softens. "If I’d known you were planning on being sociable," she says dryly, "I’d have stayed." It is not quite an apology for leaving him, because they both know why she did. But the acknowledgement settles between them anyway: together, perhaps, they might have done more.
Only then does she pull back long enough to press the glass of rum into Jack’s good hand. "Here," she murmurs, before taking over the ruined buttons of his shirt. The fabric is stiff with blood, tar, and swamp filth, and as she peels it open her breath hisses between her teeth. In too many places, the shirt has dried fast against the wounds beneath. Rather than tear it free, she sets her fingertips above the worst slice along his ribs and lets saltwater bead cool and clean against his skin, running downward to soften dried blood and muck. It won’t feel good, she knows, but better her water than whatever the swamp has left trying to grow in him.
While it soaks in, she unlatches the leather strap across his chest and drops the cache onto the desk with a dull thud. "This better have been worth it," The Ark mutters, irritated less with the bag than with the bargain it apparently required of the Captain. When she looks up, her oceanic gaze is hard, some part of her taking his injuries personally before her eyes find his, and the edge softens. "If I’d known you were planning on being sociable," she says dryly, "I’d have stayed." It is not quite an apology for leaving him, because they both know why she did. But the acknowledgement settles between them anyway: together, perhaps, they might have done more.
everything I want you know i'm going to get it
whether it's your fame or your cableknit sweater
you might've done it first but I know i'll do it better
whether it's your fame or your cableknit sweater
you might've done it first but I know i'll do it better
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.
