i want to taste you again
"North to the Spillwave," Jack mutters; the full navigation hadn't been worked out just yet, the Captain having figured there would be a lazy couple of hours this afternoon to work on things before taking off, but suddenly being away from the Feverlands is a personal and immediate need. They can sift through the finer details when he isn't septic or bleeding out, he figures, and The Spillwave is enough of an instinctive direction from here.
Only when he feels the ship list and move beneath them does he relax a fraction, shifting to sit properly at the edge of his desk despite the line of grime he'll leave along it when he moves. Muttering a thanks as The Ark takes over and letting dirty fingers clasp the glass of rum instead, Jack shoots it back in one swallow, like the burn of the liquor might help with whatever comes next.
His discomfort both at the tugging of filthy fabric, the way his wounds have stuck to it and the saltwater wash shows only in the flicker of a snarl on his lips and the way the glass in his hand rimes with ice, the Captain breathing through it despite the way the world wants to fog at the edges of his vision. "M'sure it will be," he says of the cache and its heavy thud against the desk - it's some magic item or another, the details expensive but unimportant, and better off here than still in the swamplands.
Scoffing at her remark, he lifts tired eyes to her own and raises his empty glass in a toast, his left arm still hanging uselessly at his side. "Next time, love," he says, winking and finally setting it down. "Wouldn't want to hog all the fun."
Only when he feels the ship list and move beneath them does he relax a fraction, shifting to sit properly at the edge of his desk despite the line of grime he'll leave along it when he moves. Muttering a thanks as The Ark takes over and letting dirty fingers clasp the glass of rum instead, Jack shoots it back in one swallow, like the burn of the liquor might help with whatever comes next.
His discomfort both at the tugging of filthy fabric, the way his wounds have stuck to it and the saltwater wash shows only in the flicker of a snarl on his lips and the way the glass in his hand rimes with ice, the Captain breathing through it despite the way the world wants to fog at the edges of his vision. "M'sure it will be," he says of the cache and its heavy thud against the desk - it's some magic item or another, the details expensive but unimportant, and better off here than still in the swamplands.
Scoffing at her remark, he lifts tired eyes to her own and raises his empty glass in a toast, his left arm still hanging uselessly at his side. "Next time, love," he says, winking and finally setting it down. "Wouldn't want to hog all the fun."
like a secret or a sin
JACK
- Secret Telepath
- Functionally Immortal (Forever 35)
- Two small star tattoos beneath his left eye
- Click for The Ark!
