my name is stitched to your lips

i want to taste you again

Jack's apology comes in the softness of his kiss, in the way his hands grow gentle against the desk when her fingers cover them, in the sudden cool breeze that fills the room despite the trickle of sweat against his temple from pain and exertion. Fire is and never will be his first choice - its appearance alone had been one carved from the worst parts of him, spurred on by the sort of darkness that would see the world consumed, and it has no place aboard The Ark, not unless absolutely necessary.

His good hand leaves the desk once her saltwater finishes what the ice had started, the smoky stain of his grip lingering as a memory but nothing more. "What, my arm?" he asks with dry amusement. "I'm still usin' it, sorry." He knows she means cutting off his shirt, but stress and perhaps a little blood loss have the Captain witty in the face of death, and he won't apologise for it.

Muttering his thanks and accepting the new glass of liquor, where The Ark turns Jack grows still, and it takes only a cursory flicker of his telepathy to understand who is beyond the door and why. "I'm fine, Bass," he calls, glancing down at the laceration The Ark had cleaned and finding, with a shock that widens his eyes, that it is little more than an angry red cut now. "Bein' a good patient for our ship. I'll be up in a bit - tell the others."

like a secret or a sin

JACK