THE ARK
The Ark fixes Jack with a dry stare from her oceanic eyes, every inch the long-suffering nurse forced to endure the jokes of a patient intent on bleeding and being clever about it. The effect is rather spoiled by the way the waters of her mind brighten in response, sunlight catching across their surface. Affection, relief, and exasperation all move through her at once, because if Jack has enough left in him to make awful jokes, then at least some essential part of him is still exactly where it ought to be.
Outside the door, Bassian pauses only long enough to let the answer settle. "Sure, boss,” he calls back, and then his boots retreat across the boards, heavy and deliberate as he stomps his way back toward the main deck to pass the word along. The sound leaves a faint smile on The Ark’s lips, but it fades into something quieter as she turns back to Jack. "Are you?" she asks in a low voice. The concern beneath it moves slow and deep, less a wave than a current, pulling steadily through the silence between them. It doesn’t escape her that flesh and blood have not made her able to be everywhere he needs her. She is more to him now, perhaps, but not enough to change the fact that pain, danger, and death still find ways to corner him where she cannot reach, forcing him to face them alone before he can return to her.
Her jaw tightens slightly before she reaches for the scissors and slides them beneath the back of his ruined shirt, cutting upward with slow, careful pressure. The fabric parts in a ragged line, damp with blood and swamp filth, and she leaves enough loose on one side that he can shrug his right arm free if he wants to. On the other, she works more gently, peeling the cloth away from his left side without asking the arm to move, her saltwater-slick fingers careful where the mud has dried closest to his skin.
Outside the door, Bassian pauses only long enough to let the answer settle. "Sure, boss,” he calls back, and then his boots retreat across the boards, heavy and deliberate as he stomps his way back toward the main deck to pass the word along. The sound leaves a faint smile on The Ark’s lips, but it fades into something quieter as she turns back to Jack. "Are you?" she asks in a low voice. The concern beneath it moves slow and deep, less a wave than a current, pulling steadily through the silence between them. It doesn’t escape her that flesh and blood have not made her able to be everywhere he needs her. She is more to him now, perhaps, but not enough to change the fact that pain, danger, and death still find ways to corner him where she cannot reach, forcing him to face them alone before he can return to her.
Her jaw tightens slightly before she reaches for the scissors and slides them beneath the back of his ruined shirt, cutting upward with slow, careful pressure. The fabric parts in a ragged line, damp with blood and swamp filth, and she leaves enough loose on one side that he can shrug his right arm free if he wants to. On the other, she works more gently, peeling the cloth away from his left side without asking the arm to move, her saltwater-slick fingers careful where the mud has dried closest to his skin.
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.
