THE ARK
When Jack's footsteps return to the cabin, she listens to their rhythm before she looks at him. Steady enough, she decides, though not as steady as she would like. Better than when he left, at least, but still off. Her gaze follows him as he crosses to the trunk to get dressed; without the leather, weapons, grime, and blood between them, the cabin and the pair within feel nearly domestic in a way that would likely surprise anyone on the outside looking in.
"You’ve done far too much for me for that to ever be true," The Ark says, shaking her head faintly. It is not sentiment dressed up to soothe him, just bare fact. He had made her more than hull and sail, had chosen her, rebuilt her, named her in ways that mattered long before she had this body to stand before him in. Whatever care she can give him now, whatever wounds she can clean or food she can put in front of him, it will never feel like too much, not to her.
She takes the seat opposite him and draws one long leg up onto the chair, leaning comfortably against it as he slumps near the desk. "Nothing that can’t wait until morning," she answers. In truth, most of it could wait longer than that, but Jack Barclay is far too much of a control freak for such honesty to be useful while he is conscious. Reaching for a glass of rum herself, The Ark turns it idly between her fingers before lifting her eyes back to him. "You know," she begins, quieter now, "you have a way to always come back to me..." Her voice trails off as her gaze shifts toward the compass rose on his forearm, the one that mirrors the mark branded into her own boards and skin. For all the comfort it offers, the imbalance of it sits heavier now than it had before, made sharp by the half hour she had spent waiting in an empty cabin.
"But I don’t have a way to come to you. Maybe once we dock in Torchline, I could change that."By giving myself a fake quest. It's carefully said, if only because for everything that they are to one another, the ability to always find Jack, regardless of whether he wanted to be, was not a freedom even she thought he'd give up willingly.
"You’ve done far too much for me for that to ever be true," The Ark says, shaking her head faintly. It is not sentiment dressed up to soothe him, just bare fact. He had made her more than hull and sail, had chosen her, rebuilt her, named her in ways that mattered long before she had this body to stand before him in. Whatever care she can give him now, whatever wounds she can clean or food she can put in front of him, it will never feel like too much, not to her.
She takes the seat opposite him and draws one long leg up onto the chair, leaning comfortably against it as he slumps near the desk. "Nothing that can’t wait until morning," she answers. In truth, most of it could wait longer than that, but Jack Barclay is far too much of a control freak for such honesty to be useful while he is conscious. Reaching for a glass of rum herself, The Ark turns it idly between her fingers before lifting her eyes back to him. "You know," she begins, quieter now, "you have a way to always come back to me..." Her voice trails off as her gaze shifts toward the compass rose on his forearm, the one that mirrors the mark branded into her own boards and skin. For all the comfort it offers, the imbalance of it sits heavier now than it had before, made sharp by the half hour she had spent waiting in an empty cabin.
"But I don’t have a way to come to you. Maybe once we dock in Torchline, I could change that."
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.
