it's not your fault that you're always wrong
It was no secret that Jack had itchy feet, and whilst he and Eloise no longer wanted to murder each other quite so actively, that didn't mean he didn't long to set sail again, and one could only spend so many nights in the Hanged Man or roaming the streets. So his feet had taken him up to the lighthouse, the captain standing at the edge of the cliffs to gaze out into the black waters, the tip of his cigarette a miniature beacon in itself.
Exhaling smoke into the sky, he gazed up at the impressive blanket of stars, seeing in them something more than mythical; constellations, directions, the position of the lights as much a map to him as anything on parchment. "Don't you start movin' them around too much, now," he murmured, as if speaking to the lady of the stars herself. One star had blinked out after just appearing (later found out to be a fucking demigod, wouldn't you know), and he wasn't keen for them all to start doing it.
Exhaling smoke into the sky, he gazed up at the impressive blanket of stars, seeing in them something more than mythical; constellations, directions, the position of the lights as much a map to him as anything on parchment. "Don't you start movin' them around too much, now," he murmured, as if speaking to the lady of the stars herself. One star had blinked out after just appearing (later found out to be a fucking demigod, wouldn't you know), and he wasn't keen for them all to start doing it.
