i'd wipe the dirt off your name with the shirt off my back
Her gaze levels with his, brittle and exhausted, the slope of her shoulders drawn tight from effort rather than defiance. "You can rewrite it however you need to," she says, voice low, lacking the heat it might once have held. "But I didn’t leave you because you were slow to learn. Sure I picked fights, I flared up, I was petty and theatrical and sometimes mean, but I never ended things over it." Maybe that was reason enough for Jack to leave her, but thus far he'd endured her dramatics like they were the least of his concerns.
Her throat tightens as she swallows, arms wrapping around herself like she might hold in all the versions of this conversation she’s rehearsed in her head. "Instead of turning it into another cross you had to bear, instead of acting like I was the punishment for your feelings," she says, too tired not to snap the words, too hurt not to say them, "you could’ve just said it was hard. You could’ve said you were trying when I misunderstood something instead of making me feel lie a fool."
Raking a hand through her curls, her other arm remaining coiled tight to her chest, she exhales slowly. "Jack. Of course I cared that it hurt you. But it’s hard to show that when someone’s spitting at your feet, telling you what a colossal fuck-up you are, like you’re the villain in a story you didn’t even know you were in."
And then—gods—he says she didn’t keep him close and she feels like she's been slapped. "Are you kidding me?" Flora says, and her voice almost cracks on it. "I told you I wanted to marry you, and you shrugged over it." Her hands tremble where they hang by her sides now, fists clenched and unclenched against the heat behind her eyes. "I wanted you as close as I could but you didn't. You don't get to have it both ways." Not close when it was convenient, and cut loose when things got too hard.
But it’s his final words gut her. She bites down hard on the inside of her cheek to keep the sob from catching in her throat, salt from her tears carving silent tracks down her cheeks even as her jaw locks. She doesn’t speak again for a long moment. Only when she reaches for the Ark’s railing, fingertips brushing against the wood with a slow, aching reverence, does she find breath again. Her thumb glides across the grain, the motion quiet and intimate, a farewell she hadn’t known she’d needed to give.
"I never meant to hurt you," she whispers, her words softly honest. "I’m sorry that what I did, did just that." Jack was more of a man of actions than intentions or words, and perhaps one day she'd understand his point of view, but for now, it was all Flora could do to hang on to that one fact. She'd never intended this.
But she can’t promise the rest of what she knows he needs to hear to begin to smooth things over. Can’t offer that she’d never do it again, not when the world keeps demanding sacrifices and she keeps being someone willing to make them. Just like he’ll never promise not to wield that silver tongue of his like a blade, even when it cuts the wrong person. That there's too much blood for it to be anything but tarnished no matter how hard he tries.
They both knew it, and that was the worst part. That this hurt wasn’t dramatic or unforgivable or even loud when you got right down to it. It was the quiet cruelty of not seeing eye to eye. Of walking in different directions, still reaching. Without another word, she turns toward the Sugar Tide. Her vision is glassy, steps precise only because she refuses to falter here of all places. She finds Murph at the helm and clears her throat. "Slow us down a little," she murmurs, faking a smile. "I’ll untether and take her from here."
~FIN
Her throat tightens as she swallows, arms wrapping around herself like she might hold in all the versions of this conversation she’s rehearsed in her head. "Instead of turning it into another cross you had to bear, instead of acting like I was the punishment for your feelings," she says, too tired not to snap the words, too hurt not to say them, "you could’ve just said it was hard. You could’ve said you were trying when I misunderstood something instead of making me feel lie a fool."
Raking a hand through her curls, her other arm remaining coiled tight to her chest, she exhales slowly. "Jack. Of course I cared that it hurt you. But it’s hard to show that when someone’s spitting at your feet, telling you what a colossal fuck-up you are, like you’re the villain in a story you didn’t even know you were in."
And then—gods—he says she didn’t keep him close and she feels like she's been slapped. "Are you kidding me?" Flora says, and her voice almost cracks on it. "I told you I wanted to marry you, and you shrugged over it." Her hands tremble where they hang by her sides now, fists clenched and unclenched against the heat behind her eyes. "I wanted you as close as I could but you didn't. You don't get to have it both ways." Not close when it was convenient, and cut loose when things got too hard.
But it’s his final words gut her. She bites down hard on the inside of her cheek to keep the sob from catching in her throat, salt from her tears carving silent tracks down her cheeks even as her jaw locks. She doesn’t speak again for a long moment. Only when she reaches for the Ark’s railing, fingertips brushing against the wood with a slow, aching reverence, does she find breath again. Her thumb glides across the grain, the motion quiet and intimate, a farewell she hadn’t known she’d needed to give.
"I never meant to hurt you," she whispers, her words softly honest. "I’m sorry that what I did, did just that." Jack was more of a man of actions than intentions or words, and perhaps one day she'd understand his point of view, but for now, it was all Flora could do to hang on to that one fact. She'd never intended this.
But she can’t promise the rest of what she knows he needs to hear to begin to smooth things over. Can’t offer that she’d never do it again, not when the world keeps demanding sacrifices and she keeps being someone willing to make them. Just like he’ll never promise not to wield that silver tongue of his like a blade, even when it cuts the wrong person. That there's too much blood for it to be anything but tarnished no matter how hard he tries.
They both knew it, and that was the worst part. That this hurt wasn’t dramatic or unforgivable or even loud when you got right down to it. It was the quiet cruelty of not seeing eye to eye. Of walking in different directions, still reaching. Without another word, she turns toward the Sugar Tide. Her vision is glassy, steps precise only because she refuses to falter here of all places. She finds Murph at the helm and clears her throat. "Slow us down a little," she murmurs, faking a smile. "I’ll untether and take her from here."
~FIN
