After the incident with Zyphire, Mayra joins Jack in the cabin for the first time since the night they got the Pearl back. The Pearl has united them again, as not much else has, the expanse of the deck providing connection. But it does not replace what once was, what exists between other pairs. We has been traded for the freedom of I and you.
She approaches slowly, coming to sit some feet yet from Jack, waiting for him to acknowledge her presence. He won't, of course. He's too busy bandaging his arm.
But she can feel him.
"You shouldn't provoke them."
Jack tilts his head, just enough that she can see the corner of a curving pirate grin. It's an act, and even with everything between them, she does not understand why he chooses to pursue it with her. She will always know the difference.
"They no longer care," she says. A coldness creeps beneath her thick fur, shivering into her bones, but she presses on. "It would be wisest to ignore them."
"Does this look distinctly lacking in passion to you?" He pauses with the binding to hold up his arm to her, displaying the wound. An angry red gash slices down the inside of his forearm, from when he raised his arm to protect his face from Zyphire's talons. At least it isn't bleeding any longer.
She can still feel his fear from the attack, confusion and surprise, the panicked tremble of small prey animals, a mouse caught in a lion's trap. He had been caught unawares. It is unthinkable that a daemon should attack a human, and that such an attack should come in a time of calm seas and clear sky. For days, she has been aware of his hope, a restless, excited vibration eminating from him when he was near. It kept her awake. She ignored his habits with the ease of long-practice and disinterest as he cut pieces of fruit from his rations and seduced Zyphire into terse conversation across the deck. But she could sense him thinking, plotting. His attention, once focused on a point, is difficult to ignore.
Greater things should require his attention. The black spot mars her hide the same as it does his.
He trusts daemons in a way he doesn't trust humans. They are an honest reflection of a person, but that does not mean they are honest in and of themselves. Mayra spent years waiting for him to learn that daemons can be just as treacherous.
Now, his naivete only makes her tired. "It's not the same."
Jack finally looks at her, smile still firmly in place. "No?"
He doesn't trust her. She is the one daemon he has learned to be wary of.
"They no longer care," Mayra repeats. "If you persist, she will attack you again."
Another chill passes through her, the haunted wail of a northern gale, echoing unanswered. His sadness has always reminded her of England.
"Can't know that," Jack murmurs, stubborn. He cradles his arm against his chest, as another man might cradle their daemon, and then as if realising what he's done resumes bandaging it fixedly. "Hate's still something."
She has nothing to say to that. Only silence passes between them, and the sounds of the ship, unnatural a noise as can only be produced by two halves of the same whole no longer matching the other.
They have never felt the pull as others do, she has suspected. They never paid it much mind, until the pain started, and even then, there was still some instinct to resist it. When they were younger, she marked it a sign of their independence. It is something more than that now, she's realised, a closer kin to madness. Like this, their cracks are obvious; like a fine china cup shattered, too much chipped off in the process for the seams between pieces to align.
That night, she sleeps in the cabin rather than out on the open deck, moon and stars above her, as is her custom. It is only for one night. Jack takes the bunk, as is his, sleeping off a drunk that makes the deck rock as if they're passing through a storm. Mayra does not sleep in it with him, or even next to the bed. On the opposite side of the table, she stretches out along her side, but keeps her head up, at watch towards the doors.
In the bed, Jack sleeps with his arm tucked close to him, as though it is a prized piece of treasure he fears being stolen or a hard-found missing piece.
___
Word Count: 775
Characters: Jack, Mayra
Warnings: None
Notes: Set during DMC. Companion to this piece.
She approaches slowly, coming to sit some feet yet from Jack, waiting for him to acknowledge her presence. He won't, of course. He's too busy bandaging his arm.
But she can feel him.
"You shouldn't provoke them."
Jack tilts his head, just enough that she can see the corner of a curving pirate grin. It's an act, and even with everything between them, she does not understand why he chooses to pursue it with her. She will always know the difference.
"They no longer care," she says. A coldness creeps beneath her thick fur, shivering into her bones, but she presses on. "It would be wisest to ignore them."
"Does this look distinctly lacking in passion to you?" He pauses with the binding to hold up his arm to her, displaying the wound. An angry red gash slices down the inside of his forearm, from when he raised his arm to protect his face from Zyphire's talons. At least it isn't bleeding any longer.
She can still feel his fear from the attack, confusion and surprise, the panicked tremble of small prey animals, a mouse caught in a lion's trap. He had been caught unawares. It is unthinkable that a daemon should attack a human, and that such an attack should come in a time of calm seas and clear sky. For days, she has been aware of his hope, a restless, excited vibration eminating from him when he was near. It kept her awake. She ignored his habits with the ease of long-practice and disinterest as he cut pieces of fruit from his rations and seduced Zyphire into terse conversation across the deck. But she could sense him thinking, plotting. His attention, once focused on a point, is difficult to ignore.
Greater things should require his attention. The black spot mars her hide the same as it does his.
He trusts daemons in a way he doesn't trust humans. They are an honest reflection of a person, but that does not mean they are honest in and of themselves. Mayra spent years waiting for him to learn that daemons can be just as treacherous.
Now, his naivete only makes her tired. "It's not the same."
Jack finally looks at her, smile still firmly in place. "No?"
He doesn't trust her. She is the one daemon he has learned to be wary of.
"They no longer care," Mayra repeats. "If you persist, she will attack you again."
Another chill passes through her, the haunted wail of a northern gale, echoing unanswered. His sadness has always reminded her of England.
"Can't know that," Jack murmurs, stubborn. He cradles his arm against his chest, as another man might cradle their daemon, and then as if realising what he's done resumes bandaging it fixedly. "Hate's still something."
She has nothing to say to that. Only silence passes between them, and the sounds of the ship, unnatural a noise as can only be produced by two halves of the same whole no longer matching the other.
They have never felt the pull as others do, she has suspected. They never paid it much mind, until the pain started, and even then, there was still some instinct to resist it. When they were younger, she marked it a sign of their independence. It is something more than that now, she's realised, a closer kin to madness. Like this, their cracks are obvious; like a fine china cup shattered, too much chipped off in the process for the seams between pieces to align.
That night, she sleeps in the cabin rather than out on the open deck, moon and stars above her, as is her custom. It is only for one night. Jack takes the bunk, as is his, sleeping off a drunk that makes the deck rock as if they're passing through a storm. Mayra does not sleep in it with him, or even next to the bed. On the opposite side of the table, she stretches out along her side, but keeps her head up, at watch towards the doors.
In the bed, Jack sleeps with his arm tucked close to him, as though it is a prized piece of treasure he fears being stolen or a hard-found missing piece.
Word Count: 775
Characters: Jack, Mayra
Warnings: None
Notes: Set during DMC. Companion to this piece.
stirrings: 
discontent
discontentsavvy?