"More," she repeats, her gaze on him like a knife to the throat as she considers him. The answer. It's not that far off from treasure and adventuring, by her mark.
But isn't that what Jack had wanted? More specificity, maybe--he'd wanted fame, glory, and enough money that he could pay a whore to play the cello while he shat--but not far off. He'd wanted more than what he'd started with. It's why she's still got his Roger ready to fly, rather than coming up with her own; of the two of them, only one of them had given a fuck about the immortality of a name, and it's not the one who's still alive.
And the way Solo talks isn't the pointed eloquence of Jack, nor the hanging on every word of Read--he's quiet, serious, cautious about giving away too much. Anne's always had a soft spot for people she sees something of herself in, even if she doesn't quite recognize it. She capitulates physically before she says a word, the tension of decision subsiding. "Make me regret it, and you'll regret it."
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Date: 2020-07-18 10:43 pm (UTC)But isn't that what Jack had wanted? More specificity, maybe--he'd wanted fame, glory, and enough money that he could pay a whore to play the cello while he shat--but not far off. He'd wanted more than what he'd started with. It's why she's still got his Roger ready to fly, rather than coming up with her own; of the two of them, only one of them had given a fuck about the immortality of a name, and it's not the one who's still alive.
And the way Solo talks isn't the pointed eloquence of Jack, nor the hanging on every word of Read--he's quiet, serious, cautious about giving away too much. Anne's always had a soft spot for people she sees something of herself in, even if she doesn't quite recognize it. She capitulates physically before she says a word, the tension of decision subsiding. "Make me regret it, and you'll regret it."