Happy holidays, geekmama! -- The Ghosts of Christmases Past [PotC]
Title: The Ghosts of Christmases Past
Author: savepureness
Recipient: geekmama, with my compliments!
Fandom: PotC
Characters or Pairing: Jack, Elizabeth, Jack/Elizabeth, implied Will/Elizabeth
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: none
Summary: “The first Christmas comes and goes…”
Notes: Post-third movie.
{one}
The first Christmas comes and goes, but they’re all busy building. The costs are unexpectedly high; they can’t pillage without a ship; it’s a vicious circle they’re caught within. Jack curses. Elizabeth sulks - she’s not used to it yet, to all that it means. Their men are few, and often hungry, and most often, thirsty.
“Y’know, sweet pea, there’s always the good old story of the girl going downtown and earning the money we all need -“
“You’re such a gentleman, Jack. I don’t even know; where have you learned your manners?”
“There’s nothing wrong with it.”
“I’m a married woman.”
Elizabeth sticks her hand under Jack’s nose, waving it intently. She only gets a scowl, maybe a frown. He’s skeptical. Their mismatched phantom of a crew is, too.
“You’re also rich, Lizzie, darling. You have piles and piles of gold, I reckon. Why don’t you -“
That, she dismisses without words.
{two}
The ring she wears is not made of gold; it’s not silver, nor metal, not even boiled leather. It’s a thick lock of dark hair. Elizabeth’s fingers can still remember the way they used to tangle in those rich curls. It felt safe. It doesn’t feel safe anymore, when he’s away, doing Davy Jones’ cursed work, and she can only see him once a year - not for Christmas, so she forgets when it is.
So the second Christmas finds Jack and Lizzie still working, still building, though the ship already looks more like a ship, and less like a battered wreck.
“No black sails”, mutters Jack, and gets a nod.
Elizabeth’s complexion is weather-worn; not even tanned, but worn off by winds and burned by merciless sun. She takes on wearing scarves wound around her head, so that her hair doesn’t lose its colour, too. She still sweats - this is far from the Christmases she knew as a child - those were wintery, snowy, and there was Will.
On the 25th of December she cuts her hair.
{three}
“’tis the season to be jolly, toora-loora-loo!”
“You mixed up the songs.”
Yet, she’s smiling. Jack is almost surprised.
The ship is a ship. A real ship. It has tall masts, and huge sails, and they bound them correctly - it’s a piece of art and craft. The sails are white, though when the wind blows mightily they turn an odd light blue; they’re made of old washerwomen’s dresses Elizabeth had bargained for. They kept washing and washing and washing them, till their hands were raw, but one can still spot a hint of what they used to be if they look carefully.
“I’ll buy you a beer”, winks Jack - “downtown.”
“It must be Christmas.”
Jack steps back, tilts his head and looks at her, worried. “’tis the heat, precious?”
Elizabeth pokes out her tongue. She knows that Jack knows what it is; for all she can expect, though, he’ll go on and on, blaming her for having found his secret stash of rum.
“Can we celebrate, Jack?”
{four}
She’ll never tell Will.
Jack smells like rum, and his mouth is warm; and he’s there. But when she closes her eyes and leaves herself go, her limbs turning to liquid in his embrace, she is haunted by ghosts of Christmases past; there’s always a boy and a girl eating roasted chestnuts, hidden under a blanket by the fire.
Author: savepureness
Recipient: geekmama, with my compliments!
Fandom: PotC
Characters or Pairing: Jack, Elizabeth, Jack/Elizabeth, implied Will/Elizabeth
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: none
Summary: “The first Christmas comes and goes…”
Notes: Post-third movie.
{one}
The first Christmas comes and goes, but they’re all busy building. The costs are unexpectedly high; they can’t pillage without a ship; it’s a vicious circle they’re caught within. Jack curses. Elizabeth sulks - she’s not used to it yet, to all that it means. Their men are few, and often hungry, and most often, thirsty.
“Y’know, sweet pea, there’s always the good old story of the girl going downtown and earning the money we all need -“
“You’re such a gentleman, Jack. I don’t even know; where have you learned your manners?”
“There’s nothing wrong with it.”
“I’m a married woman.”
Elizabeth sticks her hand under Jack’s nose, waving it intently. She only gets a scowl, maybe a frown. He’s skeptical. Their mismatched phantom of a crew is, too.
“You’re also rich, Lizzie, darling. You have piles and piles of gold, I reckon. Why don’t you -“
That, she dismisses without words.
{two}
The ring she wears is not made of gold; it’s not silver, nor metal, not even boiled leather. It’s a thick lock of dark hair. Elizabeth’s fingers can still remember the way they used to tangle in those rich curls. It felt safe. It doesn’t feel safe anymore, when he’s away, doing Davy Jones’ cursed work, and she can only see him once a year - not for Christmas, so she forgets when it is.
So the second Christmas finds Jack and Lizzie still working, still building, though the ship already looks more like a ship, and less like a battered wreck.
“No black sails”, mutters Jack, and gets a nod.
Elizabeth’s complexion is weather-worn; not even tanned, but worn off by winds and burned by merciless sun. She takes on wearing scarves wound around her head, so that her hair doesn’t lose its colour, too. She still sweats - this is far from the Christmases she knew as a child - those were wintery, snowy, and there was Will.
On the 25th of December she cuts her hair.
{three}
“’tis the season to be jolly, toora-loora-loo!”
“You mixed up the songs.”
Yet, she’s smiling. Jack is almost surprised.
The ship is a ship. A real ship. It has tall masts, and huge sails, and they bound them correctly - it’s a piece of art and craft. The sails are white, though when the wind blows mightily they turn an odd light blue; they’re made of old washerwomen’s dresses Elizabeth had bargained for. They kept washing and washing and washing them, till their hands were raw, but one can still spot a hint of what they used to be if they look carefully.
“I’ll buy you a beer”, winks Jack - “downtown.”
“It must be Christmas.”
Jack steps back, tilts his head and looks at her, worried. “’tis the heat, precious?”
Elizabeth pokes out her tongue. She knows that Jack knows what it is; for all she can expect, though, he’ll go on and on, blaming her for having found his secret stash of rum.
“Can we celebrate, Jack?”
{four}
She’ll never tell Will.
Jack smells like rum, and his mouth is warm; and he’s there. But when she closes her eyes and leaves herself go, her limbs turning to liquid in his embrace, she is haunted by ghosts of Christmases past; there’s always a boy and a girl eating roasted chestnuts, hidden under a blanket by the fire.