double drabble: salve. maturin/pullings
title: salve
pairing: maturin/pullings
author: jacito
archive: .: marginalia :.
notes: crossposted by request. written as a birthday fic for my dear kiltsandlollies
When Tom smiled, his eyes were bright, sparkling like Jack's. When he laughed, they disappeared almost completely, crinkling, his whole face alight. But when they went black and piercing, that was when Stephen had to step back, loosen the cloth around his neck, and remind himself that it was merely the dilation of the pupils at work.
That was all. Not desire. Certainly not promise.
He watched Tom mature in the service, climbing the ranks on merit and sheer determination, fighting circumstances with patience. He matured in other ways as well, strength of both body and character, a strength not daunted by trauma, wound and fever at the tip of a Turkish cutlass. Stephen sewed the slash across Tom's face with more than his usual care, sat by night after night as Tom shivered and burned, brushed the damp hair from Tom's face, and watched until the fever broke.
Daily, Stephen traced the angry wound with ointment, Tom's breath warm on his wrist. He feigned stoicism the evening when Tom reckoned he could dress it himself now and save the Doctor the bother.
Four hundred drops, and Stephen dreamed not of the sea nor of dark lashes and laughing eyes.
pairing: maturin/pullings
author: jacito
archive: .: marginalia :.
notes: crossposted by request. written as a birthday fic for my dear kiltsandlollies
When Tom smiled, his eyes were bright, sparkling like Jack's. When he laughed, they disappeared almost completely, crinkling, his whole face alight. But when they went black and piercing, that was when Stephen had to step back, loosen the cloth around his neck, and remind himself that it was merely the dilation of the pupils at work.
That was all. Not desire. Certainly not promise.
He watched Tom mature in the service, climbing the ranks on merit and sheer determination, fighting circumstances with patience. He matured in other ways as well, strength of both body and character, a strength not daunted by trauma, wound and fever at the tip of a Turkish cutlass. Stephen sewed the slash across Tom's face with more than his usual care, sat by night after night as Tom shivered and burned, brushed the damp hair from Tom's face, and watched until the fever broke.
Daily, Stephen traced the angry wound with ointment, Tom's breath warm on his wrist. He feigned stoicism the evening when Tom reckoned he could dress it himself now and save the Doctor the bother.
Four hundred drops, and Stephen dreamed not of the sea nor of dark lashes and laughing eyes.