Fic: More Rum (PotC, Jack, Elizabeth)
Title: More Rum
Author: Pandaimonia
Fandom: PotC
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1450
For geek_mama_2 who requested "Jack/Elizabeth, laughter" way back when. I took my time, but it turned into a lot more than a drabble. ;) Here it is--vaguely shippy, and with potential promise of a sequel. We shall see. ;)
Summary: She should have remembered her promise to herself that she would never drink again. Jack comes to visit Elizabeth while Will is away. He brings rum.
She should have remembered her promise to herself that she would never drink again. Moreover, she should have remembered that she swore never to drink again in the presence of Jack Sparrow.
She was a respectable married woman now, or married at least--her reputation was never going to recover from marrying the town blacksmith. That was unforgivable among those in high society, as much as it was unthinkable for the townspeople that the governor's daughter should marry a man from their own ranks. Even now with her name tainted as it was, she shouldn't be carrying on with strange men, drinking and carousing with pirates at all hours of the night while her husband was away.
How surprised would they be if they knew her husband didn't mind? She thought of this as the other women shot her cross or suspicious, knowing looks at the market, and it brought a mischievous little smile to her lips that only made them scowl further. It was her little secret amidst their oh-so public disapproval.
Yes, Will did not mind that she had visits from an old friend of theirs. Jack was still a close friend, a friend that Will trusted. If it made him feel better that Jack was there to check on her while he was off, making the voyage between Port Royal and England on a merchant ship, Elizabeth had no reason to complain. There were certain things she did and did not do: she was quiet and discreet, she did not flaunt her "pirate friend" when he visited--Jack had even agreed to "lie low" and not attract the attention of the law, a promise she didn't entirely hold store in, though there had been no trouble with him yet on that account. Living in a town like this, she couldn't keep his visits hidden forever, but she could make it so that they would not be discussed out in the open.
Still, the rum had not been a good idea. She should have said no the moment he arrived at her door and showed her his booty from the rum runners he'd "intercepted." She should have been firm about it, but her protests had been half-hearted and Jack could tell that--he knew how to be persistent and wear her down, until they were here, sitting at her kitchen table, taking liberal swigs out of a bottle.
The bottle went back and forth and the night wore on until it was a second bottle and then a third and then Elizabeth couldn't remember when she had lost count. Clumsy now, she handed the bottle to Jack, her fingers brushing crookedly against his. Watching them travel back and forth, loose-fingered, blunt-nailed pirate's hands that curved around the bottle or curled against her own hand. She was so very drunk, and she put her head down on the table and began to sing "99 Bottles of Beer On the Wall" tunelessly, waiting for him to join in.
Instead, he got to his feet and began to perform a joints-loosened, alcohol sodden jig in the middle of her kitchen floor. Even though he was lurching side to side as he danced, he still seemed to move with a certain boneless grace, at least in her blurring version.
"Come and join me, love?" He extended a hand, and she took it. Elizabeth staggered to her feet and fell, laughing, against him. Jack slid his arms under hers, around her waist, and spun her round until the corners of her modest kitchen seemed to bend and swim together.
"Stop, stop!" she laughed, pushing at his shoulders, and they stumbled against the table. It should have been too uncomfortable to stay there like that, but somehow they managed. Standing there together, her body slanted against his, she became aware of how loud his breath seemed in her ear, how hot it was against her neck each time he exhaled. She could just slide her hands up, trail them along the undersides of his arms, over tattoos and scars, old bullet wounds and whole stories encapsulated there. She could bring her fingers up to the line of his jaw, close enough to the feel the rough texture of his beard, to shy around the corners of his lips and settle in the indentation below them.
He looked at her, something sad and knowing in his eyes that she couldn't reach. "Wouldn't work, love."
Elizabeth wasn't sure if this was a reminder or a question, so she only shook her head, shrugged it off like it didn't matter. Her hand dropped back down to her side, where it seemed awkward and out of place, and she didn't know what to do with it. It was hot in the room, and her dress felt too snug, as if it had shrunk against her skin or she had laced her bodice too tight that morning.
She pressed a hand to her lower back, pushing at some ache that didn't go away. "Sometimes it gets so hot here, I don't think I can breath."
"Welcome to the Caribbean, eh?" The roguish smile was back on his face, or at least a lighter version of it.
"I think I need more room--I mean, rum. I need more rum."
"Elizabeth," he began, but apparently he thought better of it.
She picked up a partially full bottle and tilted it back, letting the liquid run down and burn her throat and push away whatever unwelcome thoughts were lurking in the back of her mind. When the rum was gone, she simply wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and set the bottle back down on the table with a clunk.
"I think it's time to stop now, Elizabeth." He spoke quietly as he moved the other bottles, some empty, some half full, away from her. As he cleaned up, he kept watching her, his gaze not quite intrusive, but unsettling all the same.
She moved as if to help him, but instead she found herself picking up a china plate off the shelf and looking at it. Someone had given it to her as a wedding present; she was fond of neither the giver nor the gift. The plate was in her hands as she turned it over, thinking again how ugly the pattern was, and then as easy one as one-two-three she let go and watched it fall to the floor with a satisfying crash. So satisfying that she did it again, with the next plate from that set, watching as the china fragments collected at her feet. "Who was it who threw their plates over their shoulders like that? The Romans or was it the Greeks?" Jack rubbed a finger up and down the middle of his forehead and just frowned at her, but she laughed more. "What will my husband think?"
"I don't know, what will Will think?" Suddenly this seemed like the most hysterical thing she had ever heard, and her head dropped against his shoulder as she shook with helpless, overwhelming laughter.
"That's enough rum for you tonight, Lizzie-girl."
"I'm not, I mean, I'm…Mrs. Tuner. No, no, Mrs. Turner."
"That you are." He caught her firmly under the elbows as she tried to walk, and failed. "Shall I walk you upstairs for the night, Mrs. Turner?" he asked lightly.
"Upstairs?" What was this now? He confused her, Jack Sparrow, with his arms holding her at bay, and his eyes, kohl-rimmed, almost liquid in this light, seeming to ask an entirely different question. "That won't be necessary, thank you," she said with the utmost drunken politeness. "I can manage of--no, on, my own."
"I think you've had too much to get up the stairs on your own." And before she could finish gathering her protests, he swung her over his shoulder and carried her up the stairs.
In this way, a very drunk, vaguely delirious, and thoroughly disoriented Mrs. Turner was carried to bed by a pirate, tucked in (after being relieved of her dress and left in her shift, which probably wasn't entirely modest, but she didn't protest), and then left as he tottered his way back down the stairs. Elizabeth heard him settle down rather noisily in the kitchen, his whistling turning into snoring after a few minutes.
Sleep came less easily to her as she lay in bed, too aware of the empty space next to her. She counted the weeks until Will would be back, not sure if she hoped they would fly by or pass slowly. When she finally closed her eyes, she dreamed of open spaces, of ships far away coming back to dock, and of more rum.
Author: Pandaimonia
Fandom: PotC
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1450
For geek_mama_2 who requested "Jack/Elizabeth, laughter" way back when. I took my time, but it turned into a lot more than a drabble. ;) Here it is--vaguely shippy, and with potential promise of a sequel. We shall see. ;)
Summary: She should have remembered her promise to herself that she would never drink again. Jack comes to visit Elizabeth while Will is away. He brings rum.
She should have remembered her promise to herself that she would never drink again. Moreover, she should have remembered that she swore never to drink again in the presence of Jack Sparrow.
She was a respectable married woman now, or married at least--her reputation was never going to recover from marrying the town blacksmith. That was unforgivable among those in high society, as much as it was unthinkable for the townspeople that the governor's daughter should marry a man from their own ranks. Even now with her name tainted as it was, she shouldn't be carrying on with strange men, drinking and carousing with pirates at all hours of the night while her husband was away.
How surprised would they be if they knew her husband didn't mind? She thought of this as the other women shot her cross or suspicious, knowing looks at the market, and it brought a mischievous little smile to her lips that only made them scowl further. It was her little secret amidst their oh-so public disapproval.
Yes, Will did not mind that she had visits from an old friend of theirs. Jack was still a close friend, a friend that Will trusted. If it made him feel better that Jack was there to check on her while he was off, making the voyage between Port Royal and England on a merchant ship, Elizabeth had no reason to complain. There were certain things she did and did not do: she was quiet and discreet, she did not flaunt her "pirate friend" when he visited--Jack had even agreed to "lie low" and not attract the attention of the law, a promise she didn't entirely hold store in, though there had been no trouble with him yet on that account. Living in a town like this, she couldn't keep his visits hidden forever, but she could make it so that they would not be discussed out in the open.
Still, the rum had not been a good idea. She should have said no the moment he arrived at her door and showed her his booty from the rum runners he'd "intercepted." She should have been firm about it, but her protests had been half-hearted and Jack could tell that--he knew how to be persistent and wear her down, until they were here, sitting at her kitchen table, taking liberal swigs out of a bottle.
The bottle went back and forth and the night wore on until it was a second bottle and then a third and then Elizabeth couldn't remember when she had lost count. Clumsy now, she handed the bottle to Jack, her fingers brushing crookedly against his. Watching them travel back and forth, loose-fingered, blunt-nailed pirate's hands that curved around the bottle or curled against her own hand. She was so very drunk, and she put her head down on the table and began to sing "99 Bottles of Beer On the Wall" tunelessly, waiting for him to join in.
Instead, he got to his feet and began to perform a joints-loosened, alcohol sodden jig in the middle of her kitchen floor. Even though he was lurching side to side as he danced, he still seemed to move with a certain boneless grace, at least in her blurring version.
"Come and join me, love?" He extended a hand, and she took it. Elizabeth staggered to her feet and fell, laughing, against him. Jack slid his arms under hers, around her waist, and spun her round until the corners of her modest kitchen seemed to bend and swim together.
"Stop, stop!" she laughed, pushing at his shoulders, and they stumbled against the table. It should have been too uncomfortable to stay there like that, but somehow they managed. Standing there together, her body slanted against his, she became aware of how loud his breath seemed in her ear, how hot it was against her neck each time he exhaled. She could just slide her hands up, trail them along the undersides of his arms, over tattoos and scars, old bullet wounds and whole stories encapsulated there. She could bring her fingers up to the line of his jaw, close enough to the feel the rough texture of his beard, to shy around the corners of his lips and settle in the indentation below them.
He looked at her, something sad and knowing in his eyes that she couldn't reach. "Wouldn't work, love."
Elizabeth wasn't sure if this was a reminder or a question, so she only shook her head, shrugged it off like it didn't matter. Her hand dropped back down to her side, where it seemed awkward and out of place, and she didn't know what to do with it. It was hot in the room, and her dress felt too snug, as if it had shrunk against her skin or she had laced her bodice too tight that morning.
She pressed a hand to her lower back, pushing at some ache that didn't go away. "Sometimes it gets so hot here, I don't think I can breath."
"Welcome to the Caribbean, eh?" The roguish smile was back on his face, or at least a lighter version of it.
"I think I need more room--I mean, rum. I need more rum."
"Elizabeth," he began, but apparently he thought better of it.
She picked up a partially full bottle and tilted it back, letting the liquid run down and burn her throat and push away whatever unwelcome thoughts were lurking in the back of her mind. When the rum was gone, she simply wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and set the bottle back down on the table with a clunk.
"I think it's time to stop now, Elizabeth." He spoke quietly as he moved the other bottles, some empty, some half full, away from her. As he cleaned up, he kept watching her, his gaze not quite intrusive, but unsettling all the same.
She moved as if to help him, but instead she found herself picking up a china plate off the shelf and looking at it. Someone had given it to her as a wedding present; she was fond of neither the giver nor the gift. The plate was in her hands as she turned it over, thinking again how ugly the pattern was, and then as easy one as one-two-three she let go and watched it fall to the floor with a satisfying crash. So satisfying that she did it again, with the next plate from that set, watching as the china fragments collected at her feet. "Who was it who threw their plates over their shoulders like that? The Romans or was it the Greeks?" Jack rubbed a finger up and down the middle of his forehead and just frowned at her, but she laughed more. "What will my husband think?"
"I don't know, what will Will think?" Suddenly this seemed like the most hysterical thing she had ever heard, and her head dropped against his shoulder as she shook with helpless, overwhelming laughter.
"That's enough rum for you tonight, Lizzie-girl."
"I'm not, I mean, I'm…Mrs. Tuner. No, no, Mrs. Turner."
"That you are." He caught her firmly under the elbows as she tried to walk, and failed. "Shall I walk you upstairs for the night, Mrs. Turner?" he asked lightly.
"Upstairs?" What was this now? He confused her, Jack Sparrow, with his arms holding her at bay, and his eyes, kohl-rimmed, almost liquid in this light, seeming to ask an entirely different question. "That won't be necessary, thank you," she said with the utmost drunken politeness. "I can manage of--no, on, my own."
"I think you've had too much to get up the stairs on your own." And before she could finish gathering her protests, he swung her over his shoulder and carried her up the stairs.
In this way, a very drunk, vaguely delirious, and thoroughly disoriented Mrs. Turner was carried to bed by a pirate, tucked in (after being relieved of her dress and left in her shift, which probably wasn't entirely modest, but she didn't protest), and then left as he tottered his way back down the stairs. Elizabeth heard him settle down rather noisily in the kitchen, his whistling turning into snoring after a few minutes.
Sleep came less easily to her as she lay in bed, too aware of the empty space next to her. She counted the weeks until Will would be back, not sure if she hoped they would fly by or pass slowly. When she finally closed her eyes, she dreamed of open spaces, of ships far away coming back to dock, and of more rum.