(no subject)
TITLE: 11 Years Later
PAIRING: Jack/Elizabeth, Will/Elizabeth
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: Chapter 9, at last. More plot, as promised, more dialogue and action than my usual prose-approach; more of what there'll be next chapter, as well, as I've decided to make this an actual story, with progression, and definite point. Um. I decided that Will had to be awake, now, so, ah, there's Will! Perhaps a bit of glimpse into their relationship at this point, and also, quite a happy ending for Jack and Lizzy. (Almost!) Next chapter will make inescapably clear the path I'm going down. Ah, also, the opening of this bit is dedicated to my Mom, and her cancer.
Previous parts are below:
I-III, IV-V, VI,VII, & VIII
IX
Once upon a time her Mother had loved a sailor, she'd confessed one night, her body overwhelmed by the ever-advancing disease inhabiting her body. The details were lost to the cruel passage of time; it was but a whisper of a memory, told in hushed tones, tucked carefully somewhere between "the end", and sleep. Once, her Mother had been a girl, who dreamt of sailing to Madagascar, or Sri Lanka; who dreamt of dancing shipboard. She'd be a look-out, she said, if only for the view.
Once, her Mother dreamt of things, not so disimiliar from her daughter. She loved a man called Henry, without even two shillings to his name, and nothing but a dinghy by which to realize his much talked about endeavors. They spoke of best laid plans, and escape; she said, "Love can be weight, or wings, Lilibet." She loved a man called Weatherby, who had more shillings than could be counted, a kind, safe-making smile, and only the noblest of intentions, in a world that had proven chaotic, at best, "But, some people are better suited for wings."
Once, her Mother told her, near death, lackluster skin stretched tight against bone, "I love your Father, and still," for perhaps some cathartic reason that no child could ever properly understand; it was the only conversation she'd have with her adult daughter, postponed to that moment of realization two decades later, "still."
*
They creep soundlessly through the door, Jack's coat draped loosely around her shoulders, and she allows him inside with a pronounced look of caution shot in the direction of the bedrooms, before using a well-placed clap of thunder to hide the sound of the door closing. Motioning for him to sit, she nods again in the direction the other room, raises a single finger to indicate that he should wait a moment, and disappears; leaving him to cast anxious glances around the room, and at the puddle of rain water forming around his flooded boots. It only takes a minute or so before there's the click of a door closing, and she reenters, throwing a pair of breeches at him before he can speak, or dodge, causing his hands to rise instinctually, fingers dancing, frenzied, and random, in some strange rhythm she had yet to figure out.
"Oi, what in th---"
She pushes the air down with her hand, implying that he should do the same with his volume, her voice teaching by example, "They belong to Will, you'll catch cold." He only then realizes that she's changed as well, presumably also wearing her husband's clothes: faded brown breeches, and a shirt that was far too open to have been accidental; her hair is piled high atop her head, now, held loosely in place by hurried hair pins. With a wicked smirk, he shrugs, and removes his soaked shirt, scars and stories exactly where she'd left them. There is a moment, during which she makes stiff attempts to avert her eyes, or at least, to keep him from noticing.
The smirk grows, taunting her, "Think you could give a man a bit of privacy, then, darling? M'hopelessly shy, is all."
Elizabeth wavers between playing his game, or abandoning it all together, for the sake of earlier beach side kisses, and the supposed death of pretense. Part of her realizes sadly that they've slipped into a series of nervous glances, in the moments after their reunion, neither of them certain as to boundaries, and intents. He examines her, with quick-witted scrutiny, and an uncomfortable knowledge that causes her to flush slightly, and hurry from the room with nothing but an abrupt nod.
Narrowed eyes follow her shadow out, again, and he offers a troubled sigh to the space she'd been occupying. "Right," he mumbles to no one in particular, "must've gone mad, then."
From the safety of the kitchen she notices that the rain had stopped, the noise it'd created reduced to isolated drips tucked somewhere behind the faint sound of Jack's endeavor. She imagined him, attempting to dress himself one leg, hopping about bumping into things. Were it not for the sudden opening of the bedroom door, she might have smiled, but instead, she leapt to action, and rushed toward the noise. Too late she arrived, nearly bumping into a yawning Will, who stood in the hallway rubbing his eyes sleepily. Once his vision adjusted, he gave a lazy smile, and regarded her with question.
"It's late, Elizabeth, what're you doing?"
"Nothing, I," she had blocked him, trapping him in the doorway, obscuring everything behind her, "I was making some tea, and," panic closed around her throat, and she searched for words, something believable, not involving pirates in the sitting room; she prayed Jack would keep silent, but grimly accepted that the odds were not stacked in her favor, "well, tea, of course, and--- and, you should go to bed, darling, go back to sleep, you've got to be up in the morning, in just a few hours."
It was not that she feared a duel breaking out in the house, Jack and Will were on terms as good as could be expected, perhaps even better than, and, and he was aware of visits, generally. But, given the hour, and present circumstances, the idea of potentially awkward interaction did not appeal to her, at all. His eyes move down, only just examining the clothes she wore, and then jerked to the left, toward a sudden crash from the next room.
"What was that?"
She starts to say, "nothing", but before the word leaves her mouth, he has pushed past her, and she arrives behind him, in time to see Jack shoot up from presumably falling, or knocking into something, and without so much as a glance in the direction of either them, assuming, apparently, that the presence is Elizabeth, alone.
"You did not see that." He says, straightening the various things on his person that needed straightening.
"No, but I did hear it."
The pirate freezes, and before he begins to turn, the most innocent smile he can muster has already spread across his face; the former-Captain, always-blacksmith looks bemused, arms crossed loosely across his chest, "Hello, Jack."
"William! Old, friend, mate, chum---" For a split second he catches Elizabeth's eye, and she makes a face that says he brought it upon himself by being perpetually drunk, and occasionally clumsy, he shifts, and readjusts his face, turning matter-of-fact, "----I'll bet you're wondering what I'm doing here, aye?"
"Oh no," Will said, his voice calm, "I'm sure you've got reason enough. After all, perhaps you're visiting family; your father, maybe?" He does not look at his wife, and she takes the initiative to explain away her earlier half-truth.
"I didn't want to worry you, or wake you, I'm sorry if we've been too loud, he was really quite unexpected--"
"Of course," he returns Jack's smile, with a light, careless shrug, "what sort of pirate announces himself?"
"---A-and, we were rained on, earlier." She tugs on the shirt she's wearing, suggesting that the statement was it's explanation.
The tension in the air is tangible, and she feels it choke the night's potential, until all that's left are pleading looks over shoulders, and a longer, more evasive explanation she composes in her head, even as they're speaking. Will wraps a possessive arm around her, and she is the only one that catches the split-second reaction that skips over Jack's face; something falls, for a moment, and recollects itself, all at once. Without thinking, by sheer force of habit, she returns the gesture, and nuzzles her husband softly, briefly, recalling the afternoon they'd had; a rare moment of reprieve, in which his cloud lifted, and he'd remembered himself as she'd loved him. This most recent context made her feelings for Jack all the more difficult, as was always the case on the off occasion that she and Will were not arguing. In those moments, she could scarcely recall sand, or dingy red cloth wrapped about a nest of fairy-locks. In those moments she was happily married, with a beautiful son, and a little house by the sea.
Moments, in the face of eternity, the dark, nervous eyes reminded her, that were certainly not long enough.
Moments that, even still, did not erase Jack Sparrow completely.
"Quite right," Jack mutters absently, very obviously (or perhaps, only obvious to some) attempting to avoid taking in the sickening scene of marital bliss. He raises his voice a bit, now speaking in a full, normal tone, "can't have folks knowing what we're up to, of course; never know with our lot, raping, and kidnapping and the like, s'best if you have the element of surprise."
There's a beat, in which Elizabeth untangles herself from Will's side, who asks, "Are you planning on staying long, then?"
"Hadn't given it much thought, really."
"Right," he nods, as though having just come to some decision, "well, don't wake little Jack, he's got all the nonsense he can use floating in his head, already," He turns his attention back to Elizabeth, placing a half-hearted kiss on her forehead, "--going back to sleep," he turns, presumably to leave, but almost trips over a pair of shoes she'd left lying on the floor, "--- Lizabeth, if we're going to have guests, could you at least pick up; considering the amount of free time you've got to waste, it would be prudent to, to, utilize it."
His tone was cool and even, with only the slightest hint of expectation, followed closely by an even smaller hint of anger. He spoke as though to a stranger, to someone with whom concerted effort was required to maintain civility. He kicks the shoes out of his way, and shakes his head. The lack of warning, the shift without sign, or understandable symptom, never ceases to amaze her; the ease with which they slip back to bickering is sometimes frightening.
"That's alright, mate, don't worry yourself on my account," Jack is grasping at straws, shifting awkwardly in the presence of the building argument, but, bless him, he was trying, "as you've already pointed out, I didn't announce myself. Pirate." The final word is punctuated with a little wave of his hand, and a sheepish ghost of a grin. His gaze darts from Will, to Elizabeth, Will, and back to Elizabeth, who's fist is clenching, and un-clenching itself, working in perfect time with her jaw.
"It's a pair of shoes, Will, and this hardly the time--"
"Because Jack's delicate sensibilities will be offended?" He shot a glare in the direction of the pirate in question, who still wore the same grin, who's eyes widened as though he did not want to be involved, at all.
No, she thinks, because I'll be damned rather than let you spoil my moment's solace, she collects her expression, tying to appear as though she was not about to start screaming, or crying, or a rather powerful combination of both that would only convince Will she was attempting to make him feel guilty, and thus, anger him further.
"Or is because you can't find the time, too much daydreaming to squeeze in to a measly twenty four hour period?"
"I've got---"
"More time than I could ever dream of."
"And who's choice is that? Who imagined himself too good to live by luck, too noble to depend on the holds at the fortress? Who's choice was it to work for the merchants, and wash their decks, and fix their guns, who's? Not mine! I'd have you here, with your wife, and your son, and not, not sleeping to do it all over again, and taking your misery out on me, because I refuse to share it."
"I chose nothing! We cannot survive off holds that are nearly bare, at a fortress that has nearly fallen twice over, because you cannot fight the world, Elizabeth, you can only outrun it, til you've no place left to run, and then, it kills you. Your inability to grasp that concept is paid for by me! I thought your Father's money could have afforded you more sense than to go chasing after fairy tales, and, and, pirates. You are a grown woman, act like it, for God's sake, so that I don't have to bear it alone."
"You chose it."
"I choose life!"
"You choose existence, William, you choose survival, and I will not come with you."
Her voice falls, her last statement near inaudible, because it was nothing that had not been said before. These were the real issues at hand, the powder keg ignited over stray shoes, and unwashed dishes. Courage had found her this time, though, in the form of the silent man standing nervously in the corner, she'd nearly forgotten he was there, except by his silent influence. Still, there are tears brimming in her eyes when Will turns to leave, finally, breathing, resigned, irritated.
"Fine. Fine," he nods, shortly, to himself, "do what ever it is you're going to do, you, you---" another sigh, hitched, and outraged, and when he starts to speak again, Jack clears his throat, pointedly, and finally intervenes, his tone slow, and apprehensive.
"I think you've said enough, son. Leave her be."
"Oh, mind your own---"
"I said, leave her be."
"If you've got something to say,"
"Just said it, mate." He is bolder now, meeting her eyes from across the room with a look that is meant to be calming, and does not back down when Will takes a step toward him. She holds her breath for a moment, suddenly acutely aware of the heat, and then he is gone, back to the bedroom, slamming the door so loudly that they both jump; slamming the door so loudly that something in her breaks.
"Take me with you." It shoots from her mouth before she had even properly formed the thought, fists still clenched, and furious tears streaming down her cheek. She does not look at him, only in the direction of the closed door, and back the floor. She pushes the wet from her face with a disgusted hand, hating herself all the way for such a womanly display of emotion, for allowing him to see her this way, "Jack, for Chrissake, say something before I lose the nerve."
He is silent, regarding her with an emotion she cannot pinpoint, a look that she's never seen before resting on his face. He is silent, as he moves toward her, whittling away at her facade with every cautious step; as he places an unsteady hand to her cheek, and pushes a tear away with the pad of his thumb.
"Thought you'd never ask, luv."
PAIRING: Jack/Elizabeth, Will/Elizabeth
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: Chapter 9, at last. More plot, as promised, more dialogue and action than my usual prose-approach; more of what there'll be next chapter, as well, as I've decided to make this an actual story, with progression, and definite point. Um. I decided that Will had to be awake, now, so, ah, there's Will! Perhaps a bit of glimpse into their relationship at this point, and also, quite a happy ending for Jack and Lizzy. (Almost!) Next chapter will make inescapably clear the path I'm going down. Ah, also, the opening of this bit is dedicated to my Mom, and her cancer.
Previous parts are below:
I-III, IV-V, VI,VII, & VIII
IX
Once upon a time her Mother had loved a sailor, she'd confessed one night, her body overwhelmed by the ever-advancing disease inhabiting her body. The details were lost to the cruel passage of time; it was but a whisper of a memory, told in hushed tones, tucked carefully somewhere between "the end", and sleep. Once, her Mother had been a girl, who dreamt of sailing to Madagascar, or Sri Lanka; who dreamt of dancing shipboard. She'd be a look-out, she said, if only for the view.
Once, her Mother dreamt of things, not so disimiliar from her daughter. She loved a man called Henry, without even two shillings to his name, and nothing but a dinghy by which to realize his much talked about endeavors. They spoke of best laid plans, and escape; she said, "Love can be weight, or wings, Lilibet." She loved a man called Weatherby, who had more shillings than could be counted, a kind, safe-making smile, and only the noblest of intentions, in a world that had proven chaotic, at best, "But, some people are better suited for wings."
Once, her Mother told her, near death, lackluster skin stretched tight against bone, "I love your Father, and still," for perhaps some cathartic reason that no child could ever properly understand; it was the only conversation she'd have with her adult daughter, postponed to that moment of realization two decades later, "still."
*
They creep soundlessly through the door, Jack's coat draped loosely around her shoulders, and she allows him inside with a pronounced look of caution shot in the direction of the bedrooms, before using a well-placed clap of thunder to hide the sound of the door closing. Motioning for him to sit, she nods again in the direction the other room, raises a single finger to indicate that he should wait a moment, and disappears; leaving him to cast anxious glances around the room, and at the puddle of rain water forming around his flooded boots. It only takes a minute or so before there's the click of a door closing, and she reenters, throwing a pair of breeches at him before he can speak, or dodge, causing his hands to rise instinctually, fingers dancing, frenzied, and random, in some strange rhythm she had yet to figure out.
"Oi, what in th---"
She pushes the air down with her hand, implying that he should do the same with his volume, her voice teaching by example, "They belong to Will, you'll catch cold." He only then realizes that she's changed as well, presumably also wearing her husband's clothes: faded brown breeches, and a shirt that was far too open to have been accidental; her hair is piled high atop her head, now, held loosely in place by hurried hair pins. With a wicked smirk, he shrugs, and removes his soaked shirt, scars and stories exactly where she'd left them. There is a moment, during which she makes stiff attempts to avert her eyes, or at least, to keep him from noticing.
The smirk grows, taunting her, "Think you could give a man a bit of privacy, then, darling? M'hopelessly shy, is all."
Elizabeth wavers between playing his game, or abandoning it all together, for the sake of earlier beach side kisses, and the supposed death of pretense. Part of her realizes sadly that they've slipped into a series of nervous glances, in the moments after their reunion, neither of them certain as to boundaries, and intents. He examines her, with quick-witted scrutiny, and an uncomfortable knowledge that causes her to flush slightly, and hurry from the room with nothing but an abrupt nod.
Narrowed eyes follow her shadow out, again, and he offers a troubled sigh to the space she'd been occupying. "Right," he mumbles to no one in particular, "must've gone mad, then."
From the safety of the kitchen she notices that the rain had stopped, the noise it'd created reduced to isolated drips tucked somewhere behind the faint sound of Jack's endeavor. She imagined him, attempting to dress himself one leg, hopping about bumping into things. Were it not for the sudden opening of the bedroom door, she might have smiled, but instead, she leapt to action, and rushed toward the noise. Too late she arrived, nearly bumping into a yawning Will, who stood in the hallway rubbing his eyes sleepily. Once his vision adjusted, he gave a lazy smile, and regarded her with question.
"It's late, Elizabeth, what're you doing?"
"Nothing, I," she had blocked him, trapping him in the doorway, obscuring everything behind her, "I was making some tea, and," panic closed around her throat, and she searched for words, something believable, not involving pirates in the sitting room; she prayed Jack would keep silent, but grimly accepted that the odds were not stacked in her favor, "well, tea, of course, and--- and, you should go to bed, darling, go back to sleep, you've got to be up in the morning, in just a few hours."
It was not that she feared a duel breaking out in the house, Jack and Will were on terms as good as could be expected, perhaps even better than, and, and he was aware of visits, generally. But, given the hour, and present circumstances, the idea of potentially awkward interaction did not appeal to her, at all. His eyes move down, only just examining the clothes she wore, and then jerked to the left, toward a sudden crash from the next room.
"What was that?"
She starts to say, "nothing", but before the word leaves her mouth, he has pushed past her, and she arrives behind him, in time to see Jack shoot up from presumably falling, or knocking into something, and without so much as a glance in the direction of either them, assuming, apparently, that the presence is Elizabeth, alone.
"You did not see that." He says, straightening the various things on his person that needed straightening.
"No, but I did hear it."
The pirate freezes, and before he begins to turn, the most innocent smile he can muster has already spread across his face; the former-Captain, always-blacksmith looks bemused, arms crossed loosely across his chest, "Hello, Jack."
"William! Old, friend, mate, chum---" For a split second he catches Elizabeth's eye, and she makes a face that says he brought it upon himself by being perpetually drunk, and occasionally clumsy, he shifts, and readjusts his face, turning matter-of-fact, "----I'll bet you're wondering what I'm doing here, aye?"
"Oh no," Will said, his voice calm, "I'm sure you've got reason enough. After all, perhaps you're visiting family; your father, maybe?" He does not look at his wife, and she takes the initiative to explain away her earlier half-truth.
"I didn't want to worry you, or wake you, I'm sorry if we've been too loud, he was really quite unexpected--"
"Of course," he returns Jack's smile, with a light, careless shrug, "what sort of pirate announces himself?"
"---A-and, we were rained on, earlier." She tugs on the shirt she's wearing, suggesting that the statement was it's explanation.
The tension in the air is tangible, and she feels it choke the night's potential, until all that's left are pleading looks over shoulders, and a longer, more evasive explanation she composes in her head, even as they're speaking. Will wraps a possessive arm around her, and she is the only one that catches the split-second reaction that skips over Jack's face; something falls, for a moment, and recollects itself, all at once. Without thinking, by sheer force of habit, she returns the gesture, and nuzzles her husband softly, briefly, recalling the afternoon they'd had; a rare moment of reprieve, in which his cloud lifted, and he'd remembered himself as she'd loved him. This most recent context made her feelings for Jack all the more difficult, as was always the case on the off occasion that she and Will were not arguing. In those moments, she could scarcely recall sand, or dingy red cloth wrapped about a nest of fairy-locks. In those moments she was happily married, with a beautiful son, and a little house by the sea.
Moments, in the face of eternity, the dark, nervous eyes reminded her, that were certainly not long enough.
Moments that, even still, did not erase Jack Sparrow completely.
"Quite right," Jack mutters absently, very obviously (or perhaps, only obvious to some) attempting to avoid taking in the sickening scene of marital bliss. He raises his voice a bit, now speaking in a full, normal tone, "can't have folks knowing what we're up to, of course; never know with our lot, raping, and kidnapping and the like, s'best if you have the element of surprise."
There's a beat, in which Elizabeth untangles herself from Will's side, who asks, "Are you planning on staying long, then?"
"Hadn't given it much thought, really."
"Right," he nods, as though having just come to some decision, "well, don't wake little Jack, he's got all the nonsense he can use floating in his head, already," He turns his attention back to Elizabeth, placing a half-hearted kiss on her forehead, "--going back to sleep," he turns, presumably to leave, but almost trips over a pair of shoes she'd left lying on the floor, "--- Lizabeth, if we're going to have guests, could you at least pick up; considering the amount of free time you've got to waste, it would be prudent to, to, utilize it."
His tone was cool and even, with only the slightest hint of expectation, followed closely by an even smaller hint of anger. He spoke as though to a stranger, to someone with whom concerted effort was required to maintain civility. He kicks the shoes out of his way, and shakes his head. The lack of warning, the shift without sign, or understandable symptom, never ceases to amaze her; the ease with which they slip back to bickering is sometimes frightening.
"That's alright, mate, don't worry yourself on my account," Jack is grasping at straws, shifting awkwardly in the presence of the building argument, but, bless him, he was trying, "as you've already pointed out, I didn't announce myself. Pirate." The final word is punctuated with a little wave of his hand, and a sheepish ghost of a grin. His gaze darts from Will, to Elizabeth, Will, and back to Elizabeth, who's fist is clenching, and un-clenching itself, working in perfect time with her jaw.
"It's a pair of shoes, Will, and this hardly the time--"
"Because Jack's delicate sensibilities will be offended?" He shot a glare in the direction of the pirate in question, who still wore the same grin, who's eyes widened as though he did not want to be involved, at all.
No, she thinks, because I'll be damned rather than let you spoil my moment's solace, she collects her expression, tying to appear as though she was not about to start screaming, or crying, or a rather powerful combination of both that would only convince Will she was attempting to make him feel guilty, and thus, anger him further.
"Or is because you can't find the time, too much daydreaming to squeeze in to a measly twenty four hour period?"
"I've got---"
"More time than I could ever dream of."
"And who's choice is that? Who imagined himself too good to live by luck, too noble to depend on the holds at the fortress? Who's choice was it to work for the merchants, and wash their decks, and fix their guns, who's? Not mine! I'd have you here, with your wife, and your son, and not, not sleeping to do it all over again, and taking your misery out on me, because I refuse to share it."
"I chose nothing! We cannot survive off holds that are nearly bare, at a fortress that has nearly fallen twice over, because you cannot fight the world, Elizabeth, you can only outrun it, til you've no place left to run, and then, it kills you. Your inability to grasp that concept is paid for by me! I thought your Father's money could have afforded you more sense than to go chasing after fairy tales, and, and, pirates. You are a grown woman, act like it, for God's sake, so that I don't have to bear it alone."
"You chose it."
"I choose life!"
"You choose existence, William, you choose survival, and I will not come with you."
Her voice falls, her last statement near inaudible, because it was nothing that had not been said before. These were the real issues at hand, the powder keg ignited over stray shoes, and unwashed dishes. Courage had found her this time, though, in the form of the silent man standing nervously in the corner, she'd nearly forgotten he was there, except by his silent influence. Still, there are tears brimming in her eyes when Will turns to leave, finally, breathing, resigned, irritated.
"Fine. Fine," he nods, shortly, to himself, "do what ever it is you're going to do, you, you---" another sigh, hitched, and outraged, and when he starts to speak again, Jack clears his throat, pointedly, and finally intervenes, his tone slow, and apprehensive.
"I think you've said enough, son. Leave her be."
"Oh, mind your own---"
"I said, leave her be."
"If you've got something to say,"
"Just said it, mate." He is bolder now, meeting her eyes from across the room with a look that is meant to be calming, and does not back down when Will takes a step toward him. She holds her breath for a moment, suddenly acutely aware of the heat, and then he is gone, back to the bedroom, slamming the door so loudly that they both jump; slamming the door so loudly that something in her breaks.
"Take me with you." It shoots from her mouth before she had even properly formed the thought, fists still clenched, and furious tears streaming down her cheek. She does not look at him, only in the direction of the closed door, and back the floor. She pushes the wet from her face with a disgusted hand, hating herself all the way for such a womanly display of emotion, for allowing him to see her this way, "Jack, for Chrissake, say something before I lose the nerve."
He is silent, regarding her with an emotion she cannot pinpoint, a look that she's never seen before resting on his face. He is silent, as he moves toward her, whittling away at her facade with every cautious step; as he places an unsteady hand to her cheek, and pushes a tear away with the pad of his thumb.
"Thought you'd never ask, luv."