Secret Santa Fic: "Bacchanate"
Wheeee!! Lots of piratey goodness today -- they showed a teaser of AWE on the Disney Channel last night, and there are screencaps and a YouTube video of it to squee over. And iconage!!
Also MUST rec a fic by a writer new to the fandom. writing_samsara has written a wonderful J/E scene that is full of my favorite things -- beautiful description, Jack backstory, action and its aftermath, etc. Spine is the first of ten prompts the author is using, and I can't wait for more.
And finally, I've written a Secret Santa story for cymbeline, with much appreciated beta help from choose2live and the ever-patient hereswith. cymbeline requested "anything", so I've taken her at her word and written J/E using a prompt from my h/c table...
~ Bacchanate ~
Elizabeth wasn’t much for drink. She was good at pretending she was, as when they were marooned together on that Godforsaken Spit of Land, though where she’d come by such skills was quite beyond his ken.
Devious wench.
It was, of course, just possible on that occasion that her virginal youth and beauty had been enough to cloud his vision, cause him to forget she’d had it in for him from their first meeting on the dock at Port Royal: startled appreciation of his efforts transmuted to taut fury at the touch of the shackles’ chain. Fortunate for her they differed in that. They were alike, after all, in so many other ways. Cunning of an unknown but potentially sinister quantity. Bloody-minded determination.
This was an altogether different island, considerably less Godforsaken (not least because his Pearl lay sweetly anchored offshore), but when Pintel commenced to serving up his odd concoction of fruit juices and rum, Jack was surprised to note Elizabeth’s enthusiastic enjoyment as she partook of it, and was wary of the outcome.
“This is delicious!” she exclaimed, tilting her head back and drinking deep of the cool libation - the small barrel had been chilled in a shaded stream all afternoon.
Jack stared at her white throat working, the smile that came to her lips after, and the angle of her head as she gazed up at him with those eyes.
“Aren’t you going to try it?” she asked.
He felt his lip twitch. Among other things. “No thanks, love. I like me rum and me women neat.”
She frowned. “Neat? And how is a woman neat?”
“It’s open to interpretation.”
She rolled her eyes at him impatiently, turned away and took another long drink.
The moon rose slowly over the beach. “Lizzie, darlin’, I’d be careful of that.”
“And who are you to talk, Captain Sparrow?” The words were only slightly slurred at this point.
“The voice of vast experience, love.”
She shrugged a shoulder.
He sighed. Bloody-minded determination. (And cunning drowned like a kitten).
He watched Pintel refill her mug twice more amid the song and laughter and, finally, dancing.
She stumbled.
He caught her. “Whoa, there. Careful!”
She stopped, clutching him for balance. “I… thank you.” The words enunciated with great care.
He grinned, watching her struggle for clarity, her brows frowning. She took a deep breath and put her shoulders back. “All right?” he asked her.
She opened her mouth. Closed it again. Then said, reluctantly, “No.”
“Gents, Miss Swann bids you good night,” he told the company.
There were expressions of regret and sympathy, which Elizabeth acknowledged with a grave nod.
She fell asleep as he rowed her out to the Pearl, and it was something of a trick waking her again to coax and scold her up the side. The exertion was too much, evidently. Landing on the deck, she was up in a trice and made excellent time to the opposite rail, out of sight of all but himself. He followed, catching her hair out of the line of fire, and wondered that one in such reduced circumstances could yet be so comely.
She finally straightened, and faced him with tears in her eyes.
“Poor Lizzie,” he said, more softly than he’d intended.
He tucked her up in his own bed, her expression of contentment belied by the hand that gripped his to stop the cabin spinning. The moonlight filtered in through the glass. Silver and gold.
“Not very neat,” she murmured.
He kissed the hand before she slept.
In the morning she was late rising, and they were well underway, his ship’s dark sails belled with the freshening breeze. She came to him on the quarterdeck, pale and slightly sheepish.
“Good morning, Miss Swann,” he said, not laughing. “Lovely day.”
She returned the look, lips solemn, eyes bright. “It is, Captain Sparrow.” She came to stand beside him, and put her hand on the Pearl’s wheel. “Thank you.”
“For what?” he asked, having some idea of pretending nothing had happened.
“For not saying I told you so.”
He smiled (just a little) and nodded. “My pleasure, darlin’.”
~.~
Also MUST rec a fic by a writer new to the fandom. writing_samsara has written a wonderful J/E scene that is full of my favorite things -- beautiful description, Jack backstory, action and its aftermath, etc. Spine is the first of ten prompts the author is using, and I can't wait for more.
And finally, I've written a Secret Santa story for cymbeline, with much appreciated beta help from choose2live and the ever-patient hereswith. cymbeline requested "anything", so I've taken her at her word and written J/E using a prompt from my h/c table...
~ Bacchanate ~
Elizabeth wasn’t much for drink. She was good at pretending she was, as when they were marooned together on that Godforsaken Spit of Land, though where she’d come by such skills was quite beyond his ken.
Devious wench.
It was, of course, just possible on that occasion that her virginal youth and beauty had been enough to cloud his vision, cause him to forget she’d had it in for him from their first meeting on the dock at Port Royal: startled appreciation of his efforts transmuted to taut fury at the touch of the shackles’ chain. Fortunate for her they differed in that. They were alike, after all, in so many other ways. Cunning of an unknown but potentially sinister quantity. Bloody-minded determination.
This was an altogether different island, considerably less Godforsaken (not least because his Pearl lay sweetly anchored offshore), but when Pintel commenced to serving up his odd concoction of fruit juices and rum, Jack was surprised to note Elizabeth’s enthusiastic enjoyment as she partook of it, and was wary of the outcome.
“This is delicious!” she exclaimed, tilting her head back and drinking deep of the cool libation - the small barrel had been chilled in a shaded stream all afternoon.
Jack stared at her white throat working, the smile that came to her lips after, and the angle of her head as she gazed up at him with those eyes.
“Aren’t you going to try it?” she asked.
He felt his lip twitch. Among other things. “No thanks, love. I like me rum and me women neat.”
She frowned. “Neat? And how is a woman neat?”
“It’s open to interpretation.”
She rolled her eyes at him impatiently, turned away and took another long drink.
The moon rose slowly over the beach. “Lizzie, darlin’, I’d be careful of that.”
“And who are you to talk, Captain Sparrow?” The words were only slightly slurred at this point.
“The voice of vast experience, love.”
She shrugged a shoulder.
He sighed. Bloody-minded determination. (And cunning drowned like a kitten).
He watched Pintel refill her mug twice more amid the song and laughter and, finally, dancing.
She stumbled.
He caught her. “Whoa, there. Careful!”
She stopped, clutching him for balance. “I… thank you.” The words enunciated with great care.
He grinned, watching her struggle for clarity, her brows frowning. She took a deep breath and put her shoulders back. “All right?” he asked her.
She opened her mouth. Closed it again. Then said, reluctantly, “No.”
“Gents, Miss Swann bids you good night,” he told the company.
There were expressions of regret and sympathy, which Elizabeth acknowledged with a grave nod.
She fell asleep as he rowed her out to the Pearl, and it was something of a trick waking her again to coax and scold her up the side. The exertion was too much, evidently. Landing on the deck, she was up in a trice and made excellent time to the opposite rail, out of sight of all but himself. He followed, catching her hair out of the line of fire, and wondered that one in such reduced circumstances could yet be so comely.
She finally straightened, and faced him with tears in her eyes.
“Poor Lizzie,” he said, more softly than he’d intended.
He tucked her up in his own bed, her expression of contentment belied by the hand that gripped his to stop the cabin spinning. The moonlight filtered in through the glass. Silver and gold.
“Not very neat,” she murmured.
He kissed the hand before she slept.
In the morning she was late rising, and they were well underway, his ship’s dark sails belled with the freshening breeze. She came to him on the quarterdeck, pale and slightly sheepish.
“Good morning, Miss Swann,” he said, not laughing. “Lovely day.”
She returned the look, lips solemn, eyes bright. “It is, Captain Sparrow.” She came to stand beside him, and put her hand on the Pearl’s wheel. “Thank you.”
“For what?” he asked, having some idea of pretending nothing had happened.
“For not saying I told you so.”
He smiled (just a little) and nodded. “My pleasure, darlin’.”
~.~