Fic - That Sanity Be Kept
Title: That Sanity Be Kept
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Pairing/Characters: Jack/Elizabeth, Will/Elizabeth
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: PotC and all related whatevers belong to Disney
Summary: There are lots of ways to stay sane, even when you aren't entirely to begin with. Heavily inspired by the Dylan Thomas poem of the same name.
Notes: This story took a lot out of me; rather exhausting to write. Thanks must go to artaxastra for the commentary on 'Six Nights Out from Tortuga'; I seem to be channelling her Jack here.
That sanity be kept I sit at open windows,
Regard the sky, make unobtrusive comment on the moon
For sanity must be preserved.
High up, there is a thin sheet of cloud scudding across the chalky daylight moon, and the greyed silhouette of a bird. The sharpness of the night air is dulled, blunted by the rising of the sun, and Jack's coffee is not well-brewed. He forces down a second swallow with a grimace.
He could go into the great cabin, pull out charts and the almanac and the calculations scrawled in his own hand that some days he's almost surprised to be able to read and say where they are, but it's easier at the moment not to know, still in that slight haze that comes of sleeping through the morning watch after eight hours between cold stars and black deck.
At the moment, of course, it's where they are not that's the important thing; they are not at the bottom of the ocean, not at the end of the world in that strange, cold hell, not engaged in some krakenly misfortune, not imprisoned anywhere- certainly not in Port Royal. Which of course is just one of the places that they aren't imprisoned in; they are also not imprisoned in Singapore and Kingston and Paris and Madras and Timbuktu, and he's fairly certain he would realise if they were in any of those places in a non-incarcerated capacity, so they are most definitely not in Port Royal. In any capacity.
Jack takes another mouthful of coffee.
He barely had time to push the cabin door closed before she had him up against the wall. Her eyes glinted amber in the low candlelight, the flaming gold of the rum that sent her steps in wobbling ellipses and seasoned her kiss. He ran his hands down the gamine slope of her back, feeling hers crawling into his hair, setting beads and trinkets jangling like his own intoxicated nerves. Her knee was pushing between his legs, and he breathed in smoke and salt and gold as she pressed clumsy kisses to his neck.
Behind her, a candle flame flared suddenly, light straining upwards before it settled again. Jack sucked in a breath and pushed her back slightly, hands still clutching at her waist.
"Elizabeth... are you sure?"
She squinted at him, as if through a darkling glass.
"What do you mean?"
"Are you sure?" It was hard to tell, a fair way down the bottle, but he hoped that 'sure' conveyed the right amount of because-soon-I-probably-won't-be-able-to-stop and you'd-better-not-go-back-to-bloody-William-after and a lot of other things that it might be useful to say but he had lost the right words for somewhere in the haze of the evening. He seemed to be losing a lot of things, here and there like flotsam in the wake she'd left, but damned if he would let it stop him.
Elizabeth blinked, and stared at him for a moment, the yellow light playing odd shadows over her face so that he couldn't quite tell trepidation from desire in her eyes. Then she smiled, and strange that the candlelight seemed even dimmer.
"Oh, Jack."
It was easy to forget in kisses and the tangle of clothing that took far too long to remove that it wasn't an answer.
The cabin boy is swabbing the deck and absent-mindedly Jack pulls his feet up onto the hatch cover, wondering if the lad's stopped asking to be called Blackbeard and told anyone his real name. It would be a more convincing moniker were he old enough to cultivate more than an earnest bit of blonde fluff.
The day will get hotter before it's done; there's a haze on the horizon that speaks of sweat under his collar and sails limp under little wind. He could go into his cabin and hang up his coat, put on his thinnest- most ragged- shirt and reline his eyes against the glare, but it's still morning and still cool enough, and he's not certain how much kohl he has left anyway. And besides, on deck he can smell salt and tar and the warm-wood scent of the Pearl and perhaps it still smells like freedom, here and there between the boards.
"Wretch!"
Elizabeth's hand whipped out and he caught it with her palm a bare inch from his cheek. She glared at him viciously as he tightened his grip on her wrist. A little more pressure, fingers squeezing just a little tighter, and he could snap the bone, send pain splintering down her arm. She knew it just as well, a slight sheen of sweat covering her face. He wouldn't. But he could.
"Now Lizzie-girl," Jack snarled, "perhaps we can talk in a civilised manner?"
"I have nothing to say to you," she bit back, trying to tug her wrist from his grip.
He didn't entirely believe that, perhaps because there was plenty he wanted to say to her, to scream at her until she bloody well listened. He could feel it there, blood roaring in his ears and the echo of her own pulse against his fingertips, the assurance of life and the thin edge between whole and broken, between love and hate.
"Not even to invite me to your wedding?" He felt anger rising like bile in the back of his throat. "Shame. Such a fine, virginal bride you'll make."
"Shut up Jack." She still had murder in her eyes, branded into her skin. It never went away. "If you say anything to Will, I'll..."
"You've already killed me, darlin', not much more left to threaten a man with." Not much more that he could entirely articulate, anyway, but she seemed to catch it somehow, and her face softened slightly as she looked down at the floor.
"I... I made a promise. I love him."
Something sharp enough was snapped there, and he couldn't hide the stinging edge of it in his tone as he let go.
"Of course."
Elizabeth stopped at the cabin door and looked back with some indecipherable shadow in her eyes.
"I made no promises to you."
The freshest stab of wind sends the Pearl rolling gently over the waves, the mens' chantey like a pirate's lullaby as Jack lies back on the cover, lazily twitching the fingers of one hand in time. The moon is still outpacing the sun, peering down as if chancing a sly look at the world by daylight. There's something comfortingly ethereal about looking at the sky; it's far enough away to be like a dream, though too bright at the moment to make a man think of sleep.
Of course if he wanted to sleep he could go into the cabin and collapse into blankets, wake before the dogwatches with his boots still on and the sky still there, and everything still except for all the things that can't be, if they want to survive. The wind doesn't stop, and the Pearl doesn't really; there's no man to hold her forever, and the only way to come close is to keep on running yourself. Jack has been running for a very long time.
He didn't go to the wedding, even when Will made some well-mannered noises about it. Bootstrap had been a good friend, and he did like the boy, in spite of everything, but it wasn't worth risking his neck for. Nor worth risking anything else. Elizabeth didn't look back when they walked away down the dock together and perhaps that was better, so he could paint contrition on her features in his mind's eye, summon it out of some slight slump in her shoulders, a sailor's stagger in her gait.
"Where to, cap'n?" Gibbs asked tentatively when he turned away from the rail. Jack exhaled slowly, and looked forward to where the carved bird in the figurehead's upstretched hand was visible below the rise of the bowsprit, wooden wings outstretched.
"The horizon, Mr Gibbs. As always."
It's going to be a hot day; Joshamee can almost smell it in the air, clouds high and the wheel steady in his hands. Looking towards the prow he spies Jack lounging on the hatch cover, languorous as ever, and shakes his head. A man can do as he likes, certainly, but he wonders how long it'll be before Jack stops sleeping on deck.
I sit at open windows in my shirt
Observe, like some Jehovah of the west,
What passes by, that sanity be kept.
Feedback is greatly appreciated!
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Pairing/Characters: Jack/Elizabeth, Will/Elizabeth
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: PotC and all related whatevers belong to Disney
Summary: There are lots of ways to stay sane, even when you aren't entirely to begin with. Heavily inspired by the Dylan Thomas poem of the same name.
Notes: This story took a lot out of me; rather exhausting to write. Thanks must go to artaxastra for the commentary on 'Six Nights Out from Tortuga'; I seem to be channelling her Jack here.
That sanity be kept I sit at open windows,
Regard the sky, make unobtrusive comment on the moon
For sanity must be preserved.
High up, there is a thin sheet of cloud scudding across the chalky daylight moon, and the greyed silhouette of a bird. The sharpness of the night air is dulled, blunted by the rising of the sun, and Jack's coffee is not well-brewed. He forces down a second swallow with a grimace.
He could go into the great cabin, pull out charts and the almanac and the calculations scrawled in his own hand that some days he's almost surprised to be able to read and say where they are, but it's easier at the moment not to know, still in that slight haze that comes of sleeping through the morning watch after eight hours between cold stars and black deck.
At the moment, of course, it's where they are not that's the important thing; they are not at the bottom of the ocean, not at the end of the world in that strange, cold hell, not engaged in some krakenly misfortune, not imprisoned anywhere- certainly not in Port Royal. Which of course is just one of the places that they aren't imprisoned in; they are also not imprisoned in Singapore and Kingston and Paris and Madras and Timbuktu, and he's fairly certain he would realise if they were in any of those places in a non-incarcerated capacity, so they are most definitely not in Port Royal. In any capacity.
Jack takes another mouthful of coffee.
He barely had time to push the cabin door closed before she had him up against the wall. Her eyes glinted amber in the low candlelight, the flaming gold of the rum that sent her steps in wobbling ellipses and seasoned her kiss. He ran his hands down the gamine slope of her back, feeling hers crawling into his hair, setting beads and trinkets jangling like his own intoxicated nerves. Her knee was pushing between his legs, and he breathed in smoke and salt and gold as she pressed clumsy kisses to his neck.
Behind her, a candle flame flared suddenly, light straining upwards before it settled again. Jack sucked in a breath and pushed her back slightly, hands still clutching at her waist.
"Elizabeth... are you sure?"
She squinted at him, as if through a darkling glass.
"What do you mean?"
"Are you sure?" It was hard to tell, a fair way down the bottle, but he hoped that 'sure' conveyed the right amount of because-soon-I-probably-won't-be-able-to-stop and you'd-better-not-go-back-to-bloody-William-after and a lot of other things that it might be useful to say but he had lost the right words for somewhere in the haze of the evening. He seemed to be losing a lot of things, here and there like flotsam in the wake she'd left, but damned if he would let it stop him.
Elizabeth blinked, and stared at him for a moment, the yellow light playing odd shadows over her face so that he couldn't quite tell trepidation from desire in her eyes. Then she smiled, and strange that the candlelight seemed even dimmer.
"Oh, Jack."
It was easy to forget in kisses and the tangle of clothing that took far too long to remove that it wasn't an answer.
The cabin boy is swabbing the deck and absent-mindedly Jack pulls his feet up onto the hatch cover, wondering if the lad's stopped asking to be called Blackbeard and told anyone his real name. It would be a more convincing moniker were he old enough to cultivate more than an earnest bit of blonde fluff.
The day will get hotter before it's done; there's a haze on the horizon that speaks of sweat under his collar and sails limp under little wind. He could go into his cabin and hang up his coat, put on his thinnest- most ragged- shirt and reline his eyes against the glare, but it's still morning and still cool enough, and he's not certain how much kohl he has left anyway. And besides, on deck he can smell salt and tar and the warm-wood scent of the Pearl and perhaps it still smells like freedom, here and there between the boards.
"Wretch!"
Elizabeth's hand whipped out and he caught it with her palm a bare inch from his cheek. She glared at him viciously as he tightened his grip on her wrist. A little more pressure, fingers squeezing just a little tighter, and he could snap the bone, send pain splintering down her arm. She knew it just as well, a slight sheen of sweat covering her face. He wouldn't. But he could.
"Now Lizzie-girl," Jack snarled, "perhaps we can talk in a civilised manner?"
"I have nothing to say to you," she bit back, trying to tug her wrist from his grip.
He didn't entirely believe that, perhaps because there was plenty he wanted to say to her, to scream at her until she bloody well listened. He could feel it there, blood roaring in his ears and the echo of her own pulse against his fingertips, the assurance of life and the thin edge between whole and broken, between love and hate.
"Not even to invite me to your wedding?" He felt anger rising like bile in the back of his throat. "Shame. Such a fine, virginal bride you'll make."
"Shut up Jack." She still had murder in her eyes, branded into her skin. It never went away. "If you say anything to Will, I'll..."
"You've already killed me, darlin', not much more left to threaten a man with." Not much more that he could entirely articulate, anyway, but she seemed to catch it somehow, and her face softened slightly as she looked down at the floor.
"I... I made a promise. I love him."
Something sharp enough was snapped there, and he couldn't hide the stinging edge of it in his tone as he let go.
"Of course."
Elizabeth stopped at the cabin door and looked back with some indecipherable shadow in her eyes.
"I made no promises to you."
The freshest stab of wind sends the Pearl rolling gently over the waves, the mens' chantey like a pirate's lullaby as Jack lies back on the cover, lazily twitching the fingers of one hand in time. The moon is still outpacing the sun, peering down as if chancing a sly look at the world by daylight. There's something comfortingly ethereal about looking at the sky; it's far enough away to be like a dream, though too bright at the moment to make a man think of sleep.
Of course if he wanted to sleep he could go into the cabin and collapse into blankets, wake before the dogwatches with his boots still on and the sky still there, and everything still except for all the things that can't be, if they want to survive. The wind doesn't stop, and the Pearl doesn't really; there's no man to hold her forever, and the only way to come close is to keep on running yourself. Jack has been running for a very long time.
He didn't go to the wedding, even when Will made some well-mannered noises about it. Bootstrap had been a good friend, and he did like the boy, in spite of everything, but it wasn't worth risking his neck for. Nor worth risking anything else. Elizabeth didn't look back when they walked away down the dock together and perhaps that was better, so he could paint contrition on her features in his mind's eye, summon it out of some slight slump in her shoulders, a sailor's stagger in her gait.
"Where to, cap'n?" Gibbs asked tentatively when he turned away from the rail. Jack exhaled slowly, and looked forward to where the carved bird in the figurehead's upstretched hand was visible below the rise of the bowsprit, wooden wings outstretched.
"The horizon, Mr Gibbs. As always."
It's going to be a hot day; Joshamee can almost smell it in the air, clouds high and the wheel steady in his hands. Looking towards the prow he spies Jack lounging on the hatch cover, languorous as ever, and shakes his head. A man can do as he likes, certainly, but he wonders how long it'll be before Jack stops sleeping on deck.
I sit at open windows in my shirt
Observe, like some Jehovah of the west,
What passes by, that sanity be kept.
Feedback is greatly appreciated!