(First fic here. Horribly nervous. Please don't hurt me. :D)
Title: Pale Tide
Author: Sugar
Rating: G, I think.
Warning: ...slash, although very mild. Small mentions of het. Some spoilerish things for Post Captain.
Summary: Stephen's ponderings after arguing with Jack. About 900 words in length. Set during Post Captain, in a convenient little gap in the plot. ;)
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Non-profit work solely for amusement's sake, and all that jazz.
And one more small warning - I tried to find someone to beta for me, but no one would (my writer's block is gigantic, and fics very far apart, so I don't have any regular beta persons). So, odd mistakes in the text are possible. English is not my native language, and I'd love feedback on the style of the language - grammatically it should be alright, but I fear I may use phrases that don't really exist. :S
Oh, on with it.
Later on I might be writing a (more graphic) sequel for this. We'll see.
Pale Tide
"It’s the devil, you know, not sleeping: no wonder a man looks like a ship's corporal. And these dreams - do you dream, Stephen?"
"No, sir."
(from Patrick O'Brian's Post Captain, Chapter Ten)
---------------------------------------------------------
No, he had said, no, for how could he tell anyone, least of all Jack, of the nature of his troubling nightly visions. Like the ebb and flow of the sea on the bay where the ship lay anchored, his administration of laudanum brought relief and peace on occasion, but like the unfathomable tide it still let through a surge of undercurrents that Stephen wished he could rid himself of.
Jack had looked sallow and worn indeed, and Stephen wondered if he would have felt better off not knowing the reasons so very well. All the same, he didn’t know what to make of it. It was not in Jack’s nature to worry so, and he was obviously badly thrown off his usual health and balance.
But it was no use dwelling on it now. The rash words - the shouting - the dead calm that was so much worse than shouting - and Jack’s words had been ruthless, cruel. Clearly he had been harbouring those insults for some time, so readily he had flinged them. Guilt and hurt and anger battled for dominance in Stephen’s heart, and each one of them made it ache so.
Guilt, for his weakness, for his love for Diana Villiers. He had tried not to indulge in it, but it was not enough. There was a deep ravine between him and Jack now, and both Jack and Diana seemed unattainable, distant figures seen through a dim, hazy spyglass view.
A challenge had to be issued, that was inevitable. Yet, he realized, he had no desire to duel with Jack. No desire..
Pacing on the deck was not a common practice for the seclusive doctor, but he needed the space now, and the evening wind to cool his burning face. The crew kept out of his way as much as they could, and he would usually have minded them as well, but all this thoughts had turned so deep inwards tonight that he hardly noticed his surroundings.
Hurt and anger. Jack was behaving in ways harmful both to himself, and to Diana, towards whom Stephen could not bring himself to feel any resentment. A horrible burning sensation in his stomach seemed to signify the strength of his own jealousy, and he knew he was also behaving harmfully towards one and all by succumbing to that violent emotion. There was a want for cruelty in him now, for violent admonishment where reason and logic had failed him.
Oh sweet reason.. If only they could have behaved reasonably. Diana had them both in such a whirl, and it could not be helped. Or, at least, that was what Stephen was telling to himself. He wasn’t entirely convincing, and he knew it. But he might have got away with it, if it wasn’t for the dreams.
He had too much time to think these days. His dreams were of a singular nature, heightened and deepened by this static phase, he supposed - during his recent travels he had had too many matters to attend to, too many dangers at hand, and his sleep had been quite uncommon peaceful. But now - - too much idleness, it seemed as if the whole world had been brought to a lull by the unchanging waters that cradled the ship and its crew, like a strangely indifferent, ever-present mother.
The sun was but a dim glow in the horizon now, but Stephen could not face the darkness below deck yet, and so he paced, on and on, pausing at the rail now and then, but quickly fleeing back to his distraught motion again.
His dreams.. oh, it was too much, he could not bear it. He had doubled, tripled his already liberal laudanum doses, but still it did nothing to exorcise the tormenting images and sensations. During the slowly drudging days he was left in a whirl of barely controlled emotion.
In waking his thoughts dwelled on Diana, but his dreams.. they were of Jack, and of Jack only. Of his laughter, and his bad puns that seemed much more feasible by the logic of dreaming. Of his formidable form by the cabin’s window, framed against the evening sun, at the same time standing remarkably tall and somehow stooping over with his violin. Reverent, playful. That was Jack. And the dreams were of him, all of him, his eyes, his coarsened yet agile hands, his unwitting grace, body and soul.
Suddenly Stephen became aware of how rapid his breathing was, how he was clenching his fists until they ached with the strain. He had to stop now, stop, lean on the railing, bury his head in his hands, and breathe. The sea was calm. He was not, and how could he be.
When at last in the quiet of the nightly sea he descended below, having a last quick look at his patients before settling in for the night, Stephen felt thoroughly exhausted. Sleep shouldn’t have been a long time coming. Yet he lay long awake in his hammock, the familiar sounds of the half-slumbering ship bringing little comfort. He feared restfulness would avoid him for all of his foreseeable future.
And when he finally slept, did he dream?
Oh yes, he dreamed. And the twin stars of his night and day remained still unchanged.
Author: Sugar
Rating: G, I think.
Warning: ...slash, although very mild. Small mentions of het. Some spoilerish things for Post Captain.
Summary: Stephen's ponderings after arguing with Jack. About 900 words in length. Set during Post Captain, in a convenient little gap in the plot. ;)
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Non-profit work solely for amusement's sake, and all that jazz.
And one more small warning - I tried to find someone to beta for me, but no one would (my writer's block is gigantic, and fics very far apart, so I don't have any regular beta persons). So, odd mistakes in the text are possible. English is not my native language, and I'd love feedback on the style of the language - grammatically it should be alright, but I fear I may use phrases that don't really exist. :S
Oh, on with it.
Later on I might be writing a (more graphic) sequel for this. We'll see.
Pale Tide
"It’s the devil, you know, not sleeping: no wonder a man looks like a ship's corporal. And these dreams - do you dream, Stephen?"
"No, sir."
(from Patrick O'Brian's Post Captain, Chapter Ten)
---------------------------------------------------------
No, he had said, no, for how could he tell anyone, least of all Jack, of the nature of his troubling nightly visions. Like the ebb and flow of the sea on the bay where the ship lay anchored, his administration of laudanum brought relief and peace on occasion, but like the unfathomable tide it still let through a surge of undercurrents that Stephen wished he could rid himself of.
Jack had looked sallow and worn indeed, and Stephen wondered if he would have felt better off not knowing the reasons so very well. All the same, he didn’t know what to make of it. It was not in Jack’s nature to worry so, and he was obviously badly thrown off his usual health and balance.
But it was no use dwelling on it now. The rash words - the shouting - the dead calm that was so much worse than shouting - and Jack’s words had been ruthless, cruel. Clearly he had been harbouring those insults for some time, so readily he had flinged them. Guilt and hurt and anger battled for dominance in Stephen’s heart, and each one of them made it ache so.
Guilt, for his weakness, for his love for Diana Villiers. He had tried not to indulge in it, but it was not enough. There was a deep ravine between him and Jack now, and both Jack and Diana seemed unattainable, distant figures seen through a dim, hazy spyglass view.
A challenge had to be issued, that was inevitable. Yet, he realized, he had no desire to duel with Jack. No desire..
Pacing on the deck was not a common practice for the seclusive doctor, but he needed the space now, and the evening wind to cool his burning face. The crew kept out of his way as much as they could, and he would usually have minded them as well, but all this thoughts had turned so deep inwards tonight that he hardly noticed his surroundings.
Hurt and anger. Jack was behaving in ways harmful both to himself, and to Diana, towards whom Stephen could not bring himself to feel any resentment. A horrible burning sensation in his stomach seemed to signify the strength of his own jealousy, and he knew he was also behaving harmfully towards one and all by succumbing to that violent emotion. There was a want for cruelty in him now, for violent admonishment where reason and logic had failed him.
Oh sweet reason.. If only they could have behaved reasonably. Diana had them both in such a whirl, and it could not be helped. Or, at least, that was what Stephen was telling to himself. He wasn’t entirely convincing, and he knew it. But he might have got away with it, if it wasn’t for the dreams.
He had too much time to think these days. His dreams were of a singular nature, heightened and deepened by this static phase, he supposed - during his recent travels he had had too many matters to attend to, too many dangers at hand, and his sleep had been quite uncommon peaceful. But now - - too much idleness, it seemed as if the whole world had been brought to a lull by the unchanging waters that cradled the ship and its crew, like a strangely indifferent, ever-present mother.
The sun was but a dim glow in the horizon now, but Stephen could not face the darkness below deck yet, and so he paced, on and on, pausing at the rail now and then, but quickly fleeing back to his distraught motion again.
His dreams.. oh, it was too much, he could not bear it. He had doubled, tripled his already liberal laudanum doses, but still it did nothing to exorcise the tormenting images and sensations. During the slowly drudging days he was left in a whirl of barely controlled emotion.
In waking his thoughts dwelled on Diana, but his dreams.. they were of Jack, and of Jack only. Of his laughter, and his bad puns that seemed much more feasible by the logic of dreaming. Of his formidable form by the cabin’s window, framed against the evening sun, at the same time standing remarkably tall and somehow stooping over with his violin. Reverent, playful. That was Jack. And the dreams were of him, all of him, his eyes, his coarsened yet agile hands, his unwitting grace, body and soul.
Suddenly Stephen became aware of how rapid his breathing was, how he was clenching his fists until they ached with the strain. He had to stop now, stop, lean on the railing, bury his head in his hands, and breathe. The sea was calm. He was not, and how could he be.
When at last in the quiet of the nightly sea he descended below, having a last quick look at his patients before settling in for the night, Stephen felt thoroughly exhausted. Sleep shouldn’t have been a long time coming. Yet he lay long awake in his hammock, the familiar sounds of the half-slumbering ship bringing little comfort. He feared restfulness would avoid him for all of his foreseeable future.
And when he finally slept, did he dream?
Oh yes, he dreamed. And the twin stars of his night and day remained still unchanged.