Fic: 'Bath Holiday' - Chapter 1 (3/7)
Sep. 2nd, 2008 12:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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potcfest prompt #9: Jack/Elizabeth, in England. Background info is accessible in the headers of bits 1 & 2.
Many thanks, again, to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hereswith, for editing and generally keeping me on track, and to everyone who commented on the first two bits. I really appreciate the feedback. This won't be entirely done by the potcfest deadline (which is Friday 0.0), but I'm hoping to get it to a point where the first chapter could serve as a standalone fic for that, and then just continue it at my leisure. It's something I've been wanting to write for a while now.
~ Bath Holiday, continued...
3 ~
The landlord tucked Jack into a quiet corner table, leaving him to keep company with a tankard, the remainder of the Good Stuff, and his flailing brain.
She won't thank you.
For seeing her laid out and helpless with a woman's lot? For being the cause of it in the first place?
Ana was probably right.
Although, Anamaria wasn't his Lizzie.
His Lizzie. That was the game they'd been playing.
And what makes you think I’m yours, Pirate?
He mentally shoved her old question aside and found himself wondering what the devil was happening up there. Thinking he should have stayed.
She won't thank you.
Swann wouldn't thank him either, he'd be bound. Jack gave a mirthless snort at the mere idea of informing the governor precisely what sort of succor had been offered his treasured daughter aboard the Black Pearl these last months. Abandoning her skirts for breeches, bare feet, and hours spent precariously aloft; unsanctioned activities leading to mayhem and incarceration in the Canaries; a pitched battle with corsairs and a deep cut that would ever mar her beautiful shoulder; a week of stormy Biscayan weather that had kept her cabinbound and him exhausted, eager as she was to practice the skills in advanced sexual congress she'd absorbed these many weeks under his tutelage; and now, with child by her erstwhile protector.
Lord, he should thank God fasting for what was going forth upstairs.
Except he wasn't.
He threw off his brooding mood with a curse and got to his feet. If he couldn't have the sea, and his Pearl, left snugly anchored in Portsmouth, at least he could get some fresh air.
~ TBC
potcfest prompt #9: Jack/Elizabeth, in England. Background info is accessible in the headers of bits 1 & 2. Many thanks, again, to
hereswith, for editing and generally keeping me on track, and to everyone who commented on the first two bits. I really appreciate the feedback. This won't be entirely done by the potcfest deadline (which is Friday 0.0), but I'm hoping to get it to a point where the first chapter could serve as a standalone fic for that, and then just continue it at my leisure. It's something I've been wanting to write for a while now. ~ Bath Holiday, continued...
3 ~
The landlord tucked Jack into a quiet corner table, leaving him to keep company with a tankard, the remainder of the Good Stuff, and his flailing brain.
She won't thank you.
For seeing her laid out and helpless with a woman's lot? For being the cause of it in the first place?
Ana was probably right.
Although, Anamaria wasn't his Lizzie.
His Lizzie. That was the game they'd been playing.
And what makes you think I’m yours, Pirate?
He mentally shoved her old question aside and found himself wondering what the devil was happening up there. Thinking he should have stayed.
She won't thank you.
Swann wouldn't thank him either, he'd be bound. Jack gave a mirthless snort at the mere idea of informing the governor precisely what sort of succor had been offered his treasured daughter aboard the Black Pearl these last months. Abandoning her skirts for breeches, bare feet, and hours spent precariously aloft; unsanctioned activities leading to mayhem and incarceration in the Canaries; a pitched battle with corsairs and a deep cut that would ever mar her beautiful shoulder; a week of stormy Biscayan weather that had kept her cabinbound and him exhausted, eager as she was to practice the skills in advanced sexual congress she'd absorbed these many weeks under his tutelage; and now, with child by her erstwhile protector.
Lord, he should thank God fasting for what was going forth upstairs.
Except he wasn't.
He threw off his brooding mood with a curse and got to his feet. If he couldn't have the sea, and his Pearl, left snugly anchored in Portsmouth, at least he could get some fresh air.
~ TBC