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Drabbles - Harry & the Pirate: Valentine (Jack/Harry (OFC) - PG13)
Three drabbles, 200, 400, and 150 words respectively, that are a belated response to last week's drabble challenge prompt...
“Help me, then,” she says, and turns ‘round for him.
She stands there, small and straight, all shades of gold in the candlelight, but Jack knows it’s an effort, something in the set of her back, the angle of her chin. They’re both dead on their feet, it would’ve been easier to let Amelie take care of her. Harry’d been dismayed when he’d shooed the dresser off to bed.
But she knows he likes this. Likes watching his rough skin catch a bit on the expensive fabric of her gown. Watching the hooks of the tight-fitted bodice give way one by one. Watching his sailor’s hands push the heavy brocaded silk off her shoulders. Watching his brown fingers pull at the laces of her stays, the tough, unforgiving cords loosening little by little. Watching her breathe as though, ‘til this moment, she’d forgotten the way of it.
Her chemise is of stuff so fine he can see the delicate pink swell of hip, the sweet curve of her waist.
And the delicious, exquisite rest as she turns to face him, thanks in her tired eyes. He swallows hard, lost again… again… and for a moment forgets how to breathe, himself.
He wakes as usual to the light of the screened lamp and Harry close by in the same chair. She’s been sewing a rent in one of his shirts, but now lays it aside to come to him, crouching by the bed.
“Is it very dreadful?” she asks softly.
“What time is it?” he says with an effort, ignoring the question. “You should be sleeping.”
She arches one perfect brow and purses her lips. “As should you, my love.”
She rises, and he sighs, impatient, but too weak yet to make any real objection to her coddling.
It’s the same as always: watching her prepare the draught the doctor’s prescribed; trying not to curse as she helps him sit up enough to take it without choking; choking anyway, and nearly gagging at the horrid taste; subsiding with a gasp against the pillows, weak as a bloody cat. The thud of his heart gradually slows as she straightens the bedclothes, tucking him in as though she was born to such work.
She picks up the shirt once more and takes her place in the chair, but lifts her eyes for a moment, warm with sympathy, relief, and a little humor. He will recover. But by God it’s slow going. He makes a face at her and she flashes a grin, white in the dim.
The drug is already coursing through him, and his voice slurs as he observes bitterly, “Wager you never dreamt to be in such a fix as this when you were a girl.”
Her expression grows thoughtful – remembering that girlhood, no doubt: pampered baby of an ancient house, prettier by the day as she grew to maidenhood, her mother’s darling, her brother’s torment...
But she says, “Of course I did. I may have been a sad romp at times, but I knew what love was about.”
What love was about
He says, soft and gruff, “Come here, Harry. Put the shirt down and come to bed with me.”
“The doctor—“
“Devil take the doctor!”
She shakes her head, but complies, laying aside the sewing, then her prim dressing gown. Her night dress is far less prim, and his fit of pique ebbs as she lifts the covers and eases in carefully… carefully… until she’s curled warm and sweet against him in the shadows.
“Better?” she whispers.
“Never leave me.”
“No.”
“Promise?”
“Again?”
“Again.”
“Very well. I do.”
She remembers that first night, the glint of stars on the black water of Tortuga bay -- no brighter than the devilish glint in his eye, that stolen first kiss as much in his mind as hers. Ruffled by that, and by their verbal sparring, and then the ship looming suddenly, like something from a dark tale come to life, impressive, intimidating, a brooding shadow of doom, presently belied by her ornate beauty and welcome.
The Black Pearl is very much like her captain.
Now, years later, he lies beside her in the wee hours, snoring.
She turns to him, shoves at his shoulder.
“Wha… wha’s wrong?” He rolls toward her, snoring curtailed. Pulls her close.
“Nothing. I love you.”
“Mmm. You, too, darlin’. Go t’sleep.”
He’s already slumbering again when she brushes a kiss against his jaw, scant beard tickling. Then, warm with present and past, she obeys.
~.~
“Help me, then,” she says, and turns ‘round for him.
She stands there, small and straight, all shades of gold in the candlelight, but Jack knows it’s an effort, something in the set of her back, the angle of her chin. They’re both dead on their feet, it would’ve been easier to let Amelie take care of her. Harry’d been dismayed when he’d shooed the dresser off to bed.
But she knows he likes this. Likes watching his rough skin catch a bit on the expensive fabric of her gown. Watching the hooks of the tight-fitted bodice give way one by one. Watching his sailor’s hands push the heavy brocaded silk off her shoulders. Watching his brown fingers pull at the laces of her stays, the tough, unforgiving cords loosening little by little. Watching her breathe as though, ‘til this moment, she’d forgotten the way of it.
Her chemise is of stuff so fine he can see the delicate pink swell of hip, the sweet curve of her waist.
And the delicious, exquisite rest as she turns to face him, thanks in her tired eyes. He swallows hard, lost again… again… and for a moment forgets how to breathe, himself.
He wakes as usual to the light of the screened lamp and Harry close by in the same chair. She’s been sewing a rent in one of his shirts, but now lays it aside to come to him, crouching by the bed.
“Is it very dreadful?” she asks softly.
“What time is it?” he says with an effort, ignoring the question. “You should be sleeping.”
She arches one perfect brow and purses her lips. “As should you, my love.”
She rises, and he sighs, impatient, but too weak yet to make any real objection to her coddling.
It’s the same as always: watching her prepare the draught the doctor’s prescribed; trying not to curse as she helps him sit up enough to take it without choking; choking anyway, and nearly gagging at the horrid taste; subsiding with a gasp against the pillows, weak as a bloody cat. The thud of his heart gradually slows as she straightens the bedclothes, tucking him in as though she was born to such work.
She picks up the shirt once more and takes her place in the chair, but lifts her eyes for a moment, warm with sympathy, relief, and a little humor. He will recover. But by God it’s slow going. He makes a face at her and she flashes a grin, white in the dim.
The drug is already coursing through him, and his voice slurs as he observes bitterly, “Wager you never dreamt to be in such a fix as this when you were a girl.”
Her expression grows thoughtful – remembering that girlhood, no doubt: pampered baby of an ancient house, prettier by the day as she grew to maidenhood, her mother’s darling, her brother’s torment...
But she says, “Of course I did. I may have been a sad romp at times, but I knew what love was about.”
What love was about
He says, soft and gruff, “Come here, Harry. Put the shirt down and come to bed with me.”
“The doctor—“
“Devil take the doctor!”
She shakes her head, but complies, laying aside the sewing, then her prim dressing gown. Her night dress is far less prim, and his fit of pique ebbs as she lifts the covers and eases in carefully… carefully… until she’s curled warm and sweet against him in the shadows.
“Better?” she whispers.
“Never leave me.”
“No.”
“Promise?”
“Again?”
“Again.”
“Very well. I do.”
She remembers that first night, the glint of stars on the black water of Tortuga bay -- no brighter than the devilish glint in his eye, that stolen first kiss as much in his mind as hers. Ruffled by that, and by their verbal sparring, and then the ship looming suddenly, like something from a dark tale come to life, impressive, intimidating, a brooding shadow of doom, presently belied by her ornate beauty and welcome.
The Black Pearl is very much like her captain.
Now, years later, he lies beside her in the wee hours, snoring.
She turns to him, shoves at his shoulder.
“Wha… wha’s wrong?” He rolls toward her, snoring curtailed. Pulls her close.
“Nothing. I love you.”
“Mmm. You, too, darlin’. Go t’sleep.”
He’s already slumbering again when she brushes a kiss against his jaw, scant beard tickling. Then, warm with present and past, she obeys.
~.~
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What a lovely portrait of grown-up love! And as I've mentioned before, you're one of the few writers who can convincingly portray Jack in such an arrangement.
Thanks for the Valentine's gift!
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And given the fact I never reviewed back then (sorryyyyyy) - thanks for the happy relationship you gifted James with in your universe, too.
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One can right so many wrongs with fanfic, no? *g*
I'm so happy to know you've read and enjoyed Harry & the Pirate, and I thank you very much for reading and commenting on Valentine!
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(Anonymous) 2013-02-20 05:29 am (UTC)(link)no subject
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Good night, tale spinner. Done captured my imagination again.
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I freely admit, though I am blushing about it, I{{yellin' and dancin' about}}--I truly did want to have connection with this story... I felt like a little kid at Christmas. I'm such a big old mushmelon ==hugely sentimental, unbearably happy ending...oh, you know already...;-D.
Only thing in the world would be better received than this delight would be just learning of Harry and having all the reading before me, a discovery of riches. Thank you as well for saying I help... appreciate the opportunity to play in the company of such good writers, capable and bright women who can turn a phrase will knock your socks off. There's been so many.
I'd like to get ideas about a celebration for our ten years of knowing Captain Jack--I keep thinkin' back to djarum's edible descriptions of Jack's skin under candlelight, Tessabeth's and Viva gloria's awesome and thoroughly wicked Jack all full of his wants and desires. My introduction to not so very nice mermaids. And different babies, Blaxton, Jamie, and the incredible Miz Daisy, beautiful Norrington finding a dear lady of his own, all and any. Oh, and I thoroughly adore me some Jip. What do ya think?
I must admit, I didn't read Harry and the Pirate for almost a year after I learned this spot.... I had stubbornly decided it was some sort of Potter/piratescobble and I'd have none of it. Lol....(Gibb's face after Jack slaps him on the pier)
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Oh, dear, I know, probably you have plenty of company. I was so oblivious to the huge popularity of the Harry Potter books that I didn't even give it a thought when I came up with the name, but it didn't take me too long to realize that confusion would be the case. I'm exceedingly glad you eventually discovered that Harry Potter had nothing to do with it.
The anniversary! Holy cats, it's coming right up, isn't it? What a ten years it's been. We do need to do something fabulous to commemorate the occasion. *puts on thinking tricorn*
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Her chemise is of stuff so fine he can see the delicate pink swell of hip, the sweet curve of her waist.
Okay, chica, this is nothing but the most rare form of soul food...absolutely chomp-worthy, fills up eyes ear, mouth, mind in such a tasty way. I love the richness of this passage. so pretty and inviting. Still amazed. Now I'm off to bed, stayed up til 4 this morning reading First Harry....I'm an addict. love them both so much.
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I'm so glad you liked that particular paragraph, the one quoted above. It was easy to "see", just had to record it, as it were. Many thanks for the additional comments, here I just woke up and you've already made my day. :)