Request Ficlet for Berne
Mar. 20th, 2005 08:21 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dwgmThis is similar in plot to something I wrote about a year ago. Hopefully ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
berne will forgive me for repeating myself. The scenario just seemed to go with the 'hands' thing.
Hands tell a lot about a man.
Stained with ink and tar and dirt, Sparrow’s were coaxing pictures from thin air, illustrations for his story, luring every eye in the place with those fluttering, fine-boned fingers: the hands of an actor.
Gibbs watched a while, then pulled himself to his feet. Womanless, and a might well-to-live, he took himself off. A half moon was rising as he made his way back to the harbor. He was mostly there when an alley extruded ill-fortune. Bricks slammed at his back, a knife bit his throat, and foul breath wrinkled his nose.
“Your purse, old man.”
“Who’s old?” Gibbs muttered. Disinclined to argue much with a knife, he resigned himself. But then there was a violent bump, his neck was scratched, the leech was dislodged, and Gibbs hit the ground.
“That’s not very nice.”
The familiar velvet growl, and those hands again, one twisting the leech’s shirt front, hard, the other shortening a sword for the thrust home: the hands of a fighter.
The knife clattered on the cobbles. Sparrow sparked gold and madness.
Given the chance, the miscreant scampered, right quick.
Sparrow turned, and offered one of those hands. “All right, then?”
Gibbs couldn’t help staring. All silver and shadows in the moonlight. Damned if he wasn’t prettier than the lasses back at the Bride. But his grip was firm and work-rough: the hands of a sailor.
Gibbs brushed the dirt from his breeches. “I owe you, Jack Sparrow.”
“You’ve heard of me!” That golden grin again. “It’s Captain Jack Sparrow. Sadly shipless at present, however. I could use a ship.”
“I’ve got a ship. Already has a captain. He’s lookin’ for a navigator, though.”
“Is he, now?” He considered this briefly, one long finger at his chin. “Per’aps you could put in a word for me humble self.”
Humble. Gibbs chuckled. “Oh, reckon I could, lad, seeing as ye saved me bacon.”
Jack cocked his head in the moonlight. “I’m no more a lad than you, Gibbs, but as for your bacon, think nothin’ of it. Entirely at your service.”
“Are ye now?” Gibbs thrust out a hand. “It’s Josh, to me mates.”
Jack took the proffered hand. “Josh then,” he said, and shook on it.
The hand of a friend.
~.~
berne will forgive me for repeating myself. The scenario just seemed to go with the 'hands' thing.~ Give Me A Hand ~
Hands tell a lot about a man.
Stained with ink and tar and dirt, Sparrow’s were coaxing pictures from thin air, illustrations for his story, luring every eye in the place with those fluttering, fine-boned fingers: the hands of an actor.
Gibbs watched a while, then pulled himself to his feet. Womanless, and a might well-to-live, he took himself off. A half moon was rising as he made his way back to the harbor. He was mostly there when an alley extruded ill-fortune. Bricks slammed at his back, a knife bit his throat, and foul breath wrinkled his nose.
“Your purse, old man.”
“Who’s old?” Gibbs muttered. Disinclined to argue much with a knife, he resigned himself. But then there was a violent bump, his neck was scratched, the leech was dislodged, and Gibbs hit the ground.
“That’s not very nice.”
The familiar velvet growl, and those hands again, one twisting the leech’s shirt front, hard, the other shortening a sword for the thrust home: the hands of a fighter.
The knife clattered on the cobbles. Sparrow sparked gold and madness.
Given the chance, the miscreant scampered, right quick.
Sparrow turned, and offered one of those hands. “All right, then?”
Gibbs couldn’t help staring. All silver and shadows in the moonlight. Damned if he wasn’t prettier than the lasses back at the Bride. But his grip was firm and work-rough: the hands of a sailor.
Gibbs brushed the dirt from his breeches. “I owe you, Jack Sparrow.”
“You’ve heard of me!” That golden grin again. “It’s Captain Jack Sparrow. Sadly shipless at present, however. I could use a ship.”
“I’ve got a ship. Already has a captain. He’s lookin’ for a navigator, though.”
“Is he, now?” He considered this briefly, one long finger at his chin. “Per’aps you could put in a word for me humble self.”
Humble. Gibbs chuckled. “Oh, reckon I could, lad, seeing as ye saved me bacon.”
Jack cocked his head in the moonlight. “I’m no more a lad than you, Gibbs, but as for your bacon, think nothin’ of it. Entirely at your service.”
“Are ye now?” Gibbs thrust out a hand. “It’s Josh, to me mates.”
Jack took the proffered hand. “Josh then,” he said, and shook on it.
The hand of a friend.
~.~
no subject
Date: 2005-03-20 10:32 am (UTC)