PotC fic -- Watching Over You
Nothing else is working today, so a short Jack/Elizabeth fic just for fun! At Shipwreck Cove, immediately after the battle. I know a lot of people have written this idea, but I had to put my two cents worth in!
She wakes in the night. Surely something is wrong with the chest. Is it gone?
Elizabeth flails out with her hand, hitting it solidly on the corner of the chest. Still there. Still beside her.
Her fingers hurt, and something is still wrong, though the quiet thump thump thump from the chest goes on, barely audible even from here. The room is almost entirely dark. The fire has died in the night.
She doesn't know what time it was that she came here, to one of the alcoves off the Brethren Hall. Midnight. Hours after. All was quiet even then. They had sailed at dawn the day before, fought a battle before noon. By noon Will was dead. By noon he was her husband. At sunset he was gone.
At midnight…at midnight she had his heart in a chest, looking for somewhere to lie down, too tired to think any longer. She had found a deserted alcove, lain down, the chest where her husband should sleep.
Elizabeth reaches out again. There is a blanket over her, wool from the feel of it. She had not had a blanket, nor known where any might be. Curiously, she reaches her hand out again, behind her.
This time it meets fabric and leg beneath it.
"Mmmmmff."
A familiar mmmmmff. Elizabeth turns over. "Jack?"
Jack is asleep against the wall, his head back and his chin up, mouth open, beard dangling foolishly, his legs just behind her back.
"Jack, what are you doing here?"
"Sleeping," he mutters and doesn't open his eyes.
"I can see that," she says. "Why?"
"Because I'm tired." He still doesn't open his eyes or move. His eyes have dark circles about them that owe nothing to kohl.
"I mean why are you sleeping here?"
"No damned monkey," he says. One hand lifts, ghostly as Barbossa's used to be, stained lace dripping from the wrist, settles softly on her hair. "Go to sleep, Lizzie."
She lies back down, closes her eyes. Perhaps she settles back just a little bit, the small of her back against his knees.
He sighs, and she wonders if he can possibly be as tired as he looks, a man returned from the dead. His hand moves on her hair.
"You smell like powder smoke," Jack says. "And you've sand in your hair."
"I expect so," she says, and tears prick behind her eyes. But he will never see them in the dark, not with her turned from him. "You don't smell so good yourself."
"I expect not," he says. His hands smell like blood. Rain does not wash it from beneath his fingernails.
There is a very long silence. She thinks he's sleeping. She's nearly sleeping herself.
"Couldn't think what else to do," he says, and she knows what he means. He means in those seconds aboard the Dutchman when Will lay dying in her hands, when he forced his broken sword into Will's hand to stab the heart. She will never forget those seconds, not when the years have dimmed every other memory in her mind
"I know," she says, and reaching back twists her fingers around his so that he will know she forgives him for giving her Will and taking him from her in one stroke.
His fingers tighten around hers. She wonders if this is his forgiveness. Or if he too did not want to pass the dark hours alone.
He has always watched over her, from the moment she fell from the cliff into blue water until that moment on the Dutchman when he dragged her away from Will's body. She never asked him to. She never deserved it.
What she has given him is life for death and death for life, a fair exchange she likes to think. She slew him, and she returned him. All the sums at the bottom of the page come out to zero.
And here he is still. She lies between Jack and the chest, and the darkness curls around them all.
"Goodnight, Jack," she says, but he is already asleep and does not hear her.
She wakes in the night. Surely something is wrong with the chest. Is it gone?
Elizabeth flails out with her hand, hitting it solidly on the corner of the chest. Still there. Still beside her.
Her fingers hurt, and something is still wrong, though the quiet thump thump thump from the chest goes on, barely audible even from here. The room is almost entirely dark. The fire has died in the night.
She doesn't know what time it was that she came here, to one of the alcoves off the Brethren Hall. Midnight. Hours after. All was quiet even then. They had sailed at dawn the day before, fought a battle before noon. By noon Will was dead. By noon he was her husband. At sunset he was gone.
At midnight…at midnight she had his heart in a chest, looking for somewhere to lie down, too tired to think any longer. She had found a deserted alcove, lain down, the chest where her husband should sleep.
Elizabeth reaches out again. There is a blanket over her, wool from the feel of it. She had not had a blanket, nor known where any might be. Curiously, she reaches her hand out again, behind her.
This time it meets fabric and leg beneath it.
"Mmmmmff."
A familiar mmmmmff. Elizabeth turns over. "Jack?"
Jack is asleep against the wall, his head back and his chin up, mouth open, beard dangling foolishly, his legs just behind her back.
"Jack, what are you doing here?"
"Sleeping," he mutters and doesn't open his eyes.
"I can see that," she says. "Why?"
"Because I'm tired." He still doesn't open his eyes or move. His eyes have dark circles about them that owe nothing to kohl.
"I mean why are you sleeping here?"
"No damned monkey," he says. One hand lifts, ghostly as Barbossa's used to be, stained lace dripping from the wrist, settles softly on her hair. "Go to sleep, Lizzie."
She lies back down, closes her eyes. Perhaps she settles back just a little bit, the small of her back against his knees.
He sighs, and she wonders if he can possibly be as tired as he looks, a man returned from the dead. His hand moves on her hair.
"You smell like powder smoke," Jack says. "And you've sand in your hair."
"I expect so," she says, and tears prick behind her eyes. But he will never see them in the dark, not with her turned from him. "You don't smell so good yourself."
"I expect not," he says. His hands smell like blood. Rain does not wash it from beneath his fingernails.
There is a very long silence. She thinks he's sleeping. She's nearly sleeping herself.
"Couldn't think what else to do," he says, and she knows what he means. He means in those seconds aboard the Dutchman when Will lay dying in her hands, when he forced his broken sword into Will's hand to stab the heart. She will never forget those seconds, not when the years have dimmed every other memory in her mind
"I know," she says, and reaching back twists her fingers around his so that he will know she forgives him for giving her Will and taking him from her in one stroke.
His fingers tighten around hers. She wonders if this is his forgiveness. Or if he too did not want to pass the dark hours alone.
He has always watched over her, from the moment she fell from the cliff into blue water until that moment on the Dutchman when he dragged her away from Will's body. She never asked him to. She never deserved it.
What she has given him is life for death and death for life, a fair exchange she likes to think. She slew him, and she returned him. All the sums at the bottom of the page come out to zero.
And here he is still. She lies between Jack and the chest, and the darkness curls around them all.
"Goodnight, Jack," she says, but he is already asleep and does not hear her.