Against Impossible Odds, Part 1
Title: Against Impossible Odds
author: artemismuse
status: part 1/?
Pairing: eventually Norribeth, with a tiny bit of drunken Sparrabeth at first, but don't let that put you off (it's just Jack's way)
Era: WWII, post-AWE by several hundred years
Rating: R
Warnings: spoilers for all movies
Summary: A naval nurse named Lizzie encounters bizarre officers and dashing bomber pilots in the Caribbean during WWII, and stumbles upon a past life that could change her future.
Lizzie Byrd, naval nurse, was overwhelmed. Ever since her transfer to the Caribbean, when she heard that the German U-boats were sinking Allied merchant vessels at an alarming rate, the casualties had been steep. Her experience sent her straight to the military hospital they'd set up on short notice, lacking in help. A take-command gal like herself jumped at the chance to be head of her own ward in the middle of the action. She despised idleness. As the war dragged on, her family grew more and more nervous about her continued safety and mental health, but she reasoned that her experience as a civilian nurse prepared her for some of the grisly sights she'd had to witness. Besides, she'd told them, she'd much rather be doing her part than sitting at home with the radio on while she anxiously awaited the end of the war, and her family was nothing if not patriotic. So off she'd gone, and she'd seen more than her share of young men blown to bits or with two limbs missing, and she'd smiled all the while encouragingly and told them that of course their sacrifice wasn't meaningless or that their quality of life wouldn't deteriorate in the slightest by having a prosthetic limb. And then, just when she thought she'd seen enough blood to last a lifetime, she got the call from the Caribbean. They sold it to her as a sort of vacation. Paradise, they said, and when she was off-duty, she'd love it. They had the most wonderful time and she'd meet the most interesting people, but the hospital was a little short-handed and how would she like to be head of their emergency ward? Officer Jack would appreciate it so much, they said, and naturally she said yes.
Of course Lizzie had heard of the dashing- if somewhat oddly dressed- Officer Jack Spirrell (at least, she thought that was his name, he sort of slurred it when she met him), trading black market in stolen and confiscated goods on the side. She had heard rumors of his many strange tattoos, including one of a "P" that looked as though it was branded into the skin of his arm. She thought it a strange form of decoration.
When she stepped off her plane, he flung out his arms and swaggered toward her, throwing a flower lei around her neck. He was a vision, colorful Hawaiian shirt poking out from under his military-issue jacket, wearing sandals instead of boots, his cropped black hair and tan skin just as she'd heard them described.
"Welcome to the Caribbean, love! God, that was satisfying." She stared at him in confusion at his strange greeting and apparent habit of talking to himself. "Well, I've wanted to say that for a long time," he told her by way of explanation.
"You'll be plenty busy with us, Lizzie," he continued with a lascivious wink. "Can I call you Lizzie? I'm going to call you Lizzie. I like Lizzie. Knew a girl named Lizzie once, reminded me of you- no, scratch that, reverse it- what was I saying? Ah. You. Yes. Ahem. If you take good care of the boys, there'll be real silk stockings in it for you, what with the seams down the back and everything- bloody brilliant invention, those…" He looked about to weave off again when he stopped, turned around, and waggled a gold-ringed finger at her.
"And I expect you to be at the party tonight. Fancy dress. Costumes. Pirate costumes, preferably." Elizabeth had heard of Jack's lavish and elaborate parties, presumably financed by his ill-gotten gains. She stared at him again in consternation.
"A costume party? But I've nothing to wear!" He narrowed his eyes at her for a long moment, then laughed and poked her in the chest.
"Not to worry, I've taken care of everything. Just you leave it all to Captain-" he looked supremely sorrowful for a moment as he realized his error. "Er- Sergeant Jack." It appeared her Caribbean adventure was already beginning.
That evening, she was sitting in her new room, adjusting to the surroundings and the climate when a knock came on her door.
"Package for you, miss. Sign here, if you please." Jack's costume, she thought, smiling. He was serious. She unwrapped the parcel, peeled back the tissue paper, and her heart stopped. I've worn this before, she thought, even though she knew she never had. He'd sent her a black tricorn hat, a billowy white shirt and a long red vest with gold buttons to go over it, brown trousers and a pair of black leather knee-boots that turned down at the top. Then there was the canvas bag meant to be slung over her shoulder, which she opened to discover a compass that steadfastly refused to point north no matter how much she shook it. Lizzie frowned. Evidently, he was also serious about her going as a pirate. Jack had even included a note that read: be sure to wear your hair down under the hat. So he wanted a pirate, Lizzie thought, smiling to herself. He was going to get more than he bargained for. All work and no play made Lizzie a very boring girl, and she, at least, was still young enough to have a good time. Even if there was a war on.
When Sergeant Jack Spirrell showed up to escort her to his party, she had the second shocking moment of her evening. Jack was every inch a pirate captain. He was wearing a boot-trouser-shirt-vest combination that was similar to hers, except that the color of the vest was blue. But he hadn't stopped there. Oh, no. He had on a fantastically real-looking wig of dreadlocks with little beads and baubles twisted into it, and he'd painted on a black mustache and goatee and rimmed his eyes with kohl. He'd put a red bandanna on over the wig, and a black tricorn hat with trim on over that. He was also wearing a blue Captain's coat, various multicolored scarves around his waist, a sword on a leather belt, and a multitude of jewelled rings on his fingers. He looked marvelous, but that wasn't what was shocking Lizzie. I know him, she thought, which was patently absurd. Jack was eyeing her approvingly.
"I'm a genius, love. They fit you like they were made for you."
"You cut a striking figure yourself." He grinned at her, revealing teeth he'd somehow painted gold, and she took his proffered arm as he led her to his car with a waiting driver in uniform.
"Those are authentic, I'll have you know. A real pirate wore those once. You may now be suitably impressed." She snorted in a very unladylike way.
"The compass you gave me is broken," she informed him.
"It most certainly is not!"
"It doesn't point north," she said flatly.
"Well, now, that's a rather narrow definition of broken, wouldn't you say, Lizzie darling? It's not that kind of a compass," he said, laying a finger to the side of his nose conspiratorially.
"So what kind of a compass is it?" He'd been waiting for her to ask.
"It points," he said softly, "to what you want the most." He said it so seriously, she almost believed him. "Ah," he breathed, "here we are." Lizzie got out of the car and looked in disbelief at the ship decked out with paper lanterns and revelers on deck, jazz music and alcohol already flowing.
"The party's on a ship?"
"Where else would you have a pirate party?" He told her this like he was explaining matters to a dimwitted child. "'Cept Tortuga, of course, but that was a long time ago. You ever been on the ride? No, neither have I. That's 'coz they haven't built it yet. Not now. Too soon. Maybe in ten years or so. Come on then." And then they were on deck and Lizzie was proffered some deadly kind of punch and talked at from all sides. The lights and music were magical, but even stranger was the sensation that in another time and place, this was home. Of course she was comfortable aboard a ship, she chided herself. She was a naval nurse. Yet that wasn't it. The pirate clothes fit her, made her someone else… someone bolder with a selfish streak, who took what she wanted with no apologies. On an impulse, feeling slightly drunk, she took out the compass. It pointed directly behind her, and she turned around to find Jack lounging by the ship's railing. He gave her a nod and a knowing grin, and then he was grabbing her by the waist and whirling her around the deck.
"Care to dance?"
"I believe we already are," she said with a smirk, then added, "Captain." He dipped her low and murmured an inch away from her lips,
"That's the spirit, love." He flung her back up with a wild glee, as easily as if she was a rag doll, pressing her hard against his lean body. He was intriguing, she thought, a mystery to puzzle out. He put his fingers close to her cheek but not quite touching her, as if he was tracing her face through the air. She caught a glimpse of a tattoo of a sparrow on his forearm as his shirtsleeve slid back.
Jack was over the top, calling out orders to his men as if he truly was a pirate captain and whispering scandalous things about half of his guests into her ear. Once he even manned the wheel, and he looked completely in his element. Giddy with the deadly punch she'd drunk far too much of and pretending to be a pirate, Lizzie returned him quip for quip, and when he dared her to climb up to the crow's nest with him, she agreed and said she'd race him. He challenged her that if he got there first, she'd have to kiss him, and if she got there first, he'd tell her something true. He won, but he cheated. Lizzie let him kiss her anyway, but his lips had barely descended onto hers before he pulled away, muttering something about women chaining him to masts and leaving him for a kraken, whatever that was.
"You're a pirate," Lizzie reminded him. "You're not supposed to be afraid of a mere woman."
"No mere woman, you," he told her with eyebrows raised theatrically. "Formidable adversary, this one." He was obviously drunk.
"Pirates take what they want and damn the consequences."
"The day you lecture me on what a pirate is, is the day I…"
"Yes?"
"Oh, I give up," he said, and kissed her properly. Like much else about Jack, the kiss was expansive, colorful and tasted of alcohol. He kissed her in a way that made her feel wicked and smug, like he was telling her a naughty secret, and perhaps he was. He was smudging her carefully-applied lipstick and leaving bits of black paint on her chin. She didn't care. The pirate whose clothes she was wearing wouldn't have cared. His stubble was scratching her neck as his deft fingers unbuttoned her vest and peeled her shirt away from her bosom. Lizzie wondered if she was having an out-of-body experience; she wasn't that kind of girl, and why she didn't stop him was beyond her. She watched avidly as his dark head sank to the top of her breast and sucked. He was going to leave a mark. She was going to have a love-bite on her breast from a pirate, and she didn't mind. She must be drunk.
"I always thought you'd look lovely with one of those," he murmured as he surveyed his handiwork, trying to turn up the corners of a mustache that wasn't there. "And I was right. This isn't meant to be an everyday occurrence, mind," he said as he re-buttoned her clothes. "You're meant to be saving those kisses for your lovely Commodore. Er." He frowned, thinking hard.
"Who?"
"I don't s'pose you've met him yet. Well, no harm, then." He shrugged and began to sing. "-and really bad eggs, drink up, me hearties, yo ho! I love this song!" Lizzie could have sworn she'd never heard the song before in her life, yet she knew what came next.
"Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me." Jack waved his hands around in a sort of spiritualist revival gesture. She assumed it meant he was pleased.
"Welcome back, Lizzie," he told her, grinning. She hadn't a clue what he meant.
That night, she dreamt of pirate ships, cursed treasure and a scruffy sardonic man who saw straight through her. She wanted to make sense of what he told her, to linger and talk to him, but there was a sense of urgency- she had to do something, to rescue someone perhaps, and she could not stay. She awoke disappointed and hung-over, resolving never to go out drinking with Jack again.
On her rounds that morning, a new wave of young men came through demanding critical attention, including an acclaimed British torpedo patrol bomber who was hovering between life and death. Lizzie personally attended to him when he was brought in and alerted the surgeons to a nasty-looking head wound while she was handing them a scalpel. Then she held his head still while they operated, because despite the anesthetic, he kept thrashing around as if in some kind of private nightmare, and she didn't want him to bash his head in. She came back to check on him every half hour to make sure he wasn't slipping into a coma. She sat by his bedside and mopped his forehead with a wet cloth, though a lesser nurse-in-training could have easily done it for her- Lizzie liked to keep track of her boys. The third time she came to check on him, he opened his eyes, blinked and smiled at her. He asked her name and she told him before he passed back out. His eyes were the most beautiful green, the color of the ocean- he had the same eyes as the man in her dream.
"Who is he?" She later asked a fellow nurse of the attractive young man. The nurse giggled at her, wide-eyed.
"Him? My, you are new. That's Jameson Weatherby," she said meaningfully. At Lizzie's blank look, she sighed and continued, "He's the best damn flyer we've got, pardon my French. And I'm pretty sure you saved his life."
*is very anxious* Well, that was certainly different than anything I've tried before. And that was just the set-up. *wipes brow* Comments? Criticism? Angry rampaging midgets to send after me?
author: artemismuse
status: part 1/?
Pairing: eventually Norribeth, with a tiny bit of drunken Sparrabeth at first, but don't let that put you off (it's just Jack's way)
Era: WWII, post-AWE by several hundred years
Rating: R
Warnings: spoilers for all movies
Summary: A naval nurse named Lizzie encounters bizarre officers and dashing bomber pilots in the Caribbean during WWII, and stumbles upon a past life that could change her future.
Lizzie Byrd, naval nurse, was overwhelmed. Ever since her transfer to the Caribbean, when she heard that the German U-boats were sinking Allied merchant vessels at an alarming rate, the casualties had been steep. Her experience sent her straight to the military hospital they'd set up on short notice, lacking in help. A take-command gal like herself jumped at the chance to be head of her own ward in the middle of the action. She despised idleness. As the war dragged on, her family grew more and more nervous about her continued safety and mental health, but she reasoned that her experience as a civilian nurse prepared her for some of the grisly sights she'd had to witness. Besides, she'd told them, she'd much rather be doing her part than sitting at home with the radio on while she anxiously awaited the end of the war, and her family was nothing if not patriotic. So off she'd gone, and she'd seen more than her share of young men blown to bits or with two limbs missing, and she'd smiled all the while encouragingly and told them that of course their sacrifice wasn't meaningless or that their quality of life wouldn't deteriorate in the slightest by having a prosthetic limb. And then, just when she thought she'd seen enough blood to last a lifetime, she got the call from the Caribbean. They sold it to her as a sort of vacation. Paradise, they said, and when she was off-duty, she'd love it. They had the most wonderful time and she'd meet the most interesting people, but the hospital was a little short-handed and how would she like to be head of their emergency ward? Officer Jack would appreciate it so much, they said, and naturally she said yes.
Of course Lizzie had heard of the dashing- if somewhat oddly dressed- Officer Jack Spirrell (at least, she thought that was his name, he sort of slurred it when she met him), trading black market in stolen and confiscated goods on the side. She had heard rumors of his many strange tattoos, including one of a "P" that looked as though it was branded into the skin of his arm. She thought it a strange form of decoration.
When she stepped off her plane, he flung out his arms and swaggered toward her, throwing a flower lei around her neck. He was a vision, colorful Hawaiian shirt poking out from under his military-issue jacket, wearing sandals instead of boots, his cropped black hair and tan skin just as she'd heard them described.
"Welcome to the Caribbean, love! God, that was satisfying." She stared at him in confusion at his strange greeting and apparent habit of talking to himself. "Well, I've wanted to say that for a long time," he told her by way of explanation.
"You'll be plenty busy with us, Lizzie," he continued with a lascivious wink. "Can I call you Lizzie? I'm going to call you Lizzie. I like Lizzie. Knew a girl named Lizzie once, reminded me of you- no, scratch that, reverse it- what was I saying? Ah. You. Yes. Ahem. If you take good care of the boys, there'll be real silk stockings in it for you, what with the seams down the back and everything- bloody brilliant invention, those…" He looked about to weave off again when he stopped, turned around, and waggled a gold-ringed finger at her.
"And I expect you to be at the party tonight. Fancy dress. Costumes. Pirate costumes, preferably." Elizabeth had heard of Jack's lavish and elaborate parties, presumably financed by his ill-gotten gains. She stared at him again in consternation.
"A costume party? But I've nothing to wear!" He narrowed his eyes at her for a long moment, then laughed and poked her in the chest.
"Not to worry, I've taken care of everything. Just you leave it all to Captain-" he looked supremely sorrowful for a moment as he realized his error. "Er- Sergeant Jack." It appeared her Caribbean adventure was already beginning.
That evening, she was sitting in her new room, adjusting to the surroundings and the climate when a knock came on her door.
"Package for you, miss. Sign here, if you please." Jack's costume, she thought, smiling. He was serious. She unwrapped the parcel, peeled back the tissue paper, and her heart stopped. I've worn this before, she thought, even though she knew she never had. He'd sent her a black tricorn hat, a billowy white shirt and a long red vest with gold buttons to go over it, brown trousers and a pair of black leather knee-boots that turned down at the top. Then there was the canvas bag meant to be slung over her shoulder, which she opened to discover a compass that steadfastly refused to point north no matter how much she shook it. Lizzie frowned. Evidently, he was also serious about her going as a pirate. Jack had even included a note that read: be sure to wear your hair down under the hat. So he wanted a pirate, Lizzie thought, smiling to herself. He was going to get more than he bargained for. All work and no play made Lizzie a very boring girl, and she, at least, was still young enough to have a good time. Even if there was a war on.
When Sergeant Jack Spirrell showed up to escort her to his party, she had the second shocking moment of her evening. Jack was every inch a pirate captain. He was wearing a boot-trouser-shirt-vest combination that was similar to hers, except that the color of the vest was blue. But he hadn't stopped there. Oh, no. He had on a fantastically real-looking wig of dreadlocks with little beads and baubles twisted into it, and he'd painted on a black mustache and goatee and rimmed his eyes with kohl. He'd put a red bandanna on over the wig, and a black tricorn hat with trim on over that. He was also wearing a blue Captain's coat, various multicolored scarves around his waist, a sword on a leather belt, and a multitude of jewelled rings on his fingers. He looked marvelous, but that wasn't what was shocking Lizzie. I know him, she thought, which was patently absurd. Jack was eyeing her approvingly.
"I'm a genius, love. They fit you like they were made for you."
"You cut a striking figure yourself." He grinned at her, revealing teeth he'd somehow painted gold, and she took his proffered arm as he led her to his car with a waiting driver in uniform.
"Those are authentic, I'll have you know. A real pirate wore those once. You may now be suitably impressed." She snorted in a very unladylike way.
"The compass you gave me is broken," she informed him.
"It most certainly is not!"
"It doesn't point north," she said flatly.
"Well, now, that's a rather narrow definition of broken, wouldn't you say, Lizzie darling? It's not that kind of a compass," he said, laying a finger to the side of his nose conspiratorially.
"So what kind of a compass is it?" He'd been waiting for her to ask.
"It points," he said softly, "to what you want the most." He said it so seriously, she almost believed him. "Ah," he breathed, "here we are." Lizzie got out of the car and looked in disbelief at the ship decked out with paper lanterns and revelers on deck, jazz music and alcohol already flowing.
"The party's on a ship?"
"Where else would you have a pirate party?" He told her this like he was explaining matters to a dimwitted child. "'Cept Tortuga, of course, but that was a long time ago. You ever been on the ride? No, neither have I. That's 'coz they haven't built it yet. Not now. Too soon. Maybe in ten years or so. Come on then." And then they were on deck and Lizzie was proffered some deadly kind of punch and talked at from all sides. The lights and music were magical, but even stranger was the sensation that in another time and place, this was home. Of course she was comfortable aboard a ship, she chided herself. She was a naval nurse. Yet that wasn't it. The pirate clothes fit her, made her someone else… someone bolder with a selfish streak, who took what she wanted with no apologies. On an impulse, feeling slightly drunk, she took out the compass. It pointed directly behind her, and she turned around to find Jack lounging by the ship's railing. He gave her a nod and a knowing grin, and then he was grabbing her by the waist and whirling her around the deck.
"Care to dance?"
"I believe we already are," she said with a smirk, then added, "Captain." He dipped her low and murmured an inch away from her lips,
"That's the spirit, love." He flung her back up with a wild glee, as easily as if she was a rag doll, pressing her hard against his lean body. He was intriguing, she thought, a mystery to puzzle out. He put his fingers close to her cheek but not quite touching her, as if he was tracing her face through the air. She caught a glimpse of a tattoo of a sparrow on his forearm as his shirtsleeve slid back.
Jack was over the top, calling out orders to his men as if he truly was a pirate captain and whispering scandalous things about half of his guests into her ear. Once he even manned the wheel, and he looked completely in his element. Giddy with the deadly punch she'd drunk far too much of and pretending to be a pirate, Lizzie returned him quip for quip, and when he dared her to climb up to the crow's nest with him, she agreed and said she'd race him. He challenged her that if he got there first, she'd have to kiss him, and if she got there first, he'd tell her something true. He won, but he cheated. Lizzie let him kiss her anyway, but his lips had barely descended onto hers before he pulled away, muttering something about women chaining him to masts and leaving him for a kraken, whatever that was.
"You're a pirate," Lizzie reminded him. "You're not supposed to be afraid of a mere woman."
"No mere woman, you," he told her with eyebrows raised theatrically. "Formidable adversary, this one." He was obviously drunk.
"Pirates take what they want and damn the consequences."
"The day you lecture me on what a pirate is, is the day I…"
"Yes?"
"Oh, I give up," he said, and kissed her properly. Like much else about Jack, the kiss was expansive, colorful and tasted of alcohol. He kissed her in a way that made her feel wicked and smug, like he was telling her a naughty secret, and perhaps he was. He was smudging her carefully-applied lipstick and leaving bits of black paint on her chin. She didn't care. The pirate whose clothes she was wearing wouldn't have cared. His stubble was scratching her neck as his deft fingers unbuttoned her vest and peeled her shirt away from her bosom. Lizzie wondered if she was having an out-of-body experience; she wasn't that kind of girl, and why she didn't stop him was beyond her. She watched avidly as his dark head sank to the top of her breast and sucked. He was going to leave a mark. She was going to have a love-bite on her breast from a pirate, and she didn't mind. She must be drunk.
"I always thought you'd look lovely with one of those," he murmured as he surveyed his handiwork, trying to turn up the corners of a mustache that wasn't there. "And I was right. This isn't meant to be an everyday occurrence, mind," he said as he re-buttoned her clothes. "You're meant to be saving those kisses for your lovely Commodore. Er." He frowned, thinking hard.
"Who?"
"I don't s'pose you've met him yet. Well, no harm, then." He shrugged and began to sing. "-and really bad eggs, drink up, me hearties, yo ho! I love this song!" Lizzie could have sworn she'd never heard the song before in her life, yet she knew what came next.
"Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me." Jack waved his hands around in a sort of spiritualist revival gesture. She assumed it meant he was pleased.
"Welcome back, Lizzie," he told her, grinning. She hadn't a clue what he meant.
That night, she dreamt of pirate ships, cursed treasure and a scruffy sardonic man who saw straight through her. She wanted to make sense of what he told her, to linger and talk to him, but there was a sense of urgency- she had to do something, to rescue someone perhaps, and she could not stay. She awoke disappointed and hung-over, resolving never to go out drinking with Jack again.
On her rounds that morning, a new wave of young men came through demanding critical attention, including an acclaimed British torpedo patrol bomber who was hovering between life and death. Lizzie personally attended to him when he was brought in and alerted the surgeons to a nasty-looking head wound while she was handing them a scalpel. Then she held his head still while they operated, because despite the anesthetic, he kept thrashing around as if in some kind of private nightmare, and she didn't want him to bash his head in. She came back to check on him every half hour to make sure he wasn't slipping into a coma. She sat by his bedside and mopped his forehead with a wet cloth, though a lesser nurse-in-training could have easily done it for her- Lizzie liked to keep track of her boys. The third time she came to check on him, he opened his eyes, blinked and smiled at her. He asked her name and she told him before he passed back out. His eyes were the most beautiful green, the color of the ocean- he had the same eyes as the man in her dream.
"Who is he?" She later asked a fellow nurse of the attractive young man. The nurse giggled at her, wide-eyed.
"Him? My, you are new. That's Jameson Weatherby," she said meaningfully. At Lizzie's blank look, she sighed and continued, "He's the best damn flyer we've got, pardon my French. And I'm pretty sure you saved his life."
*is very anxious* Well, that was certainly different than anything I've tried before. And that was just the set-up. *wipes brow* Comments? Criticism? Angry rampaging midgets to send after me?