[POTC challenge fic] - "Box" - rated PG
Title: Box
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Spoilers: Post (my hypothetical) AWE
Pairing: Jack/Elizabeth
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2,576
Disclaimer: I don't own POTC or any of the people in it. They belong to Disney. Would that I was that rich....
Summary: Written for a friend's ficlet challenge - the fifth of ten. This fic takes place directly after Gold. Jack gives Elizabeth an unexpected present.
Many thanks to
djarum99 for her invaluable concrit - and for helping to make some sense of my cracked-out writing.
Note on this work: This is my little belated Valentine's Day gift to all of my fabulous readers. Much love and kisses to all of the POTC fandom. Thanks for taking the time to read my work!
Feedback is fabulous!
Challenge: Write a scene for each of the words below using characters from Pirates of the Caribbean.
1)spine
2)song
3)smoke
4)gold
5)box
6)flee
7)snake
8)memories
9)henna
10)eyes
Jack shocks her out of sleep by sliding the pad of his thumb down the nape of her neck.
Elizabeth wakes to the ghost of strange, garbled sounds: vaguely foreign sounds, rounded and mumbled. Thinking of Cotton’s previous attempts to shake her into alertness, she cracks a thin smile, thankful that he’s friend enough to attempt rousing her quietly before the crew changes watch. She imagines hard tack and lukewarm coffee in his hand. Wondering why Parrot hasn’t spoken for him, and musing at the strange lack of breeze, she yawns and strains to open her eyes. The dry fiber of her tongue catches on the roof of her mouth, and there’s that feeling of sand behind her eyelids. She aches, but the deck beneath her is peach fuzz, warm. Elizabeth splays her fingers wide, savoring the texture of cotton against the webbing where hand meets knuckle. Inhaling some vaguely familiar scent - something of amber or sandalwood - she exhales a dusty mouthful, breath hot and electric as it rushes free. Arching her back and clutching the blankets in delicious, downy handfuls, she sighs again and wriggles, blessing the Lord for cushions and beds.
Cushions?
Bed.
Elizabeth opens one eye, then the other. Jack’s cabin. Damn it all. And that’s Jack at her back, practically purring. His fingers skip from vertebrae to vertebrae, and his lips part against her neck, the bristle of his moustache barely grazing her. His breath bronzing her skin in hot puffs, and his braided beard tickles her with the clack-clacking of beads.
Slowly, she turns to face him. He is perilously close, maddeningly close, and she feels a familiar kind of quiver in her stomach and then the sensation of something sinking. Something like a stone dropped into water, heavy and rippling.
He grins wide, flaunting his gold and ivory.
“Mornin’, Bess.”
“Good morning, Mr. Sparrow.” Her attempt to refrain from smiling fails, and she lifts a hand to cover her morning-mouth.
Looking impossibly pleased, Jack leans back, tapping his chin in an impish approximation of thought. Leaning over the bed’s ledge, he rifles through the clutter noisily. Something metallic clatters and then rolls, saucer-like. Beads jangling, he mutters as he rummages, and Elizabeth settles once again into the fluff. She raises her hands to her swollen eyelids, startles at the welts dotting her wrist, and is hot-cheeked remembering his fingers prying her mouth wide. Fish hooked, she thinks.
“Where the - damn blast - bloody thought I lost you - oh, and what a nice little - aha!” Triumphant, Jack returns to her side and offers her a small, filigreed box in the flat of his palm. Silver and shaped like some exotic, folded bird, it winks sunlight at her as she gentles it open. The aroma of unfamiliar spices tickles her nose, and she squints at the speckled mixture of seeds filling the container. Cocking her head and arching a quizzical brow, she waits for an explanation.
Dipping a finger into the box, Jack shuffles the mix.
“Old world remedy, luv. Passed to me by me mum in another time.” He pinches a bit of the mixture, crunching on it between words. “Cardamom. Fennel. Cloves. It’ll cure that dragon breath of yours as sure as the sun rises.”
He’s grinning so wide, she wonders that his face doesn’t crack. Swatting his arm in mock indignation, Elizabeth accepts the treat, wrinkling her nose at the rush of flavor. She catalogues the tastes: hints of licorice, something vaguely ginger - bitter then round and warm - and the pop of Christmas pies in the cloves’ warmth. She chews lazily.
Jack stands, hands on his hips, and bends back in an exaggerated stretch punctuated by a series of snaps. He straightens. Walks towards her and extends his hand with a flourish.
“Breakfast is served, Bess.”
“Breakfast?”
“The very thing.”
“I need another shirt.”
“On whose authority?”
Her outstretched arm and deadpan expression provide answers enough, and Jack sets to retrieving a shirt, muttering under his breath. He mumbles something about there being no living with her now. When he returns with a lump of well-worn linen, she blushes and makes a spinning motion with her finger, indicating he should turn.
“You can’t be serious, luv. I’ve seen every one of your - ehem - tasty bits, now haven’t I?”
“Turn, Jack.”
“That’s Captain - ”
“Turn.”
“I could just cover my - ”
“Around.”
He pivots theatrically, sighing, pouting, and altogether huffing with as much exaggeration as she imagines he can muster. Smiling, Elizabeth pictures Jack as a child: all manners of stomping and tantrum-throwing in Lord-knows-wherever he was raised. She stands with a wobble, the joints at thigh and pelvis throbbing hotly, and slips the shirt over her head. Something of the prior night fidgets in the back of her mind, awaiting recognition. With more sadness than she’ll acknowledge, she realizes he’s wearing his bandana again.
“You know, I still think it should be a dress for you or nothing at all.”
“And I supposed you just happen to have nothing at all right here in your cabin.” Pulling on her breeches in a series of staccato motions, she winces not only from her aching muscles but at the memory of him dismissing her above deck. The word “arrangement” festers somewhere in the periphery.
“You’ve read my very mind, Lizzie.” Spinning around, he offers his most roguish smile. “Now, if you’ll just allow me to help divest you of those unseemly garments, I’ve something much better suited to a lady such as yourself.”
“Jack, let this be the day you always remember as the day you almost dressed Elizabeth Swann in nothing at all.”
“Terrible cruel, y’are, love.”
“Yes, the most fearsome female in the Spanish Main,” her voice trailing off as she steps past Jack, towards the conspicuously bare table, and raises an eyebrow.
“Not just the Spanish Main, love. The whole world. And the afterlife. Believe me, I’m well aware -”
“Didn’t you mention something about breakfast?”
“Ah,” snapping his fingers, he pulls out her chair, seating her with abnormal gallantry and much aplomb, “yes, yes. Now where is that - Aha!” Taking a few quick strides to the dressing screen, he extracts a length of linen similar to the cloth she uses to bind her breasts, and returns, eyebrows waggling mischievously. Stepping behind her, he slips the cloth across her eyes and ties it firmly behind her head.
“Just what are you doing, Jack?” She feels a familiar twinge of apprehension, remembers nightmares from her nights topside. Remembers him dragging her to the mast, her breath snuffed by a black hood, and beyond that canvas cave, the roar of the crew’s laughter. Remembers the cloth rough against her nose, freedom a hollow plea.
“Can’t have you peeking now, can I, Doom? I’ll be back in two shakes. No cheating, now.”
His voice is neutral, neither teasing nor grave, and the once-refreshing taste of licorice turning bitter on the roof of her mouth. She nods, afraid to speak for fear of stuttering. So this is his revenge. Whatever it is, Elizabeth, you will meet it with fierce dignity.
Hearing the cabin door click shut, she lifts the blindfold and assesses her surroundings. His blade and pistol remain in strewn near the bed. She detects no sign or sound of the crew. Feeling cautiously relieved, she manages to return the cover to her eyes as Jack pushes through the door.
He’s humming softly, and the table shudders beneath her fingertips as something large-sounding and metallic is set on its surface. There is the clinking of cups and saucers, the pewter jingle of silverware on wood, and then the taut woosh of fabric unfurled, its breezy-cool kissing her cheek.
He leaves again, and this time Elizabeth remains blindfolded. She puzzles over the possibility of a decent meal, and runs her thumbnails against the pads of her fingers impatiently.
Entering, exiting, and reentering again, Jack continues to hum in his tuneless, absentminded way.
“What is that you’re singing, Jack?” Her voice seems cotton-muffled to her ears.
“Hmmm? Ah yes. Little ditty courtesy of the homeland and all. Indians, very wistful people they are. Inventors of yoga and snake charming, you know. Gave the world the Kama Sutra, those nasty blokes - have to teach you about that later, luv - but, in any case, fairly decent singers if you can get past the drivel.” His words seem jovial and all too classically Jack, which is why Elizabeth feels as though she has been offered something fragile.
“So you’re from the East Indies, then?”
“As a matter of fact I am - a little place called Cochin to be drearily specific - but it’s all very hush-hush. Wouldn’t want to rob poor Gibbs of his more colorful accounts, now would we?” Sensing something serious in his otherwise cheerful tone, she smiles.
“That would be positively criminal. Don’t worry, Jack. Your secret is safe with me.”
“An accord then?”
“Yes, an accord.”
“Me mum was a bit of royalty, you know.”
“Mmm, was she really?” Her eyebrow lifts involuntarily. She feels him slink closer, his body radiating heat. He is behind her, his hands scorching her as he rests them on her shoulders. Leaning towards her, his braids clicking as they graze her back, slipping over her collarbones with their musty, woolen scent, he breathes his reply into her ear in a balmy whisper, her skin prickling.
“How very bourgeois of you, Miss Swann.” But she feels the smile in his voice, his lips ghosting across her earlobe. His fingers draw the knot from her blindfold in agonizingly slow strokes until suddenly, his hand slides across her lids, the binding fluttering to her lap. Lashes skittering across his palm, she opens her eyes and studies the view of his palm, red slats of light appearing to glow between his fingers. “I believe your breakfast is served, Lady Doom.”
He removes his hand with a flourish and steps back, her longing for his nearness overshadowed by the dazzling spread laid before her. A faded paisley cloth covers the table. Its once-vibrant cobalt and emerald swirls are washed grey and sage, threadbare from years of manhandling in the ship’s wash basins. In the middle of the table rests a tarnished bowl of exquisite, sun-bright oranges and a spiky, red fruit that Gibbs had referred to as “rambuttan” at their last port. Its green spines have turned black with storage, but their smell is fresh and grassy. Remembering the strange, slick-sweet eyeball of fruit within, Elizabeth licks her lips.
And even more glorious, Jack has brought crisp-brown toast and marmalade. Placed at either end of the table lay pieces of bent, blackening silver and chipped china. A pair of mismatched teacups and saucers, one cup refined and elegant, the other covered in garish roses, curve proudly away from the plates. Steam curls in thin strands from the trunk of a dainty, blue-and-white teapot fashioned in the Oriental style. With barely suppressed glee, Elizabeth realizes that the aroma drifting from said kettle is of chocolate - sweetened, cinnamon-dusted chocolate. She grins broadly at the ramshackle setting. In this moment, it is a finer arrangement than any of the hundreds of lordly dinners her father had hosted in the Governor’s mansion. The scene recalls a vague memory of her dreams last night, of visions of citrus and cocoa.
Beaming, she focuses on Jack. Situated beside her now, he reaches to pour the tantalizing brew.
“Oh, Jack, this is wonderful! Oranges and those little prickly devils, and real toast. You can have no idea how I’ve longed for real toast. And chocolate! I haven’t had chocolate since - well, since,” pausing, the mention of her father strangled in her throat, “well, since a very long time. Captain Sparrow, however did you find chocolate?”
“Pirate, luv.” His lips curled into an uneven smirk. He extends a cup to her with a ringed hand, eyes darting to the portside windows sheepishly. The light of late morning streams through the glass in ribbons, seems to hover in creamy garlands that bathe the cabin in warm stripes.
She blushes, heat flushing her face and neck. She accepts the proffered drink and inhales deeply, the porcelain silk-smooth in her palms. The scent of cacao beans and sugar wafts from the cup in layers, bitter and humid and brimming with the ghosts of family, of her mother’s English garden and of late mornings in Port Royal. Sipping slowly, she suppresses a moan as the thick liquid glides languidly down her throat, its taste smoky and earthen.
“Hitting your spot, eh luv?”
“Mmm, it’s just delicious, Jack. I’ve been craving chocolate rather desperately, but I’d given up hope of - ”
“I know.”
“How could you possibly know? And the oranges? And the marmalade toast?”
“Well, dearie, I simply utilized my vast expertise of the female - ”
“Yes, and barring your intuitive, deductive, and otherwise supernatural sense of the feminine mind - how did you figure it out?” Chuckling, she realizes that somewhere in their conversation she’d assumed a very Sparrow-like turn of phrase.
“Actually, you talk in your sleep.”
“I do not.”
“Oh yes, luv. Yes you do.”
“Scandalous lies!” She grabs a slice of bread, slathering it with jam.
“I am a paragon of truth, Lizzie-Dear. I’ll have you know you did nothing but mumble and groan about chocolate and oranges and - ‘Oh, Captain Sparrow, you are so dashing and - “
She licks an errant glob of jelly from her wrist, relishing the effect on the generally verbose Captain. Sucking her fingertips one by one, she holds his gaze before returning to the toast.
They continue to eat in silence for some time, each making a messy show of their gluttony. Stomach distended and feeling near-bursting, she leans back in her chair and stretches.
“Thank you, Jack. That was heavenly.”
“Not done yet, luv.”
“Is that so?”
“Nowhere near.” Standing, he stoops, picks up a plain, wooden box beneath his chair and saunters the few steps between them. Crouching at her knees, box behind his back, he rests his free hand on her thigh. Drowsy with food and yearning for him, for their shared bed, she manages to focus enough to speak.
“And just what, exactly, do you have there, hmmm?” She runs her index finger across his knuckles, circles his rings in light strokes. The sharp chime of the watch bell rings on deck, shattering the tension like rocks through glass. Jack stands, hands her the box, and brushes himself off, quickly fastening his belts. Propping his hat on his head, he winks at her and strolls to the door.
“Now that is a mystery, dear Lizzie, that you’ll apparently have to discover without me.”
“Oh come on, Jack. What’s in the box?”
Placing his hand on his chest, he speaks with an accent reminiscent of Tia Dalma with a nasty headcold. “Him heart.”
“What in the blazes -“
Cocking an eyebrow, he shrugs and steps out of the cabin, leaning around the frame to add, “Guess you had to be there, luv. Well go on, don’t dawdle. Daylight’s a-wasting, and I’d like to attend to the business of pirating, myself.” Disappearing behind the door, he leaves her to her confusion, the room feeling flat and empty at his exit. Unable to resist temptation, she lifts the lid, mind racing as to the possible contents.
Inside, tired-eyed and staring back at her, is her own image reflected in a slim, tortoise-handled mirror.