Fandom: PotC
Rating: NC-17.
Warnings: Smut and infidelity.
Pairings: Jack/Elizabeth, Will/Elizabeth assumed
Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. I just do bad things with/to them.
Summary: "Tell me," he said, all soft and rough like he was, like the touch she remembered. "Tell me you don't dream of the sea." Written for
je_challenge; prompt was jealousy and a dress.Notes: Angsty. Assumes some prior J/E relationship or relations, no spoilers. Years after AWE if anything. Hopefully not too OOC... *worries*
"There's a beggar at the kitchen door, mum," Estrella said. "Asked for you by name, he did. Should I drive him off, then?"
"He asked for me?" Elizabeth said, startled. "What sort of man is he, Estrella?"
"A strange one, mum. I never saw a beggar with so many gold teeth before. And he said to tell you, 'peas in a pod.' Did you ever hear the like?"
But her mistress had gone quite pale at this speech, her work falling unnoticed from her hands to the floor as she stood, and Estrella received no answer; for Elizabeth had already flown past her out of the sitting room and down the hall to the kitchen, from whence Estrella heard a distinct bang as of a door being flung open precipitously.
"Peas in a pod indeed!" Estrella said, and went to gather up Elizabeth's sewing, shaking her head. Mistress had always been a rum one, she had; but for the life of her, Estrella couldn't fathom why a beggar-man's nonsense would bring such a look as she'd glimpsed on Mrs. Turner's face, a wild, raw sort of hope mingled with disbelief or...dread? Sadness? Like her world had come to pieces and been put together different, all of a moment, by those words.
Elizabeth, frozen at the threshold, stared. The ragged figure lounging on the stoop straightened instantly, sketching her a theatrical little bow.
"Mrs. Turner."
Estrella was right. He made for an exceedingly odd sight in that costume, with a vibrantly patched coat to rival Joseph's, his hair hidden by a scuffed and shapeless hat, his eyes un-rimmed with kohl. But they were the same eyes.
"Jack Sparrow," Elizabeth said, and her hiccup of a laugh might just as well have been a sob. "It's really you, isn't it."
"Aye," and the eyes still held that knowing glint. Still saw her, into her, and they mocked what they saw. "The one and only, love."
"Come in, then," she managed, for she couldn't think of what else to say just then, and convinced herself she'd at least meant to say, please, go away. Leave me in peace...
Hat in hand, he paced her parlor with that restless, unconscious grace of his, as out of place as a tiger might be in that room, examining Will's little wood and ivory carvings on the shelf, the candlesticks on the mantle, the horsehair furniture, the pictures and embroidered homilies on the walls. Nothing fine enough for him to steal. She hoped.
"Why are you here, Jack?" she asked him, finally.
"Was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd drop in, pay my respects. All proper and civilized, like." His glance, oblique, revealed nothing. "Do you object, then, Mrs. Turner? Or suspect me of some hidden motive, perhaps."
Always. "I didn't think I'd see you again," she said. "After." And stopped.
"Missed me, did you?" He stepped towards her; his gaze swept over her, hot and sharp as a slap, and she knew he missed nothing. Not the faded gingham of her dress, the ripped hem she'd meant to mend, last year's worn shoes on her feet; not the shadows she'd noticed beneath her reflection's eyes of late, the lines around her mouth. She looked away.
"Ah, Lizzie, Lizzie," he said quietly. "This life hardly agrees with you, I fear."
"Don't call me that," she whispered.
"What?" Another step. "Lizzie?" They were close enough to touch, his hand suspended in the space between them, not quite brushing her cheek.
"Jack." She stepped back, leaving his hand to trace her contour in the air. "Just...don't."
"Don't what?" Velvet and honey, his voice, and fire in her blood.
"You know what. You know it perfectly well. It's over. It's ended. I'm married. Will--"
"Will's not here." His voice had dropped again. "Spends a good lot of nights at the forge, does he?"
"He works hard. He supports the both of us. He has to."
"Of course he does." Jack turned away abruptly; she sagged with what she told herself was nothing but relief.
"He loves me," she said.
"And you love him." He dropped his hat on one of the chairs, ran his fingers lightly over the carved wooden backrest, and she shivered a little, silently damned her own skin for betrayal. "I've heard this little speech before, if you remember."
"It's still true," she said, her voice high and taut. "Jack, what do you want from me? You said it yourself. We've been through this. I made my choice--"
But he spun towards her then, and his expression stole the breath from her lungs. "One thing, Lizzie," he said, and he had closed the space between them again; when she backed up, her shoulders brushed the wall. "No, love. Look at me." His hand catching her chin, dragging it upwards, a calloused thumb rasping against the underside of her jaw. "Look me in the eye, Elizabeth, and tell me that you're happy here. With him. That's all I want."
Unwillingly, then, she met his gaze; and could not speak. Did she have to? He already knew.
"Tell me," he said, all soft and rough like he was, like the touch she remembered. "Tell me you don't dream of the sea. Tell me this..." a sardonic glance around the humble sitting room, "this is your freedom. Needlework and proverbs. No lies now, Lizzie-girl."
"Stop it," she said, her pulse swift under his palm--could he feel it, count it?--her shallow breath barely enough for the two words.
"What," he said, so close, his pupils wide and black (a tiger's), "what, this?" And kissed her, mouth hard and hot and hungry for her, all the things she wanted and didn't want him to be, lean body pressing her into the flower-papered wall, a knee among her skirts, between her legs, and his hands, oh, his hands. One sliding down her torso from the underside of her bosom to her hip and lower, gathering her petticoats up in a practiced motion, the other slipping under them, lightly up her thigh.
"You didn't answer my question, love."
"Someone will come," she said, while her whole body cried out for the upward progress of that hand, full of the answer he wanted.
He grinned, brilliant, golden, lewd. "An astute observation, darlin'. You first, I think," he added, and slid his fingers up at last to find her sex.
She clung to him, moaning, as he stroked her, a slow tortuous pleasure, grateful for the wall's support and his other hand at her waist when her knees went weak. She should be thinking, of virtue and...and marriage vows, and the honest man who loved her, and how wrong this was, but she could barely think at all except of wickedness and sin and the hard length of him against her and "Jack!"
"Easy, love," he crooned, lips at her collar-bone now, and teeth, and then licking lower towards the cleft of her breasts; the trinkets hanging in his hair fell cold against her skin, making her gasp. He took his hand from between her legs, and she whimpered with frustration, until she realized hazily that he was unfastening his breeches, that he meant to have her here and now, with her skirts up around her waist like a Tortuga whore. The thought should have shamed her; instead, it sent a further shock of lust through her, a desperate, wanton need.
"Please," she said, and pulled him towards her, tangling fingers in his hair.
"You always were a bloody impatient wench," he muttered, but his hands closed around her hips, lifting her up slightly and onto him, driving himself deep inside her; she cried out, a hoarse indrawn breath, saw stars briefly when her head struck the wall. Her gown had fallen off one shoulder, and he buried his face in the skin thus revealed. "Lizzie," he groaned, and bit her gently there just above her breast, then found her mouth again; she wrapped her legs around his waist as he thrust long and slow, rolling his hips rhythmically against her. She bit her own lip to stop herself from screaming, tasting blood and Jack, salty-sweet-bitter on her tongue.
"You won't break me," she said, breathless, though she feared he would. "I need..." and thankfully he seemed to know what she needed, for he increased his pace, his own breath coming faster, and she came apart around him after all, and he cursed and shuddered and they fell to earth again, leaning against the wall to stay upright. She dropped her head against his chest and tried to remember where they were and who she was.
"Elizabeth," he said, into her neck, into her hair coming down in coils and sweaty ringlets from its loosened pins. "Lizzie, my love." Pulling back, taking her by the shoulders: "Come away with me. The Pearl's waiting down the coast. We'll sail tonight."
"You know I can't," she said.
"Bollocks." He released her so suddenly she staggered. "You can do whatever you want to do, m'dear. Do say what you mean, if you please. You mean you won't."
"Very well. I won't leave him like that. With nothing."
"And you are left with what, then?"
She smoothed her skirts down, though she was still slick between her thighs with him; his scent was everywhere on her, and it was difficult to piece together a coherent thought. "You wouldn't understand."
"Wouldn't I?" he said, with dangerous calm. "So you sacrifice your happiness for his. How noble of you. How virtuous. A perfect penance for your guilty conscience."
"How dare you--wretch!" She flew at him, hand raised to slap him; but he caught her wrist with one swift motion, held her still.
"Oh, no you don't," he said softly. "You're a little fool, Elizabeth Turner. The whelp's already lost the only thing he ever wanted of you. He just doesn't know it yet."
Panic clogged her throat. "Jack! You wouldn't tell him. You wouldn't dare."
"I would dare," he growled. "But he's your husband, Lizzie dear, not mine, and it's your tale to tell. Your bloody harvest to reap. And I wish you joy of it."
He let go her wrist, snatching his hat from the chair, and stalked to the door to throw it open.
"Jack," she said. The ache he'd left in her was wakening already.
He turned back to her then, for a second's fraction, and his face was shadowed, weary with something that looked almost like pain, although it could have been nothing but the last vestiges of spent anger. But the moment passed too quickly for her to be sure of it. He shook his head slightly, as if shaking off water or the impulse to speak again, and was gone.
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