Drabble (100 words)
"I require nothing as trifling as a barometer to gauge your moods, Mrs. Muir!"
"Of course not, Captain. I don't have 'moods' – I am even-keeled during even the worst of storms."
"You may fancy yourself the calm at the heart of a storm but in reality you are a hurricane! You have blown into Gull Cottage –"
"And what?"
"Interrupted me again!"
"I was interjecting, not -!"
"Blast it, woman, let me speak my blasted piece."
"You just compared me to a tempest –"
"My dear you are most –"
"Afraid you have blown us both way off course."
ATC (After the Credits)
"I could gauge your moods even without a barometer, Captain Gregg!"
She smiled coyly up at the landing. "Why, I haven't so much as glanced at the James Gatley and I can tell just by looking at you that today promises to be gloriously fair, with plenty of ego and scattered pomposity."
"Why of course you can read my moods, Madame! Nary a cloud on the horizon with your wind billowing my sails," he agreed reasonably, descending the stairs. "You are, of course, to a large degree responsible for most if not all of the sudden increase in mercury."
Carolyn's eyes widened. She turned to peer closely at the James Gatley.
Captain Gregg stopped just behind her, and pretended to admire his instrument. Was that a breeze from the parlor windows or breath on the back of her neck? She wanted to lean back, to surrender to her desirous curiosity all under the pretense of looking upwards, even higher, at the visibly rising needle.
"I would say it's fairly accurate, wouldn't you?"
"It certainly feels like the real James Gatley," she whispered insensately. "Blast!"
"Blast, me dear? You are indeed an astute observer of both weather conditions and an accomplished interpreter of navigational instruments. Perhaps I could interest you in learning more about my binnacle?"
Carolyn closed her eyes and slowly inhaled. A smile crept slowly up the sides of her lips as she turned, and casually surveyed the Captain's body, dismissing him with a single arch of her eyebrow.
"Wait here," she suggested. "The binnacle's a little small and hard to read although I can handle your telescope. I'll have to get my glasses off the kitchen table."
"No need, Mrs. Muir. I believe the compass always points due north, to the master cabin."
His eyes left hers, headed due south for her lips, where her smile had dissipated as her arms headed northwards, pulling his head to hers.
"It's dead reckoning now, my love," he murmured as he swept her off her feet and carried her upstairs, off to distant shores.