Birthday Surprise
by Luvvycat

A/N: This little bit of Sparrabeth naughtiness was written in honour of the birthdays of two of the (IMHO) best and brightest writers who have ever graced PotC fandom, Djarum99 and GeekMama (who both happen to have been born on May 8). In fact, this fic was inspired by a comment Djarum made in her LiveJournal about Jack, so you can thank (or rather blame) her for its existence, as well as for Jack's unusual "costume" described herein. ;-)

I originally posted this fic (a bit belatedly) on LiveJournal, and now I post it here for your perusal, with my fondest felicitations to these two wonderful and talented ladies! ;-)

Hope you enjoy!

'Ta!

- Cat

Elizabeth sulked as she headed back to the docked Pearl, the sun hanging low in the Tortugan sky as it moved toward setting.

All in all, it had to have been one of the worst birthdays ever—the first in her recallable years of life that threatened to pass unnoticed and unheralded. From the moment she awoke that morning, to find Jack's side of the bed already empty and cold, no-one had deigned to acknowledge the significance of the day, the crew moving about their duties as they always did, their routine unaltered as though this were just another ordinary day amongst hundreds.

Jack's slight, though, had been the worst of all! Not only was it not like him to forget her birthday, but when she'd emerged from their cabin that morning, greeting him at the wheel with a kiss as he steered the Pearlinto Tortuga's welcoming harbour, his distracted manner—and profound indifference—had stung her deeply and personally.

The fact that weeks at sea had left her feeling decidedly unclean, and unfeminine—ablutions only coming via a bucket of cold seawater hauled aboard deck and poured over one's person, due to the Pearl's lack of proper bathing facilities—only added to her misery, the salty makeshift "baths" leaving her once delicate, creamy-pale skin feeling coarse and dry and itchy, and smelling perpetually of brine. She found herself longing for the days she could indulge in a long soak in a hot tub, in bathwater perfumed with her favourite French soap, sweetened with the scent of lavender.

But those days of being a pampered daughter of the aristocracy were well and truly over, and though there were aspects of that former life that she missed (baths, perhaps, being near the very top of her list), overall she had few regrets about leaving her old life behind. For all the things she'd lost since escaping from gaol, and Port Royal (most regrettably, of course, being losing her dear father to death, and her husband to the Flying Dutchmanand Calypso), she had also gained much: freedom, independence, a ship of her own (for a time), a pirate Kingdom (such as it was!) and, most of all, a bosom friend—and an extraordinarily adept lover—in Captain Jack Sparrow.

However, of late, she had cause to question her status with Jack. A little more than two years since she'd first gone to Jack's bed and sampled the forbidden fruits of his considerable and varied experience in the ways of the flesh—she now feared that he'd already begun to grow tired of her company on his ship, in his life, and particularly in his bed. Though his attitude (and his passion) toward her appeared not to have changed during their nightly trysts in the cabin and bunk they shared, lately, whenever they made port, no sooner had they docked than Jack would disappear into town, not returning to the ship until well after dark, with the scent of tobacco, rum, and cheap perfume clinging to him like a drunk and persistent doxy.

Doubts assailed her relentlessly. Had Jack returned to his old, girl-in-every-pirate-port ways? Did he continue to crave the types of pleasures that she, in her inexperience, had been unable to satisfy, compelling him to seek gratification from more "well-seasoned" ladies? Or (horrible thought!) had she been little more to him than a convenient body to warm his bed during those long, woman-less stretches at sea—his only "port in a storm" for the regular sating of his masculine lusts?

She didn't want to think so. Her instincts (or was it merely wishful thinking?) told her that there was much more between her and Jack than merely convenience and mutual lust: the care he took with her whilst they engaged in "Cupid's dance", the look in his eyes as he brought her to completion, the rapturous expression on his too-beautiful face as he reached his own, the way he held her afterwards as they slept the sleep of the sated wrapped in each other's arms, were surely more than he would afford a paid whore or a casual conquest. Her heart, and her pride, refused to allow her to believe otherwise.

But she also knew Jack was not a man to wear his heart on his sleeve, always keeping his secrets, not divulging essential facts until it served his purposes to do so, holding a part of himself back, even from those who counted themselves his friends and comrades—or lovers. And for all the shared intimacy there had been between them these past few years… the days of smouldering glances and verbal sparring that only served as a prelude for more physical (and horizontal) skirmishes to follow, the nights of torrid love-making… Jack remained an enigma to her, never revealing more about himself than he wanted her to see.

On one level, she understood why this was so. On another, it pained her to think that she might never, ever really get to fully know the real man behind the carefully-constructed façade, beyond those rare, unguarded moments she'd been privileged to glimpse thus far.

She'd tried to set her doubts about Jack, and her own desirability, aside, without much success. They continued to nag at her, like a toothache that wouldn't go completely away.

But as they approached the island where she and Jack had made their re-acquaintance, back when she'd been searching for Will, and he for Davy Jones' chest, she clung to the hope that perhaps Tortuga would be different…

However, once the Pearl was safely docked, Jack had once more made himself conspicuous by his absence, quickly disappearing into the dissolute pirate town without so much as a by-your-leave or an invitation to accompany him … nor a single mention of her birthday.

Angry, frustrated, hurt, and determined not to sit cooling her heels on the Pearl like some jealous wife waiting for a philandering husband to return home, Elizabeth had made her own way into town—not, she told herself, for the purpose of finding Jack and discovering what he was really up to, and with whom … oh no, absolutely not that—but merely hoping to find enough to distract herself from the gloomy thoughts plaguing her mind, and the depressing prospect of having to celebrate her birthday all by her onesies.

Now, her spirits as low as they had been when she'd departed, she returned to the docks and traversed the Pearl's gangplank. Setting foot on her familiar black-boarded deck, she glanced up at the quarterdeck, and frowned. Still no Jack! Instead, Gibbs stood at the helm, "conversing" with the mute Cotton (and his ubiquitous parrot). Jack's first mate paused only long enough to sketch her a small salute, and to flash a knowing smile that struck her as being perilously close to a smirk as she crossed toward the Great Cabin.

As her hand alit on the door-latch, she wondered, just a bit, not only about the smirk, but about the glint of mischief she could have sworn she'd seen in Gibbs' eyes.

She wasn't long in finding out…

The cabin was awash with soft candlelight, same as it was on most nights, save for one significant (and quite remarkable) difference.

Jack was sprawled decadently on the bed, nestled among a sea of brocade pillows, one knee raised provocatively, arms crossed nonchalantly behind his head, wearing a wicked grin, and the most extraordinary costume.

If one could call naught but tricorne hat and knee-high boots—with not a stitch in-between them, save for a strategically-placed bright red satin bow bedecking a certain masculine bit of anatomy—a "costume"!

Though she couldn't deny that he made a deliciously erotic, and exceedingly inviting, picture (which no doubt had been his deliberate and calculated intention), she wasn't yet ready to give up her anger at his earlier cold-shoulder treatment of her, or her suspicion that he'd gone back to sharing his "favours" with doxies.

"Jack, just what do you think you're doing?"

"Isn't it obvious, my dear Lizzie?" He spread his hands and arched an eyebrow, archly. "I'm givin' you your birthday present…"

So, he hadn't forgotten after all! But that wasn't enough to get him off the hook, as far as she was concerned. She suspected rather strongly that the hastily-donned bow was Jack's hurried, eleventh-hour attempt to hide the fact (though Lord knew that bow hid very little else!) that he had only just remembered her birthday, and hadn't had time to get her a proper present. "Leave it to you, Jack," she said acerbically, "to want to celebrate my birthday in a manner that most pleases—and benefits—yourself … and which cost you naught but the price of a bit of ribbon—assuming that you actually paid for it, that is!" She glanced pointedly down at his lap, disdainfully. "And, frankly, if that's all you have to offer, after ignoring me all day, I'm singularly unimpressed…"

His moustaches drooped (though, she noticed, the ribbon didn't) as the barb hit its mark. "Now don't go sayin' that, luv. Have you ever known me not to commemorate your natal day—or fail to 'rise to the occasion' when it came to you? It's an inevitability of nature, like sunrise and sunset." His grin returned, and dark, wicked eyes scanned her form, from head to toe, critically. "And, in my considered opinion, darlin', you're decidedly overdressed for this particular occasion."

She made a small, chuffing noise of scepticism.

"Besides…" he continued as he unfurled and rose from the bed, stalking slowly toward her with the lithe grace of a jungle cat, and she had to admit the sight was a rather fetching, and highly stimulating, one. As his lover, she had witnessed Jack in all manners of dress (and undress), but somehow seeing him like this—nude save for suede boots and leather hat—was causing the most delicious tingles to shiver through her body, and she couldn't keep her eyes from straying to where the bright red bow bobbed like a large flower on a thick, fleshy stalk. "Me own fine (and, as you've no doubt noticed, finely-equipped) person is not the only delight in store for you tonight…" He took her hand in his, meeting her wary gaze with a hot one of his own that caused certain private spaces within her to melt. She felt her face heat in a blush, as though she were the one stripped naked, exposed and vulnerable, and not Jack.

His eyes never leaving hers, he raised her hand to his lips for an almost courtly kiss, then, lacing his fingers with hers, he started leading her toward a Chinese screen in the corner that she hadn't noticed before. "Come, Lizzie … see what else I've brought for you…"

Only then did she become aware of the smell wafting through the cabin, which she had overlooked in her shock at finding Jack's denuded and beribboned form stretched out so temptingly before her.

It was the familiar scent of lavender…

As Jack led her around the edge of the screen, and she saw what lay beyond, the secret places within her that had not already melted under the first onslaught of Jack's heated gaze thawed and joined their fellows.

"Oh, Jack…"

Behind the concealing screen stood a large, new, bright copper bath-tub, filled practically to the brim with hot, steamy water, the vapour hovering above its frothy surface, redolent with the intoxicating floral aroma, causing the air to shimmer like a desert mirage, irresistibly beckoning her forward, inviting her to immerse herself in sweet liquid paradise.

Jack was at her back, hands already moving over her from behind: clever fingers unfastening her baldric and belts, undoing the laces of her breeches, working at the buttons of her waistcoat and shirt, his warm, moist breath, like the fragrant steam rising from the tub before her, curling against the delicate shell of her ear as he murmured into it:

"You've been goin' on and on, luv, about that bloody French soap and how much you missed it…" Her belt and baldric hit the floor. "Had a devil of a time findin' it, I did. Been searchin' for months, every port we docked in, every ship we raided, with no luck. Apparently," he added, wryly, as her undone breeches slid down her legs to pool around her ankles, "as you've frequently noted my shortcomings in matters of personal hygiene," he supported her weight as she leaned back against him to toe off her boots, kicking both them and her rumpled breeches aside, "the detection, locatin' and acquisition of soap is plainly not my forte." One, two, three, four, five buttons slipped free of their holes under Jack's nimble touch, and her waistcoat joined the growing pile on the floor.

"So, bein' desperate," his hands slid under the tail of her shirt, found her hips, and pulled them back again his, making them both moan at the first touch of soft naked skin against hard, "I finally had to beg the kind assistance of certain shady ladies of me former (though, before you ask, most assuredly not current, cross me heart!) intimate acquaintance in huntin' it down…" Somehow, while under the spell of his rough-velvet voice, he had managed to magically make her shirt vanish, "…for who'd best know where to obtain such fine fripperies favoured by the female creature than another of that persuasion? And, thus…" She gasped as warm, callused hands alit on her breasts, cupping them gently, "my objective was, in the end, successfully achieved."

A hot, wet, rum-scented tongue slowly traced the whorls of her ear, and the sudden fierce surge of desire made her knees tremble.

"Now, darlin'…" he paused to nibble at the nape of her neck, lips, tongue and teeth working at her tender skin, before releasing her suddenly and stepping back to bestow a single, playful slap to her newly-exposed arse. "Run along and take your long longed-for bath." His voice lowered to a silken purr. "Then, afterwards (speaking of long) you can unwrap your other present, and we'll celebrate properly (or, shall I say with utmost accuracy, improperly) for as long as you wish. But, pray, don't prolong your ablutionary proceedings overlong," he said, with a small wince of discomfort, "'cause if circumstances continue to… er, elongate much longer, your gift just might succumb to a short and untimely death by strangulation…"

Elizabeth closed her eyes and breathed in the wonderful aroma of the fragrant steam, not sure which excited her more: the prospect of a hot bath, or of having her way with Jack. She threw him a hot-eyed, come-hither glance over her shoulder. "Perhaps you'd care to join me?" she said, invitingly. "That tub appears to be just about large enough for two…"

His handsome face fell into a mock-horrified expression. "A lavender pirate? Belay that thought, luv! I'd never hear the end of it from me crew, if I came out of me cabin, squeaky-clean and smellin' like a flower!" The corner of his mouth twitched into a lopsided grin. "Why, they might mistake me for Chevalle, and toss me overboard!"

"I see your point," she said, laughing as she dipped a foot into the water, testing the temperature before slipping into the tub. She sighed in hedonistic bliss as the hot water (and memories of more carefree times past) closed around her like a cosy, floral-scented blanket.

As she stretched luxuriantly and arched her back in pleasure, Jack's amused grin turned into a leer. "Though I may not be joinin' you, I hope you don't mind if I do pull up a front-row seat, and watch… longingly!"

In heavenly transports, she scrubbed every last inch of herself clean, then lay back and let herself soak, half-dozing, until the water started going cold. With a happy though regretful sigh, she reluctantly set aside her soap and sponge and stood, reaching for the bath-sheet Jack had left within easy reaching distance of the tub. All the while she'd been bathing, Jack had sat, watching her so silently that she had nearly forgotten he was there…

…until she'd finished towelling off her hair and started to wrap the sheet around herself.

"Don't do that, luv … you'll spoil the view," Jack drawled, adding suggestively, "And what a lovely view it is…"

She shivered, gooseflesh rising, the skin around the tips of her breasts tightening in response to the air which now felt unnaturally cool against her moist skin after the warmth of the tub—and perhaps just a bit at the dark, thrilling timbre of Jack's voice. "But I don't want to catch a chill…"

He was suddenly behind her, callused hands pushing the offending cloth from her shoulders, then sliding down her arms and up her ribs until they once more took possession of her girlish breasts. As his thumbs stroked her nipples erect, her shiver of cold transformed into a quiver of eager anticipation. "Then let me be your blanket, darlin'…" He turned her in his arms, his face barely an inch from hers, and the look in his eyes burned away any trace of chill in her body. "I'llkeep you warm…"

He wrapped her dripping form in his strong arms, his mouth covering hers as he gathered her close. When his tongue sought, then met her own, sparks flared, sizzling through her body like a lit fuse seeking a keg of powder, hinting at the glorious explosion to come. As he held her even closer, his hands wandering where they would, fingers hot against her cool flesh, she felt the ribbon—as well as that part of Jack to which it was attached—brushing against her belly.

"Mmmmm…" Jack murmured against her mouth, between kisses. "Gotta give those French soap-makers their due, luv. You do smell soooo good…" He buried his nose in her damp hair, then dragged it down the side of her neck, inhaling deeply, then letting it out again, his breath gusting hot against her skin as he growled, "Good enough to eat…" His teeth grazed her jaw, nipped at her earlobe, sank softly into her shoulder, before his mouth reclaimed hers.

Clutching Jack's upper arms, she surrendered to his deep, plunging kiss, pressing her body against him, a rather sinful idea taking shape as she walked him backward, just as she had done that fateful, long-ago day on the Kraken-besieged Pearl, until he was forced to stop by the back of his knees hitting the chair. Breaking the kiss, she pushed Jack down into the chair with a rough shove. His bare arse hit the wooden seat with a fleshy slap.

She looked down coyly at him, her fingers reaching to toy with the bow. "Am I correct in assuming, Jack, through your giving of this gift, that you are mine tonight, to do with as I please?"

He crooked a salacious grin. "Aye," he affirmed. "Anythin' your little heart desires, sweet Lizzie…" As her lips drew back in a predatory smile, apprehension flickered across his face. "Within reason, of course!" he added, hastily.

"That's all I needed to know…" she cooed.

Her eyes fastened on his as she went to her knees before him, watching him watching her raptly, hungrily, and that look—a look of raw need, his need for her—fed her own hunger, set it growing, building, burning like a bonfire inside of her. Smiling up at him with a decidedly wicked expression, she slid her palms, excruciatingly slowly, along the tops of his thighs. Leaning forward, gaze still locked with his, she dragged the velvety tip of her tongue up his inner thigh, then gingerly took the end of the ribbon in her teeth, and pulled …

She heard his breath hitch, then quicken as the bow loosened, then gave way, the sleek ribbon slithering like a living thing across his engorged flesh. His lips parted ever so slightly on a moan of both relief and frustration, gapping just enough to reveal a glint of golden fire that matched the flare of intense desire in his eyes before their kohl-painted lids drifted closed. "Bloody hell!" he whispered hoarsely as the muscles beneath her hands tensed, hardened, trembled. "God, Lizzie…! Please … How much longer must I wait?"

"Not long, I promise. But first, before we go to bed, Jack …" Her hands stroked back down his legs, finally coming to rest on the cuffed tops of his bucket boots. "Lose the boots…" she commanded in a soft voice, then crooked a smile that could have been a double for his own trademark roguish grin. "However, you can leave your hat on…"

She rose gracefully to her feet, and his arms reached eagerly for her, slid around her waist, pulling her forward, his lips descending to fasten around the peak of one breast. With a small cry of triumph, she wound her fingers into his tangled braids, lean pale thighs slipping astride his darker ones as she placed herself on his lap, and in his capable, experienced hands…

Much, much later, while the bed-linens were still cooling after their passionately exuberant exercise, Elizabeth lay in Jack's arms, well-satisfied, and blissfully happy.

As her slender fingers traced lazy, sated circles upon a glistening, tattooed, sun-bronzed chest still heaving from their just-concluded exertions, she revised her earlier assessment:

This had to be one of the best birthdays ever!