Disclaimer: Consider this work disclaimed.
A shortish, fluffy chapter, though Lord knows it took me long enough. Thank you once again for all the support and kind reviews! And for those helpful souls who've been giving me criticisms and advice, I promise I am not ignoring you! I've been really busy lately--and not in a good way. I hope to get updating regularly again soon, but I can't make any promises.
*Chapter Four*
"That is absolutely the last time I ever 'feel like being useful,'" Lilian muttered to herself.
Somewhere on The Pearl, Jack Sparrow was grinning to himself like a madman.
In Anamaria's old cabin, Lilian Turner was surrounded by what seemed to be miles and miles of mending.
Shirts and trousers, bits of cloaks and blankets...it seemed like anything and everything made of cloth on the ship had been ripped or torn in one way or another. And all of it had been heaped in her small cabin, waiting for "a feminine touch" as Jack had put it, waggling his fingers in what he must have thought was a dainty way.
She should have been furious, she realized. You don't make hostages do chores. You abuse them, starve them, kick them, perhaps, but you don't honestly expect them to be helpful.
But Jack Sparrow obviously did. And, to her surprise, Lilian was complying. She had shoved the filthier items of clothing to one side--those, at least, she wouldn't touch, at least until they were washed, and was starting on cloaks and blankets.
The needles were larger than those she was used to, and slightly rusty, and the thread came in two colors: white, and white stained with rust.
It was getting hot, and she was still laced into her whalebone prison, but it was nice to do something useful. She hadn't realized she had been sewing so long when Jack stood in the doorway, beaming maniacally, with "a spot of lunch."
"Leave it on the chest over there. I'm almost done," Lilian said, struggling with some odd garment made of heavy canvas.
He smiled. "Lilzie, kitten, you're a peach. You're doing more work than the rest of my crew put together."
"Funny, isn't it, as I'm not a part of your crew..." Her brows drew together. "Why am I doing this again?"
"Because you're a peach. And because the last crewmember I had who knew how to sew left...left...I don't remember when. Must'v been a while ago, right, if we've got so much mending?"
Lilian, trying to sew and converse at the same time, pricked her finger with the needle. "You should find a crewmember who knows how to sew."
He cocked his head to one side and looked at her. "I'll most strongly consider it, love," he said slowly.
She could feel the telltale burning in her cheeks. Lilian turned abruptly away, to Jack's delight, and tried to think pale thoughts; feeling a gold-capped smile burning into the side of her head.
She turned back to him when she felt that the burn had sufficiently subsided.
"Better yet," she said. "I'll teach you how. It isn't hard."
And that odd day found Captain Jack Sparrow on the floor of the small cabin, surrounded by mending, brow furrowed and sweat-beaded in intense concentration. They sat quietly side by side, with Lilian giving the occasional helpful direction.
"It's like a sword, Mister Sparrow. You hold the blunt end, and you poke the pointy end," she said patiently.
"Captain. Captain Sparrow. Jack, actually, m'dear." Flirting and sewing are a bad combination in the best of times. He gave a very un-Captainlike yelp, and displayed to her a tiny drop of blood as if it were a grave injury. "You call that 'BLUNT'?!"
Lilian, in return, displayed her own hands.
They had been, until that day, aristocrats' hands; delicate and uncalloused. She knew how to sew, true, but usually with silks and tiny embroidery needles, and usually in extreme moderation. The fingers she showed Jack were raw and reddened, with small dots of blood here and there where she had pricked herself.
Her one-upmanship had unforeseen consequences, she realized too late, as Jack dropped his own sewing to caress her abused fingers gently. The red flooded immediately back to her cheeks, and she tore her hand from his grip indignantly.
He chuckled. "I do make you nervous, don't I?" he said cheerfully, to which there was really no suitable reply.
He was--she had to face it--a very difficult man to dislike.
"Yer mum was always a bit tense, I remember. 'Mister Sparrow' this and 'Mister Sparrow' that. Comes from bein' brought up around too many gentlemen. They tend to be a little uptight. Some cards one is meant to play close to the vest, kitten, and some one isn't, do you understand?"
Lilian shook her head, although a certain dark realization was indeed starting to dawn.
"Anyway," he continued--he had a strange ability to ignore someone, even while conversing with them. "Miss Elizabeth got over it, I think, and you're really much nicer than she ever was. Meaning no insult to the dear old mum, of course. But...well...you don't honestly suppose she would've sewed sheets for me, do you?"
Lilian laughed. "Don't honestly know why I'm doing it myself."
He laughed. "I can tell you! Because I'm Captain Jack Sparrow, and because you, my blushing kitten, absolutely adore me!"
"Indeed?" Lilian raised a single, eloquent eyebrow.
"Of course. Even if you don't know it yet. And I've got at least a week before we get to Port Royal to convince you."
He jumped up, then, scattering mending. "Got to be off, I'm afraid, lovely as this is. Things to do. Ships to captain. Eat your lunch, love, and join me for dinner, would you?"
He blew her a kiss from the doorway and was gone.
She stared at the door for far too long, and, although she told herself it was only because she was sick of sewing, she also knew that she was a poor liar. The blush was still not gone; half angry, half amused at his games. She was used to gentlemen, whose advances were far less overt, although the intentions--particularly with a pretty girl like that--were always the same. Or were they? Jack Sparrow obviously took precious little in this world seriously. It was, she imagined, a rather nice way to live. Half-mad he might be, but still, it made a pleasant change from society's sanity.
She continued to sew for quite some time, as her fingers slowly drifted from "sore and bloody" to the more pleasant, if more ominous "numb and bloody." When it finally occurred to her to eat the lunch Sparrow had left, it was nearly five o'clock.
The prospect of more sewing was abhorrent, and no other activities would likely make themselves available in her cabin. It occurred to her that she could leave and explore the ship, as Jack had obviously not locked the door again, but it was probably not a very good idea.
So, naturally, full of stale bread and bacon, she shoved all the mending off her bed and slept.
Jack, intending to wake her for dinner not much later, found her looking so exhausted and peaceful, and, feeling slightly guilty about her bloody fingers, let her sleep.
A shortish, fluffy chapter, though Lord knows it took me long enough. Thank you once again for all the support and kind reviews! And for those helpful souls who've been giving me criticisms and advice, I promise I am not ignoring you! I've been really busy lately--and not in a good way. I hope to get updating regularly again soon, but I can't make any promises.
*Chapter Four*
"That is absolutely the last time I ever 'feel like being useful,'" Lilian muttered to herself.
Somewhere on The Pearl, Jack Sparrow was grinning to himself like a madman.
In Anamaria's old cabin, Lilian Turner was surrounded by what seemed to be miles and miles of mending.
Shirts and trousers, bits of cloaks and blankets...it seemed like anything and everything made of cloth on the ship had been ripped or torn in one way or another. And all of it had been heaped in her small cabin, waiting for "a feminine touch" as Jack had put it, waggling his fingers in what he must have thought was a dainty way.
She should have been furious, she realized. You don't make hostages do chores. You abuse them, starve them, kick them, perhaps, but you don't honestly expect them to be helpful.
But Jack Sparrow obviously did. And, to her surprise, Lilian was complying. She had shoved the filthier items of clothing to one side--those, at least, she wouldn't touch, at least until they were washed, and was starting on cloaks and blankets.
The needles were larger than those she was used to, and slightly rusty, and the thread came in two colors: white, and white stained with rust.
It was getting hot, and she was still laced into her whalebone prison, but it was nice to do something useful. She hadn't realized she had been sewing so long when Jack stood in the doorway, beaming maniacally, with "a spot of lunch."
"Leave it on the chest over there. I'm almost done," Lilian said, struggling with some odd garment made of heavy canvas.
He smiled. "Lilzie, kitten, you're a peach. You're doing more work than the rest of my crew put together."
"Funny, isn't it, as I'm not a part of your crew..." Her brows drew together. "Why am I doing this again?"
"Because you're a peach. And because the last crewmember I had who knew how to sew left...left...I don't remember when. Must'v been a while ago, right, if we've got so much mending?"
Lilian, trying to sew and converse at the same time, pricked her finger with the needle. "You should find a crewmember who knows how to sew."
He cocked his head to one side and looked at her. "I'll most strongly consider it, love," he said slowly.
She could feel the telltale burning in her cheeks. Lilian turned abruptly away, to Jack's delight, and tried to think pale thoughts; feeling a gold-capped smile burning into the side of her head.
She turned back to him when she felt that the burn had sufficiently subsided.
"Better yet," she said. "I'll teach you how. It isn't hard."
And that odd day found Captain Jack Sparrow on the floor of the small cabin, surrounded by mending, brow furrowed and sweat-beaded in intense concentration. They sat quietly side by side, with Lilian giving the occasional helpful direction.
"It's like a sword, Mister Sparrow. You hold the blunt end, and you poke the pointy end," she said patiently.
"Captain. Captain Sparrow. Jack, actually, m'dear." Flirting and sewing are a bad combination in the best of times. He gave a very un-Captainlike yelp, and displayed to her a tiny drop of blood as if it were a grave injury. "You call that 'BLUNT'?!"
Lilian, in return, displayed her own hands.
They had been, until that day, aristocrats' hands; delicate and uncalloused. She knew how to sew, true, but usually with silks and tiny embroidery needles, and usually in extreme moderation. The fingers she showed Jack were raw and reddened, with small dots of blood here and there where she had pricked herself.
Her one-upmanship had unforeseen consequences, she realized too late, as Jack dropped his own sewing to caress her abused fingers gently. The red flooded immediately back to her cheeks, and she tore her hand from his grip indignantly.
He chuckled. "I do make you nervous, don't I?" he said cheerfully, to which there was really no suitable reply.
He was--she had to face it--a very difficult man to dislike.
"Yer mum was always a bit tense, I remember. 'Mister Sparrow' this and 'Mister Sparrow' that. Comes from bein' brought up around too many gentlemen. They tend to be a little uptight. Some cards one is meant to play close to the vest, kitten, and some one isn't, do you understand?"
Lilian shook her head, although a certain dark realization was indeed starting to dawn.
"Anyway," he continued--he had a strange ability to ignore someone, even while conversing with them. "Miss Elizabeth got over it, I think, and you're really much nicer than she ever was. Meaning no insult to the dear old mum, of course. But...well...you don't honestly suppose she would've sewed sheets for me, do you?"
Lilian laughed. "Don't honestly know why I'm doing it myself."
He laughed. "I can tell you! Because I'm Captain Jack Sparrow, and because you, my blushing kitten, absolutely adore me!"
"Indeed?" Lilian raised a single, eloquent eyebrow.
"Of course. Even if you don't know it yet. And I've got at least a week before we get to Port Royal to convince you."
He jumped up, then, scattering mending. "Got to be off, I'm afraid, lovely as this is. Things to do. Ships to captain. Eat your lunch, love, and join me for dinner, would you?"
He blew her a kiss from the doorway and was gone.
She stared at the door for far too long, and, although she told herself it was only because she was sick of sewing, she also knew that she was a poor liar. The blush was still not gone; half angry, half amused at his games. She was used to gentlemen, whose advances were far less overt, although the intentions--particularly with a pretty girl like that--were always the same. Or were they? Jack Sparrow obviously took precious little in this world seriously. It was, she imagined, a rather nice way to live. Half-mad he might be, but still, it made a pleasant change from society's sanity.
She continued to sew for quite some time, as her fingers slowly drifted from "sore and bloody" to the more pleasant, if more ominous "numb and bloody." When it finally occurred to her to eat the lunch Sparrow had left, it was nearly five o'clock.
The prospect of more sewing was abhorrent, and no other activities would likely make themselves available in her cabin. It occurred to her that she could leave and explore the ship, as Jack had obviously not locked the door again, but it was probably not a very good idea.
So, naturally, full of stale bread and bacon, she shoved all the mending off her bed and slept.
Jack, intending to wake her for dinner not much later, found her looking so exhausted and peaceful, and, feeling slightly guilty about her bloody fingers, let her sleep.