Chapter IV
Of Bliss and Bedsheets
"So do not think of helpful whores as aberrational blots; I could not love you half so well without my practice shots."
–James Stewart Alexander Simmons
Feeling rather anxious about this chapter, gang. It's not that I don't care for what I've written and it's not that I think anyone is out-of-character (though I've certainly been wrong about that before), it's just that I feel that this installment…differs slightly from the others. While it's supposed to be soft in comparison to the harshness of the other chapters, I'm worried that it's going to seem too mushy compared to the previous chapters – almost as if it doesn't belong in this story at all. Then again, I might just be being paranoid, but I'd still greatly appreciate some feedback from you guys – not that you haven't been giving me great feed back already, of course. :)
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With that night's wages combined with the money she had earned (i. e. stolen) from her would-be killer, Yvette was able to purchase a grim little box of a room with walls painted (inefficiently) a bleak shade of gray, a ceiling with an over-abundance of cracks and watermarks, and a single window that had neither panes nor curtains. The room consisted of only two pieces of furniture: There was a rickety end table, upon which sat a chipped basin and pitcher; and a narrow bed with a lumpy mattress that was, more likely than not, infested with lice and all other manner of vermin. Thrown over top of the bed was a thin coverlet that was spattered with stains that would have been best kept unidentified along with a sad pair of pillows (almost completely flat and torn at the corners).
And this was where he intended to sleep.
His temple throbbed and the room suddenly tilted, making his stomach churn and groan – several painful reminders as to why he had made this agreement.
He watched as Yvette took up a seat on the bed, her back to him, and began to undress, starting with her little pink shoes (more dusty brown than pink) and gradually moving upward. She paused in the midst of pulling off a stocking, as if remembering something. Glancing over her shoulder at him, she removed his coat and placed it on the mattress with surprising neatness. Odd.
Still mulling over this random act of thoughtfulness, he turned around, seeing that she was about to unlace her stays.
"Y'don't have t –" she began.
"Yes, I do."
His tone left no room for arguments.
"Would y'mind stayin' like that fer a bit?" she asked after several minutes had passed. "M'not naked or anything. Jus' need t'fix my hair."
He blinked in confusion but did not turn around.
"You have no qualms if I see you in a state of undress," he began slowly, "yet you object to my seeing your hair loose?"
When she answered him, her voice was light and matter-of-fact.
"I don't like my hair."
An uncomfortable silence followed before Yvette, who apparently did not enjoy the quiet and wanted to fill every second with as much noise as she could, ended it by saying, "Y'can lie down if y'want. M'jus' washin' my face."
Not immune to curiosity, he turned to see that her mess of hair had been coerced into a long, fastidious braid and that her ugly gown had been painstakingly folded and placed next to the end table with her shoes, stockings, and…under garments…leaving her standing there, barefooted, in nothing but a cotton shift. She smiled faintly at him as she poured water into the basin. He quickly averted his eyes, as if suddenly finding the bed incredibly interesting.
By now his legs wanted to give out and his insides threatened to betray him again, yet he still sat on the edge of the bed, taking the time to remove his boots, hat, and weapons and untuck his shirt before easing himself onto the mattress, gingerly curling up on his side. From where he was lying he could see Yvette as she stood over the basin, splashing water onto her cheeks. When she looked up it appeared as though years had melted from her face, making him wonder exactly how old she was, though he dared not ask. It was not his place.
"Would y'like a drink?" she asked, gesturing to the pitcher.
He carefully shook his head, eyes closed.
"Oh dear," he heard her say. The bed creaked as she sat down next to him. "Are you ill again?"
"Only somewhat," he assured her. "It's nothing."
"Well, is there anythin' I –"
"No," he said sharply. He knew that he was being rude – she was merely offering her help – but, given her past record, it was quite possible that her definition of help differed slightly from his. He knew from the start that this agreement had been a terrible mistake – he was only encouraging her! He moaned weakly at this, ordering himself to stop thinking before he brought further embarrassment upon himself.
Beside him, the mattress shifted. Unwilling to do battle with curiosity again, he gave in and opened his eyes. Yvette was stretched out on the bed, using her elbows to prop herself up as she intently studied his battered figure.
"Y'should get some sleep," she said after a moment.
His tongue was like a sticky weight in his mouth when he tried to speak.
"At the moment, I doubt that my body will allow that…" It was true, he realized. For all the exhaustion he felt, the agony in his head and torso would not grant him rest.
She tilted her head to the side, lower lip pinched between her teeth.
"I have an idea," she announced suddenly.
Dear God, no… Could she not see that he was trying to capture that elusive creature known as sleep? He looked up at her, eyes both pleading and questioning.
"Turn over on your side, back t'me. …Turn over," she repeated when he did not comply, her voice taking on a stern, authoritative edge that reminded him – strangely, painfully – of himself when he had commanded the fleet. Air snagged in his chest, stinging. All of his senses were deserting him, leaving him to fend for himself when he was charged by an onslaught of despair.
He turned his back to Yvette, not because he was following her orders, but because he wanted to evade the torment of memories, thinking the slight movement would be a much-needed distraction from them, if only for a moment. But he had misjudged himself. Terribly. The action sent his insides rolling, and he was once again plagued by nausea.
He shut his eyes and tried to concentrate on breathing.
"Thank you," he heard Yvette say. He offered nothing but stony silence as a reply and kept his mouth firmly closed, no longer trusting his body not to humiliate him.
A hand was at his hip.
There was a sharp intake of breath as his entire body tensed. The deceitful jezebel was taking advantage of him in his vulnerable condition! A prurient hand was sliding over his waist and was suddenly beneath his shirt, moving with enticing speed – a dangerous, ravishing serpent against his flesh.
"Calm yerself," she whispered softly. Her lips were right beside his neck… "Thissis what my mother used t'do t'me…"
What in the name of God – !
Her hand came to rest gently against his stomach, carefully placed over his navel. He wanted her fingers to be cold – claw-like, even – but they bore a soothing warmth that spread throughout his body. He waited for the ravaging to commence, but it never came. She began to move her hand in a slow, circular motion, gliding it lightly over his abdomen, ever careful of the bruises he had received earlier.
Miraculously, the ache in his stomach began to subside, the dizziness receding. His skin was tingling at the unexpected touch, but it was not, though he was loath to admit it, an unpleasant sensation. The heat from her palm was comforting – in a bizarre way. He found himself, however unwillingly, relinquishing control to let her guide him to a blissful sleep.
At long last he felt his eyelids begin to sag under the burden of exhaustion. It would not be long now, he thought, and sighed in relief. He was so sleepy…
He felt rather than saw Yvette smile at his newfound contentment.
"Better?" she asked, her own voice heavy with weariness.
"Yes," he whispered, too far gone to deny anything.
"That's good…" she murmured distantly, her hand briefly abandoning him to pull the coverlet over their shoulders. He felt oddly chilled until she draped her arm over him and, despite her own need for sleep, rubbed his stomach once more.
"B'fore I ferget," she began, her words slurred by tiredness, "I've been meanin' t'ask if…I could know…yer name."
A pause, then:
"James," he stated flatly. That was the first time in ages that he had heard his name spoken aloud…
"James," she repeated experimentally in a voice laced with…was that affection? With his mind subdued by the powerful opiate sleep, he could not be certain of anything… At the moment, he doubted he could open his eyes if he wanted to – and he certainly did not want to…
"James," Yvette said again. And with a tiny yawn, though her hand never faltered, she sleepily whispered, "Ev'rybody calls me Jou-Jou…"
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NotesStays - despite what they say in Curse of the Black Pearl , they were called stays back then, not corsets. It's the same thing, though, obviously.
"I don't like my hair." - while this isn't necessarily important now , it will be later on (much later on).
…a dangerous, ravishing serpent against his flesh – ravishing in the "being raped" sense, rather than the "attractive" sense. Of course, neither Jou-Jou nor her hand is raping him – dear James just has an overactive imagination.
"Ev'rybody calls me Jou-Jou…" – and so shall we. A prostitute must have a memorable name, after all, and this prostitute will be no exception, albeit it isn't her real name any more than "Yvette" is. However, unlike Yvette, it is the name she goes by on Tortuga – and it's quite fitting, actually, as "joujou" is French for "playmate or "plaything." And I'm sure you all remember this girl's desire to see France, yes? ;)
A Simple Request/Reminder from the Author
I would not like to have to take this story down and rewrite it again as I have done with my works in the past. Therefore, I am asking all of my readers to alert me at once if anything is historically inaccurate, anyone is out of character, words are improperly spelled, grammar isn't up to par, or if anything seems Mary-Sue-ish even in the slightest. Remember kids, praise may be nice and make the author feel good about him or herself, but constructive criticism is more helpful in the long run. Politeness is preferred, though you may be harsh if you like – sometimes a little severity is the only way to get the message across. But also take note that by merely writing "Dear God, you suck big time. You suck. Your characters suck. Your story sucks. My eyes are bleeding from how much it sucks. Don't write anymore, I beg you" you aren't helping me anymore than people who say "OMG! U rool i wanna mary u!!!11 this is the new OTP!!!!1one1!" are. So please, help me out, but be kind about it if you can. Merci in advance!