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Ship in a Bottle	By : EvilE Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (All) > Het - Male/Female > Jack/Elizabeth Views: 4205 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Pirates of the Caribbean movie series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 4
- 5
- 6
Chapter 5: Captain Sparrow, I Presume

As the female Captain Sparrow guided him over to a chair, and he sat next to the table, he turned over the possibilities in his mind. He could try to explain everything to her, now, but he couldn't see any advantage in it for him. Why not let her think he was her husband, for the moment? Only trouble would be when it came time to seize the Pearl. Or if her real husband - him - the other him - really did show up. But then, from what she'd said about searching for two days... that seemed unlikely.

“My God, Jack, you gave us all a fright.” She smoothed his forehead, nudging his bandanna higher into his hair. “I'm so glad you're all right. But where on earth did you find that boat?”

“The boat... ah...” He was captivated by the touch of her soft palms on his forehead, and had to exert a lot of effort in order to think. Spin, Jack. Spin quickly. “The boat...I... don't remember so well. I suppose I came across it, while I was... out there.” He gestured vaguely toward the sea, hoping she wouldn't question him more directly until he'd had a chance to figure out what she thought happened.

“You poor thing,” she crooned, and pressed her lips to his temple. Jack's eyebrows shot up into his bandanna and he felt his heart skip a beat. Poor thing? Lizzy had never fussed over him like this. Not even after she'd almost killed him. Not almost. Had. Had killed him.

“I feel pretty awful,” he said, in as plaintive a tone as he could muster, since sympathy seemed to be strong with this one. He made his eyes big and looked up at her as she leaned over him.

“I'll bet you do,” she responded softly. “But you're going to feel much better soon, trust me. I know how to make it all better.”

At the implications of that last remark, Jack's heart quit skipping beats and began to pound, energetically, against his ribs.

“Lucky thing about the boat,” she continued, examining his face with her fingers, and then tilting his head to the side. “How's your head? I don't even see a bump. When you tumbled from the mizzenmast, Briggs swore he saw you dash your head against the rail before you fell in the water. But the sea was terribly rough, I suppose he could have imagined that part of it, since it was dark and so hard to see with all the wind and rain.”

So that's the fate that befell me, Jack thought. Rather undignified way to perish.

“Darling - “ He lifted his hands to her waist, thinking to distract her from asking him too many detailed questions. “- I don't remember anything after climbing that mast. It's all a blur.”

She smiled down at him, and he gently tightened his grip on her waist, just to see what she would do. Feels like her.... feels just like her, he observed, measuring her body with his hands. Desire began to coil, slowly, like a spring, between his legs, and he spread his knees and brought her to stand between them. Her wrists fell on his shoulders, and he reached up to tilt her head downward.

Her face...the same warm brown eyes, high forehead and smooth, straight nose... the features that subtly combined into a picture of rare beauty, and that mouth, rosy-pink and begging for him to kiss it. He leaned upward. Just a taste, he told himself. Just a taste to see if she's like I remember.

A knock sounded at the door. “Cap'n, yer water and food!”

She jerked away from his grasp, then seemed to recover, and smiled. “Just a moment, darling.”

She answered the door and took the washbasin and tray of food from Briggs, setting both on the table, dismissing him with a nod. As Jack watched intently, she plunged a rag into the bowl of water, and squeezed it between her fingers to wring it out. His lips parted and he could not look away from her graceful, long-fingered hands, how they wrapped around the rag, pulling it, twisting it gently between her palms. As his breath quickened, everything she did seemed to slow to a crawl, and she tightened both hands around the rolled-up rag, easing out every last drop...

He might have forgotten to breathe entirely, except she looked up at him and issued an order. “Lie down in the bunk. You've been through a terrible ordeal, you need to rest.”

Unable to say or do anything else, he rose from the chair and obeyed, walking over to sit on the edge of the bunk.

“Unbutton your shirt,” was the next order. She certainly is bossy, he thought. But he obeyed nonetheless, shrugging his shirt and tunic off his shoulders onto the bunk.

She walked over and set the basin on the nightstand by the bed, and wrung out the rag one final time. When she reached around under his hair to untie his bandanna, he was rewarded with the scent of her neck and the briefest glimpse of her bosom through the loose neck of her shirt. He resisted the urge to open his mouth and taste that silky neck, the need to draw her skin against his teeth and suckle it until he tasted her in his mouth... and then she lifted the scarf off of him, placing it next to the washbasin. He flinched and closed his eyes at the touch of the wet cloth to his forehead, but almost simultaneously relaxed, for the water was warm. They must have heated it for her. For him. She gently wiped his forehead and cheeks, moving the rag back towards his ears and under his chin before lowering it back into the bowl.

When was the last time he'd really washed? Had it felt this good? He had trouble remembering.

She placed the rag against the base of his neck, and he could tell she hadn't wrung it out completely this time, for a few small, warm rivulets flowed from her fingers, trickled down through the hair on his chest, and over his stomach before slipping beneath the waistband of his trousers.

It was as though she had caressed him. He couldn't suppress a groan of longing. The warm water cascading from her fingertips was the most sensuous thing he'd ever felt in his life. Almost. He refused to open his eyes and look at her, afraid she would see the burning lust in his eyes, somehow see through his ruse. He felt himself being nudged to sit sideways on the bunk, and he rested his feet on the floor, giving her his back.

She lifted his hair with her left hand, pressing the sopping wet rag to the base of his neck, and he felt again the tepid stream, this time down the center of his back, along his spine... her other hand stroked the back of his shoulder, cool and soft... he heard himself draw in breath in a soft hiss.

He was in his cabin on the Pearl, with Elizabeth, and she had ordered him to remove his clothing so she could bathe him with her own hands... it was a fantasy come to life. Except for the bathing part, which he never in a hundred years would have thought to include.

Jack felt his trepidation at the situation melt away, as a different side of Jack rose to dominance in his mind and heart. A much more reckless, decisive version of him. The side that made the hard choices, took no prisoners, blindly pursued what he wanted. And what he wanted at the moment was...

“I do hope you continue this lovely bath down below, love, as I've got a suspicion you'll find some dirty things have come up.” He opened his eyes a slit and peered round at her, pleased to see her eyes widen and her cheeks flush.

She smiled what seemed to be a knowing smile, and dropped the rag back in the basin. “None of that, now, you need your rest. If you're good, I'll be back later. Have something to eat. You seem pretty well to me, if you're talking like that.”

He frowned at her as she stood and walked toward the door. “Where're you going?”

“I've got a ship to run. What do you think?” she replied coolly, and picked up a green apple off the tray. She bit into it heartily as she exited the cabin, shutting the door behind her.

“Wait! Elizabeth,” he called, jumping up from the bunk, but she had already gone. “Come back. Where's the rum?” As he approached the door, he heard her speaking in muffled tones with someone outside.

“So 'e don't even think it's odd? He really doesn't remember... 'ow it happened? He thinks everythin's fine?” It sounded like Briggs.

“He doesn't seem to, no.”
“What do we do if his memory come back?”

“If that happens, we'll handle it,” she said coolly, and he heard her footsteps march away.

* * *

During the several hours she was gone, he paced the cabin, having decided not to risk contact with people who knew him - the real him, the other him - and who might ask too many questions. Instead, he waited impatiently for Elizabeth to return. There was no rum anywhere that he could find, and he was pretty certain he'd checked every nook and cranny of the cabin. In his search, he had found something of interest on a shelf - a piece of art, or craftsmanship, of the finest kind, something he'd never seen before.

It was a wide glass bottle, upended on a carved wooden base that stood about a foot high all together. Inside the bottle was a tiny ship. It had everything: sails, masts, decks, accurate model of a galleon as far as he could tell. He wondered how the tiny model had gotten in there, and where it came from. At the same time, he was afraid to ask her - if he was supposed to know, it might arouse her suspicions. And it wasn't her suspicions he wanted to arouse, he thought ruefully, reflecting on their time together earlier.

As the hours passed, he became weary, and after examining the charts on the table, and concluding their worlds were at least geographically, if not matrimonially, congruous, he flopped on the bunk and drifted off to sleep.

And soon, he was dreaming. A wonderful dream, where all was right and he was back on the Pearl, asleep in his cabin. And Elizabeth was climbing into bed with him, sliding under the blanket, wearing next to nothing... a shift, and he felt the silky softness of her hair against his bare shoulders, and he reached to take her into his arms.

Without thinking, he found her mouth and kissed her, his tongue delving into her mouth and tasting how sweet she was. He let himself go completely, since it was a dream, after all, and his good dreams were so rare compared with the nightmares, where he was being hanged or eaten by a sea monster or drowned as a result of his own foolishness. His mouth slanted over hers relentlessly, and she was kissing him back in kind, giving herself completely to him. A soft sound in her throat startled him, and he pulled away for a moment. And opened his eyes.

Not a dream. For there she was, her rich tea-colored hair fanning out behind her, the white of her chemise catching the moonlight that streamed in through the windows. Her eyes were still closed, but her lips were slightly apart and she was breathing deeply, heavily, her chest rising and falling against his.

“Jack.”

He lowered his mouth to hers again, almost before she had finished sighing his name. God, he loved that sound... when she purred his name like that, or whispered it, or yelled it, for God's sake, anytime she said it, it lit a fire in his veins that threatened to consume him. As he plundered her mouth, eliciting more soft moans from her, somewhere in the back of his mind it registered that something wasn't quite right. What was it? Oh, yes... this wasn't his Elizabeth, exactly, this was someone else... someone who looked... and sounded... and felt... and smelled and tasted just like his Elizabeth. There was no discernable difference to his senses, and yet his brain... his damnable brain clamored at him to stop. He pulled away from the kiss and breathed against her lips, trying to think through the insistent, powerful beating of his heart.

“Jack?” A whispered question. Almost pleading.

He squeezed his eyes shut, knowing he couldn't resist her for long... he had to speak, now. “Listen, love, before this goes too far, I think we ought to have a little chat.”

“No,” she nearly groaned, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I don't want to talk now. I want you.”

He groaned in frustration and desire as she lifted her lips to his and kissed him, the warm curve of her breasts pressing against his chest in the darkness. He let a hand drop to her breast and cupped it, gently, running his thumb over the pert nipple, listening to her sigh in response, against his mouth. This was too much... he tore himself away, gasping for breath.

“No. Honestly.” She reached up around his neck to bring him back, but he caught her hand and held it against him. “Really. I think after that bump on my head... I've sort of forgotten some things about who I am.”

She pulled her hand away from his and spread her fingers, sliding them into his hair, against his scalp, between the large pieces of hair that had become like appendages to him, saying, “Shhhh.” And naturally, her touch on his head drove his arousal into a greater frenzy, and he was genuinely afraid he wouldn't make it.

“Didn't you hear me? I said I don't know who I am. I mean, you don't know who I am.”

He heard the mumbled words from his lips, knew they didn't make any sense, was tired of trying to make sense. His fingers reflexively reached for her breast again, flexed around it, and she arched her back, grinding her nipple into his palm. She opened her mouth, seemed to laugh silently for a second before whispering to him again.

“I know exactly who you are. You're my husband. And you love me, and I love you...” He tried to shut his ears to those words, knowing they were barbs of pain wrapped in pleasure, and he was hardly aware that she was pushing him onto his back, delivering kisses along his sternum and chest and stomach, before turning her face up to him while poised over his navel. “And over these two years we've been married, I've learned exactly what you want from me. What you like. What pleases you.”

Jack's eyes were wide as portholes, and he stared in abject wonder as she returned her lips to his skin, and then opened her mouth to brush the tip of her tongue down along the trail in the center of his abdomen marked by dark, fine hair. He felt her fingers on the fastening of his trousers, and his eyes blinked rapidly as he tried, desperately, to stop the train of thought that was telling him she was going to... that she knew to... that she was about to...

Oh, Christ.

And no matter how he denied to himself that he'd fantasized about it, even though he pushed the thought of it to the back of his mind with the never-going-to-happens (along with such things as discovering a natural rum waterfall and being unexpectedly knighted) nothing, nothing in his imagination or experience could prepare him for the hot touch of Elizabeth's lips and tongue on his throbbing, pulsing cock.

“Elizabeth,” he ground out between clenched teeth, his hips rocketing off the bed in response to her tender nips with her teeth and sweeping strokes with her tongue. She drew away and looked up at him.

“What?” She appeared puzzled. “What did you -?”

“Never mind, love,” he nearly growled, and reached down with his hands to haul her up against him. He knew if he didn't stop her, it would be over, soon, far too soon. And she wouldn't expect that after - what had she said, two years? - of marriage to him. He hoped.

He rolled her swiftly onto her back and stripped her, quickly, of her chemise, kissing every inch of skin he exposed, hungry for the taste of her but needing to be inside her before it was too late. He parted her thighs with one hand and fell between them, not stopping to touch her before he plunged himself deep inside her with a single thrust, and she cried out and clutched at him with her hands along his back.

And it didn't occur to him that he might have hurt her, because he vaguely registered soft cries of pleasure against his neck, and he drove into her harder still, unable to hold back, unable to control the incredible force and desire that had gotten him there. And when he heard her scream, a low-pitched, incredibly sexy woman-scream, and felt the tiniest squeeze of contractions around him, he buried his face in her shoulder and groaned, nearly sobbing her name while the passion washed over his body and drowned him like a tidal wave.

When he came back to consciousness, and opened his eyes she was looking up at him, a sort of curiosity slowly replacing the drowsy desire he had seen in their depths a few moments before.

“Jack?” Her tone was inquisitive.

“Mmm?” He leaned in to kiss her cheeks, her jawline, to gently nibble her earlobe.

“Who's 'Elizabeth'?” she said coolly.

His head shot up, and he looked back into her suddenly alert eyes, and realized that he, the ever-clever, sweet-talking Jack Sparrow, had automatically assumed his wife's name was still Elizabeth - and he had just given himself away completely, without even realizing how it would happen, or that it could happen.

And now he had to face the consequences. Whatever they were.
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Ship in a Bottle