Title: "Grace"
Author: monimala
Fandom: PotC
Rating/Classification: NAC, slightly kinky, ficlet, J/E
Disclaimer: Disney shmisney.
Summary: Scars. Mmmm.
Notes: I blame Circe for linking to the caps from the DVD.
The fire crackles and spits sparks into the air and she gasps at the light
show, slipping down into the sand to watch the embers turn black in the air
and float away. The slosh of rum against glass is a comforting sound...and
she turns, seeing the line of Jack Sparrow's arm beside her head.
"Ought'n't you cease drinking that vile stuff, Captain?" she wonders as he raises and lowers the bottle. There is an odd grace in the motion, like an
oarsman lost in the rhythm.
"'Ought'n't'?" he repeats, peering down at her. "Been drinking rum all me
life. It's like mother's milk, it is," he assures...and when he lifts the bottle once more, the filthy sleeve of his billowy shirt slides up past his sun-bronzed wrist. "Makes you stronger."
She barely hides the gasp of wonder. Not quite a light show. An entire
network of dark, red-orange scars...burns and cuts. Are those, too, mother's milk? How far do they reach?
"Hey! Hey, what's that, Missy?"
It isn't until he speaks that she realizes that she's touching him...that
she is tracing the lines disappearing beneath the homespun cotton.
"Oh...oh, do forgive me," she murmurs, feeling the embarrassment heat her
cheeks...yet she cannot seem to pull her hand back.
And Jack does not shrug her off. "Never seen scars before? Hasn't your
pretty blacksmith got any?" he asks. "I fancy he's dropped an iron or two
on himself somewhere..."
She reckons he has, but searching for Will's wounds has never been a
primary concern of hers. His eyes...oh, how she likes to swoon over his
eyes...but never his scars. Not like this.
Later, she will tell herself she was reaching, expressly, for the rum.
That she didn't mean to spill it.
That she didn't mean to chase the errant drops with her tongue.
He tastes like spirits and sand and ash...and the grooves work against her tongue.
There is an odd grace in the motion. She gets lost in the rhythm.
He finds her somewhere deep within it...and shrugs off his clothes.
--end--
December 1, 2003.