Title: "Work, Work, Work"
Fandom: PotC/"The Princess Bride"
Rating/Classification: crossover, pre-slash, humor.
Disclaimer: This is SUCH sacrilege. TPB and all the nicked lines belong to the brilliant William Goldman. PotC belongs to the Mouse.
Summary: "Once word leaks out that a pirate has gone soft, people begin to disobey you, and then it's nothing but work, work, work, all the time." The sequel to "Life's Little Quirks." Looks like the Man in Black is in for more tutelage from the Man in Black Eyeliner.
There was a man in his bed.
Not that such things weren't a *common* occurrence. He woke up at least three times a fortnight with somebody encroaching on the space between his skin and the coarse bedsheets...but that was because the inns on Tortuga
were overcrowded and most blokes couldn't be bothered to find their own asses in the dark so they settled for his.
This was different.
There was a black kerchief mask tied around his left wrist. The eyeholes
were looped over his thumb and middle finger.
He groaned, rubbing his head, palm grazing against his beads and the
rough, beautifully unwashed strands of his hair. He'd been cultivating it for quite a while, really. It was a look. An image. Captain Jack Sparrow, the dastardly pirate who no one could best.
Save, it seemed, a drunken Florinese farm boy.
Westley hadn't taken too well to being knocked on his rear. Cheating, to
him, was terribly unsportsmanlike and, punishable by an hour of exhausting
fencing after he'd dusted off his pretty black costume.
Poncy little blighter.
He was probably light in his boots.
Oh...except that he wasn't *in* his boots.
And there was that girl. The Most Beautiful Girl. Eyes like autumn and
hair like blueberries and the like. Right.
He cleared his throat magnificently. A raucous noise. When that didn't
rouse his guest, he closed his masked hand round the leg that was thrown over his hips and moved it.
And as if the intrusion weren't quite enough...his suspicions were now
proven completely incorrect. The Dread Pirate Westley was not a eunuch. Merely completely besotted...which really served a similar purpose of drawing up his balls and shortening his bits. Just metaphorically instead of literally.
He was thankful that he loved nothing so well as the Black Pearl and a
good spot of rum. No woman was going to tame Captain Jack Sparrow, no Sir
and thanks be to Neptune.
"Mmhmmm ...say 'hello' to Horse and I love you ... hrm ... mumblemumble ..."
"Love you, too, Matey," he snorted, squeezing the farm boy's thigh. Hard. Pinching it, too.
Someone had to teach Roberts Number #4...or was he #5? Jack had lost
count. At any rate, someone had to teach Roberts the art of discretion. He had no style whatsoever. Just went around blurting his business to all and sundry. Throbbing heart on fluttering sleeve.
Pirates did not throb.
They could sashay. Mince, even. As he was wont to do himself on
occasion. But they certainly did not flutter.
"What's going on?" Finally, one blue-gray eye open. Now two. Attention,
at last. "What am I doing here? How did I get here? Where's Buttercup?"
He simply stared malevolently. He was working on malevolence. He was an expert on sailing, pillaging, commandeering, and everything in between, but he'd yet to master the truly wicked and impressive traits that every
buccaneer aspired to.
At least he was leagues ahead of the person who'd stolen all his covers
The delicate dark gold eyebrows knitted together. "Sparrow?"
"Yes, Roberts?" *Westley*, he thought, disparagingly.
"Why am I in your bed?" The alarmed flicker in his gaze asked the
follow-up questions of 'Why are our heads on the same pillow?' and 'Why are
we naked?' Although, to be fair, they weren't completely naked since Jack had a black mask tied around his hand.
He spoke slowly. Enunciated. As if talking to a small whelp of a boy.
"Because this is where you fell asleep."
"Oh. Oh, yes of course." A blush, quite rosy really, as the whelp rose
up on his elbows, taking stock of the filthy little room that Jack liked to not call his humble home. "I've no head for ale," he murmured, apologetically. "Just wine. Been building up a tolerance to iocane and I find it dissolves best in the reds."
Iocane. Now that was a useful thing indeed. Perhaps he should've slipped some into the boy's last tankard? Tasteless, odorless, it was among one of the world's more deadly poisons. He'd bet his life on it.
"What you *need* to be buildin' tolerance to is women, savvy?" He folded
his arms behind his head, crossing his feet neatly at the ankles. "The whole lot of 'em'll bring you naught but trouble. Deceitful, pox-ridden harpies."
"My Buttercup doesn't have the pox!" Westley huffed, insulted.
"Her name is *Buttercup*." Jack laughed. Couldn't help himself. It was a shame, really. "How can you take that seriously?"
"She's beautiful and virtuous and..."
"The Pearl is beautiful. The Revenge is beautiful. I'll wager your lady fair ain't got nothin' in her cabin and no room in her hold."
"All right...she's not exactly the sharpest girl in Florin," Westley conceded with a guilty whisper. "But she's quite wonderful, Jack. Faithful and kind and virtuous."
"You already said 'virtuous'," he pointed out with a yawn. "You really
think she's spent five years being 'virtuous'? I'd fancy that her chastity belt rusted and fell off..."
"Not likely! Buttercup and I love each other. You think that happens
every day? She knows I will come for her. I will always come for her."
"While you're tumbling her or can she be across the sea?" he asked,
ruefully, pretending to close his eyes and shut out the morning light streaming in through the dirty window.
"Sparrow! I beg your pardon!"
"I don't have any pardon," he assured. "I make a point of keeping away
from it. Nasty stuff. Vile. Almost as bad as principles and penance."
"You're a paragon, truly." Ah, now there was a promising hint of brigand-like vitriol and wit. "In fact, I wonder how I found myself asleep in the bed of such a saint."
Jack smiled. This time he didn't even have to stick out a foot. Just
hook a hand around an elbow and tug. The Dread Pirate was dreadful indeed. Dreadfully easy.
"Mmmm...no. You should be wondering what you're doing *awake* here, savvy?"
There was a man in his bed.
So, he kissed him.
Since the invention of the kiss, there had been five kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure.
This one was merely sinful...and wonderfully filthy.
July 25, 2003.