the Dalaverse

I don't write Jack/Elizabeth. I enjoy them both in the context of poly relationships, and I'll read J/E fics from authors I like, but I've never felt an interest in writing that particular pairing on its own.

Um. Well. Then there was this...thing.

Somewhat inspired by "Her Best Friend's Bottom" and "So, for example, I can visit your Sydney, or your Melbourne, but not your bush." Also operating on the deleted scenes version of the island scene, which does not imply that Elizabeth came up with the idea of burning the rum the second Jack popped out the rum.

Oh, and named after a Ryan Adams song. Again. It was almost "Touch, Feel & Lose," but I'm saving that for some future angsty Sparrington.

Also, this icon? Fantastic.



Rescue Blues


She thought he would be out cold after that last impressive guzzle, so she jumps when a touch startles her from a brooding contemplation of the night-black sea.

“Mmphm,” says Jack, his fingers clenching on her calf as he pulls himself up. His eyes are somewhat clearer, as though his brief nap neutralized some of the alcohol coursing through his blood. Once he is upright, his hand relaxes but remains where it lies. Elizabeth drags her eyebrows up.

Jack notices her silent disapproval and shrugs. “Jus’ your leg,” he offers, patting her as if to confirm this. “Not e’en the good part o’ the leg, mind.”

She uncurls the leg in question, stretching it out next to his, unsurprised that his hand follows. “You are not allowed to touch me there, sir.”

“Am I not?” He frowns, looking genuinely concerned. “What if your upper half was bein’ attacked by a wild boar an’ I had t’ haul you safely away by your legs? What then?”

Elizabeth snorts. “In the unlikely event of a boar attack, I suppose that would be acceptable.”

“But not now, eh?” he asks sadly, thumb moving in slow, lazy circles.

“No,” she says sharply, bending her knee. He pulls his hand up just as she jerks away.

Jack leans forward, swaying on his knees, before he manages to sit back on his heels. “So,” he says, peering down at her, “I’m not t’ touch your leg, nor – here.” His arm goes around her, not as tightly as before but just as overly familiar. Her spine goes perfectly straight and Jack chuckles, withdrawing.

Elizabeth glares at him, planting her fists in the sand. Jack cocks his head and runs his tar-stained fingertips over the back of her palm, making her clench her teeth to keep from flinching away. She mustn’t let him know how his touch offends her; it will only encourage him. “But your hand – surely there’s no harm in taking a lady’s hand?”

“Well,” she says uncertainly, pursing her lips as his fingers wind a neat circle around her wrist. “Under the circumstances...”

Under any circumstances he is a pirate and a brigand. And under any circumstances she would be expected to act the maiden, to demand he exercise whatever neglected sense of honor he might still possess.

Except under the current circumstances it hardly matters, since they’re likely to die on this island within a fortnight. Will probably doesn't have half so long. Even if, by some hazy miracle, a rescue arrives for the two of them, Jack will hang and Elizabeth will be forever tainted whether or not she deserves it.

She stops to wonder at herself, so quick to put his life on a level with her reputation. Suddenly she feels uneasy in her own company. Jack may have theft and blood on his hands, but his heart can’t be any colder than her own.

His hands aren’t cold but warm, against her cheek, upon her thigh. She shivers anyway, and he wraps his arms around her, saying, “Chilled? As a gentleman, I feel I must take it upon m’self to warm you, then.”

“Yes,” she whispers, closing her eyes, knotting her fingers into his hair. When he kisses her, his mouth burns the cold away. She lets him press her down and there is little further talk of where he can and cannot touch her, only a few shared murmurs of “here, lass” and “there, now – there.” She keeps her head enough to keep her shift bunched up but not tugged off and his breeches unlaced but not pulled down over his hips, and as he seems satisfied with that, she supposes his honor isn’t so dusty after all.

Jack rolls halfway over afterwards, slinging an arm around her waist. She bends her head to his shoulder and falls asleep beneath the shadow of his warmth.

But in her dreams she feels cold again, the pervasive cold of the deep sea, the thick cold of buried rum. The beach runs red with blood from Will’s slit throat. Jack cradles her head in his arm and slices his blade through her hair, burning the shorn tresses under the bright sun. She looks up at the sky, at the wisps of smoke drifting into fathomless blue, and wishes she could feel the sun beating down on her skin.