~ Valentine ~

I …

"Help me, then," she says, and turns 'round for him.

She stands there, small and straight, all shades of gold in the candlelight, but Jack knows it's an effort, something in the set of her back, the angle of her chin. They're both dead on their feet, it would've been easier to let Amelie take care of her. Harry'd been dismayed when he'd shooed the dresser off to bed.

But she knows he likes this. Likes watching his rough skin catch a bit on the expensive fabric of her gown. Watching the hooks of the tight-fitted bodice give way one by one. Watching his sailor's hands push the heavy brocaded silk off her shoulders. Watching his brown fingers pull at the laces of her stays, the tough, unforgiving cords loosening little by little. Watching her breathe as though, 'til this moment, she'd forgotten the way of it.

Her chemise is of stuff so fine he can see the delicate pink swell of hip, the sweet curve of her waist.

And the delicious, exquisite rest as she turns to face him, thanks in her tired eyes. He swallows hard, lost again… again… and for a moment forgets how to breathe, himself.

.

... Love …

He wakes as usual to the light of the screened lamp and Harry close by in the same chair. She's been sewing a rent in one of his shirts, but now lays it aside to come to him, crouching by the bed.

"Is it very dreadful?" she asks softly.

"What time is it?" he says with an effort, ignoring the question. "You should be sleeping."

She arches one perfect brow and purses her lips. "As should you, my love."

She rises, and he sighs, impatient, but too weak yet to make any real objection to her coddling.

It's the same as always: watching her prepare the draught the doctor's prescribed; trying not to curse as she helps him sit up enough to take it without choking; choking anyway, and nearly gagging at the horrid taste; subsiding with a gasp against the pillows, weak as a bloody cat. The thud of his heart gradually slows as she straightens the bedclothes, tucking him in as though she was born to such work.

She picks up the shirt once more and takes her place in the chair, but lifts her eyes for a moment, warm with sympathy, relief, and a little humor. He will recover. But by God it's slow going. He makes a face at her and she flashes a grin, white in the dim.

The drug is already coursing through him, and his voice slurs as he observes bitterly, "Wager you never dreamt to be in such a fix as this when you were a girl."

Her expression grows thoughtful – remembering that girlhood, no doubt: pampered baby of an ancient house, prettier by the day as she grew to maidenhood, her mother's darling, her brother's torment...

But she says, "Of course I did. I may have been a sad romp at times, but I knew what love was about."

What love was about.

He says, soft and gruff, "Come here, Harry. Put the shirt down and come to bed with me."

"The doctor—"

"Devil take the doctor!"

She shakes her head, but complies, laying aside the sewing, then her prim dressing gown. Her night dress is far less prim, and his fit of pique ebbs as she lifts the covers and eases in carefully… carefully… until she's curled warm and sweet against him in the shadows.

"Better?" she whispers.

"Never leave me."

"No."

"Promise?"

"Again?"

"Again."

"Very well. I do."

.

... You

She remembers that first night, the glint of stars on the black water of Tortuga bay - no brighter than the devilish glint in his eye, that stolen first kiss as much in his mind as hers. Ruffled by that, and by their verbal sparring, and then the ship looming suddenly, like something from a dark tale come to life, impressive, intimidating, a brooding shadow of doom, presently belied by her ornate beauty and welcome.

The Black Pearl is very much like her captain.

Now, years later, he lies beside her in the wee hours, snoring.

She turns to him, shoves at his shoulder. ,

"Wha… wha's wrong?" He rolls toward her, snoring curtailed. Pulls her close.

"Nothing. I love you."

"Mmm. You, too, darlin'. Go t'sleep."

He's already out again when she brushes a kiss against his jaw, scant beard tickling. Then, warm with present and past, she obeys.

~.~