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For mellyflori, Pullings/Bonden

From the quarterdeck, Tom takes pleasure in watching Bonden read slowly across the second page of a treatise on sailors’ ailments, specifically those stemming from parasites in the fur of shipbound animals. The strain in Bonden’s eyes is apparent, but he reads on, expressing no discomfort.

Bonden, Tom imagines, is accustomed to a greater view than that allowed for in books. He would of course prefer a curving, welcoming horizon over slanted, intimidating words on a page.

Tonight, Tom will offer Bonden both a horizon and further learning—

With no desire other than to see Bonden’s eyes widen in joy.

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For strawberryelfsp, Maturin/Bonden

Stephen rarely indulges in the laudanum when he’s expecting company. But his nerves have been rattled tonight, and thus it’s only after his dosage that he’s able to receive his visitor.

He bids Bonden write this time, instead of read. The quill scratches over the paper, and Stephen’s almost lulled to sleep by the sound. Stephen’s aware of an ache in his hand, and he moves it absently down the spine of his book, only ceasing when Bonden looks up, alarmed.

“Doctor, you’re bleeding—“

“I am always bleeding, Mr. Bonden,” Stephen murmurs, his words slurring. “From within or without.”

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For _canadiansun, Jack/Stephen; prompts vanquished and disport.

It is rare that Stephen’s impatience with dry land matches Jack’s, but seven weeks is too long for any man accustomed to shipboard life—and living in avoidance of his personal landlocked problems of hearth and home—to remain in port, especially if that man is still expected to tend to crewmen who’ve found themselves sick of heart and mind and body.

“Jack, we must leave, if nothing else for the sake of your men’s sanity. They disport themselves with women of little character and less clothing, and spend what little energy and coin they have left at cards and other tables. And you yourself are hardly in position to scold them, my dear—lethargic and obese and too easily led into beds that belong to other men. Into wives who belong to other men.”

“Stephen, I note your concern,” Jack says, and his smile is as long–suffering as is Stephen’s sigh. “But you would present a more convincing case if you hadn't found yourself on your back yourself less than an hour ago, having lost a bet to your Captain.”

“Your men are not meant to follow my example, Jack,” Stephen spits back, sitting up in the bed and reaching for his glasses. “But consider my argument vanquished by your reason.”

“Stay, Stephen,” Jack says gently, easing him back down to the mattress. “You take too much to heart what is meant in jest, and I wish to vanquish nothing but your anger.” He stretches beside his friend, kicking away coverlets unnecessary in this heat. “Rest would serve you well, Doctor.”

“Jack, we are not finished here—“

“No,” Jack shakes his head. “But even you cannot deny the benefit of distance from an argument, Stephen, and I am confident we will see each other position much more clearly in morning light.”

“You live on your confidence, my dear; you eat and breathe and sleep it, and it seems you have much to spare.”

“And so I do,” Jack laughs, dousing the light. “God be praised.”

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For mellyflori; Jack/Tom in Minorca; prompts bilge and underwhelmed

There is little the Captain detests more than being called before his superiors for infractions real or imagined. Tom knows this, and is aware also that his presence at Jack’s side is for something more than show, yet less than safety.

The Admiralty’s office in Minorca is stuffy, and Tom can feel Jack sinking under the weight and heat of the Mediterreanean sun. It floods the room in which they wait on decisions that will decide Jack’s fate, however temporarily. Tom himself is not at his best today either; overwhelmed by gin last night and distinctly underwhelmed by the blandly irritated, nearly dispassionate care he’d received from Dr. Maturin to remedy the situation.

Jack has at least ceased his pacing, choosing instead to stand in the only shade the room offers, in a corner. He’s framed there by two portraits of great leaders Tom’s certain he’s meant to recognize and yet does not.

“Mr. Pullings, you understand that should anything untoward happen here, you are to take command of the ship immediately?”

“Of course, Sir.”

“And that the Doctor should be allowed leave to contact—“ a pause, and Tom almost wants to finish the sentence for him. “Those who may be waiting for word from him.”

“Sir, if I might—“

Jack turns toward him with the first smile Tom has seen from him in days. “I have every faith in your command, Tom,” he says, “as do the men. You will make a fine captain. You will follow your orders and serve honourably. You will rise above the bilge that has settled in the little world we call home. You’ll prove us both better men than these, will you not?

Tom’s eyes fall shut, just for a moment. “Sir, I ask that you let me speak.”

“Then do, Tom.”

“Do you not plan to fight these accusations, Sir? Will you not tell them what has been gained even in loss?” Tom’s hands begin to shake, and he forms them into fists quickly, praying the Captain has not noticed. “Will you not …”

Jack’s eyes are hard and glittering, and Tom swallows before he speaks again.

“Will you not give them the box that was found? The papers? Sir, would you sacrifice yourself and your ship for the cause of—“ Another swallow, and Tom flushes before he speaks again. “To save the Doctor?”

Jack crosses to him, nearer now, and cradles Tom’s face in his hands—large, powder–burnt and calloused hands that have, Tom thinks, touched him everywhere but here.

“You will leave us,” Tom whispers, and it is no question. “To save him.”

“I would do the same for you,” Jack says, much too calmly. “Were you to put yourself in the same danger. Which you will not do, Mr. Pullings, because you are a man of integrity and because you wear a uniform yet to be stained with more than blood.”

The door opens, and to Tom’s surprise Jack does not let him go. Only when hands close over the Captain’s shoulders and begin to pull him away does Tom look up, into eyes he imagines he will never see again.

“Godspeed, Tom,” Jack smiles, and Tom nods, shoulders squared but pale as the death that will soon belong to Jack.

“And to you, Sir.”

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For insidian; Sophie/Diana; jealous of the sea

“All I am saying, Sophie dearest, is that one must be practical.” Diana’s fan has slowed its frantic pace in front of her bodice, and Sophie’s strangely grateful. “Men are forgiven indiscretions every day of their lives.”

“I could not,” Sophie breathes. “And I would not hear of Jack’s … indiscretions, given the choice. He was married first to his waves; what happens upon them is not any of my concern.” She looks up quickly, wide eyes darting to Diana’s narrowed pair. “Or yours, Diana. You come to torment me, I think, when your own husband is called a Sawbones Romeo.”

“And who do you suppose first laughed at that name?” Diana laughs as she stands, and the sound is like that of lace tearing. “My husband is not even married to something so poetic as the waves, my dear. I stand and fight against blood and bottles and books. Against tinctures and tortoises. I would gladly see the man I love walking proudly along a quarterdeck instead of below—“

“Perhaps you do,” Sophie hisses, and the flush rises high in her cheeks. “Perhaps the man you love indeed walks the quarterdeck, and you regret your choices—“

“You are a child, Sophie,” Diana smiles, resting her fan on the table behind her. “Even as you dream to carry one. My dreams are different from yours, but we will both be made widows by them. Why should we should not …” Diana’s hand reaches for Sophie’s, curling warm against Sophie’s cool palm. “Find our own way as our husbands find theirs?”

“I do not understand you, Diana,” Sophie murmurs, but does not let go. “I do not think I ever will.” Diana’s free hand trails up Sophie’s side, fingertips stroking lightly over the rise and swell of her breasts. Sophie inhales sharply and blushes deeper, but Diana’s close enough now to see the little flash in her eyes just before she brushes her lips over Sophie’s.

“I do not come to torment you,” Diana whispers, and Sophie shakes her head slowly.

“You come to tempt.”

“Everyday they are permitted, Sophie. I do not suggest everyday.”

“And if we are discovered—“

“We will not be discovered.” Diana’s voice is firm, certain, but still kind.

“We are women,” Sophie says, and there is desperation in her whisper. Diana nods, and hooks one finger into the lacing of Sophie’s bodice.

“And we are nothing if not … discreet.

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