Jack Sparrow: Gentleman?

Kasey

kasey8473@yahoo.com

Summary: Jack's feeling saucy.  Elizabeth is passed out from rum.

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: POTC isn't mine and I have no claim on it whatsoever.

Notes: Bear with me, I've only seen POTC once and recently.  This tiny plot bunny took hold and wouldn't go away until I gave in to it.

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Jack Sparrow was not quite as drunk as he looked.  Indeed, the gentle inebriation generally obtained from swinging back a few shots of hard liquor could almost be said to be a natural state for him.  To the uneducated eye, Jack could pass for being in the fourth out of the six stages of drunkenness when he was truly only in the second.  His companion however....

He turned his only slightly blurry gaze to his right to contemplate his suddenly silent drinking partner, only to have his gaze distracted from her lovely face by the equally lovely press of her bounteous bosom against the white cloth of her gown.  Ahh, lovelies, he thought, taking a last mouthful of rum before firmly wedging the bottle in the sand above his head so it wouldn't tip over.  They were the sort of perky bosoms he could easily wax poetic over, not that he thought this particular enchanting flower of femininity would appreciate his sterling efforts.

Nevertheless....

With a nonchalant glance about them, Jack moved closer to the passed out Elizabeth Swann.  It was cold, yes?  He licked the tip of one finger and held it up, swishing it around in the air to make a breeze.  Oh yes, definitely cold.  She'll catch her death out here in the open without someone, anyone to keep her warm.  He'd just have to volunteer.  The night air had a chill to it like the glare of Miranda, Sarah, Sally...whatever that one wench's name was....

Settling against her trim figure, Jack ogled her bosom, admiring the curves hidden under the cloth, that last swallow of rum easing him into the third stage of drunkenness.  Now normally, the third stage had quite a lot to do with the fellowship of those drinking together, carrying them over any initial queasiness from the liquor and into that silly camaraderie that often brings about stupid drinking songs.  In Jack's case though, stage three was mixed around with stage five: an acute case of amorous impulses.

He dragged the tips of his fingers along her delicate collarbone, pausing only momentarily at the soft snore that escaped her parted lips.  It was a soothing sound really, like the creaks and groans of a good ship.  Jack lowered his face to hers.  Her breath smelled like rum, her skin like.... What was that elusive ghost of a scent that tickled and teased his nostrils?  It was fresh, it was tangy.  Not jasmine or rose or lavender.  There was nothing flowery about this scent.

Jack nuzzled her ear, breathing in deeply.  Oh, that was it.  Seawater.

Raising up, he visually caressed her face, then returned his gaze to the feast below her neck, fingers sliding over her silken flesh to the neckline of the gown.  The night was hot, yes?  She would be overheated with this on.  Fingers poised to peel down the fabric, Jack became aware of a nagging sensation in the back of his mind.  It couldn't be his conscience because he didn't have one, so what was it?

Releasing the fabric, he ruminated on the matter.  One, Elizabeth Swann was a lady and he was a pirate.  Two, it never worked out between a lady and a pirate.  Okay, sometimes it worked.  That is, until the husband/brother/father/fiancé found them and then it was to the gallows for the poor wretch.  Jack didn't fancy a rope necklace any time soon, but no, that wasn't it.

She was comatose?  He scrunched up his nose, dismissing the idea.  No, that didn't bother him either.  Lots of women were afraid of their natural, wonderful sensual natures,  not to mention intimidated by his dashing maleness.  The pretty darlings just weren't sure how to react to those lovely sensations.  Still, she had said something about not having had enough rum earlier.  Had she drunk enough now, he wondered, casting a speculative glance back at her face.

Jack stretched out his arm, inching her gown up her bent leg, letting the fabric slide down her thigh.  His expression was of the innocent sort that indicated he had no idea how her gown had gotten up that high.  Placing his hand on her knee, he gave a gentle squeeze.

Still, that nagging sensation.

I wonder what that could be, he thought.

His fingers danced on her knee, like a man working up the nerve to dive into frigid ocean depths, but right as he started to drag them along the smooth, pale flesh of Elizabeth's thigh, a name slipped from her lips on the back of a wistful sigh, a name that was most certainly not his.

"Will...."

Oh yes.  That was what, or rather who, was nagging him.  Will Turner.  He could practically see the boy staring at him with disbelieving consternation.  You want to do what to Miss Swann?

Jack's look of mourning was rather reminiscent to that of a prisoner being taunted most cruelly by the presence of a key to his cell bolted to the wall just out of reach.  No, it wouldn't work.  Damn it all, he liked the boy.  How many men would go on an insanely foolish quest into unfathomable danger for a lady?  Besides him, that is.

He eased Elizabeth's gown back down to her slender ankles and moved away from her, reaching for the bottle he'd wedged in the sand.  Let it not be said, he thought as he laid back waiting for sleep to carry him into dreamland, that Jack Sparrow was not a gentleman as well as a pirate.

Well, when he chose to be.