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Endures All Things - Sunday Morning
Written for the Sunday Drabble Challenge

Sequel to Endures All Things and Misery In Good Company

by Virgo79
November 8 , 2005

Jack woke to find the frayed threads of his pillowcase hem twined between his fingers, which had apparently roused earlier than the rest of him, and to the sound of rain pelting a window somewhere behind him. He lay with one toe still in slumber, listening to that percussive lullaby, long enough for the light in the room to brighten despite the clouds outside. He had a slight sensation of detachment from his body that wasn't really uncomfortable, as if someone had a tugged a thread on him like the ones he toyed with on the pillowcase, and loosened him a bit all over, just enough to let him float almost free of himself. It was pleasant, really, but shadowing it was a vague feeling of wrongness Jack wasn't quite awake enough to place.

He lay there staring across the planes and wrinkles of his pillow for probably another ten minutes before his eyes shifted and focused on the room beyond his bed, and it dawned on him it wasn't the room he remembered falling asleep in.

The pillowcase should really have been his first clue. There was a distinct lack of mysterious stains on it.

Frowning, and suddenly a lot more alert, Jack lifted his head and had himself a good look around.

Well, as waking up in places he had no idea how he'd ended up in went, he'd done worse. There were no bars, no suspicious smells, and no naked midgets, in any event, and those tended to be the more alarming of your possibilities, at least in Jack's experience.

A loud and familiar snore issued, grabbing Jack's attention, and he turned slowly over to see a large, Bill-shaped lump in the small bed opposite his. A brief moment's inspection was all that was needed for Jack to spy the ghastly dark circles under Bill's eyes, and then he was pushing himself fully upright.

This turned out to be something of an adventure, and Jack sagged back against the headboard and blinked rapidly, patiently waiting for the room to finish doing its impression of a dreidel. The revolutions had nearly stopped when the door opened, and an unfamiliar bespectacled fellow with gold hair going to silver entered, a teacup in hand.

"Up and awake, are we?"

What Jack intended to say was, "We are. And we'd like to know exactly where the hell we are, while we're at it." What actually came out of his mouth sounded more like a French affirmative spoken by a strangling swamp creature.

Jack flinched, cleared his throat, and regretted it more than anything else he could currently call to mind.

"A bit sore yet?" Spectacles came to stand at the bedside, and took the cup from its saucer, holding it out to Jack. "Try a few sips of that."

The first swallow hurt like hell going down, enough to make Jack's eyes water, but the combination of honey and chamomile could've rivaled anything served on Olympus, as far as he was concerned, and the second and third sips felt less like they were washing down eggshells and glass.

"Sit up a bit for me," Spectacles said, putting light pressure on Jack's shoulder, "and scoot forward. There, that's enough. Take a deep breath." He leaned over and pressed an ear against Jack's back. "And another."

"Shouldn't we get to know each other better first?" Jack croaked out, smirking faintly.

"Another. And no talking, please."

"Fine luck you'll have on that front, Doctor," The mutter turned into a yawn, and the yawn into a tired grin, as Bill swung his legs over the edge of his bed and rubbed at his eyes with an unsteady hand. "Two and a half years I've known him, and he's scarcely shut up in all of it."

Jack held up two fingers in Bill's direction as he inhaled and exhaled again, and finally Doctor Spectacles seemed satisfied and let him lean back again. He pressed the back of his hand to Jack's forehead. "Nice and cool. Excellent. Though I daresay we might have gotten the fever down quicker if I'd been permitted to bleed him." This with a perturbed glance at Bill.

"Looks as if my way worked fair enough," Bill replied calmly, moving to sit on Jack's other side. He reached out and felt Jack's forehead and cheeks for himself. "Do you hurt anywhere, lad?"

"Throat's killin' me," Jack replied.

"Yes, let's have a look at that. Open up for me." The doctor plucked a small mirror off the bedside table, tilting and turning it by fractions until it was reflecting the light he needed to examine Jack's throat. "Should be healed in a day or so," he commented. "He needs to stick to bland liquids in the meantime." He stood then, silently excusing himself, but paused once to address Bill. "If that tea settles all right, I'll have some broth warmed for him in an hour or so. Best not to try too much too soon."

Bill nodded, and the doctor left them. "Seems almost pleasant for a people butcher," Jack commented.

"He's an all right fellow. Enamored of phlebotomy, but I suppose that comes with the profession."

Jack shuddered. "And they call piracy barbarous."

"Aye, well, he took us in, and I've not sighted a single table, bed, or bowl t'wasn't clean. That's saying something. Here." He urged Jack forward and repositioned the pillow so Jack could lean against it. Jack settled back with his tea, pressing into the pillow and stretching his legs under the covers, savoring the bliss of not wanting to crawl sobbing out of his own skin when it was touched. Dreamlike came the recollection of pushing away hands that had made him cringe in anguish despite their gentleness.

Bill. He'd been struggling with Bill, because Bill had said he had to move, had to go somewhere, and moving was, at the time, most definitely a bad thing. Moving had made him feel sicker. Turning his head had made him feel sicker. Breathing had made him feel sicker. His insides had twisted until he curled into a ball and dug his fingers into the mattress, and Bill was trying to loosen his grip, trying to turn him over, telling him he had to try to drink some more water, and then Jack had dragged himself to the edge of the bed and turned inside out again, but something hurt that time, and when it was finally over and Bill was above him with an arm beneath Jack's neck, the older man had been white with terror. The cold cloth that had been on Jack's brow was moving over his lips then, taking away the strange coppery taste on them, and Bill was telling him to just lie still, there was nothing to worry about; all the while looking about three ports past worried and riding a stout wind towards scared shitless.

Jack stared at the storm-streaked window over Bill's bed, and thought he remembered the feel of that rain beating against his closed eyes. "What day's today, Bill?"

"Mmm?" Bill had been rubbing at the bridge of his nose with one thumb, as if he could buff out the exhaustion chiseled there. "Oh. It's… it's Sunday," he concluded, after a few seconds' debate with himself.

Which meant Jack had lost pretty much all of Saturday from noon on, when he'd started to realize the headache wasn't going away and might not be from a hangover, and that the unsteadiness he'd been battling all day Friday could've been from something other than the disagreeability of reuniting with dry land.

Abruptly then, one of the holes in his perforated memory closed itself, and Jack looked at Bill in alarm. "Bill, the Jackal! She put to sea last night!"

"Aye," Bill confirmed, untouched by the younger man's agitation.

"We were supposed to be on her, William! We were going to sign on with Captain Graves! Oh, Bill, did you forget?"

"No, I didn't forget," Bill assured, reaching over to straighten the quilt where it had been kicked into submission sometime during the night.

Jack stared at him, aghast. "Then why the blazes are you still here?" he demanded.

"Because – how do you do this to your covers? Move your foot that way….wiggle more'n a bloody tadpole, you do – because that `little indisposition' of yours turned out to be the most violent case of the grippe the good doctor out there says he's seen in almost seven years." Satisfied with the positioning of Jack's bedding, Bill then
grabbed the quilt off his own bed and moved towards Jack with it.

"Dammit, Bill, you should have gone!" Jack burst out, his regained voice already starting to crack and fail him. "You know the kind of profits the Jackal's said to bring in! You're mad to miss that chance!"

"Here. If you're going to sit up for a while yet, you need something around your shoulders." Bill draped the second quilt around Jack, impervious to the berating.

"William!"

"Jack, that's enough. You're getting yourself in knots over this and there's no call for it. There'll be other ships." Bill seated himself on the edge of the bed once more. "Drink your tea. You need some liquids back in you, and your poor throat's torn to shreds."

Jack was not appeased. "But Will and Cathleen…" it faded into a croak then, and Jack had to admit silent defeat.

Bill was equally quiet for a long while, but his manner remained untroubled when he spoke again. "I've done all right by them these past few months. They'll be able to hold out."

Jack sagged back into his pillow, his teacup held forgotten in his lap, and stared dolefully out the window, not realizing his eyelids were drooping until Bill rescued the cup from his slackening hand.

"All right, I'll take that. Best lie down before you tip over."

Feeling too wrung-out to protest, Jack let himself be maneuvered horizontal. He sighed into his pillow as he was entombed in blankets. One hand snaked out to catch Bill's arm before it could withdraw, and Jack gave a brief, firm squeeze. The pressure was reciprocated on Jack's shoulder.

"You're welcome," Bill said softly, and though his eyes were closed, Jack swore he could hear the older pirate grinning.

Then the room was cloaked in the hush of Sunday morning rain.

~.~

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