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Sick of Love

by Geek Mama
April 9, 2005

…Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love…
Song of Solomon, 2:5

Elizabeth woke late, and alone, and much against her will, body and mind both poised at the very edge of… of…

She groaned. Struggled to recapture sleep, burrowing and squirming into the linens of Jack’s bed. They proved delightfully, disturbingly redolent of evocative scents, rendering the exercise quite useless.

She gave it up, and rolled onto her back. Opened her eyes and blinked at the watery play of light and shadow on the cabin’s ceiling.

Only a dream, then. Dream-hands. Fine, be-ringed, and sun-dark… pressing… stroking… gentle… making her breath come short… leaving her aching. She bit her lip.

Where the devil was he?

A stupid question. By the light, morning was well advanced. He was on deck, then, communing with his beloved ship, of course.

She tried, but was disappointed to find she could not remember him getting out of bed.

By any reasonable measure, the previous night’s activities should have gone some way toward assuaging the twin fires of mind and body that plagued her. This was obviously not the case, however. It had been several months since she’d been visited with this particular malady, and she found it…disconcerting. That it should happen now. With Will gone. With Jack here.

Not here, though. There was no use in lying abed. Perhaps it would ease her to take a walk on deck, in the fresh air.

And he’d be close at hand.

But then there sounded a familiar step in the passage. In an uncharacteristic display of cowardice, she gave a tiny gasp, and pulled the covers up to her chin as the door opened.

It was indeed Jack, carrying a laden tray. “Oh, good! You’re awake.” He shut the door and set the bolt. “Cook’s somehow under the impression you’re in need of more substantial sustenance than porridge this morning.” A flash of gold and white. “There’s hot tea, and he’s used some of those dried apples and a bit of ham to make pasties for us!”

A rather thrilling frisson had coursed through her, but his cheerfully matter-of-fact utterance made her flush, and think her dramatics absurd. She returned the smile, therefore, as though naught were amiss, and moved to make room for him on the bed.

He set the tray on the little table and sat beside her. “Like a taste, then?” he asked, picking up a steaming, golden crescent. He looked at her.

His gaze, as always, seemed to lay bare her heart. She closed her own eyes, just for a moment.

When she opened them again, he was frowning.

She cleared her throat. “N-no. Not just now, thank you.”

“No?” He set the pastie down. “Are you all right? Give me your hand.”

After a short struggle with the covers, she did so. His grasp was warm, and comfortable.

“What is it, then?” he asked, genuinely concerned.

She hesitated, but only for a moment. “I find I am feeling… unwell. And you are wearing far too many clothes to remedy the situation.”

His brows lifted. He said, in a voice like slow velvet, “Ah. Like that, is it?” His lips quivered against an inescapably smug smile. He bent and kissed her hand.

The touch of his lips… she bit her own, again, as her body responded. “Yes,” she said, simply, quite tired of games. “Yes. It’s like that.”

~.~

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