Pearls and Pirates, a pirates of the caribbean fanfic

Title: Pearls and Pirates
Author: Gin/backinblack
Rating: R
Summary: "Awfully pretty bauble you got there, Miz Swann." Elizabeth/Anamaria.
Warnings: Femmeslash.
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters used herein and make no profit from said usage.
Author's Note: This is set post-DMC, although whether or not it is post AWE is rather unclear; the whole timeframe/setting is a little on the ambiguous side. Written for a POTC secret Santa exchange for aussirayne.

"Awfully pretty bauble you got there, Miz Swann."

"It's Elizabeth, please, you know that." To take the exasperated sting out of her tone, Elizabeth flashes a dimpled grin, showing very white teeth against tawny skin. The Caribbean climate suits her, she finds; all that sun and wind is invigorating when one isn't enclosed in a carriage or sheltered under the protective brim of a hat. "But thank you."

Anamaria nods and steps closer, catlike eyes squinted against harsh afternoon light and in concentrated study of Elizabeth's necklace. "Pearls."

Elizabeth's hand goes to her throat where the pearl choker is fastened. "Yes, from my father. It was a… wedding present." Neither acknowledges the worthlessness of such a gift now. Elizabeth drops her hand from her throat and smiles again, wistful.

"Were your mum's, weren't they?"

She blinks in surprise. Anamaria's always been keen, though. She'd have to be in order to survive amongst turncoats and thieves. For some reason, Elizabeth cannot seem to reconcile the plain truth of Anamaria's nature; that she not only consorts with liars and brigands, but that she i is /i one. And it is not because Anamaria is a woman, either, because at this point in her life, Elizabeth has learned what even the most cultivated lady is capable of.

She was one once, herself. A lady. Elizabeth's mouth turns down when she answers "yes," and that's the end of talk about her pearls.

She may not be a lady any longer, but she certainly isn't a pirate. She's had it with pirates. She tells Anamaria this one night when they're below deck (and incidentally, into quite a few bottles of wine).

"I was quite infatuated with the idea, you know," she says, as if imparting great secrets.

"I know," Anamaria replies, a small and discerning smile playing upon her lips as she lifts her goblet for another drink.

"Oh, did you? Well." Elizabeth shrugs and studies the rim of her own goblet. It's ornate, gold filigree winding around the stem in a leaf pattern. Ornate but not ostentatious, and very practical in that it can hold a good half a bottle if the drinker so chooses to indulge. And she does. "I fancied myself in i love /i with pirates."

"Pirate," Anamaria corrects. Elizabeth, although drunk almost senseless, gathers there is a distinction in Anamaria's comment, and looks up quizzically. "Will Turner weren't never a pirate, lass."

Elizabeth doesn't quite know what to say to this. It's true, and truth is often the hardest blame to face. "I suppose not."

"Jack Sparrow weren't much of a pirate neither, y'ask me." She half-mutters this into her goblet, sounding sour and disapproving (Jack told her about that business with borrowing Anamaria's boat, and this memory makes her want to giggle even though their conversation has turned decidedly earnest), but her eyes are shining, amused. Probably with drink, but it's good enough for Elizabeth.

"No, I see that he isn't," she laughs. One more sip to down the wine, and then she doesn't reach for the bottle. Enough for one night. "But then," she asks, delicately wrinkling her brow, "who exactly i is /i a pirate?"

"Me, o'course," Anamaria smirks.

Elizabeth smiles back. What a notion. Perhaps she was never in love with pirates after all.

The next morning, Elizabeth arises with a pounding headache. She's never felt so utterly derelict in her life, not even the next morning in Tia Dalma's hut after sleeping off tears and thick, dark rum. She staggers on deck with a hand pressed to her temple, clearly miserable. Anamaria stands at the wheel looking vigorous and jovial, in her fashion.

"Sleep well?" she teases.

"I was under the impression wine was a more i forgiving /i vice," she groaned. "I feel terrible." Futilely, she rubs at her temples and tries to away from the blinding rays of the sun.

"Nah, who gave you that idea? Was it Sparrow? If you don't have a head for liquors, then it don't much matter what you drink." She steps away from the wheel and comes to where Elizabeth stands. "Is that helpin'?"

"Not really," she admits, mournful.

"Then you're doing it wrong, see." Anamaria's hand comes up to bat away Elizabeth's, and warm, unyielding fingers press to the side of her head, kneading. It isn't all that pleasant at first, just more pressure that stabs at her skull, but after a few moments, the warmth that seems contained in Anamaria's fingers starts to seep into Elizabeth's skin. "Better?" she asks, still kneading, eyebrow cocked.

"Much," Elizabeth sighs in gratitude.

"We'll go easy on the wine tonight, aye?"

"Yes," she agrees, although she's not paying much attention to Anamaria's words when her hands are still working such magic.

Elizabeth is limited to half a goblet of wine that evening. She's surprised to find herself more at ease than she has been in months, and it isn't because she's inebriated to the point that she can't recall her troubles any longer, as was the case the previous night. A half goblet is a gentle push in the direction of relaxation, but she is very much in control of her senses.

Anamaria, however, is quite a different story. She feels no compunction over indulging in a bottle or three, and Elizabeth is visibly amused as their conversation takes a drunkenly friendly turn.

"Never did ask me why…" she trails off, tilts her head in contemplation, and looks toward the ceiling as if it will grant her resolution. "Erm."

"Why… Why you came back? Why you left Jack's crew in the first place?" She guesses, but there's not a lot else that's left unanswered between the two of them.

"Aye, all that. You never asked me why."

Elizabeth shrugs. "I never thought to ask, really. Everyone has their reasons."

"Damn well they do. I was lookin' after me own self, as it happens. I had," and she sits up straighter, shakes her black hair over her shoulders, and adopts a storytelling tone, "no intention of bein' second mate to a madman. Things were gettin' dangerous, and I had no wish to put my luck in with his lot. Even if Sparrow did still owe me a ship." She glowers at her own mention of Jack.

"I know what you mean," Elizabeth says quietly, although only to a point. She sees now, when it is far too late, the simple wisdom of Anamaria's attitude toward Jack. Jack was a good man, but he had a horrible destiny. Elizabeth did not want to be dragged down with the ship, as it were.

But what a way to go about it. She wanted to rid herself of Jack's fate so badly that she ultimately rid herself of everything else as well. She isn't a lady or a pirate, now, and by no means a wife.

"You need to stop thinkin' such sorry thoughts, Liz," Anamaria warns. The use of Elizabeth's name -- well, an approximation of it, anyway -- snaps her out of her reverie more than Anamaria's scolding.

"That's the first time you've ever called me by my name," Elizabeth says, delighted.

"I'm drunk," Anamaria laughs. "You can't take anything I say to heart."

"Well, I'm sober, and I do, so that's the end of it."

Anamaria offers her another turn with wine a few days later, this time given in a much smaller glass. "Keep your head, Liz," she says, and it's almost grave. "I'll not be responsible for any foolishness." Her gaze flicks away and then back to Elizabeth, inscrutable.

She doesn't heed the warning for long, however, and ends up tipsy and looking at Anamaria with a smile she can't suppress. "It's so very good to have a i friend /i ," she exclaims, gesturing with her glass.

"Aye," Anamaria says tonelessly.

"I've never had a friend before," she confides, still smiling. Her face is beginning to hurt, but she can't truly feel it through the haze of alcohol. "Not since I was a girl, anyway. I don't even think that Will -- that Will was really my friend." Suddenly she feels very sad, and she looks down at her hands on the tabletop. Her fingers are reddened from work and developing sore calluses, but this doesn't bother her.

"I don't make friends," Anamaria says, reaching for the bottle. Her fingers curl around its neck, and Elizabeth remembers how warm and firm and soothing they are. She's got calluses as well, from so many years of slavish work on ships, but even so they aren't like a man's hands. Not like Jack's, not like Will's, and not even like Tia's, who bore queer signs of toil and stains from her enchantments.

"If you don't have friends, then what do you have?" Elizabeth asks, her tone indignant, even though she had admitted to nearly the same thing moments before.

Anamaria thinks about this, and when she comes to a decision, her chin juts forward in satisfaction. "Sex. I have sex." At Elizabeth's startled laugh, she levels a calculating, mocking smile. "What do i you /i have?"

Elizabeth is still sputtering inwardly, but she manages to answer. "A lady pirate, I guess."

"I told you I wasn't to be responsible for your foolishness."

Elizabeth ignores her and takes down her hair from its queue. It's blanched from the sun and smells like wind; she likes it better than the powders and perfumes her maid used to apply. Her plain cotton dress is another matter -- the row of buttons down the back is difficult to unfasten even when she isn't shaking and drunk. Her hands fumble and her fingers slip until a warm pressure, a hand, at the base of her spine causes her to halt.

"I'll do it," Anamaria whispers. Her fingers make short work of it, although Elizabeth can feel the other woman isn't all that steady on her feet either. Finally, all the buttons are undone, and the same warm fingers push the dress from off her shoulders.

Elizabeth doesn't have time to second-guess, and doesn't particularly want to.

Warm fingers stroke and soothe her stomach. Elizabeth's breath hitches and she turns her head to the pillow, smelling smoke and wind and a hint of Anamaria herself. The bed is comfortable, an actual bed and not a hammock, but these are the captain's quarters and it is to be expected. Long months at sea have not inured her to the rolling of the waves, and despite the calm weather and their being belowdecks, Elizabeth still finds she is lightheaded.

Perhaps it is not entirely the sea's mild fury. Perhaps it is Anamaria's mouth, the hot and humid breath on her inner thigh.

Anamaria is fussy with her logs. She fills them in each morning and each night, making note of any eventful happening between. Most would be surprised at her careful script and how most of her words are spelled right. She doesn't seem the type. Most would be surprised at a lot about Anamaria.

Her first mate is standing by to relieve her, and she's looking forward to a good long sleep in her cabin. She took two turns at watch, back to back, and there's ink smudged on her fingers that has passed to her face from all the times she's brought her hand up for a yawn.

Stibbons nods and takes up his post as she passing by the helm to go down the stairs, yawning again. Elizabeth isn't to be found in her cabin, but it's daytime now, so she's probably in the galley or off doing whatever takes her fancy. Elizabeth of fond of Anamaria's ship, The Dutchess, and she wanders over the decks in a studious kind of awe. One of these days Anamaria is going to take her aloft and show her the i real /i measure of a ship.

She shucks off her boots and places her hat on the table. Her salt-stiff clothes are traded for a supple nightshirt and she climbs into bed. It still smells like Elizabeth. Anamaria rolls onto her back and feels the waves trying to rock her gently to sleep. She reaches to plump her pillow, but her fingers connect with something odd. She sits up a little, turns, and fishes underneath the pillow until she has a good hold on it.

Pearls.