Dead Man's Bluff, pt. 3

by ~laziestgirlintown

Pirate bodice-ripper, second sequel, part three...   (click for the beginning...)

When Mom Concha and Lucy Fire had left the little room behind the kitchen, Pope Susie studied Jean de la Petite Mort for a second, frowning; then she strode off, disappearing into the bustle on the other side of the wall. Jean only had time to catch Mister Rotten's eye and hold it before the Pope came back, carrying towels and a bowl of steaming water, settin' down on the new recruit's other side.
    "How's he doin' really, Sir?" she asked, dipping a towel in water and lifting it up, dripping. She swept it down Jean's face, closing his eyes, letting in air onto cleaner skin. Tiny drops tickled their way down his body, and he shivered, his muscles beginning to ease.
    "He'll be fine." Mister Rotten's big hand stroked through Jean's hair once more, soothing like lettin' the sails fall. "Prob'ly no dancin' tonight, though." He washed Jean's bleeding arm in alcohol again, and even that felt good, reviving. "The cap'ns din't kill each other, did they?"
    Jean flinched - but Pope Susie burst out laughin'.
    "Hell no! They be upstairs, fuckin' each other's brains out."
    Straight through everything else Jean got a sudden, very detailed mental image and his eyes flew open. His face flushed a deep red and he bowed his head to hide it, but Pope Susie laughed again, brushing the towel over his cheek: chill over heat, now.
    "Ye'd like te join 'em, would ye, Joãozinho?"
    "Well... you know..." he mumbled.
    "Doubt Cap'n Concha would let ye, though, she don't care much for boys." Jean straightened his neck again, eyes down and skin burning; Pope Susie folded the cloth clean and stroked it over him once more as she went on: "Specially boys what cain't fight. By the Deeps, lover, was embarrassin' to watch ye -"
    "The fuck you say!" Jean snarled, knocking Pope Susie's arm away backhandedly, glaring up, poised as if to jump her.
    "What?" she blinked, honestly puzzled.
    "He be thinkin' ye meant he shamed us," Mister Rotten said calmly behind Jean, washing his own hands with alcohol and threading the needle again.
    "How the - No!" Her Holiness exclaimed. "Jean, we be the ones shamed! Shoulda started teachin' ye to fight tha' first mornin'! We let ye down." Her battle-marked hand reached slowly to him, palm turned up, as if to a spooked dog.
    "... Oh," the young man swallowed, letting her stroke his cheek.
    "We begin tomorrow," the First Mate nodded and closed his left hand solidly on Jean's arm.
    "Wait," the new recruit asked, unable to stop a shudder, glancing up at Rotten quickly. Then Jean took a deep breath, closed his eyes and leaned back, and tried to relax back into the bliss his body had known a few moments ago. It didn't come easily, but a new clean towel touched his face and gently smoothed the hard lines on his forehead, Rotten's lips brushed his for a second, and he felt his shoulders slacken. "Alrigh'," he said.
    The curved needle pierced the sore and swollen wound of the sword-cut, and a long spike of pain flashed through Jean. He grit his teeth, panting at the pain - and then the worst was over.
    "Jus' three more," the First Mate said... his voice not entirely calm anymore. "Susana, would ye help our friend relax?"
    Jean peeked up at Pope Susie smiling like she would've whipped her tail if she had one. But then she winked, dried off her own lip rouge, leaned in and kissed his eyes closed. There was a long, beautifully empty pause, and then the calm, soothing touch moved down the side of his face. Unbelievably slowly, she kissed his cheeks, chin, dimples, eyes, temples, his left shoulder, the crown of his head, the corner of his mouth, his throat - lingering a brief eternity in each place, moving in a hypnotic pattern, round and round, easing and soothing until there was no trace left of how spooked he had been. Then Pope Susie took Jean's mouth with hers and the fires raged up blazing hot. She grabbed his thigh and the back of his neck, and his right hand struggled round to her buttocks, grasping them and pulling her to him. He couldn't think for lust, trying to feel all of her at once with his one small hand, his body roaring into flame wherever her hungry hands touched: his spread legs, his chest, stomach, groin, head, throat...
    "Done," Herbert Rotten said, washing the stitched-up sword-cut in more alcohol, and Pope Susie lifted her flushed, panting face from Jean's. He was completely disoriented for a second, his mind  flying, then the first mate released the vice-like grip on Jean's left arm. A wave of hurt reclaimed him, staggering him away from Pope Susie as he realized just how hard his arm had been treated. The pain dropped him back against the wall for a few seconds, stars rushing before his eyes and his body wanting to crouch in on itself - but then there were Pope Susie's hands on his forehead and midriff, Mister Rotten's on his shoulder and thigh, grounding him.
    "... Done?" Jean gasped, forcing his eyes open, looking blearily from one pirate to the other. "Well..." he whispered... "I'm just a sucker for a fuckin' kick-ass kiss, ain't I?"
    "Aye," Pope Susie laughed, licking her lips like a cat fed with cream. "That thou art."
    "Good thing too," Rotten smiled, winding clean white linen round and round Jean's arm. "And anyway," he continued, "will be easy te teach ye te fight. Ye were bloody brave tonigh'."
    "Bloody bein' the bigger word..." Jean answered, looking down - and winced. "Zut! I made a parrot o' yer shirt an' all, Herbert, I..." He grabbed the bloodied wreck of a shirt and looked wretchedly up into the first mate's face - to meet a wicked smile.
    Rotten took his hands off Jean long enough to pull the shirt over his head and drop it on the floor. The young man fell mute, his eyes following the wild hunt of tattoos across the pirate's broad chest. "Maybe I should ruin your shirts more often," he muttered, lifting his right hand to let the tip of one finger trace ink across muscles while Rotten's hands returned to hold him.
    "See ye don' make a habit of it," the first mate grinned.
    Jean suddenly remembered Captain Crow's sword cutting him out of Misha Dimitrich's shirt, and bent his neck, curls tumbling over his burning, smiling face.
    "I agree," Pope Susie said, and he couldn't understand what she was talking about until she'd gone on for a while: "I saw when ye drew yer own." She picked up his knife from the table. "If it had been short blades, ye'd have stood a chance, aye? Daggers 'n' fists ye can fight."
    Jean replayed the parts of the fight he could remember and felt a little surprised as he agreed, "A better chance, aye."
    He looked to the last of the stew in its bowl and felt a wave of hunger - then giggled surprised as Rotten tickled his left palm with the tip of his little finger.
    "Feel 'at? No tinglin', no numbness?"
    "Yeah, I feel it." Jean flexed his fingers a little, and grinned as the tickling moved up his arm. "That too."
    "Nowhere that feel much colder than the rest?"
    "No."
    "Good. Eat the rest o' yer dinner."
    "Aye, Sir!"
    He bent to the food, taking another spoonful - and wondrously it tasted even better now: the flavours were richer, the strength it gave him was deeper. He ate, his senses knowing only food, a comb moving through his hair, a towel moving across his face - until he pulled the last emptied spoon out of his mouth, chewing spice-laden tomatoes, fish and rice, and a voice cut straight into his fragrant world:
    "You have not an easy place, Jean de la Petite Mort," Señora Concha said.
    Jean looked up, swallowing the last, raising his eyebrows in surprise. What was Mom talking about? He had his lovers on both sides: Mister Rotten not even cutting into him with a needle anymore, his strong leg reliable and calming under Jean's hand; and Pope Susie's body warming Jean's, her fingers steady on his leg and her fingers cool on his face. He had fantastic food and a mug of drink in front of him, and watching over them Mom whom he immediately trusted - -     
    "You are crew, so you follow the code," Mom went on. Jean shrugged and nodded, which stirred a new headache, and he recognized that he was a bit tired... and oh yes, a bit drunk. "But you are not a pirate, so you do not know how to break it when you need to."
    "Break it?" he wondered confused, then giggled and answered himself: "Right! Pirate." But he met Señora Concha's sea-green eyes and saw how serious they were; his own face grew serious under that gaze.
    "When you sail with pirates and you are not a pirate, you will have many difficult decisions."
    "I..." Jean blinked. "I know." He looked down. "I mean... I'm learning that. Thank you, Señora." Glancing up at the last, he saw her smile.
    "Call me Mom, Jean. You are one of mine now." Jean felt a smile begin to mirror hers. "Now finish cleaning yourselves up. Your crew mates are asking for you."
    "Thank you, Mom. We will." He took one of the clean towels and turned to wipe the parrot colours off of Mister Rotten.

They strode back out onto the sprawling open-porch main floor of the inn - First Mate Rotten and Pope Susie walking by Jean de la Petite Mort on either side.
    The new recruit walked softly but steadily, with his left arm strung up in a sling, all the make-up washed from his face, his before so coiffed hair falling in loose blond locks, and the blood-stained skirts of his dress hanging heavily round his legs. His knife was tucked into his belt within easy reach, some way away from the empty scabbard of his borrowed and lost sword.
    The rowdy, loud guests of Mom's Bloody Dagger moved aside to let them pass, then kept watching in case there'd be a second act.
    When Jean, Rotten and the Pope came within sight of their own table, most of the Incorrigible crew stood up and cheered.
    "The return of Black Jack Cutlass!" White Betty announced and every single one of the pirates stood and raised their cups to Jean.
    Slightly predictably, Jean blushed hotly. Then the crew were bustling about, making a new space for him at the table, talkin' all at once about teachin' him to fight, slidin' his sword back in its sheath, bein' glad Mom hadn' cooked 'im all up, tellin' the rowdiest parts of the rest o' the captains' row, urgin' 'im to eat summing, askin' how he were and what he might be doin' later.
    He ended up sittin' comfortably between Archibald Albatross and The Dragon Rose, with One-eye Joss and Lucy Fire just across the long table. He listened to the pirates talkin' at least five at a time, answering in one word here and three words there. Rather soon though, he realized that most of the crew had been waiting to see him come back safe, and now, well seen and assured, they began moving around to divers pleasures.
    Horned Peter, carrying his guitar, went to talk with some pirates holding long flutes and large drums - they went into cahoots with the Dagger's house band and together they drove the music into a wild ride, running folk up onto the dance floor as if whipped by devils. Annie Angel had had her eyes on a feller who looked like a regent prince - tall, broad, thick black hair and beard with a few silver strands, pearls in his ears and gold on his hands: she took him dancing, off an' on even lettin' him lead. Doc Mahoney struck up a conversation with a striking red-head, and they ended up at a gamblin' table, facin' each other over cards and coins, drivin' the other players to fury with looks and moves that weren't really signals. Pope Susie went dancin' with a pirate with a crimson head scarf, an emerald neckerchief, a saffron scabbard, an indigo sash across his chest and jet black hair. Philippe Kingfisher sashayed up to a pirate captain regaled in a jasper coat with golden embroideries and started talking to the elegant lady with a lily in her hair whose dainty hand rested on the captain's arm.
    Second Mate Herod rose smiling from the table as a beautiful woman dressed in green and yellow came up and stopped in front of him, feet planted and arms crossed over her chest.
    "You sit down before you take me dancing?" she demanded.
    "You keep me waiting this long?" he retorted.
    "I have to come and fetch you, now?" she intoned.
    "For which I am very grateful," the pirate smiled with a hinted bow and stepped away from the table, taking the woman's arm under his. They walked off into the dark night.
    And First Mate Rotten looked up as a wide-shouldered, black-haired, unshaven pirate with olive skin, sleeveless shirt and bright brown eyes walked in through Mom's portico. Rotten, still shirtless, stood as if drawn and immediately snagged the new arrival's gaze. A swift smile flashed between them and they strode to meet, becoming a still fixture in the middle of the crowds. They spoke together in low voices, the new pirate's hands now and again grazing the first mate's bare skin; then they danced off into the crowd to the wild rhythmical music.

So there were only six of the Incorrigible crew left round the table when Captain Crow and Captain Concha came ambling down the stairs.
    The captains walked slowly, lazily, arms about each other's waists, trading idle whispers for pleased, sated smiles. Their clothes were rumpled and a little torn, their shirts erratically buttoned, leaving generous amounts of skin free for casual caresses. Their sword belts, meanwhile, hung just as they were supposed to, and the captains were never so entangled they wouldn't be able to reach one weapon or another.
    At the foot of the stairs, Captain Crow paused, bringing Captain Concha to a stop. When Dolores turned with raised eyebrows, she pulled her close and kissed her. The kiss was lingering, mellow, their bodies melding together as if they were made for each other - but their hands on each other's arms and backs were contentious and greedy. If one held fast enough to bruise, the other scratched; if one drew a gasp, the other won a moan. Concha tried to push Crow against the banister with her hips, but Jean's captain - no, he did not take his eyes off them for a second in case you were wondering - she pushed back and turned them round, nudging Dolores up onto the railing. One of Concha's thighs slid up along the outside of Crow's, but her other leg pressed in between the captain's, and they struggled, locked, for a second - then wrenched their faces away from each other, panting and grinning. They took deep breaths, holding each other's gaze; then their legs untangled and Concha stood up. Like snakes striking, their mouths met again, exchanging quick but fierce bites which turned to low, pleased laughs. They swapped brief touches, gathered themselves, and arms winding round waists once more they walked on.
    When they arrived at the Incorrigible pirates' table the captains parted in a melting motion.
    Captain Concha stood back, left hand in default position on the pommel of her cutlass, while Captain Crow strode on round the table. The Dragon Rose stood to let her pass, goin' to sit between White Betty 'n' One-eye Joss; and the captain came to a halt in front of her newest recruit. He rose to face her, his right hand grabbing the wall to help keep him up.
    Captain Crow inspected Jean attentively; looked into his eyes, then stroked his hair, grazing the darkening bruise on the side of his head. Her hand continued down to linger on his throat, feeling his pulse through the thin skin, and still down along his left arm, coming to rest below the bandages. She looked back up.
    "How ye doin', sailor?"
    "I'll be fine," Jean said, then cleared his throat before he went on. "Mister Rotten says so, he sewed me up." His fingers curled against the wall. "Except I think I stood up too fast." The captain's left hand came immediately to his right side, supporting him easily but making it look like a caress.
    "Ye awful pale. You eaten?" Captain Crow interrogated.
    "Yes," Jean answered. "I guess I lost some blood..."
    The captain looked him over again and then turned sharply to Captain Concha. "Ye bitch, ye ruined me fine dress!"
    "Wha' the fuck, I'll steal ye a new one," Concha shrugged. "Ain't the best colour for 'im anyway, 'e should've summing icier."
    "Ye're on," Cap'n Crow grinned, still looking at Concha as she eased Jean back down onto the bench with her hand round his waist. She sat down next to him, settin' a foot up on one knee an' leanin' back against the wall. "Find me a dress makes 'im look prettier 'n he did comin' in here."
    "Damn right I will," Captain Concha scoffed, to the ring of a sword drawn from a scabbard. She glanced towards the sound of an echoing ring and two swords clashing; Jean, wide-eyed, stared in the same direction.
    The jasper-and-gold captain had drawn steel against Philippe Kingfisher, who met his blade with his own and with a laugh. The elegant lady with the lily in her hair backed up hurriedly with her knuckles to her mouth, stepping onto the edge of the Kingfisher's shadow and following it wherever it turned.
    "I'll have yer hide for a scabbard! Ye barnacle-lickin', gunpowder-suckin', mud-chewin' - "
    "While I thank ye for the compliment, Captain Schumann," Philippe grinned, parrying the captain's lunges as if it were the easiest thing in the world, "I really must decline." The tip of his rapier snipped a mother-of-pearl button off Schumann's coat. "My skin is far too pretty to be wasted on the garb of such a buffoon as you." He took an unexpected step to the side as their blades next met and his opponent lost his balance for a few moments, his sword wobbling. Another button went, from the tail of the captain's coat.
    "Watch and learn, angel," Captain Crow murmured in Jean's ear, and he nodded, speechless. As far as he could tell, the green-clad pirate captain, turning now and charging again, was very good with his blade - but Philippe Kingfisher was amazing. He moved around his rival as if he were dancing, knowing always where his own feet were and forcing the other's steps. His sword was as agile as a live snake, snapping after the other, heavier blade and keeping it off true, never letting it choose its own course. Yet another button flew.
    "Ye're a liar and a blackguard an' I'll have yer blood te paint my ship!" Schumann roared, and the Kingfisher laughed.
    "Oh but for a ship, Monsieur, ye should use yer own bile. It be more like tar."
    A feint to the captain's liver was parried well enough to break the elegant arc of the rapier, but Philippe deftly twirled his blade and thrust the broader steel away, making the captain stumble.
    "Technique and strength," Captain Crow commented and Jean hummed agreement, absorbed.
    "Marianne!" Schumann exclaimed, charging again, and the lily-haired lady glared at him. "Back yon a few steps and close thine eye, I'll run this rat through and ye'll be safe once more!"
    "Safe?!" she yelled back and crossed her arms over her chest. "I'll watch 'im run you through and be rid of yer 'protection', ye ... seagrass... fondlin', ... mermaid... mermaid-fuckin' eunuck!"
    The captain misstepped and Philippe Kingfisher's sword knocked his sparkling hat off.
    "If you 'ad your way you'd nail me to your ugly ship as a figure-'ead," Marianne went on as the captain defended himself clumsily against the Kingfisher's renewed attack, "so ye could paint me like you wanted me and know where I am the all time - and ye'd prefer a piece of wood, wouldn't ya!"
    "What she said," Philippe laughed and cut a brass button off of the captain's trousers, the blade moving like an extension of his hand.
    "I shoulda wot better than te take up with a Frenchwoman, they all - " Schumann began furiously, but stopped short as a long, straight line right across his face suddenly welled up with thick, dark blood. Philippe Kingfisher flicked crimson drops off his sword as it came down, while his opponent brought both his hands up to his face and screamed.
    "Pardon, Capitain, you were sayiŋ?" the Kingfisher drawled, his voice flat and cold as he straightened his shirt-cuffs. "Something about Frenchwomen, was it? About La France?"
    The captain dropped to his knees, still keening, blood flowing over his fingers and dripping from his chin. Three other pirates came running up to him; two crouched down beside him but the third put his hand on the grip of his cutlass. Philippe Kingfisher raised his eyebrows and the man instantly backed away, ducking behind his crew mates as they helped their captain back on his feet, dragging him away into the crowd. The Frenchman drew a handkerchief from a breast pocket and cleaned the blood from the tip of his blade; Marianne walked up to his side to look him squarely in the eyes, a sly smile curving her mouth.
    "Merde," Jean whispered.
    "Aye, he's quite good, our pêcheur," Captain Crow agreed.
    Jean turned his head and saw, first of all, that Captain Concha had sat down next to his captain - but at a right angle: back against the wall she sat in the corner, legs stretched out along the bench and booted feet resting in Captain Crow's lap. Jean's captain still had one warm hand on his waist; her other rested comfortably on Captain Concha's ankle.
    "All your pécheurs are good, Nora," Dolores Concha smiled, and Crow laughed, then looked back at Jean.
    "That they be. And I've the feeling most of 'em will enjoy teachin' ye, too, my sea-bird."
    "Most assuredly," Archibald Albatross nodded, watching Jean.
    "It'll be pleasure on both sides," One-eye Joss added, thoughtfully.
    "Start learning in skirts," White Betty suggested, "then it'll be easy as drownin' to fight in trews."
    Jean chuckled. "But I move easier in skirts."
    "You actually like wearin' a dress, kid?" Captain Concha asked, incredulous.
    Jean blinked, looked away from his crew mates and met her steady gaze. The brown of her eyes shifted: dark to bright, red-green to greyish. "Yes," he answered, straightening his neck a little. "It's comfortable."
    "But the ruddy skirts git in'e gorram way all the time," the pirate frowned, and the young man smiled:
    "Not when you're used to them."              
    Concha's eyes narrowed. "If ye can learn that, how ain't ye learnt to use a sword?" She turned to Captain Crow, saying nothing but there was clear blame in her eyes. Sitting so close, Jean felt clearly that when one of the captains moved, the other moved in anticipated response - simultaneously as if they moved to fit together better and as if they were prey and hunter.
    "I haven't been aboard that long," Jean answered calmly, "and I've been quite busy. But now I've seventeen teachers, so I dare say I'll catch up." He rested against the wall, pulling the captain's hold with him.
    "Yarr, he be a good student," White Betty confirmed.
    "Oh aye, very keen," Lucy Fire nodded with a grin.
    Captain Concha laughed with them and poured more wine into Captain Crow's cup. "Spare wonder ye been busy, kid!"
    "My name," said Jean, "is Jean de la Petite Mort."
    The change was immediate; he felt it through Crow's body and heard it in the tense silence that struck like lightning. The pirate captain was dead serious at once, meeting his eyes again. She set the wine bottle down, hand moving to the pommel of her sword. Then she stood up - and Jean let his own hand close over the familiar grip of his long, sharp knife. It stayed there while the captain took off her hat, held it against her chest and bowed.
    "Capitán Dolores Concha of el Endriago."
    Jean thought about standing to curtsey, realized his legs would never let him, and dipped a sitting bow. "Es un honor de conocerla, Capitán."
    "And by the way," Captain Concha added as she sat back down and swung her feet back up onto Captain Crow's lap, "ye do be prettier without - " she glanced to see Pope Susie was out of earshot - "without all 'at paint."
    "So I've heard," Jean smiled. "I've heard the opposite, too. I can handle it."
    "Right," Captain Crow grinned as donna Maria came up to their tables with a full tray. "Let's drink together, then! The night's only beginning!"
    The pirates raised their glasses and sang.




And they all lived happily ever after. The end, for now.