Participants:
| Scene Title | Not Pleased |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Jack is not pleased. Neither is Bebe. |
| Date | March 2, 2009 |
The largest, most obvious feature of Dr. Filatov's clinic is that one wall, an entire wall has been almost completely with what appear to be tall hardwood china cabinets, or possibly some other form of storage furniture from a bar, or kitchen or apothecary that have been nailed to the wall and cobbled together into some kind of uniformity. The last one may be the most likely, because every row of shelves that no run the length of the wall are covered with jars and bottles containing all manner of drugs, medicines, tonics, ointments and tinctures. The drawers below the shelves doubtlessly contain more supplies necessary for the operation of the clinic, so perhaps it's best not to question exactly what can be found in them. Besides that, the room is dominated by two large examination tables, which are really just old, well-worn wooden dining tables, with some of the matching chairs resting against the wall opposite the medicines, the closest to a waiting room the clinic has. A simple wooden screen in one corner serves as a dressing area. The unadorned wood paneling and scuffed hardwood floor are not the doctor's doing; he freely admits that whoever occupied this place last had both a thing for wood, and poor taste. The only other seemingly permanent fixture of the clinic is Ranger, Dr. Filatov's absolutely ancient bulldog, who spends most of his days lounging by the dressing screen, or wherever the sunbeams happen to pass through the steel window shutters. Besides a short hallway leading to the rest of the building (most of the space of which is taken up by the enormous examination/emergency/operating room), an unobtrusive door with far too many latches takes up a portion of an inside wall. 'Employees only' couldn't be spelled any more clearly
Last night was painful and restless for Jack. Partially healed and recently stitched, he tossed and turned as much as his injury would allow while sleeping in fits and snatches. "Waking up," if you can call it that, was more relief than what sleep he did get.
Still, despite his haggard exterior, he's in better condition that he would be without the help of Tavisha and Eileen. There's a bandage taped over his Tav-applied stitches with more wrapped around his chest to hold them in place. Stripped to the waist, hungry, and bored to tears, he's staring at the ceiling again. He's spent more time looking at ceilings in the last few days than a well-paid Chinese whore.
A brief phone call to Bebe has been all he's had to break the monotony. A little reassurance, a few sweet nothings, and a request for scotch and something to eat. That's what relationships are made of.
Well-paid Chinese whores are so hard to come by anymore… but, only because the whores on Staten Island just aren't very well-paid. The 'china doll' who finds her way back to Filatov's, however, isn't exactly of the Asian persuasion — it's Bebe sporting a pair of black brocade Mary Janes and wearing an overlarge, faded hoodie sweatshirt with a pair of tight (but not too tight) jeans. If she had any clue about what the girl she'd previously met in here a few days ago tried to do, she'd have brought more than a fifth of scotch and some soup for Jack to snack on. After all, Eileen's so skinny… she could use a little more iron in her diet, right? Luckily, Bebe is just as clueless to current events as she ever was; lost without Jack to relay his version of what's worth knowing.
While she isn't panicked or frantic thanks to that phone call, she is just a wee bit anxious to see what's become of the man — her man — who bartered her body but not her heart. "Jack…?" Her voice sounds so small as it bounces off the walls of the clinic searchingly. Marco?
"In here, love," Jack calls out from one of the near-empty rooms. Other than his cot and a small table, there's very little to furnish it. Which is fine by him, really. He's about to be furnished with liquor and his sweetheart. "Scurry on, I've missed you."
Inside, he's doing his best to arrange himself into a slightly more dignified and less injured posture. He props himself half-upright against the wall and winces at the pressure it puts on his healing lung. It's survivable, if painful.
Bebe's borne witness to enough high seas scuff to tell the difference between 'tis just a scratch' and 'give this watch to my kid' wounds; in her initial estimation, Jack appears to be suffering from something that was probably damn close to the latter but now hovers firmly around the middle ground. He's conscious. He's talking. He recognizes her. She doesn't care about anything else.
"Oh, captain… my captain," she says sweetly, laying her edible burden down on the small tabletop before drawing closer to the cot in order to deliver as ginger an embrace as her excited arms will allow. With both hands momentarily hung on the back of Jack's neck, she regards his face in a nose-to-nose inspection before laying a tender kiss on his lips. "Did you get what you were after?" she wonders quietly in lieu of the standard 'are you okay?' or 'what happened to you?' inquiries that other people who know him less intimately might be inclined to throw out first.
The kiss is a sweet thing. Something to savor. Jack takes the opportunity with appropriate seriousness, murmuring quiet, approving non-words against her lips. When they finally separate, he doesn't let her go very far. He can't quite handle having his lover on his lap. Not yet. For now, he's forced to keep her nestled in the crook of his arm.
"I got somethin'," he finally answers. "Heh. The Dirty Deeds got shot to shit, but I've traded up. The Delight is my ship now, or it will be soon. Gettin' a steal of a deal on it." He pauses, then licks his lips and continues more seriously. "The boat was fulla 'fugees. Everything went all to shit."
Fugees. Bebe can’t quite seem to decide between hating Jack just a little bit more for delving into wholesale slavery or loving him just a little more for being altruistic in a very 'William Wallace of the Sea' sort of way. She's not sure which way he was leaning with that one and, honestly, she's not going to fuck up a perfectly good (and rare) sentimental moment by asking. Instead, she just lingers there in his grasp and asks, "When do I get to see it?"
"The second I get outta here. I'll take you to her and we can re-christen her in style." Fondly, he gazes down at Bebe and brushes the backs of his knuckles against her cheek. "You look pretty like this. No lace or silk or frills. Just my girl. I like it."
When he bends down to kiss her again, he cups his hands around her face and pulls her close to him. It hurts, yes. It's also worth it. Hovering at the edge of death has given him a new perspective when it comes to appreciating life's pleasures.
His girl. It feels like forever since she's been his and not everybody else's. She's his girl wearing his hoodie and crawling onto his cot, too. Bebe isn't about to object when a second kiss comes her way. Having Jack hobbled slightly seems to have turned him into a kitten and she isn't apt to complain. It's a welcome respite from the sort of reception she'd been subject to under Logan's wing lately. Not that she can really blame him. She did fuck that one up royal…
"The Delight," she echoes eventually, reflecting on the name of Jack's newest acquisition. "That's not really going to strike fear into the hearts of men, is it?" Then again, there is something unnerving about those misnamed pirate ships — the dread pirate ship Delight just might be right after all.
The Delight. It brings a smile to Jack's lips, too. "No, that just won't do," he agrees, running his fingers fondly through Bebe's hair. "But this boat is different from the rest. The people on board… Man, they were willing to do anything to be free. Y'know, I think I'll call her the Tenacious."
It seems right. "The Tenacious, he repeats. I like it. What do you think, china doll?"
"I'd have to see her first," Bebe informs Jacks shoulder, curling in to keep one hand pressed to his chest while her other arm remains 'round his shoulders so that he's pillowed more against her than vice versa. Laid out side by side, she really is so much smaller than he is in just about every way that matters for much of anything.
Changing the subject subtly, she asks, "Do you want some soup?" Man, seriously. Ever since they've been stuck on Staten Island, it's as if Bebe's become a gustatory disciple of the Sheung Wan Kitchen. She pimps out their goddamn tree lizard soup more than, well… yeah. Isn't she French or something? What's with the Chinese food fetish??
Jack eyes the soup in a sidelong, suspicious fashion. He knows well his love's odd desires. On the other hand, he spent more time than he'd care to remember living off of dry pasta and wheat gruel in Somalia.
Suddenly, tree lizards don't sound so bad.
"Sure," he says, smiling gamely. He accepts the bowl and balances it in the crook of one arm while he eats, clearly unwilling to give up his place at Bebe's side.
"So," he continues between bites. "How've things been? No more trouble at work, I hope."
There are a few awkward moments wherein Bebe make the 'here, let me feed you' gesture but then subsides back into stillness when she realizes that Jack's perfectly capable of doing it himself. She sits up but doesn't dare leave her place by his side just yet. Bebe's mouth opens, closes, and then opens again as if she were doing her very best impression of a fish sucking raw air into its inflamed gills. She begins to speak with, "Actually…" but then can't find the words to describe it. Must be bad.
"…Logan isn't doing very well." There's a precious understatement. "You, uh, heard about his eye, right?"
Wounded kitten Jack may be, but this is an issue that's been on the back burner for a while. His head snaps around and he glares at Bebe through half-lidded eyes. "I heard," he rumbles.
There's a moment where it might become more of an issue. Jack's muscles tense and he snaps his teeth. Once. Twice. Three times. "You need to keep your fuckin' head on your shoulders, girl. I…" he purses his lips and pauses for another mouthful of soup.
"I am not pleased," he finishes.
Bebe blanches, grimacing at her second mistake made in bringing it up in the first place. Of course he'd know about it, you dumb cunt, he only works for the man. Just like you do. She tries to shield one of her burning cheeks behind a small hand and lets her eyes trundle elsewhere in the room until maybe the heat from Jack's gaze has faded. It just so happens she's cast a look down to his legs and, hey, how many years ago was it now that she shanked him in the thigh with that butter knife? Apparently, giving kidnapped girls any sort of flatwear just begs for a good stabbing.
"I know," she murmurs quietly without bothering to cough up an excuse outside of her own ignorance. "He… they had to call in that Chinese lady to see him…" Which pretty much equals a whole heap of NOT GOOD in all capital letters.
Now the soup has really lost any appeal it had. Jack leans across Bebe and drops it on the table hard enough to produce a clatter that reverberates through the small, quiet room.
With cold, distant eyes and an unpleasant jut to his jaw, Jack considers his lover for what feels like a very long time. He could do something about it. Yell, hit her, maybe do a little berating.
Why bother? He doesn't have to ask to know that Logan has done all that and more. Bebe sees her boss more often than her boyfriend, and the former has more power than the latter.
And so he says nothing.
The hold that Logan has on Bebe is chillingly similar to the thralldom Jack fell into with morphine; the pimp's influence may be strong but his power is still shallow and pale in contrast to the years spent in Jack's carefully crafted company. "I didn't do it on purpose," Bebe protests pleadingly. "…please, you have to believe me." Both hands now perch on Jack's chest as if she were a pet begging for affection. She even bows her head and rests her chin, too, on the man's bare and bandages chest.
After a moment of extended reverence, Bebe's big brown eyes peer up at her boyfriend's face and she adds boldly in a voice that might only be half a whisper, "Would it really be so bad if something happened to him? We could be on our own again… with your new ship…" Dangerous ground, Bebe, dangerous ground. This is what happens when you keep a selkie from the sea; they begins to scheme all sorts of devious ways to get back without even realizing the depths of their own guile.
Oh, now Jack speaks.
"Get out," he says, his face stony and drawn. He takes a slow, shuddering breath. Control the rage. Sublimate the pain. His grip is rough when he grabs her by the shoulders, hoists her up, and deposits her ungently on the floor. "Just get the hell outta here."
Whu… what?! Poor Bebe's eyes just go all round and wide and wet as Jack rejects her foolish suggestion bodily. For a moment, all her brain can think to let her do is just splay there on the floor, frozen just as he dropped her, awkward and strange. "But, no… Jack…!" Her fingers scramble to clutch desperately at the edge of his cot. "I'm sorry!" Sorry she made him angry but not for making her nefarious suggestion of freedom. "Please…" Let me stay.
Jack grits his teeth and glares balefully down at Bebe. "You," he starts, pointing a finger at her.
There's no more, though. Not at first. He closes his eyes and massages his lips with thumb and middle finger. Exasperation positively drips off of him.
"You know, just go," he finished tiredly. "If you didn't learn anything from what's happened in the last week, you need to go back to the Dagger and think about it some more."
The space between her plucked eyebrows furrows in frustration while her perfect pert nose wrinkles in distaste. "Don't do this," she says, still clinging to the side of the cot defiantly. "Please? Just… talk to me. Tell me what you want me to do. I'll do it. I promise. If you really want me to leave, I'll go, but…" She tentatively loosens the white-knuckle grip of one hand to reach out and put her fingers against his skin again — whatever part of him she can easily reach — in an attempt to express her sincerity in a tactile fashion.
Deep breaths. Deeeeeeep breaths. Sometimes Jack has to pinch himself and keep in mind that the girl he's fucking is about half his age. "Just shut up for a second. I need to think."
Now he's stuck between a girl who obviously wants his boss dead and a boss who frequently dicks his girl. Needless to say, this is not an ideal situation. Injured, angry, and still hungry after his bowl of tree lizards, he just shakes his head. "Christ, girl. I have no idea what the fuck to do with you. Don't ever, ever say some stupid shit like that again. I do not need this shit right now, you hear me?"
Hooray! She's getting her way! Sort of. It's a very, very small victory… and one that Bebe doesn't visibly celebrate save for the shadow of a smile on her face. "Yes, sir," she replies obediently, nodding her head and stiffening her expression to suggest understanding as well as compliance. She then sits there on her knees and looks at the injured pirate thoughtfully, still holding her eyes wide as if staring at the man might bring with it revelation and comprehension of all the world's mysteries. He is sort of her messiah, after all; the sun and center of her very small world.
"I love you," she murmurs quietly, the words tumbling from between her lips before she can really stop herself. They're not intended to be spoken as a band-aid or some sort of contrived distraction technique in order to keep Jack off-balance and out of sync with his fuzzy thought-collection process. It's just an inadvertent voicing of the sentiment that suddenly pushed itself insistently to the forefront of her foolish, teenaged brain. What could Bebe possibly know about love?
Jack lets out a slow sigh and holds out his arms to Bebe, drawing her back onto the cot. "Shhh. I love you too, china doll. C'mere. Cuddle up next to me and we'll forget about this, okay?"
With her wrapped in his arms and his cheek pressed against the top of her head, it's easy for Jack to forget. For all the quirks and oddities that their relationship holds, he does love her very much. She stopped being a thing to him a long, long time ago. Now she's not just a girl, she's his girl.
Even if she comes precariously close to getting him killed sometimes.
 March 2nd: A Painful Truth |
Previously in this storyline… Next in this storyline… |
 March 2nd: The Ten Foot Squid |