Work Text:
one
Jack has so many problems in his life that he doesn’t even consider Oliver Twist becoming one. He should, of course, because the jolly bastard has been skulking around Governor House, trying to weasel his way out of the engagement with Fanny, but there are other pressing issues that require immediate attention.
(Like being Fagin’s bloody convict servant, or being on probation at the hospital. Like reconciling the fact that he knows what the inside of Belle’s chest feels like.)
So he should recognize that Twist is a problem, but he doesn’t, which is why he’s sporting a fat lip and a scalpel to the jugular.
“So sorry about this, Dodge,” Twist says jovially, pressing a bit harder with the blade. Jack feels a trickle of blood seep into his collar. “You see, I don’t actually think you were much involved with it, but needs must. Fagin stole something of value from me, and now I’ll be stealing something from him.”
In the three days they spent in prison together, Fagin told the story no less than a dozen times, each round adding more and more embellishment until you’d thought he was Alexander the Great come again. Of course, at that point they had no idea that Rotty’d been found out and the gold had been returned. It had been entertaining to hear how Twist’s plans were foiled, to know they’d gotten one up on the bastard. Little Oliver Twist, the wettest lettuce in all of London, screaming and crying about his missing gold. Jack would have paid anything to see that.
“Rather a nice way to say you’re planning to kill me, you fat bastard,” Jack grits out, groping around for something to use behind him. The workbench is painfully clean, courtesy of Belle, who has insisted on making herself ‘useful’ while she recovers (really, she’s just proving to be a pain in his ass, but Sneed admires how organised they are now and he can hardly argue while he’s on probation). He had a mallet on the table earlier that day, and now it’s probably hung up or put away in its case where it belongs, which is entirely unhelpful.
Twist laughs, like they’re two old mates having a catch up, like he isn’t about to slash Jack’s throat for the unfortunate coincidence of being associated with Fagin. Fucking Fagin. “Jack, let’s not send you from this life with curses on your lips.”
Funny that, Jack thinks. Twist has an entire supper crumbed around his mouth, sitting in the fleshy corners like he’s saving it for a snack later. Jack’d much rather have curses than a four course meal. But he’d also like to live, if only so he can ensure Belle continues healing the way she’s meant to. “Listen, Twist, surely we can come to some sort of agreement.”
“Like what? That gold was my ticket to paradise.” And here, Twist’s voice hardens, and there is nothing jolly about his face any longer. He reminds Jack a little of Monks, of Sykes, the way his face goes flat and cold. “I should be in Tahiti right now in a palace fit for a king. Instead, I’m here, waiting for a boat to take me back to London, where I’ll marry my daft fiance, if I don’t throw her overboard the second this miserable piece of land disappears from the horizon. You’ve never had anything in your pissing life, Dodger, but me? I was so close.”
And that...that Jack understands. Not the money or the riches—there, Twist is painfully correct—but Jack has been close to having everything and seen it all disappear like smoke in his hands. He thinks of Belle, grey and muted on the table, and how close he was at losing everything.
But Oliver Twist wouldn’t understand that, and so Jack keeps his jaw clenched and his hand ready to rise, to put pressure on the wound Twist is clearly ready to give.
Which is, of course, when Belle decides to be the bane of his existence. The door creaks open, flooding the room with lantern light as she snaps, “Honestly Jack, why do you insist on staying up so late—oh. Mr. Twist, what the bloody hell do you think you’re doing with that scalpel?!”
Twist loosens his grip for only a moment, but they didn’t call Jack the Artful Dodger for no reason. The second the blade is away from his neck, Jack’s hand rises to shove Twist’s away. The scalpel slips from his sweaty hand with a metallic clang on the floor, and Jack dances to the side as Twist turns back to him.
“Belle, run!” Jack bellows, stumbling as he tries to gain his footing. Adrenaline rushes through him as he stares at her in the doorway, her wearing those yellow trousers she loves so much and what appears to be one of his cleaner shirts. Really, she’s going to get him flogged one day.
Well fed though he may be, Twist is slow and clumsy. Jack is nearly to Belle, who is frozen, shocked, by the time Twist turns around, a wordless shout of rage erupting from him. “We need to find a guard,” Jack pants, reaching for her just as she wheels her arm back and whips the lantern, full force, at the man behind Jack.
There is an epic collision, and Jack only spins around to catch the end of it: blood erupts from Twist’s nose and he stands still for all but a moment before falling back in a massive thud to the ground. Jack watches, dumbfounded, as Twist lies still, clearly knocked out.
“Are you alright?” Belle asks, a hand curling around his bicep. “Has he gone mad?”
A guard wanders past over her shoulder, and Jack clears his throat, shouting, “Hey! We need help over here.”
After that it’s a bit of a blur. The guard comes over, squawks out a need to find someone with a higher pay grade, then comes back with a handful of guards and Gaines’ replacement (a man called Ed, just Ed, who is eagerly awaiting his replacement in 4-5 months from now). Jack gives a statement, and he watches Belle work through hers, a strain on her face that leaves his stomach somewhere around his ankles.
It’s too long before they’re alone again, Jack ushering her quickly through the halls. She grips his hand tightly on the walk, the only indication of her discomfort, and each step feels like he’s miles from where he needs to be. Ideally, they would go up to his room and he could berate her in privacy, but he turns swiftly into an empty workroom when she gasps out, “Slow down.”
The room is dark, a lantern burning low in the corner. He dashes over to turn it up, then back to her, gripping her by the shoulders. “Tell me what’s wrong,” Jack snaps, nerves frayed.
Belle doesn’t baulk at his tone, instead pressing at her chest with a wince. “I...think it’s...just—”
“You reckless, idiotic woman,” Jack mutters, fingers fumbling along the buttons of her—his—shirt. Belle says nothing, because she’s clearly trying to bite back whatever pain she’s in. God, if she tore a stitch throwing that fucking lantern, he’d march down to the jail and shove his scalpel through Twist’s eye.
His fingers leave bloody prints behind, but he pays it no mind as he parts the material, eying the thick incision. It’s inflamed slightly, but her heartbeat is normal and steady. There is no sign of infection, nor is there any blood.
Relief fills him at the exact same moment Belle comes back to herself and smacks him upside the head. “I beg your pardon? I saved you, you ungrateful git!” Her shout is followed by a tremor of pain, and she presses her hand to the outside of her incision, wincing. “I think I’ve pulled a muscle.”
“Yes,” Jack snaps. “Saving me.”
Belle glares at him. “Better a pulled muscle than a slashed throat, Jack. That buffoon was planning to kill you, in case you—oh for Christ sake, you’re still bleeding, actually. Here, let me—”
Jack tries to lean away from her hand, but Belle growls something incomprehensible and grips him by the hair, manoeuvring him forward. She angles his neck into a painful position that pulls at the cut on his neck, and doesn’t seem at all apologetic about it. “It’s superficial,” she murmurs, a strain still in her voice. “Just bled a lot. I’ve reopened it by grabbing you, but it serves you right.”
He is shoved unceremoniously away from her, into a workbench not dissimilar from the one he was only just pressed against. Belle presses a hand to her chest, massaging with the heel of her palm as she glares at him.
Jack glares back. “You could have been killed.”
“How was I supposed to know you were about to be murdered, Jack Dawkins? Am I meant to be a mind reader?” Belle’s voice is strained, her face tight. Jack inches forward.
“You should have been in bed.”
“And you would be dead.”
“Yes, well—”
“There is no yes, well!” She shouts, then gasps. “Fuck, that hurts.”
A laugh bursts out of him at the vulgarity. “I didn’t even know you knew that word, milady.” He brings his arm around her, then shuffles them towards the chair in the corner. “You need to rest, please. It won’t heal if you’re fussing about.”
“It won’t heal if you’re getting yourself killed.” Belle shudders as she lowers herself to the chair, leaning back with a sigh. Jack sits at her feet, pulling them into his lap. “You said you could not fashion a life without me in it, and I feel the same. I refuse to live without you, Jack.”
Jack sighs, resting his forehead against her knee. His neck is sticky with drying blood and his teeth are sore from Twist’s right hook, but it all feels very small now, with the scent of her, with the heat of her body and her anger.
“I apologise,” Jack says eventually, sighing again when she begins to card her fingers through his hair. “I will stop taunting potential murderers.”
“That’s all I ask,” Belle says primly, tugging on his hair. “Now walk me to bed. I need a warm compress for my chest.”
Jack pulls himself up, then carefully helps her stand. Before he can bring her out of the room, she leans forward and kisses him. His fat lip aches, but he doesn’t pull away.
two
Belle’s skirts are often a massive hindrance, but they do have some benefits. Like right now, they’re hiding Jack’s wandering fingers as she performs an autopsy.
Is it morbid to be touching her like this when she’s cutting open a body? Almost certainly. But Jack has done lots of morally reprehensible things before and there is something about the softness of Belle’s thighs that makes him a little stupid.
“Careful,” he murmurs, lips brushing the back of her neck. She stiffens against him, but her hand is steady as she pulls the scalpel through. “There it is. Good girl.”
“You’re insufferable,” she mutters. “This is surely harassment.”
Jack toys with the waistband of her underwear, sweeping his fingers just beneath it. “Shall I stop? This is rather distracting, isn’t it? Though all good surgeons must learn to work through them.”
“Oh? And did the Prof have his hands up your skirt as well?” Belle asks, a little breathless. He feels her flush when he presses their cheeks together, chuckling slightly.
“I only wore skirts on Tuesdays.” He sinks his fingers into her underwear, reaching down to cup her, one finger sliding through her sex. “Show me—”
“Belle?”
Fanny slams into the room in her usual obliviousness, eyes falling first on the cadaver, and then on Jack and Belle, who have sprung apart. Jack hides his hands behind his back, squeezing them tight, while Belle snaps, “Fanny, you cannot be in here!”
“Mother is on her way to find you,” she sing-songs, a blinding smile on her face. It makes her look a bit mad, but then Jack has always found Fanny Fox a bit mad; you’d have to be to fall for an oaf like Oliver Twist.
They both spring into action. Belle throws the sheet over the cadaver once more, already removing her apron, while Jack rounds the table, tossing his own onto a nearby chair. He wracks his mind, trying to recall if Lady Fox mentioned visiting the last time he saw her (hovering maliciously by the carriage as Jack walked Belle out of the hospital). He cannot for the life of him imagine why she would be there other than to have him hauled off in irons once more. Though hopefully Fanny would be a bit of help in that department.
“—get that they were coming, Belle. I mean, really. We’ve only been talking about it at supper for weeks! Mother even had those lovely new dresses made—”
“Fanny, please,” Belle stresses, pointedly not looking at Jack. “Where is she?”
“Right here,” Lady Fox says, appearing over Fanny’s shoulder like a wraith. Jack feels his spine straighten and his feet come together, a salute waiting in the tips of his fingers like she’s anyone who deserves his admiration or respect. He keeps his hands tight behind his back and his focus on Belle.
Belle, who has turned slightly away from him, intentionally away from him, fidgets with her sleeves before she says, “You didn’t need to come all the way down here just to collect me. I thought they would be here with the tide, and there are quite a few more hours before—”
“Ah yes, our guests show up as the sun is setting and you appear smelling of rot and looking as though you’ve spent the afternoon with your skirt around your hips.” Lady Fox looks pointedly at Jack, and then the cadaver, thankfully covered, behind them. “I’ve come to collect you. We’ll have a bath prepared and your hair done so you are perfectly prepared for our guests. Lord Ashby is excited to meet you, as you well know.”
Don’t break, Jack coaches himself, keeping his face blank. Don’t let her see you rattled. Because surely that’s what Lady Fox has intended with her words, implying that there is some suitor at her door coming to sweep Belle off her feet. Jack has nearly lost her once; he simply refuses to do it again. This time, she can come away with him.
“I’m not quite finished here,” Belle begins uncertainly, turning to look at Jack’s shoes. Her brown eyes meet his for half a second before she turns back. “Give me one more hour and I can—”
“No,” Lady Fox says cheerfully, a smile on her face. “That’s quite enough for today. Come along, you can return tomorrow.” As though theirs is some sort of play date, arranged by their parents. Jack clenches his jaw to bite back whatever nastiness wants to come pouring out.
Belle turns, her cheeks flushed for an entirely different reason now. She looks as though she wants to reach out to him, but their audience stops her. Instead, she meets his eyes, an apology in them, and says, “I’ll see you tomorrow. Nine o’clock, perhaps?”
“Sure.” He hopes she cannot see the frustration in his eyes, but based on the scowl she gives him, it is obviously very clear. “Enjoy your evening.”
“We shall,” Lady Fox chirps, smiling serenely. “Come, Belle. We mustn’t dally.”
three
Jack has rarely had cause to be jealous.
It was something that most street urchins like himself learned early on; jealousy leads to stupidity, leads to prison or the noose. Every child with an empty belly is jealous of the child with a full one, but it’s no good dwelling over it. The trick, you see, is to get the thing for yourself in whatever way you can. Jack learned how to dip in and out of pockets, to slip jewels off a wrist or a neck; Fagin learned to swindle.
Girls were different, of course, but then Jack never struggled in that department. They wanted him, or they didn’t, and he was fine either way. He wasn’t lying when he said he didn’t know how to talk to girls, because the truth was they never did much talking. There was always tail if you knew where to toss a smile and a sweet word. Jack learned that on the ship.
Belle is different, though. A snotty, brilliant woman with a mouth that runs away from her and a temper that lights a fire in Jack’s belly. She is nearly always dishevelled in some way—her hair wild about her head, or her clothing askew from fidgeting with it—and it makes her all the more beautiful, in Jack’s eyes. She makes him think stupid things, and act in stupid ways. Jack’s never known jealousy like the kind that burns fierce and hot in his chest at the sight of Lord Marcus Ashby taking Belle for a spin around the room.
Lord Ashby is a tall, broad-shouldered fellow with a kind smile that Jack would love nothing more than to punch a hole through. It is a small consolation that Belle looks absolutely bored, a frown on her face, as though she’s working out a theory in her head. She has not looked at Jack all night, and he has no clue if it’s because she feels guilty for the attention she’s given to Ashby, or if it’s because of their row in the hospital earlier in the week.
Probably the latter, if Jack is being honest with himself.
“The music is quite lovely,” a woman says to his left, startling Jack enough that he jumps. He glances down at her, a smile pasted on as he remembers the need to look happy. Lady Fox might not like him much, but Governor Fox does and invited him personally to their farewell soirée.
(A fucking soirée, he’d said, disgusted, to Fagin as he was getting ready. Just call it a party.
There are always very fine things at a soiree, Fagin had said. Take a look for your dear old da, wouldn’t ya, Dodge?)
“It is,” Jack answers after a beat. The music is fine, but Jack prefers the bawdy tunes of the pub to piano being played. Especially when it’s Fanny doing the one playing. “Lady Fanny uh...practices often.”
The woman, called Marie, if Jack recalls correctly, nods. “Yes, and she’s such a sweet girl as well. I’ll quite miss our walks together when we leave for London in the coming days.”
Nodding, Jack takes a sip of his champagne, the bubbles burning as he swallows. How can Belle drink this stuff? “Yes, well, I imagine you’re eager to head home.”
“Oh yes,” she agrees, smiling prettily. “I do like it here, but the heat is something else entirely.”
“Indeed,” Jack agrees. “I had to get used to it when I first arrived. I think I sweat through multiple shirts in a day.”
“Dreadful, isn’t it?” Marie laughs, placing a hand on his arm. “Yes, I’ll be happy to leave the heat behind, but there is a sort of freedom here that London lacks. Why, I saw Lady Belle was wearing trousers the other day! I’d only be allowed that if we were riding, and we so rarely make it out to Norwich anymore to do so. Have you ever been to Norwich?”
“Can’t say I have,” Jack says, watching Belle once more. She’s scowling now, and when she meets his gaze it is certainly not guilt in them. Jack angles himself closer to Marie. “Though I would love to hear about it, if you have the time.”
She chatters his ear off for three and a half minutes before Belle finally works herself free from the dance floor and cuts in. Marie’s eyes slant to her, irritated, before the smile is back on her face. “Oh, Lady Belle. You looked lovely on—”
“Dr. Dawkins, I seem to recall you promising me a dance.” Jack promised no such thing. Just that afternoon, Belle primly told Hetty within his earshot that she wouldn’t piss on him if he were on fire, so truly the last thing he wants to do is spin her around the small ballroom in full view of God and her miserable mother. But when he looks over, prepared to contradict her and offer to dance with Marie instead, he receives a bruising grip on his arm and a piercing glare.
“Oh,” Marie bleats out, wavering beneath such a look. Belle truly is magnificent, even in moments where she terrorises unsuspecting gentry. “Yes, well...thank you for our conversation, Dr. Dawkins. I look forward to speaking with you again.”
“Likewise,” Jack says, following Belle before she tears his arm free of its socket. Fanny starts up a jovial tune when she catches sight of them, and people fall into step once more. “You’re in rare form today,” he says to Belle when they are close enough that they won’t be overheard. Her hands are too tense around him, a stark contrast to the way his own mould to the shape of her waist or cradle her palm.
“Yes, I heard you say something similar to Sneed in the supply room this afternoon. Funny how you’re chummy with him the second I don’t show you the time of day.”
“Oh, overheard that, did you? Like you haven’t been slagging me off to Hetty all bloody week.”
Belle scoffs. “Well maybe if you spoke to me respectfully and valued me—”
“Oh, do I not value you?” Jack sneers, pulling her a bit closer. He eyes the low cut of her dress and the scar poking out the top. “Go on, tell me how little I value you, milady.”
Shaking her head, Belle looks anywhere but him. “That’s not what I mean and you know it. I’m talking about this whole...farce. And how you’ve insisted on distancing yourself from me like you did not tearfully confess your love to me and beg that we run away together.”
Jack glowers, hoping nobody has heard that little outburst. “Your parents brought Ashby here with the express purpose of marrying the two of you. Of course I’d feel a little...tense about the situation.”
“My mother, actually, and I thought you braver than that.”
Shaking his head, Jack says, “You should know better than that, Belle.” The music slows to a stop, and Jack pulls away, despite the tightening of her hands around him. “Your Lord Ashby is waiting for you.”
Belle looks over her shoulder, frowning, to see Ashby waiting impatiently along the edges of the dance floor. Jack slips free of the room, deciding he’s had quite enough of soirées.
“This window is far more difficult to crawl into than the other,” Jack complains as he topples into Belle’s room later that night. It doesn’t help that he’s tipsy from the ale he just consumed at the pub. He really thought the walk over would sober him up more. “But your guard is taking his job very seriously. Not a blink out of him.”
Belle stands at her desk, the paper in her hand crumpled. She’s still in her gown from the evening, though she’s let her hair down, the curls loose around her shoulders. And she’s glaring, still. Jack smiles at her from his position on the floor. “You’re quite radiant in red. Have I ever told you that?”
“My mother will be coming to check on me. Leave.”
“Your mother,” Jack says, ambling to his feet. “Is drunk and snoring away in her room. I watched her down four glasses of champagne while Fanny played the piano. If she’s conscious in the next twelve hours, I’ll be surprised.”
Belle inhales deeply. The action draws his attention to her chest and the low cut of her dress, though it isn’t the press of her breasts above the neckline that catches his eye. Her scar is a pale pink, and still tender around the edges. “Did he ask about it?”
“About my breasts? Don’t be daft. Marcus is a gentleman.”
“Ah, Marcus, is it?”
“I often call men who have proposed to me by their first name, Dawkins.”
Jack runs a hand through his already unruly hair, fisting it. “Must we continue this stupid argument?”
“Certainly not,” Belle says. “Sod off.”
Not bloody likely. Jack doesn’t think he’ll make it down the same way he got up into the room, at least not sober. Besides, they’ve been tiptoeing around one another all week, and Hetty sent him here with a sore ear and express instructions not to come back unless he’s eased the rift between them. Easier said than done.
When he doesn’t move, she turns around in a huff, storming over to her wardrobe. A nightgown hangs on one door, and she snatches it down, tossing it onto her bed as she sets about removing the outer layers of her dress. Or tries to; it really isn’t a one person job.
“Do you need help?”
Belle ignores him, twisting to look over her shoulder, fingers working backwards to try and find the clasp. She’s nearly there, but her wrist doesn’t bend quite enough to reach it. Jack knows she’ll keep at it until she strains her wrist or goes completely mad and tears the complicated thing off, so he walks briskly forward to keep her from either fate.
“Get off of me,” Belle mutters, turning to push him away, but Jack has had quite enough of her, thanks, and spins her around, pinning her to the edge of the bed while he works at the clasps keeping her bodice on. She huffs in annoyance, and tries to rise once, but the second the bodice is free, she sinks in relief.
“I told you wearing it too tight will cause you pain.”
“No, I told you that,” she snaps. “Look away. I can do the rest myself.”
“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”
“Yes, well unless you’d never like to see again, look away.”
They stare at each other for a moment, and it’s only then that he catches the tears lining her eyes. “Belle...”
“Don’t,” she snaps, voice thin. She turns pointedly around, undressing herself in earnest now. Jack mimics her, facing away. The room is quiet but for her unsteady breathing, a combination of anger and something else, something Jack suspects might be sadness.
“Was the ring nice?” He asks, no hint of jest in his voice. He imagines it must have been, based on all he’s heard of Ashby.
Belle sighs, insisting tearfully, “I don’t care for a ring, Jack.”
“You should.” Jack turns, and she’s already facing him, wiping angrily at the tears dripping steadily down her face. “I know that you don’t, but you should, Belle. He can...he can give you things you deserve.”
“So can you.”
“How?” Jack asks, smiling bitterly. “I’m still on probation. I’m still making a pittance. I am still, to my core, a criminal.”
“You’re a good man.”
“They can both be true,” Jack tells her. It doesn’t matter, though. Jack could come into a fortune so large he could buy a small country and they still wouldn’t be allowed to marry because for all the good he does, the people who matter in this case will always see the bad. They will see her blood on his hands and her sallow face and think him a monster. “Your mother won’t let us marry. We’re lucky she tolerates you coming to the hospital.”
“Then we’ll leave.”
Jack shakes his head, clenches his fists against the roots of his hair. “Why can’t we just continue on as we have been?”
“Because there will be more suitors, and one day a man will come and he won’t take my no for an answer, Jack.” Her tears are coming faster now, a wretched sorrow on her face that he has put there. Why does he always do this? Why does he always make her cry? “Because I’m ruined in the eyes of society.”
“Don’t say that—”
“It’s true!” Belle snaps, stomping her bare foot into the carpet. “What man would have me—”
“None,” Jack seethes, closing the distance between them and grabbing her by the shoulders. “None will, because you are mine. You are carved into the very bones of me Belle, and it is my noose around your heart; I cannot offer you a ring, or the life your parents want for you, and I do not know what else to do. I can give you a space at the hospital. I can give you my love, however crooked it may be. One day I hope to give you more, Belle, I truly do, but do not ask of me something I cannot give.”
“You said that once before, do you remember?” Belle asks. Her face is close enough to feel the heat of her breath, to smell the salt of her tears. “You said please do not ask this of me.”
Jack shakes his head. “You asked me to perform a very dangerous surgery that had never been successful before.”
“And then you did it.” Her tears have stopped, and she reaches up to cradle his face between her palms. “We have proven to be a very good team; let us figure this out together.”
She has that fierce look about her. The same one that she has whenever she stands in the surgery theatre, about to drug the Prof and complete an operation herself. It’s a reminder, more than anything, that Belle Fox is someone who gets her way, who solves problems and comes up with solutions, even when it seems like madness at first.
Jack sighs, leaning in, pressing his forehead into hers. “I assume you told him no, then?”
“The second he asked me,” Belle says, eyes shining with mischief. Jack glares at her. “That first day he was here. Really, Jack, if you’d taken the time to ask instead of assuming—” she squeals when he shoves her back onto the bed, laughing. Jack prowls after her, biting back his own smile.
four
Something not at all interesting and in fact rather annoying about his life now is Sneed, who was annoying and not at all interesting before Belle’s emergency surgery, but now insists on speaking to Jack like they’re friends. Sneed calls him chap on the occasion (usually in direct eyesight of someone who would look at the two of them being friendly and say, ah, that’s good of Sneed) and makes conversation that Jack wants no part of. He has lamented this fact to any who will hear over the course of several months, and has gotten exactly zero sympathy.
Like right now, while they are in the middle of removing an incredibly gangrenous hand from someone’s person, Sneed says, “I feel as though a storm is coming.”
Jack pauses in his sawing for only a moment—thus losing himself precious seconds in their bet—then picks up the pace again. Beside him, Belle clucks her tongue, eyes on the watch. “Thirty-six seconds, Jack. You’ve already lost, so at least give yourself a clean cut to work with.”
Jack slows down, sawing through the bone with a vehemence he is glad the patient is not conscious of. Sneed smirks at him, while Jack glances around at the sunshine pouring in through the windows. It’s quite windy outside, but it’s been blue skies for days. “And how would you come to that conclusion?”
Sneed’s smirk grows into a satisfied smile, and it’s clear Jack has initiated a conversation he wants no part of. “Well, Dawkins, I’m so pleased you asked. Ever since I was shot in the leg, I get a sixth sense for this sort of thing. The leg aches whenever bad weather arises.”
When Jack slants his gaze to Belle, he finds her already looking back. She doesn’t hide her smirk, but Jack does, ducking his head as he finishes separating the arm. “I need something to help with the—thanks Belle.”
“I think you mean milady,” Sneed says loud enough for the gallery to hear. Jack and Belle both glare. He continues, “Anyway, while it does not appear to be incoming, I do in fact think we’ll be getting one.”
Jack pulls at the skin, holding his hand out for the needle. “Shall we bet on it? Say...a pound?”
“Jack,” Belle hisses.
Sneed counters, “Two pounds, and I get to perform the next amputation.”
“And if I win, I get the same?”
“You’re both morons,” Belle snaps. “Can we focus on the task at hand?”
“Indeed,” Sneed replies, ignoring Belle, holding out a hand. Jack finishes his sutures with a little flair, then grabs Sneed’s hand tightly. “We have a deal, then.”
Easiest two pounds Jack has ever made.
“Well,” Jack says, standing at the front doors of the hospital into the end of the world. “This is not ideal.”
Over the last three hours, the sky has blackened and the wind has picked up even more. Rain started an hour ago, and it is like a wall of water in front of them, so dense that Jack can hardly see the building on the other side of the road. At his side, Belle scoffs.
They have been waiting for her carriage for long enough now that Jack assumes it has either gotten stuck or it is not coming at all. He can picture her mother’s sour face in their huge house, waiting for Belle to return home and realising that she will not be anytime in the near future. It eases the sting of losing the bet. “I do not think anyone will be getting through the storm.”
“What should we do, then?” Belle asks. The hospital is still and quiet around them, nearly empty except for a few elderly people recovering from a sickness and the man from the docks who is now down one arm. “It’s quite late.”
She punctuates her last comment with a yawn, and Jack takes a moment to study her. “I reckon a nap might do you well.”
Belle sweeps some of her hair off her face. It’s gone even curlier in the humidity, and Jack finds it very charming. “I’m not really tired.”
“So you wouldn’t like to go upstairs and rest?” Jack asks, lifting a brow. “In my bed? In the quiet hospital, where nobody will be bothersome for say...the next several hours?”
Belle purses her lips. “Well...what if the carriage arrives and I’m not ready?”
“Then someone will come and rouse you from your rest.”
“And when my mother hears where I was resting?”
“Are you planning to tell her?” Jack asks, smirking at Belle’s affronted look. “I know I’m not. I doubt anyone who fetches you will find it worthy of a discussion. Besides,” he adds, waving an arm towards the storm. A crash of thunder above punctuates his next words perfectly. “It’s the perfect weather to nap in.”
Jack used to hate the rain in London, the way it turned the world even more grey than it already was, leaving him feeling damp, like something that needed to be rung out. Ending up here had been perfect, despite the heat, and he hadn’t realised how much he missed the rain until that first downpour. Now, the occasional storm reminds Jack of home in a way that doesn’t hurt so much.
Belle likes the storms as well, she’s mentioned before. It’s why she agrees to Jack’s suggestion, allowing him to take her arm and lead her up the stairs to his room. She isn’t laced up as tightly as she usually is, opting for a loose red shirt and black trousers that cling to parts of her that Jack really enjoys, so all she removes as she sits on his bed are her shoes, which she tosses unceremoniously to the floor.
Jack watches, leaning against the door, as she falls back onto his springy mattress, sighing like it’s the best thing she’s felt all day. “Why are you so tired?” He asks, brow furrowing. “Is it your—”
Belle rolls her eyes, turning to look at him. “It is not my heart, only a symptom of menstruation, Dr. Dawkins.”
Clearing his throat, Jack nods. “Uh, right. Apologies.”
She laughs. “Are you embarrassed?”
“Hardly,” Jack says, feeling entirely embarrassed for no reason he can comprehend. It feels a bit like when he asked a woman once how far along she was in her pregnancy and she was not pregnant in the slightest. If anything, it’s a relief to hear that she is still having her monthly bleeds, if only because they’ve gambled with the risk of pregnancy so frequently. “I just wanted to make sure.”
“Thank you,” Belle says, holding out a hand. “Are you going to lurk in the corner, or come and nap with me?”
Jack pretends to think on it, even as he kicks his own boots off, scuffing the heel of them in his haste. His bed is nowhere near as large as hers, but he finds he does not mind so much if it means they are pressed together. Tip to tail, Fagin used to say when the children would crowd together on the dirty mattress they shared. That’s it, crowd together. You’ll be warmer.
He is plenty warm as he slides onto the bed beside Belle. They do a little shuffle: she moves back until she is against the wall, and Jack eases the thin blanket out from beneath them, draping it over their legs. Belle’s eyes are heavy when he looks back at her, taking up much of his thin pillow.
“Tell me about being in the navy,” she murmurs, the words slurring into each other. He settles an arm around her waist, arranging them so that she’s half-lying on top of him. “I want to know the most interesting place you’ve ever been.”
By the time Jack starts talking, she’s already snoring softly against his collarbone. He follows suit not long after.
“Good God!” Sneed shouts, startling them both into wakefulness. “This again!?”
Belle lurches up, and Jack falls sideways out of the bed, catching himself on his hands and knees. He twists to glare at Sneed. “This is my room, I’ll have you know. You barged in here.”
“Yes, to fetch Lady Belle! I thought it better than allowing some other soul to find you two indecent.”
“We’re both dressed,” Belle argues. “We fell asleep.”
“In each other’s arms? There would be poetry there if it weren’t an awful sin.”
“Please spare us,” Jack sighs, getting to his feet and stretching his back out. The sky outside is still grey, though it looks to be lessening. “The carriage is here?”
“Yes. And the footman has sprained his foot trying to push it out of the mud.”
“I assume you didn’t help him before sprinting up here?” Belle asks, already pulling on her boots. “Really, Sneed, that poor man is probably—”
“You owe me two pounds,” Sneed tells Jack, cutting her off. “And you, my lady, need to make better decisions.”
“Piss off,” Belle snaps, and Jack laughs brightly when Sneed goes red and does exactly that, slamming the door behind him.
five
Jack trusts Belle, and has for a good long while. What he doesn’t trust is her honesty on how she is feeling. Even a year after her surgery, he is quick to overreact when she shows any signs of pain or discomfort, much to her annoyance.
How many times did she give her condition away? How many times had he chalked it up to women’s troubles, or something equally offensive? He is just as bad as Sneed or the Prof. But she also lied to him when he asked her about it, avoided the problem until he’d said come away with me, and she could no longer deny the truth.
So when she sneezes seven times in quick succession, Jack is already glaring at her by the time she looks up.
Her eyes dart quickly away, and she finishes cleaning her workbench, bustling off to bring her dirty linens to the wash basket. Jack stalks after her, ignoring the Prof as he asks where the fire is. There are dozens of beds lined with men, women, and children who have come down with some flu that a sailor brought off a ship from London. People she’s spent the last several days treating.
“Belle,” Jack calls down the hall, picking up his pace when she ignores him.
She turns swiftly into a linen closet, trying to shut the door before Jack can get there, but he shoves it open and slips inside, shutting them in the near-dark room. “Really?” He snaps when she huffs.
“I was just sneezing.” Her exasperation is just as loud as the congestion in her voice, and Jack takes her jaw in hand, tilting her face up to see into her eyes. They’re bloodshot and watery.
“You’re ill,” Jack confirms grimly, releasing her jaw only to grab her arm. “Let me take a look at you. We need to get my tools, come—”
“Jack, I’m fine,” Belle groans, trying to pull away from him. “It’s a cold, if anything.”
Jack raises a brow, hoping his face conveys just how unimpressed he is. “That out there is not a cold, Belle.” Nobody has died, but there are a few people who do not look hopeful. “Haven’t you been covering your face?”
“Yes,” she snaps. “I’m not an idiot. I just—maybe I touched someone, or didn’t wash my hands?” He rests the back of his hand against her forehead, grimacing at the heat there. “I’ll be fine, Jack. I just need to rest. Let me lay down in one of the beds—”
“If your parents knew you were here and ill, they’d have my head. You wouldn’t be allowed back. Not to mention, you cannot afford a wracking fucking cough, Belle. Fagin has it right now and I can practically hear his insides rattling around. Just because you think you’ve recovered, doesn’t mean you have.”
Belle sighs, like he’s being a pain. He grits his teeth. “Come and let me check you over. You can rest in one of the spare rooms, and we’ll go from there. I’ll...I’ll have the Prof send out a notice of quarantine, or something along those lines, that way you can stay.”
“I promise I’m fine.” Belle grabs his hand, lifting it to press against her chest.
“And Fanny makes things up,” Jack says grimly, heart twinging at the guilt on her face. “Please, Belle.”
“Fine,” she mutters, releasing his hand. She turns back to the door, wrenching it open. “Let’s get this over with.”
Sneed frowns, pulling away. Belle’s ferocious anger does little in the face of clear illness as he admits, “It does appear that she’s ill.”
“I told you,” Jack snaps, meeting her glare with one of his own. Sneed edges out of the firing line, clearing his tools away. “You’re going upstairs to rest.”
Belle clenches her fists, and he suspects she would like to shove one of them right up his nose. “And I told you that I feel fine. It’s a stuffy nose and a slight headache.”
“You never said anything about a headache,” Jack accuses.
She blanches, then sighs. “I am not good to anyone resting, Jack! Sneed, tell him! You need all the hands you can get.”
Sneed grimaces, looking as though he’d rather be anywhere else. “To be quite honest, Lady Belle, you’d be more of a hindrance than help. If you’re ill you could spread it further. Prof has already told the guards that nobody can come or go from the hospital. You may as well—”
“You are no help!” She snaps, getting up from the bench. She sways slightly, but smacks Jack’s arm when he comes to steady her. Sneed takes his leave as the two of them glare at one another. What an impossible, infuriating woman she is, Jack thinks. He does not admit that he would be much the same in her position; he hates being ill, and is grateful for his time on the streets if only because it exposed him to much sickness, allowing him to build up a tolerance. The ship from London didn’t bring a plague, but any illness is bad for a new colony.
Jack leans close, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You, Belle, are no help to anyone if you are dead.”
Her mouth twists, as though she is biting back an insult, or a protest, or tears. Then, finally, she nods once.
Carefully, Jack reaches for her waist. When she doesn’t shove him away, he pulls her closer. “Right,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss to her temple. “Let’s get you settled in a spare room, yeah?”
Nobody listens to her insistence that she is fine, much to Jack’s relief. In fact, while the Prof and Sneed avoid her entirely, Hetty rails into her about being foolish and compromising her own health while Jack lingers around the corner.
They make her drink broth and water, keeping her fluids up. Jack knows she is dreadfully bored because she quickly replaces her anger with curiosity, making him and Hetty give full debriefs on what is happening in her absence.
She sleeps a lot over the next three days. Jack spends whatever time he isn’t working sitting at her bedside, her hand in his lap while he monitors her pulse. More than once he falls asleep and wakes to a crick in his neck from the chair. Only once does he wake to her fingers pulling through his hair, his face pressed to her hip as he slumps over the bed.
“Do you feel any better?” He asks for the hundredth time, watching her braid her hair. It’s clearly something she has done numerous times over the years, because she is hardly paying any attention to the action, instead reading something in one of the many tomes she has stolen from her father’s library.
She hums, lifting her gaze momentarily to his, then back down to her book. “I’ve learnt a great deal about childbirth. Since helping Red, I’ve been meaning to do more reading on the subject, but there hasn’t been much time.”
“So the rest was a good thing?” Jack asks.
Now she glares. “One day might have been enough.”
“Right,” Jack nods, smiling slightly. “Well, I’m happy to see you back to good health.”
Belle wrinkles her nose, finishing her braid. “Jack, this is the worst I’ve ever looked in front of you. I’m in dire need of a bath, my hair is a rats nest, and I still have drool crusted to the side of my mouth.”
“I think you’re lovely.”
“Yes, well, we also know you’ve been concussed more than once, so we cannot take your word for truth.” She looks flustered at his compliment, and he watches her angle herself slightly to see her reflection in the window behind him. He isn’t lying, though. Jack has seen her worse: lying on a bed, still and grey. Lying on the table, covered in her own blood. Drool and frizzy hair is nothing to him, and Jack has lived on a boat before; the smell of her sweat is divine compared to the smell of the bunks.
Jack straightens, tossing her a robe to pull on over her nightgown. “Come with me. I had Tim prepare the bath for you.”
“Really?” She asks, clearly relieved. She is quick to get to her feet, only a little unsteady as she toes on her slippers. “Oh that’s quite nice of him.”
Jack escorts her through the quiet hospital. It’s late enough that most people are asleep, but she slept most of the day and doesn’t look tired at all. He assumed she would rather bathe now than in the morning.
The tub is a large copper one, and it’s still steaming when they enter the small bathing chamber. It’s rarely used for how much of a pain it is to heat the water, and while Jack has suggested using it to help with births, Prof has put a very firm foot down on that front. As a result, the room is spotless and empty of anything but the tub and a stool with soap and a towel.
“A far cry from what you’re used to, I imagine,” Jack jokes, closing the door behind them. Belle kicks her slippers off immediately, then begins to shed her clothing.
“It’s fine,” she says, waving his words away. “It’s so warm in here.”
There are lanterns lit along the walls, but no windows. It helps trap the heat; the few times Jack has bathed with hot water, he’s found it almost dizzying to be in such a hot room. Now, he’s dizzy for another reason entirely as he watches Belle shed her clothes, completely unselfconscious.
“I’ll leave you to it then.” His voice is thick, and he feels his cock perk up at the sight of her naked bottom. The hair she’d just braided comes loose, and she peers over her shoulder at him as she unravels it.
“The tub is large enough. Why don’t you join me?”
Jack doesn’t know if the flush on her cheeks is embarrassment, or a result of the heat of the room. Her voice is steady and cool, the same one she might use when suggesting something during a procedure. As though it’s obvious that they would share a bath. “Are you saying I smell, milady?”
“Yes,” Belle says with a smile. “You could use a good scrub.”
There is a dare in her voice that Jack cannot resist the call to. He was always terrible for that sort of thing, anyway.
He watches her as he undresses, enjoying the way her eyes follow his fingers. Carefully, she lowers herself into the tub, obscuring herself beneath the water. When he is finally naked, he wastes no time making his way over, stepping into the hot water with a sigh. There truly is nothing better than sinking into hot water, Jack has found.
Belle sinks lower, until her chin sits atop the water, eyes dark in the low light of the room. By the time Jack is settled, arms resting outside the tub, her entire face is red. Did she think he would deny the dare and leave her to bathe alone? She should know better.
They have been naked in front of each other more times than Jack can count now, in ways both sexual and not, but every time feels like the first. Like a gift Jack has been given by mistake, something that can be taken away at any moment. He cherishes these moments, keeps them held tightly to his chest, nestled behind the cage of his ribs. If someone is to take them from him, he will not make it easy.
Belle sits up again in the water, reaching for the bar of soap and the wash towel on the stool. Her breasts peek above the water, nipples flushed dark and peaking under his gaze. Jack would like to reach out and weigh them in his palms, taste the droplets of water trailing off them. The noises she makes when he has done so before are engraved in his mind.
She dips the soap and cloth beneath the water, then inches towards him, settling on her knees between his legs. When she has built up a lather, she lifts the cloth to his chest and begins to wash him. There is something quick and clinical about her movements, as though she is actually trying to clean him, and Jack cannot bite back his smile. Her own answering one is soft, and the furrow in her brow is one of concentration as she methodically cleans his chest and belly.
“Lean forward,” she instructs, and he does so, allowing her to drag the cloth between his shoulder blades. His cock is fully hard now, and he presses his mouth to the damp skin of her collarbones, kissing her softly.
Her breath hitches, but she does not stop washing him. Jack continues kissing her, wet drags of his mouth more than anything practised, and enjoys the way her pulse flutters at her throat. He lowers his hands into the water, sliding them along her thighs and up around her waist, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts.
“Okay?” He asks.
“Mhm,” she hums, gasping when he reaches down to cup her thighs, dragging her legs out of their kneel and over his hips. His cock slides against the seam of her cunt, and they both exhale sharply at the feel of it. Her next scrub of the cloth is particularly hard. “You’re distracting me from my task.”
“That’s good,” Jack murmurs. “Distraction is my game.” He sucks her nipple into his mouth, massaging her other breast in his palm. Her hips jump against his.
They continue on like that for several minutes: Jack, kissing marks into her skin, leaving reminders for when she is eventually back home and away from him once more, while she scrubs him until he is pristine. They learn his armpits are ticklish, and his sides as well. They learn that she likes it when he bites gently on her nipples.
He takes her hand in his, lathering the cloth with soap once more. Carefully, he drags her hand beneath the water, guiding her as she drags the cloth around his cock. It’s a far cry from how he normally washes himself, quick and rough, getting the job done as he always has. Belle takes her time, learning the shape of him in her hand. She watches herself beneath the water, while Jack watches her, lip bitten harshly to keep from startling her away from her task.
After one particularly artful squeeze, he steals the cloth from her, lathering it quickly in his hands with the soap. “Apologies, milady, but if we want to use the water to clean ourselves, we need to do it with a bit more haste. I’m afraid I won’t last much longer if you keep that up.”
Belle smirks, satisfied with herself, and allows Jack to begin scrubbing at her skin. Jack snorts, wiping between the valley of her breasts. “I can see you are feeling much better.”
“Oh yes,” she agrees, sinking closer. Her hands lower beneath the water, grabbing his cock once more, only this time she guides him to her entrance, which is slick and ready. “Let us try multitasking, hm?”
“God, you will kill me,” Jack hisses, stealing her mouth for a searing kiss when she lowers herself fully into his lap. “Troublesome woman.”
Belle smiles against his mouth. He swallows her gasp when she begins to move, the water around them spilling over the edge of the tub. His washing has lost any coherence, and he simply holds the cloth to her back now as they kiss and she fucks herself on his cock. A small, stupid part of him says, she was just ill and is possibly still contagious. He beats it very soundly to death, dropping the cloth entirely and reaching for her clit, swirling his thumb around it in a way she very much likes, if the clench of her walls are anything to go by.
She pulls away from his mouth, bracing her hands on either side of the tub as she rides him. It puts her scar and breasts in his face, and Jack takes a moment to worship the portrait before him. His free hand is a vice along her hips, and he has a second to wonder if she will bruise when she seizes up against him, a loud cry ripping from her throat as she finishes. It takes everything in him to pull his cock free of her as she collapses against him, trembling. Three quick tugs are all he needs, and then their bathwater is certainly not conducive to cleanliness.
“Bloody hell,” Jack pants against her hair, peppering kisses there. He tightens his hold on her, and she nods her head, a wordless agreement to Jack’s curse.
In a few moments, they will need to clean up the water on the floor, and redress. They will need to go back into the hospital proper and Belle will insist on checking in with her patients. A carriage will arrive to deliver her back to Governor House. Life will return back to normal, with sick people to treat and surgeries to perform, a careful dance they have become accustomed to.
But for right now, Jack hugs Belle to him, and relishes a moment of peace with the girl he loves most.