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(no subject)

When he has no pressing mission to embark on, a lot of Will's life becomes routine. He wakes, he practices swordwork on his own, he takes breakfast, he works in the forge - now with added apprentice. At mid-morning he comes down to a pleasant lakeside glade with sword strapped to his belt, ready for his lesson with Elizabeth.

The weather's slowly improving, but it's nothing like the Carribbean. On a good day, like this one, it reminds him of summers in Kent, waving a bulrush around and pretending to fight highwaymen while his mother watched from her bath chair.

His mother isn't the parent on his mind right now, though. Not with Bootstrap's knife weighing down his belt.

Lost in his thoughts, Will stands at the edge of the grass and looks out over the lake to the Black Pearl, waiting patiently for Elizabeth to arrive for her daily lesson.

All in the routine.

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Will takes refuge in routine, while Elizabeth chooses to do whatever she wants, when she wants it. Other than their loosely scheduled -- loosely because Elizabeth isn't always prompt -- daily lesson, she spends her time pursuing whatever strikes her fancy.

Lately that's meant a lot of walking, as well as meeting new people, in an effort to learn as much as she can and stave off brooding. It's becoming uncomfortable to be alone with her thoughts. However, the more time she spends with other people, the more distant she feels from Will.

A quarter of an hour late, she pauses outside the bar and watches his back. Dear Will. She misses their closeness, misses being able to kiss him without wondering what he'll say when he discovers the truth. They have to rescue Jack; nothing will be right until they do.

With something of a mental sigh, she lifts her head and continues across the grass, arriving beside him in less time than she would like. She's not yet sure what to say; instead, she smiles and nods like she would to an acquaintance on the street.

Absurdly, she wonders if he'll like her hair.

Will turns when he hears her approach, which is when she is already quite near. Something seems different about her, and for a moment he hesitates, wondering what it is.

When the sun comes out from behind a cloud, and the warm light glances off her hair, he smiles in realisation. It looks brighter, sunnier, a reminder of their other lives in the Carribbean heat.

He opens his mouth to say something, but can't find the words, so he lifts a hand to touch it, breifly wondering if she'll let him.

She certainly does, though she stiffens just before his fingers brush her hair. If Elizabeth were completely honest with herself, she would be able to admit how much she craves his touch, rather than allowing other thoughts to briefly eclipse those feelings. Her eyes slip closed, a simple action that makes it easier for her to smile and turn her cheek into his palm, seeking more contact.

Feeling warm sunshine on her back, Elizabeth thinks of all the times they've stood like this -- Will hesitant and then not, Elizabeth leaning forward to prolong the moment -- and remembers how impossible it would have once seemed.

Then again, that holds true for so many things.

He stands there for a few seconds, stroking her hair and then her cheek gently; unable to think of anything but how beautiful she looks and how much the hair suits her.

When her eyes close he leans forward slightly, enough to feel his own breath on his fingers, then changes his mind.

Stepping back, he draws his sword.

Nearly over balancing when he steps away, Elizabeth blinks in confusion. She'd felt his breath on her cheek and thought he'd wanted to kiss her. Hadn't he? Or perhaps things have really changed so much.

She frowns, the slide of well-made steel clearing its sheath the only sound between them. Lifting her head, Elizabeth squares off and nods, face impassive.

As long as it's not a change that can't be reversed upon rescuing Jack, she won't let it distract her. Much.

It's not that, it's just that he doesn't know if she wants to kiss him.

His smile isn't for her so much as at her stance and poise. It's perfect, as always.

Will twitches his sword in a quick salute, and waits for its return before thrusting forward.

Elizabeth always wants to kiss him, even when she's busy convincing herself she shouldn't because he might suspect something, and she frowns again at his salute, feeling somehow cheated.

The salute is returned, and when accompanied by a raised eyebrow, it's more cheeky than sincere.

Will is an excellent teacher, and any misgivings about kissing are soon forgotten. All of her attention is on his sword, body language and the placement of his feet, as he taught her, and Elizabeth smiles to herself as she parries.

Will's smile broadens into a grin as he parries her return and attacks again, at first just watching her technique rather than worrying about actually challenging her. That will come later.

For now, he's indulging himself in watching her.

Only the need to warm up and loosen muscles keeps her from being frustrated at his restraint. These lessons serve more than one purpose; not only does she learn from them, but they are also an outlet for the tension she carries the rest of the day.

Their swords cross, and she focuses on his grin for a quick moment; hastily disengages and circles to the left.

Will sees where she's going, and follows, circling around to stop her blade at just the right moment. Then he feints and retreats away, keeping the pace she just upped, his feet light and his eyes on her face rather than her sword.

Elizabeth's smile turns faintly predatory. His knowledge of what she will do and when it is only to be expected -- after all, he taught her everything she knows -- but it is her daily quest to surprise him, if she can.

Sometimes she wonders how she would fare against another opponent, now that she's improved.

She darts forward: quick and strong, if not always precise. Her own eyes pass over his face and do not stay, while she attempts a side cut.

Will actually thinks he's benefited as much from these sessions as she has. In all those years learning on his own, he perfected form and technique, knew his own strengths and honed his body, but Elizabeth -

He narrowly parries the side cut, leaps to the other side, and bring his words around fast at neck height.

- but Elizabeth always tries to surprise him. And the better she gets, the more challenging an opponent she becomes. He's learning to adapt to her changeability. Beyond the first few lessons, he's never tried to tame her to his own form; he alters his own style to fit.

And unsurprisingly, Elizabeth doesn't always adhere to the rules. In her attempts to do the unexpected, she improvises however she sees fit.

At the moment that means blocking the blow with the center of her sword and punching out, lifting her foot to help push him off balance, before he can use his larger size against her.

She's smiling easily now.

There was a time when Will would object to this as cheating. Not anymore. He steps back instead, yielding ground to her without losing his balance, and keeps the pace of the sword clashes quick and varied.

His grin is wide with exhilaration, and at the chance to watch her really enjoying herself.

He advances quickly, to force her back and keep her alert.

Elizabeth reacts accordingly, parrying, buying herself a moment to shake the sweat from her brow before going on the offensive. With heightened speed and need for caution comes increased concentration; her smile fades, but her pleasure in the fight remains obvious in her eyes.

She lunges forward, striking from the left to right and careful not to stab, lest she lose her own balance.

Will matches her strikes, and counters with his own, becoming more and more active as the pace increases. He spins and leaps and thrusts and parries and they lead each other around the clearing at a deadly pace.

Everything is forgotten in the moment. His father, her love for Jack, the mission, being stuck here. All there is is the clang of the swords, the sweat gluing his shirt to his arms and chest, and Elizabeth, as wild and as passionate as she's ever been.

By contrast, Elizabeth feels her head clearing of worry and doubt, but not what faces them. Each clear, sharp ring of steel on steel hardens her resolve and reminds her of all the impossible things she's learned here -- of all they might be able to accomplish. She pours that renewed determination into every strike of her sword, every parry, and by the time her muscles start to tire and her breathing becomes heavy, her confidence is improved five times over.

It's within the confidence that her strength lies, as he well knows. He may be stronger and have the superior technique, but she rages when she's in the flow, and Will knows they're very nearly evenly matched. He swings around her and thrusts past her, and they find a rhythm that's very uniquely their own.

They may not be speaking right now, but with swords out and clashing, it's the closest thing to a dance these lovers have ever been.

Truth be told, it's the closest thing to speaking that they've managed recently, or at least since their last lesson. Nothing is concealed; there's honesty in the sweat on their brows, the curve of his lips and the triumph in her eyes.

Neither Elizabeth nor Will feels it necessary to hold anything back here, in this clearing, with everything they have invested in a clash of swords.

Elizabeth whirls, the pace so furious now that her body acts and her mind follows. Clenching her jaw, she whips her sword toward his heart, only to spin when he deflects the blow, forcing her to quickly block again. Blades crossed, they both bear down. She ignores the screaming of her muscles and, for the first time in what feels like a long time, does not hesitate to meet his eyes.

Will's breath is short as much from the thrill of fighting with her than the exercise itself, and when their swords cross, he exhales quickly with something that might be a sigh, might be a grunt of effort

They both bear down and he's the stronger, pushing against her blade with his and forcing her to bend back and down, until suddenly his sword slips under hers and knocks her sword arm down.

And his other arm is behind her back to catch her.

Elizabeth gasps, in reaction to the sensation of falling and that of being caught, and finds he has quite stolen her breath. Her sword arm goes lax; the other winds around his neck and clutches his shoulder, for support and something more. It's an unconscious admission of trust.

She smiles lazily.

Will's panting, but lightly, and he smiles back at her, warm and happy to have her in his arm, to know, just for this second, that she's his.

He doesn't hesitate to bend down and take her lips in his.

With a small purr of satisfaction, Elizabeth lets herself get lost in Will's kiss. She reaches out and takes that which she wants most, knowing that no matter what happens, no matter what Will thinks, this is as real as anything that just took place between them.

They're tired, and sweaty, and beginning to ache from exertion. But all there is for Will right now is her body in his arms, her mouth against his, and just her filling his senses.

He kisses her for as long as he can, and eventually pulls back just for the space, mouth turning up into a fond smile.

Elizabeth, flushed from the heady combination of Will and the end of their lesson, catches her breath, searches his eyes and smiles slowly in return. Her fingers come up to lovingly trace his lips, caress his cheek.

Abruptly, she brushes another kiss against his mouth and looks away, stepping back to sheath her sword.

If only it -- this -- were as easy as it sometimes seems.

She looks away, and his smile fades to vaguely pleasant resignation. Stepping back himself, Will sheathes his sword smoothly, and offers her a hand.

Maybe they'll talk over lunch.

Maybe.

She stares at his hand for a moment before sliding her fingers through his and starting for the bar.

Right now she's not sure she's willing to risk it.

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