lucetilogs | so pile your boots up in the corner -- hang your jacket from the door

Who: anyone invited to house seven's thanksgivingstravaganza -- as well as anyone walking by who might be curious about all the brouhaha.
What: giving thanks!
When: forward dated to november 24th due to predicted holiday hiatuses!
Where: house seven!
Summary: friends, food, fondness. family. festivities.
Rating: g for goin' up.

House Seven was decked out in soft oranges and browns. Gentle reds and yellows. The table was shoved up against a wall and dish upon dish of delicious Thanksgiving dinner-bits adorned it. Plates to one side, a pile of cutlery. Feel free to line up and pile your arms high with roasted turkey, mashed potatoes, sweet potato casserole, carrots and green beans, cranberry sauce, sinful gravy. Stuffing. Steamed broccoli. The amount of food would almost be laughable had the guest list not been so long. Chatter abounded.

It was, by all accounts, a fairly casual gathering. No ceremony (Buffy, by this point, was all ceremony'd out after some fiercely dedicated meal-prepping) to stand on and no customs to keep. Just food and friendship. The only thing customary about Buffy Summers would be her delighted, enchanted grin throughout the evening. Very little pleased her more than a social event that was going well.

Mix! Mingle! Make merry!

(ooc; threadjack into oblivion and don't forget to add your character to the entry tags! have fun! note that this is forward-dated. i'll be tagging around myself later this evening. )

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"Not THIS Lizzie Turner." Jack shifts his drink from one hand to the other, conspiratorial. "This Elizabeth is most decidedly NOT married and still, I'm assuming, longing for her wedding night. This place, mate," he whispers, "this place is like a parallel chance. A second life. Why not?"

But it does not matter when she is from - not in the least. What if she were to run to him on sight with her eyes wide with joy - to embrace him? What if the two of them were to spend that night and the following day sharing stories and sharing meals, arranging yet more time to spend together and yet more beyond that? What if they were to write eachother letters? And what if he should have the opportunity to bring Elizabeth to these gatherings, to rely on her affinity for appealing to the better parts of people and drawing them out -- why then he should not need to sit and scowl and pick at entrees.

...And what if William Turner were to appear suddenly in this place, as Elizabeth did? She might go to Turner, yes, but that fact is secondary to the central problem that Norrington faces. If William Turner knew that she was meant to marry him, why then the admiral would have trespassed in the most reprehensible manner. What then if Mr. Turner was not aware of his delayed future? Though he has struggled for days against his better nature, Norrington can only percieve that as a shallow technicality. And why should William Turner have to arrive here physically in order for any man who knows better to honour the bond of marraige that he shares with this woman? Should it not transcend mere time, and space, and worlds besides? Should not love? And had she married James Norrington and not William Turner, would not he wish the same?

"Jack Sparrow, if you mean me well then know that you must not pursue this -- and if you are making sport of me then know that it will be a bitter sport indeed."

Edited 2011-11-22 18:51 (UTC)

"Suit yourself," came the short reply. "No one would think the less of you for it."

What Norrington needed, Jack had decided long before, was a woman, and here fate seemingly had provided. He raised his glass.

Suit himself? The sentiment of that statement could not be further from the truth of his actions. Nevertheless, arguing the point would inevitably have the undesired effect of keeping them on this topic for a fraction of a second longer.

"I need a drink."

"Fortunately, mate, you're spoiled for choice, here. What appeals? I'll fetch it along for you."

"Something s-..."

Strong? The conversation has been heavy - heavy enough to kindle in him a desire felt by many men before him. And yet, Elizabeth is here. Should he encounter her by chance, for all his attempts to stay in the distance, for all his efforts to dress unlike himself, if he should bump into her despite of all that then he would rather it be with his wits about him.

"Something comfortable."

And now, doesn't he feel pathetic.

"Tea?"

Oh, God. Not the tea. Don't choose the tea, man.

"Surprise me."

There. A balance of caution and danger. And if Jack quenches him into oblivion, why then he can hardly be blamed.

When Jack pops up round the Admiral next, it is with a steaming cup of salamander tea.

You can't really taste the salamanders, though there is a woody, orangey, spicy, cinnamon-y flavor about it that is bracing.

Also, it HAS been known to cause hallucinations.

"For you, Admiral."

The admiral sips it. Once. Obligingly. Then he puts it down.

"Well, I confess I am surprised."

With the mere fact of Jack bringing tea, not with its properties. Those - those will come on later.

Poor Jamie.

"Surprised? I WAS your first mate for a bit. I DID bring you things."

That's right, Norrington. Drriiiiiiink it. Driiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiink it....

"I simply had not anticipated that you would carry your role in the draft off the deck with you, Sparrow. Duty is one thing, but I would expect that you would do your best to distance yourself from that experience. I dare say you did not seem to enjoy it at the time."

Now? Now he's suspicious of the tea.

As well he SHOULD be suspicious of the tea. It is the most suspicious tea ever brewed.

But this? A tricky issue, that draft.

"I dare say NEITHER of us enjoyed it, Admiral. And I dare say you're still not fully pleased with my decisions in that battle."

Too tricky.

"Tea?"

He offered the cup.

"Of course!" He took it and relished a sip.

If ever Jack Sparrow wished to convince the admiral not to drink from a given vessel in future he should use this very same technique. James could not be more appauled by the concept of putting the vessel to his lips again.

"Please. Think nothing of it."

so pile your boots up in the corner -- hang your jacket from the door

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