Archive of Our Own ^beta

"There you are, Stephen," he cried. "Good morning to you. I did not look to see you yet awhile, and I am sorry to say I have ate the last of the bacon. The dish was empty before I was aware."

"It is always the same old squalid tale," said Stephen. "May I at least hope there is a tint of coffee left?"

"Coffee, certainly, coffee by the bucket, coffee by the vat." Jack smiled warmly at him, took a large bite of toasted soft tack and marmalade, and drained his cup.

"I am pleased to hear it," grunted Stephen. "However: this pot is empty."

"What's that ye say?"

"This pot is devoid of coffee."

"No, it ain't."

"I assure you it is. But no matter. You speak of buckets, of vats, and it is from them I shall drink. Killick! A fresh pot if you please. Killick! He answers not, the villain."

"Oh, don't bother calling. Killick's gone," said Jack, scraping the last of the orange marmalade onto his toast.

Stephen narrowed bleary eyes. "No Killick?"

"No. It seems I sent him ashore."

"Is that how it seems."

"Well, yes, actually."

"And Grimble too?"

"Grimble's with him. But don't look so appalled, Stephen. It's only for the morning. The table was laid before they left, and I told Killick we could fend for ourselves."

"I see."

"And look here, we're quite well set up: we had bacon, and that was toast and jam, and then the coffee, of course... and this dish is -- was -- eggs, and... well. Porridge? No." He lifted another lid, his blue eyes hopeful. "Victory! Here is... half a kipper."

Stephen looked at him coldly. "Like a boar at a trough," he muttered, unfairly, for Jack was always quite neat. "I thank you for my half a kipper, Jack, but please: consume it before you faint dead away, I urge. No no! Never protest. Sure your need is far greater than mine."

Abashed, Jack bent his head -- his predictably freshly washed head, Stephen noted with a kind of weary despair -- and touched his napkin to his mouth. His smooth jaw gleamed in the light from the stern windows, his yellow hair shone like gold.

Sighing, Stephen plucked the kipper from the plate and fed it to him. "Well, finish the last," he said gruffly, his indignation defeated against his will, for Jack appeared genuinely chastened. "This is, after all, the Captain's table." Then rubbing his tired eyes and bristled face, Stephen murmured about the harshness of the morning -- the light so bright, and no coffee, no coffee at all, a life scarcely worth living -- and returned to his cabin and his cot.

~end~

(The opening quote is from The Surgeon's Mate, page 282, Norton paperback edition.)