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MANNER OF LUCK Author: Captain Cheesehead Disclaimer: Summary: Ships ooze bad luck from their woody pores. So why on Earth are you on one? And why are you not heading to Boston like originally planned? Maybe you forgot to step onboard with your right foot first. Or perhaps the ship set sail on a Sunday. You cringe to think of what the cause may be... Author's Note: I know, a You/Gibbs fic is very, very strange, but I needed something to keep my mind thoughts from getting stale. Besides, Mr. Gibbs need some lovin' too! The rating will not change [please don't make me write a Gibbs love scene] and this probably will not be a very long story. Just enjoy it for a light-hearted humor story. * * * * * CHAPTER 1 “No! I will not get on the boat! Stop pestering me and leave me to my needlework!” The offending persons swiftly left the room after your defiant statement. Good. They have no right to make you do things of that sort. Traveling away from home via the ocean just for the sake of going was reserved for the likes of pirates and other wayward persons. You planned to keep both feet planted firmly on solid land, thanks very much. Your hands swiftly and furiously worked over your project while your mind swiftly and furiously cursed your so-called friends for trying to get you out. “How dare they!” Needle in, needle out. “I am very much happy right here. Away from the central mess that has become the 'New World'.” The thread knotted and you made an impatient noise of frustration. For the first time since you started, you actually comprehended what you were stitching. It was another skeleton. With a sigh, you got up and placed the needlework into a drawer full of other half-finished projects; a beaded necklace shaped like a noose, a small painted box showing a ship sinking into oblivion, a wood carving of a headless naval officer, drawings of severed body parts, and other various arts and crafts. They were all morbid depictions that you could not comprehend. Every time you tried to start something new, your mind wandered and your subconscious took over. Not to mention the things you saw in your dreams. Never a night goes by without you seeing death and evil. You figured that you were cursed and took it upon yourself to learn every sign of bad luck and ill omens and how to counter them. For instance, it is terrible bad luck to pass someone on a staircase. You lived on the second floor of an inn. About twice a day, you performed the countering ritual by tapping the top or bottom stair with your right foot ten times. It was also bad luck to encounter a gravedigger walking towards you. This was most unfortunate, as coincidence would have it. Mr. Underhill, the local gravedigger and makeshift doctor, lived in the room directly across the hall from you. When dinner was announced, the two of you would often open your doors at the same time to walk out. You didn't know the remedy for this bad luck, so you usually just crossed yourself a few times. When all else fails, turn to God for protection. So it's really no wonder why you didn't want to get on a boat. Boats were vulnerable to pirates. Pirates brought death and evil. Evil brings bad luck. Stepping foot on any ship would surely be the beginning of your demise. Your train of thought was interrupted by another knock at your door. You opened it to the obviously annoyed innkeeper, Mr. Jones. He didn't use any formalities before speaking. “Miss Thomas, you must listen to reason. Now get packed up.” “No. I refuse to leave,” you state matter-of-factly. “Well unfortunately, it is not your decision to make.” “I don't think you quite understand, Mr. Jones. This has been my home for many, many years. It has kept me safe and happy. I will not leave.” You tried to shut the door but he put his foot in the way. “No, Miss Thomas. It is you who does not understand. This entire port has been bought by the East India Company to be used as an outpost. They have no ambition to turn it into a town, and unless you are willing to be traded as one of their slaves, then I suggest you board the ship I managed to charter for our use and sail with us to Boston.” You weighed your options. There were none. “Well, it seems I have no choice,” you said with conviction. “Just help me with my trunk, please.” Twenty minutes later and with the assistance of Mr. Jones, you had your trunk packed with everything that could possibly fit into it, excluding the death crafts of course. The innkeeper lifted it and you heard something in his back crack. “Dear Lord, woman! Did you pack a trunk full of cannonballs?” “Just one,” you said, sweetly as possible. Mr. Jones glared at you, so you quickly added, “It's for good luck! You should ALWAYS keep a cannonball under your bed.” “Oye, I am almost regretting coming up here to get you.” Mr. Jones grumbled some more as he hauled your trunk down the stairs and out into the dirt road where a wagon hitched to a mule was waiting with everyone else's luggage. Mr. Jones climbed up into the drivers seat and motioned for you to crawl on the back with the cargo. “Everyone's already down to the docks, we must make haste.” You pulled yourself up in a most unladylike manner and managed to sit down just as the wagon started moving. You looked back at the tiny town and realized there could be nothing like it. New Georgetown was nothing more than the inn, a few farmsteads, and the docks about thirty minutes down the road. There were never more than fifty people there at any one time. It was not useful for anything. It was out of the way, difficult to get to, had no military garrison, and the entire town only received a shipment of goods about twice a year. That was why it suited you. You had no intentions of going off to see bigger and better things. Why should you? Why risk your contentedness? But it came down to this. Being forced out by a militaristic monopoly with a eye for more land and riches than the king was not what you envisioned. You made a note in your mind to boycott the East India Company when you got to Boston. A note with very bold, very red letters. And the word boycott underlined three times. The wagon continued along the dry road stirring up dust which settled very nicely on your dress and person. You turned around every so often to see Mr. Jones hold a handkerchief up to his face to lessen the odor emanating from the mule. This was amusing to watch because every time he would start to bring his hand to his face, his mustache would twitch a few times as though it were a dog trying to rid itself of water. Besides that, the trip down to the docks was uneventful. You passed palm trees, oak trees and more palm trees. At some points, you even caught the rare glimpse of another palm tree. How fascinating, you thought dryly. At least Boston didn't have palm trees. Eventually, the wagon came to a halt on the dock occupied by a rather unimpressive-looking ship. You hopped down and began to walk up the gangplank when one particularly skinny, dirty sailor stopped tightening the rope he was tying to the mast and rudely looked you up and down. He called to his shipmate. “Another woman 'ere, mate. We're bound for all sorts of bad luck.” You stopped walking and looked at Mr. Jones who was several steps behind you. “Maybe I'll just--” Mr. Jones caught your arm as you turned around to walk down. He pulled up gently up to the ship muttering again about you and your luck. You made damn well sure to put your right foot on deck first before being ushered down into a small cabin occupied by several other women from the inn. After exchanging pleasantries, the other women began to talk excitedly about their future in Boston. You listened, but didn't contribute to the conversation. Instead, you opted to lay down on your small bunk. The gentle rocking of the ship was making your insides squirm uncomfortably. An hour later, the ship began to sail out into open ocean. Your trunk was delivered to your cabin. The very first thing you did was pulled out your cannonball and placed it under the bed and held in place with a dress wrapped around it. Ships were a breeding ground for bad luck, and you had a feeling you needed all you could get. TBC... (A/N – Yeah.. that's how it starts. It's short, sorry. Good reviews may make the next chapter longer. ::smirk::) |