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(no subject)

Who: Hector (justguidelines, Lia (psalmed), and her girls (they don't have a username but they should).
Where: The kitchen. Because really, is anywhere more public?
When: After the mansion put itself back together. To...Day...Ish.
Rating: Despite the possible appearance of boobs, I'm gonna say no more than PG-13 because Hector? Get any real action? Crying.
Summary: Scandal. He's just going to attempt that whole cooking thing again, okay? No one said anything about crazy French noblewomen and their stupid corsets and their boobs.
The Story:

There was something to be said about making yourself more self-sufficient, even though it was with something unfamiliar and confusing and, flatly, stupid. But better to rely on himself, really, than trust the magic of the mansion for food, because for all he knew, letting it supply a body with things like that could very well speed up the process of forgetting things, or cause the events, or gods only knew what. There was a bit of hypocritical double-speak in that, of course, as he very well couldn't hop down to the local market for things like ingredients, but he wondered if that, perhaps, made things less likely to go awry.

After all, the last thing he wanted was the mansion getting a good dose of heathen Aztec curse. Or a maelstrom threatening to devour them all. Or...Well, anything in his own past, as it was no one else's business.

Either way, cooking was going to have to be a thing. After the last attempt, and his confidence bolstered the slightest bit that he hadn't destroyed anything in trying, he (rightly so) realizd it was a thing that probably needed a bit of practice more than once every six months. Which is why he chose a time he figured there would be no one lurking about (Jack Sparrow in particular) to criticize or otherwise hamper his efforts.

So it was with cookbook secreted away in a coat pocket and a sense of determination that he made his way to the kitchen, at an odd, non-meal hour, because while, he assumed, it was nothing to be secretive about, it wasn't something he necessarily wished to announce to all and sundry, either.

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Once upon a time Lia had been rebellious. She wanted to wear trousers and fight with the boys and ride a horse with a leg on either side of the saddle. She wanted to carry firewood into the house and cook breakfast instead of having it brought to her on a silver tray.

It had lasted a week before she had realized there were definite perks to being wealthy. Not having to carry firewood or cook was one of them and so she'd abandoned the kitchen at the tender age of eight to never return again.

Except here. And honestly, Lia was wandering. The closet was a magical invention but she was having an unfortunate problem. The corset she'd imagined was not exactly how a corset ought to be constructed. It was too tight, too constricting, and she couldn't lift her arms far or high enough to get to the blasted laces and there were reasons she should have made it have a release in the front.

It wasn't proper to ask everyone here to have a go at undressing her. Her last idea was to loot the kitchen. Perhaps she might find some implement that wouldn't damage flesh and could be used to pry enough give in the undergarment that she might free herself.

Which was how Captain Barbossa came to find her bent over a counter, panting, with a broken end of a wooden spoon in hand. It at least gave her space to breathe, fabric straining to contain her with every inhale. She gave a vague wave in his direction before her head thudded against the table, skirts shifting to accommodate the new and interesting stance.

Because the last thing he expected to be greeted with as he entered the kitchen was the ridiculously skirted rear of a French noblewoman.

And really, he wasn't entirely sure what the proper mode of response was to this situation. He could go about it the pirate way, of course. That would include some crude comment or some such. He could go about it the way he somewhat wanted to, which was to turn around, walk out, and pretend he saw nothing and let someone else deal with it. He could pretend he didn't see her struggling with a spoon, of all things, down the back of her corset, and continue on with his self-taught cooking lesson.

Or...He could find out what in hell was going on and get her moving as soon as possible so he'd be left in peace to continue on.

He almost took the turning around and walking away option, but then...Well. That was something he'd been entirely lax about. Collecting debts from the other mansion inhabitants, in order to call in favors. And she'd said she was good with a blade, after all. Probably some stuffy, useless style, taught in finishing schools, but calling in that kind of debt when it was needed (he doubted it would be, but in the off chance...) was one of the smarter ideas he'd had lately.

So, with a sigh, and a placing of the cookbook he'd already fished out of his pocket on the counter, he took a few steps in her direction, though still out of arm's reach, to lean over and see what the fuss was about.

"I don't suppose this be some ridiculous French cooking nonsense. T'would explain, though, why French food be so awful."

Lia had given up on fleeing. It was too much effort and she could easily be overtaken by even a toddler waddling behind her. If she fainted she might never hear the end of it. She also might bust her face on something.

And besides, he was a pirate. Why should she worry what he thought? Blue eyes watched him critically as he put a book onto the counter. The kitchen was hardly a place to come to read anything you weren't ashamed to be seen reading. Something to investigate...as soon as she could move.

Her arm dropped away from trying to manuever the spoon to do something and she coughed, covering her mouth delicately for all her skin turned even paler for a moment.

"First, marinate the goose. Then cram a spoon down your dress to add to the flavor," Lia replied dryly. She might have appreciated his wit were she not suffocating, but that hardly seemed likely. "Though for all I know that might be how it is done."

She might have left it at that. Might have begged help from Alice or Aramis or anyone else. But how to go about this in a seemly manner? "Tell me, Captain, how many bodices have you unlaced in your day?"

She would find nothing more incriminating than a cookbook, and if asked, he would even own up to what he was doing! That was really the most amazing thing about it. He just hadn't felt the need to entertain an audience.

But, while he could very well see she was having...Trouble, there again he was in absolutely no rush to lift a finger. And while a blind fool could see what she meant, it didn't mean he was going to make it easy, either.

"Well, I could certainly take that two ways, couldn't I. And I highly doubt it would be the first; good thing, too, as even I find meself needing to draw a line somewhere."

He snorted. "Or I could take it as an insult. Suffice to say it's been more than you've had your own undone. Stand up, I'd hate to be stepping over you while I'm busy in here."

Because the chances of him actually stepping over her and not on her were slim.

Lia stared at him, and it was not a kind stare. "As though I would ask you for the first," She retorted, then bit her tongue. No, she needed him! She needed him for this before she passed out and making him her enemy was not productive to making him useful.

"How do you know how many times I have had my bodice undone? Daily, if you would like to be absolutely literal." And that gets another sigh, as deep as she can with this infernal thing crushing her ribs. Chaste. Modest. A lady and she was trying to argue her carnal experience with a pirate in a kitchen in a mansion that apparently tore itself apart on occasion.

She did stand up. Hips widened by skirts sloped to a (very) narrow (by comparison) waist and then up to (deceptively) impressive looking cleavage. Lia was once more reconsidering fashion choices because it was not as though people here appreciated the effort, anyway.

"What are you doing in here?" She questioned instead. And then charging onward. "Do you have the patience to assist me? I promise it will take but a moment..."

And at her first snapped retort, he only clucked his tongue, because honestly, if she was wanting him to do something, that is certainly not the way to get it. But as she'd there, either passed out from not breathing, if he didn't get her moving along and shuffled out the door, he bit back the harsher things he could have added to that.

And, it should be noted and applauded, he certainly did resist the urge to glance down at her (deceptively) impressive cleavage. Because he wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of doing so.

And, he realized, what he really wished had happened was Jack coming along and finding her first. His life would be so much easier, really, if that fool could read his mind.

But, such was fate, and he was stuck with her. And it was with a long suffering sigh that he simply held out his hands, palms upward, in acquiescence. While he very well could undo a corset, and fairly easy, if he were asked, being treated like a lady's maid hadn't been on his agenda.

"Aye, hurry up and turn around. The sooner it's done, the sooner I can get on with me business." Which, amazingly, unlacing insufferably French women from their cages did not count. "And if you must know, it's a kitchen. Typically, I'd assume, when one comes to a kitchen, they've an idea to feed themselves. Something I suggest you look into, as I highly doubt you'll find yourself a maid or a cook here in this godforsaken place."

"I hear that is what the English tell their wives," Lia said, breathlessly and amused. "Turn around and let us accomplish this. Not at all like the French." A noise that might have been a laugh escaped, her color blanching again.

She did turn around, lifting an arm as far as she could. A row of delicate buttons held the dress closed on the side. The corset laces beneath were tight, solidly laced and knotted. A nightmare of laces and eyelets.

"Food appears, though. So I at least will not starve. I miss cooks andmaids so dearly." Life on the road could be endured without servants. Life in a manor not so much. "They teach you to dance and bargain. I begged to ride and fight. I should have learned to feed myself when it does not involve a fire out of doors."

Lia braced herself against the table. That amount of speech had her panting, chest heaving with quick, shallow breaths. "I fear I shall drop where I stand."

"I wouldn't know," he stated flatly, his fingers twitching a bit in irritation before he set to work on the buttons. Honestly, why women thought everything needed to be so tight, he'd never understand. While he could appreciate a fine female form well enough, all that frippery and nonsense seemed damned uncomfortable, as she'd proven nicely. "I've nary been stupid enough to find out for meself."

And he wouldn't ever be, either, thank you.

And as for her panting and gasping, well. There was no sympathy there, at all, as he would fully admit to being none too gentle. "As for the food, aye, I suppose it does. And I nary trust it. Stay here long enough, no doubt you'll see what I mean, if you be...Wise enough." Though his tone hinted he highly doubted it. "I'd rather feed meself than hope for this place's magic to pamper me."

And there were the knots, he could feel them when his hand brushed just so, and for a moment, he bit the inside of his cheek against commenting, but in the end, after all, keeping quiet about things that didn't matter was hardly his strong point. "My question be how in hell you managed to get yourself in such a state to start with."

"No wife? No want for one? I suppose that should not come as much of a surprise to me as I never wanted to be a wife." Yet it did. Perhaps because he was older. Perhaps because he didn't strike her as a celebrated old bachelor. "Are you..." She choked as he pulled ona button, and thus probably her liver. "...a fop, then?"

Though he was good at undressing her. Even if it was a bit rougher than normal, her fingers digging into the surface of the table. She made soft noises as he tugged, trying to catch breaths between the pulling.

"I always thought to survive on the makings of larger dishes. You may have a point in that I shall soon have to eat flour Is the food here often -ah! Often...spoiled." Lia had decided it was about continuing the conversation no matter what he did.

She did have the grace to flush when he questioned that. Or it could have been blood trapped in the upper half of her body. "Always had a servant...my fiance...so it is a bit or a process tying for myself."

Also she had tried tying them magically with a mirror for a guide. The Psalms appreciated being tasked this way as much as her current companion did.

There's no other real initial reaction to being asked if he was a fop beyond a sharp tug on the laces. Yes, because pirates regularly married and settled down to have the proverbial good life with children and a nag they couldn't get away from. In fact, in his own estimation, he was fairly old not only for remaining unattached in any manner whatsoever, but in general for the lifestyle he'd chosen. Most didn't live to see their thirtieth year, much less this far past fifty (as he assumed he was).

"I'm nary a fop, no, but thank you for the concern all the same." And, of course, there was the fact that he was completely, utterly, painfully, and totally broke. That was more thanks to Cutler Beckett than anything, though he certainly wouldn't admit such a thing to the likes of her. "I've nary seen fit to retire just yet, and I'd rather spend me twilight years with p'raps three of twenty years than one the same age as I and the need to peck at me."

Which was only partially true, but again, that was none of her business. "And may I suggest," he added, moving right along, "from now on you forgo the corset nonsense and stick to breeches and a shirt, because this will be the only time I'll bother to pick out these knots to keep you from turning blue."

Lia squeaked at the sharp tug to the laces, rocking back a moment before righting herself again. Whenever it would become loose somewhere, it would grow tight in another place. She was tempted to suggest he simply cut through the laces. A few more minutes and she might beg him to do so.

"There is nothing wrong with being a fop, monsieur. Do not misunderstand." She had always had suspicions about quite a few people she loved dearly, actually. She knew it was personal, she had no business asking and yet...something about this place made her bold. Or perhaps it was the fact she had just plead with a pirate to undo her corset. "Were I a man, I should strive to be a fop. As it is I am resigned to a husband in some eventuality even if I wish to while away my days with Her Imperial Highness."

She braced her legs more, starting to wriggle to at least ease some of the knots and not go back on his hard work. She'd knotted the sleeves of her gown around her waist so at least that part of it wouldn't fall. "Quantity over quality? That is one ph-philosophy." And not a bad one, at that. Were it proper she might consider the same.

It was effort but she turned her head to look at him, or as much as she could see of him, over her shoulder. "I assure you this does not usually happen. As liberating and novel as I find breeches, a lady does need her gowns."

"There be no one here to impress, nor court to attend, I fear, so it's naught but wasted effort and time." His wasted time, too, which he didn't point out, though it was heavy in his tone. Along with his aggravation at the knots because how did this even happen. Even the most low-class whore in Tortuga could get in a corset neater than that, and here he was, picking them free for a French noblewoman who had the audacity to ask a pirate if he were a fop.

(Not that, of course, there weren't pirates who were. He'd known plenty.)

"And besides, you'll nary be good for anything trussed up like a pig to the slaughter when the next little happening rolls around in a fortnight or so."

That was it. He was done. They weren't coming lose and he was willing to bet she couldn't hold herself still enough for his pulling to do any good beyond yanking them tighter and jerking her hither and thither.

"How attached to this mess of bone and string be you."

"Corsets are quite comfortable when...not laced as such." Okay she'd abused her power and was suffering. Lia managed a smile, weak as it was, even through huffing. "In truth, I prefer my skirts and gowns. Even if no one sees but me."

A lot of good that did her. And him as well. She should have to make amends to him after this. Trussed up like a pig felt like an apt description and she nearly snorted. Which would have proven his point. She could move well and gracefully in most skirts. Beyond undergarments cutting off her circulation.

Clearly, he had similar ideas to her. "Cut it off." Except she was now trusting a pirate with a knife at her back. Desperate times. Lia hauled up the edge of her skirt. Slipper and stocking and garter were revealed until she came to a sheathe.

The knife was small, but quite sharp. Possibly he could saw through the laces. "You simply have not met the right fashion yet, to be as besotted as I am."

Well, if she was going to put on a show, he wasn't going to pretend she wasn't. And after all, it wasn't like he could truly say he'd seen that many (read: any) women of wealth's garters. And imagine that, they weren't all that different, in the long run.

That aside, however, even he wouldn't be stupid enough to trust another pirate with a knife like that, but...Well. That was entirely her call. And it wasn't like he had plans to get stab-happy, anyway. What a mess that would make all over the kitchen, when he just came down here for a little time with these infernal modern contraptions and measurements and ingredients in order to adequately feed himself.

So he took the knife, giving it a bit of a once over with a snort. It was sharp, he'd agree to that, but really, unless one was aware of the soft, squishy parts that were best to hit, in his experience it would do nothing but piss someone off if they got stuck with it.

"Well. And a pig sticker to top it all off. Fancy that." But at least that was as insulting as he got. Better to use her own knife than the one stuck in his boot. That knife had quite the sordid history, that did not, in fact, involve cutting ladies out of their corsets. So instead, he turned to the second part, sawing through the laces one at a time (slowly, too, on purpose).

"Be that so? Well, I nary like to disagree with one better versed in a subject than I, but I fear I've little time for worrying if me waistcoat's on a little crooked."

Which was pretty much a lie. His clothes were worn. They were old and stained with God only knew what and about ten years or so out of fashion for his own time, and his hat sported ragged edges and a musket ball hole, but if someone looked at him and failed to see how he practically silently screeched vanity, they were blind. Or oblivious.

"The knife of a lady," Lia amended automatically, even as she was turning her face to hide a smile because, really, men did tend to squeal like pigs when they were stabbed with such a weapon. It was an aprt description. "The theory goes it buys you enough time for someone to rescue you or for you to escape."

In her case, it might buy enough time to get a sword out from layers of skirts. She'd never had anyone foolish enough to try an attempt on her virtue that a slap didn't quell. The privileges of being well-known and well-armed, she supposed.

She was trying to breathe as the laces came loose, painfully slowly. As it loosened, blood returned to squished flesh and Lia winced a little, hoping the pain was brief. It was a kind of unique pain, having your internal organs shift around.

"I will owe you a favor after this. Come to my rooms and I shall attempt to construct something for you...a gift." And wouldn't he look just fabulous? She already had things in mind, without the strict rules of what colors were in style this season or what was most appropriate at Court.

When the last of the laces were broken through, Lia sucked in air so quickly the fabric fell away from sweat-slick skin. She caught the front, but barely so, holding it against her breasts in a manner that probably only drew attention to the problem.

But the smile on her face was genuine, sweet and beautiful even so much as her words tended not to be. "My thanks, Captain." And her tone was entirely relief. Especially as she rubbed at the red marks on her flesh from the damned boning digging into her.

So much to say, so much effort to say it. And where would he even start. Though once that infernal thing that he was sure had given him more grief than anyone could ever imagine popped free, well. Could anyone really blame him if his gaze just happened to follow the progression for a moment or two before he internally both reminded himself of the fact that:

1. She was French. Which at any other time, were it back home in the Caribbean wouldn't matter, but there were good enough reasons to dislike that there were so many of them scuttling about, and:

2. He most certainly had better things to be doing.

But he was silent a long moment after, instead flipping the blade of her knife between his fingers a moment, before offering it to her, hilt first. The last thing he needed was for her to cut herself with it on top of everything else, because with that his patience limit might well be breached.

"A favor." And he very well saw where she was going with that, too. There was nothing wrong with the clothes he already had. It had served him well enough these last...Well. He couldn't remember exactly how long, but while his waistcoat had truly seen better days, his shirt was ripped and bloodstained in places covered by his coat...Well. He didn't need any of that. "Well, as...Appreciative as I'm sure I be, I'd be wary about what anyone toting that nasty little piece of work would be wanting to construct."

Lia turned away after a moment, hauling her dress back up over her shoulders. The buttons were largely a lost cause and she wasn't about to ask him to do them up. Even so, it was thirty seconds before she was decently and it was very clear Lia de Beaumont was used to getting complicated clothing on in a hurry.

The dress didn't fit quite properly without the corset, but properly enough, and she dropped the offending garment on the table to be dealt with later. "If you will not accept a proper frock coat from me, perhaps...tea? Perhaps we might spar?"

It was difficult, in this place, to even reward someone for a job well done. Lia frowned at him, quite seriously. She could see the little book from this angle and it suddenly clicked into place that he was trying to cook.

Well, precious little help she could be there, either. "It occurs to me that ladies are well-educated. We read and embroider and pray. We learn foreign languages and a hundred dances. We learn to keep accounts and sums and make good marriages. But we are rather useless, are we not? When thrust into situations beyond our control?"

Pirates, Lia decided then, were a good deal like noblewomen. She wasn't certain if it was horrifying or amusing. "I can even send a man to his death on my blade but leave me to my own devices and I would be eating flour or scones until I died."

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