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Three days after the surgery, Belle is sitting up in bed, winded but well. Jack hears about it through the bars of his cell, her blood still caked in the lines of his palms. Fagin doesn’t say anything for the three minutes it takes for him to get a hold of his emotions and that in itself is a damn miracle.
Five days after, Jack is finally allowed to leave his cell with a whistling Fagin at his side. He is told that under no circumstances is he to go near the hospital until someone can make a decision about whether or not he is banned for performing such a dangerous surgery with little to no preparation(“No, doc, cannae let ya even if the plague breaks out, you get it yeah?”). Any news he gets of Belle is told to him through Red, who heard it from Tim, who was told by Hetty. She is weak and fatigued but there is no infection.
Eight days after, she is stubbornly forcing herself to walk, knees trembling and hand gripping Hetty’s arm hard enough that there are small, crescent-shaped cuts in her skin later. Belle’s face, which normally has a lovely, healthy glow to it, is sallow and pale. She looks a stiff breeze away from scattering into ash. He watches from a doorway down the hall, half-concealed as he isn’t technically allowed in the hospital until the Prof graciously pens his pardon. Sneed catches him just as he’s worked up the nerve to yell at her for straining herself so soon and quietly ushers him onto his ass outside the hospital.
Twelve days after, Jack is hand-delivered a letter from the Prof, a pardon essentially. It tells him he will be expected back at work in the coming days.
A fortnight after, Jack finally allows himself to be angry with her.
It isn’t easy to avoid someone who currently lives at one’s place of work. It is even harder when that person is one’s patient, and yet Jack finds himself doing an admirable job.
Belle sleeps frequently these days, which are the perfect times for him to come in and assess her. The incision is healing slowly but cleanly, the skin around it bruised but free of infection. She is still pale, but her lips have gone rosy again. She furrows her brow deeply when asleep, as though arguing with someone in her dreams, but appears overall peaceful. Each brag of her heart is normal, steady. Alive, alive, alive.
In truth, Jack doesn’t know why he’s angry with her. Or rather, he does know, but he cannot put it into words. There is a terrible tangle in his chest, sutures balled up tight, strung between his ribs and tugged on whenever he tries to voice his frustration.
He looks at her and feels the soft insides of her chest, smells the heavy copper tang of her blood. I’m dying, aren’t I? She’d asked him, with her irregular heartbeat pounding into his eardrum, and he hadn’t wanted to believe it. But there is knowing something is true and seeing it for yourself. Doing it for yourself.
I could have killed you, he wants to shout. Take her by her shoulders and rattle some sense into her thick, lovely skull. You made me cut you open like one of our cadavers. You made me an accomplice.
But he cannot say those things to her, because there is anger, yes, but also a relief so strong he feels weak with it. Nothing is fixed; Lady Fox will not let them marry, he is sure, and Belle will not become a surgeon. They have bought her a lifetime of embroidery and motherhood, the life of a wife in some far-off colony where she will grow cold and bored.
But they have bought her a lifetime, nevertheless.
He takes to sleeping in his old room while Fagin runs amok with his money. Jack has only just scraped by becoming his convict servant, but he’s sure Fagin will soon remember all the chaos he loves to cause and will be haunting Jack’s doorstep soon enough. As it is, there is another ghost haunting Jack’s doorway, her frown disapproving and her exhaustion for his antics loud.
Hetty says: “She’s been waiting for you. Surely you know this.”
Jack takes a swig from his cup, not moving from his position by the window. He thinks about lying for all of a minute, but Hetty knows him too well and would sniff it out in a moment. Stupidly, he considers trying for cruelty; Hetty has loved him for God knows how long, and yet here she is, running interference between Jack and Belle like some sort of Cupid. How easy it would be to poke at that wound and watch it bruise. Watch it bleed.
But he’s never worn cruelty well, so Jack says, “Yeah. I know.”
Hetty quirks a brow. “So? Can I tell the stubborn princess you’ll be coming? I fear she’ll be up here in no time, and that’s certainly not good for her heart. All the stairs. And the mess, obviously.”
No, it wouldn’t be. “I’ll see her soon.” He pretends he doesn’t see Hetty’s frown, instead focusing on a spot over her shoulder. “Sneed is not entirely useless. He can answer any questions she has, and I have other patients to tend to anyway—”
“You’re being a fool,” Hetty snaps, crossing her arms over her chest. She’s always loveliest when she’s angry, Jack thinks. Would that he could have loved her instead. “Don’t you see, Jack Dawkins? Everything you’ve ever wanted is here at your fingertips, and yet you’re afraid to grab it. Why?”
Jack takes another drink. He thinks of being a boy of five, of eight, of thirteen. Artful, Dodge, Fagin would say, eyeing whatever Jack nicked with appreciation, even if it was just a thimble. Just really well done.
“I’m tired, Hetty. Piss off.”
“You’re bloody impossible,” she snaps, slamming his door on her way out.
The hospital is still and quiet when Jack sneaks into her room.
Jack has always preferred nighttime, only the moon above to see him. Night on the sea was spectacular, the way the water reflected the sky, the world around him an endless swath of darkness and stars. It is black as pitch outside, the darkness leaking into the halls of the hospital, perfect for moving about unnoticed.
She has a private room, of course, and it’s empty of family members because she is no longer fighting for her life, only recovering. Fanny had been the one who lasted the longest, but Jack heard that Belle finally tricked her into leaving a few days prior. Does she miss the company, now, Jack wonders.
Belle’s curls are fanned out across her pillow and wild around her face. The blankets are draped around her waist, and Jack can see the bandages peaking out above the neckline of her nightgown. When he leans forward and pulls it back, they are pristine. No leakage, no puss. A miracle.
He is slightly drunk, which is what makes him sit at her bedside. The bed dips, and she moves unconsciously towards him, and he loves her.
The truth of it is, Jack’s never had much experience with love. He can’t quite grasp the shape of it. He knows from stories told along the deck of a ship what it should look like, has seen it in the faces of people on his operating table or worse, the people waiting on the other side of the door. Whatever Fagin feels for him, it’s a bastardised version of love that Jack can’t touch with a ten foot pool for fear of spooking it away, a homunculus he cannot stand to look at.
How does a boy left at a pub know what love is? How does a boy left to the cold know how to give it?
Belle makes it feel easy. This improbable girl with her beautiful brain and her nerve. She’s the smartest person he’s ever met, but not so smart as to avoid him and the trouble that comes with him. She trusted him to save her. When he was wrist-deep in her chest, he was artful.
But out there in the world is still Oliver Twist, who has the means to tear Jack and Fagin down. Out there, Belle’s mother stands ready to block any path they see to happiness.
Jack is drawn from his wretched thoughts by the weak grip on his thigh. When he looks at her face, he is met with a burning glare.
“Where have you been?” Belle rasps, tightening her grip when his muscles tense, as though she might keep him there. “It’s been weeks.”
“Three weeks and four days, actually,” Jack grits out, the first words he’s spoken to her in...well. He regrets them immediately when her face crumples, but there are no tears. Only anger.
“Idiot.” She tries to push herself up on her elbows, but sleep and pain keep her from getting very far.
Jack reaches over, gently pressing her shoulder back to the bed. “You must rest, you stubborn brat. Don’t tell me you don’t know that.”
Belle grunts, eyes closing briefly. Sweat beads along her hairline, and Jack reaches up to brush a thumb along it before he can remind himself not to.
“Where have you been?” She asks again.
“Working,” Jack answers automatically, leaning away. Her hand on his thigh shifts, fingers brushing against his cock accidentally; he jumps slightly, but pain has made her eyes hazy and she doesn’t seem to realise where her hand is. “Stop pushing yourself.”
“I’m fine,” she mutters, finally removing her hand to wave his concern away.
Jack sighs, standing from the bed. “Yes, I can see that. I apologise for interrupting your sleep, milady.”
Squinting at him, Belle reaches wildly for him, fingernails snagging on his wrist. The pain is brief, a pinprick of sensation, and he catches her hand before it can fall back to the bed. “Wait,” she murmurs, eyes half-shut. “Come here.”
“I’m right here,” Jack whispers.
Her other hand lifts, fingers pressing against her lips. “No, here.”
The last time Jack kissed her, she was dying. He remembers her pained gasp, how he swallowed it for her and wished he could have taken more of that pain. The thought of kissing her right now is too overwhelming. Not when she’s nearly asleep. Not when she is still panting with the strain of trying to sit up.
Jack presses his lips to her forehead, too hard, and ignores the way her fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck. He can feel her exhales against his throat, a frustrated huff that makes his eyes burn.
“Sleep well, Belle.”
She glares at him when he pulls back, mouth twisted in a wretched frown. Jack leaves without a backward glance.
“Ain’t ya just glad she’s well, Dodge? Seems a bit silly to hold a grudge now, don’t it?” Fagin asks in the put-upon voice of someone who has no interest in the conversation at hand but cannot change it until all parties are ready to move on.
Jack huffs out a breath, slumping lower in his seat. All around him, the patrons of the pub are singing and dancing. Fagin insisted it would improve his mood, but all it’s done is remind him what a sorry sod he is. Even the lager tastes off, which has left him with two options: drink until it tastes better, or call it for the night.
“—iss from her, play a bit of grab arse, and you’ll be right as rain. Anyway, as I was saying earlier before you started cryin’ on me, I have this idea, right, and—”
Jack glares at Fagin, shoving his drink away with a sigh of disgust. “You’re a letch, you know that, old man?”
“Hardly!” Fagin laughs. “You’re the one with hearts in your eyes, Dodge.”
Shaking his head, Jack sighs. “Whatever scheme you’re plotting, leave me out of it.”
“You look like you could use a distraction.”
Fagin is not entirely wrong. But there are eyes on them right now, waiting for them to make another mistake, and Jack did not love being back in prison. He’d rather ride out these next few months quietly, focus on his job and his new salary, a pittance given only for the surgery he performed on the Governor’s daughter. Barely enough to call it a salary, but still an honest wage.
“Next time,” Jack promises, then takes his leave.
The next time he sees Belle, she’s collapsed in front of his door, slumped on the stairs with her face hidden by her hair.
Jack has been up all night with a sick five year old who has been puking and shitting his guts out for the last twenty-four hours. He barely had enough energy to wash himself and considered just sleeping on a spare bed in one of the free rooms, rather than dragging himself up the several flights of stairs to his room.
Adrenaline floods through him at the sight of her, and he clears the last few steps in a heartbeat, crouched beside her in the narrow stairwell. “Belle? Belle. Wake up!”
She comes to with a gasp, eyes blinking wide as her hand comes up to shove his face away. “Good God, Jack, give me some space to breathe,” she snaps.
“You collapsed on the fucking stairs!” Jack bellows, batting her hand away and grabbing her face between his hands. Her pupils are a normal size, and there is a hint of sweat on her face, but nothing too bad. Her breathing is fine, normal, but—
“I fell asleep on the stairs waiting for you,” Belle snaps, shoving at Jack’s chest. He releases her quickly, putting distance between them. Looking at her now, it does appear that she is sat on a stair, and possibly leaned over to sleep. “I figured if I waited long enough you would crawl out of whichever hole you’ve been hiding in. And see? Here you are.”
“You need to be resting.”
“All I bloody do is rest!” Belle points a stern finger at him, digging it into his chest. “And all you do is avoid me. I am tired of playing games, Jack Dawkins.”
Jack sighs, standing and pulling her to her feet. Belle breathes deeply as she rises, hands gripping his arms tightly. “You need to go back to your room.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Belle tells him, matter of fact. “We’re going to talk.”
“I’m tired, Belle.”
“You’re tired?” Belle asks, incredulous. “You’re tired? Jack, I’ve been waiting weeks for you to come and see me, and you instead choose to avoid me at every turn. I—I have been going mad thinking up all the reasons why you could possibly avoid me now. You told me you loved me before you put me under, and then—”
“Now is not the time or place to discuss this.”
“When, then?” Belle demands, glaring. There are tears pooling along her lashes, turning her eyes liquid brown, like chocolate. Lovely, even when she’s crying. “Because I think it will never happen, if I leave right now.”
Jack swallows, torn. How easy it would be to say go. To send her back to her room and leave it all behind him. It would be better for both of them.
Easy, yes. But then, Jack’s never done things the easy way. With a sigh, he turns and escorts her to his door, unlocking it quickly and ushering her inside. His lantern burns low, but it illuminates enough of his mess. Belle doesn’t seem to mind it, instead picking her way slowly across the room to sit on the edge of his bed.
He stares for a beat, then slowly makes his way over, sitting across from her on an empty crate.
For several long minutes, neither of them say anything. Instead, they study on another, taking stock of anything new, any changes that might have happened in the weeks since...everything. Jack wonders what she must see when she looks at him; does she notice the dark circles beneath his eyes, or the way his jaw has sharpened from missing too many meals? Maybe she notices the rawness of his knuckles from scrubbing too hard.
“You saved my life,” Belle begins, voice slow and careful, like he’s a dog she doesn’t want to spook. “I haven’t thanked you yet.”
Jack grits his teeth, tangles his fingers together into a tight knot, focusing on the pull and pop of his joints rather than the way that thank you settles like a burn in his chest. “You—it’s not necessary.”
“It is,” Belle insists. “Jack, if you hadn’t—if it hadn’t been you, I would be dead. Hetty told me you insisted on helping me, that Sneed backed you up as well. I’m alive because you—”
“I could have killed you.” The words are out before Jack can bite them back, heavy and devastated, settling over them like a shroud.
“I was dying anyway,” Belle whispers, hand reaching out as though she might touch him. It falls back to her lap, curling in the white nightgown. “It wouldn’t have made a difference.”
“To you, maybe.” Jack ducks, forcing her to meet his eyes. “The second I put my scalpel to your skin...that was on me, Belle. Anything after that would have been my fault.”
“No!”
“Yes!” Jack roars, standing up. “You have no clue what it was like, Belle. Seeing you on that table, seeing you cut open! Trying to wake you and being dragged away before I could be sure that you...that you were...” He shakes his head, reaching up to drag his hands through his hair. “I have been angry, and vengeful. I have been happy and content, but God, Belle, I’ve never felt anything like what I felt when I thought you wouldn’t wake up. If that’s love, I don’t know if I can do it again.”
Belle jerks back, a gasp exploding from her, but before he can think to apologise, she is on her feet, swaying, gripping him tightly.
“It was my decision,” she says fiercely, reaching up to frame his face with her palms. She is angry, the emotion thrumming from her, but those hands are gentle. “I asked you to do it. You saved my life, Jack Dawkins. What could have happened no longer matters; all that matters now is that I am here and so are you.”
“In the same position as before.”
She shakes her head, leaning close. “No, not the same. It’s different now. Mother and father see you in a different light. You saved me. You love me.”
Jack stares, stricken. “I don’t know what to do with it,” he whispers, hoarse. Her face is so close he can count the tiny freckles dotted across her cheeks.
“Give it to me,” she whispers back, kissing him softly. “I’ll keep it safe.”
What a strange thing, Jack thinks, to hear someone say something and to know, without a doubt, that it is the truth. There are no hidden meanings behind Belle’s words, no agenda planned or scheme plotted; Belle says give me your love and Jack hands it to her in shaking hands, in a trembling mouth pressed tightly to hers. He gives her his love and he knows she will ask nothing in return. Instead, she’ll hand her own to him, pressing it firm against his chest.
By the time Jack is able to speak again, they are stretched out across his bed, Belle cradled carefully in his arms, panting as he trails kisses down her throat.
“You really should go back to your room.” Jack sucks a mark along her collarbone, pulling the neck of her nightgown down as far as he can. “If someone were to come by—”
“You’re the only one who comes by in the middle of the night,” Belle tells him, nails scratching his scalp lightly as she adjusts the fist in his hair. “Obviously.”
Beneath him, her legs fall further open, hips rising to meet him as he grinds against her. She is deliciously warm there, and he wonders if she is slick and dripping with want the way she was the only other time that they have done this. That had been incredible, but they were aware of the waking house around them and the knowledge that anyone could interrupt at any moment.
Now, Jack thinks about taking his time.
“How do you feel?” he asks, sitting up. Belle’s hands reach for him, but he slides his own down her calves, dragging the nightgown up her legs.
“Good,” Belle says, nodding slightly. Her hips lift, allowing him to pull the nightgown further up, revealing her glistening centre to him. “I’m—fine. I’m great.”
“Your heart?”
“Beating the normal amount, I would think. For this sort of situation.”
“Any pain?”
“No, Jack,” she pants, drawing her lip between her teeth as he reaches down, parting her with a finger. She is hot to the touch, and when he draws his finger away, a string of moisture follows. “I promise I’m well.”
He studies her face as he removes her nightgown fully, drawing it over her head gently. She flushes when he looks down at her, breasts and smooth belly bared to him. Her nipples are rosy and peaked, but that is not what he looks at.
The bruising has faded to green and yellow, the incision the pink of healing skin. Just beneath that line is her heart, which pumps regularly, keeping her with him. Keeping her alive.
He leans down, pressing a kiss to the top of the incision. Against it, he whispers, “I love you.”
“And I you,” Belle whispers back, tugging at his hair. When he lifts his head, she draws him close and steals the air from his lungs in a searing kiss.
They pull away when she gasps, his clothed cock grinding against her sex. “You have to tell me if it hurts,” Jack cautions, gripping her chin between two fingers. “Do not lie. Do not push yourself through it. The second you are uncomfortable, you must tell me.”
“Yes, doctor,” Belle whispers, breath fanning across his lips. Jack’s cock jumps at the word doctor from her lips, irreverent as ever. He grinds against her once more, drawing a groan from both of them. “Now do it.”
Jack lowers himself down the bed, peppering kisses across any skin he comes across. Her belly jumps at each press of his mouth, and he smooths a hand across it, reaching around to grip her hips as he finally reaches his destination.
Belle’s cunt is swollen and flushed pink. She parts for him easily when he slides a finger through her folds, resting the tip of it just inside her entrance, which contracts around him. “Oh Jack,” she says above him, fingers sifting through his hand. “I can feel your breath.”
He huffs a laugh, which has her hips flexing. Then, he leans forward and closes his mouth around her clit, sucking softly. His finger sinks inside her, and her cry and taste have him grinding his clothed cock into the mattress. Jack has been with his fair share of women, but there is something so intriguing about Belle’s innocence, about the way she arches her hips against his mouth or tightens her fist in his hair to the point of pain. There is nothing self-conscious about her, only a need to find the pleasure Jack is more than willing to give her.
Adding another finger, Jack pumps them in and out, pressing along her walls as he goes. Her thighs tighten around his shoulders, trembling, but he doesn’t let up, sucking harder at her clit. The first time they had sex, Jack had whispered, do you know what this part does? As he’d reached down to swirl his wet fingers around her clit. She’d only rolled her eyes at him and asked if he was seriously inquiring about her body.
Clearly, she did not know it could feel like this if her mumbling overhead is anything to go by. “Oh, oh Jack, I think—I feel, Christ, I think I’m going to clim—” Her words are lost to a loud cry, thighs coming together to box Jack’s ears as he suckles at her clit through her orgasm, fingers slowing within her.
By the time she comes down, Jack has painted the inside of her thighs with love bites, needing to do something to distract away from his erection, which is bordering on painful now.
“Come here,” Belle commands, tugging at his ear. “I must kiss you, I fear.”
“Must you?” Jack asks, sitting up. He quickly shoves his trousers down his thighs, revealing his cock, which weeps steadily. “Can I...?”
“Mhmm,” Belle hums, reaching for him. He smiles, sliding his cock through her wet folds once, twice, before pressing at her entrance. He watches her face for any discomfort, but there is only a slight furrow of her brow as he pushes slowly inside; he’s done his job well in warming her up, clearly.
Half way in, Jack leans down, meeting her pursed lips with a kiss. She is flushed and sweating, but when he lays his fingers to the side of her throat, her heartbeat is normal. Regular. “You’re well?” He asks, bottoming out with a gasp.
“I’m wonderful,” she promises, kissing his cheek. “I’m the best I’ve ever been.”
“Flatterer,” Jack huffs, rising on his elbows. He stares down at her lovely face, tracing the curve of her smile, the slight lines around her eyes. If he went to the gallows tomorrow and this was the last face he saw, he’d be more than happy. To think that the annoying, upstart girl who barged into his hospital would bring him so much joy. So much grief. So much love.
“A little faster, please,” Belle says, arching her hips to meet his thrust. “I won’t break.”
“No,” Jack agrees. “You’re made of tougher stuff.”
He does not last much longer, and any other time he might be embarrassed by that. But now, he is just happy to be here with her, when he thought he might never get the chance again.
Jack pulls out at the last moment, stripping his cock and finishing against her belly. He has an apology ready on his lips as soon as he catches his breath, collapsing to the side so as not to crush her, but Belle does something that shocks the breath out of him once more.
She reaches down, swiping her fingers through his semen, and then brings them to her lips.
“Bloody fucking hell, you’ll kill me,” Jack sighs, pressing his face into the pillow. The image of her pressing those fingers to her mouth will stay with him for a good, long time.
Belle laughs, the loveliest sound he’s ever heard. Jack peeks at her, meeting her gaze. She is luminous. He says, “I love you so much.”
Her smile softens, and he can feel her heartbeat pick up, fingers pressed along her wrist. It’s the best feeling in the entire world.