Chapter Text
"You still owe me sixpence for that bet," Jack said, balancing a scalpel between his fingers like a coin. He leaned against the hospital’s freshly scrubbed operating table—freshly scrubbed because Belle had insisted, twice—and grinned when she rolled her eyes.
Belle didn’t look up from her notes. "I never agreed to your ridiculous wager about whether Snead would wake up cursing or praying." She flipped a page with more force than necessary. "Besides, you lost anyway. He did neither."
Jack flipped the scalpel into the air and caught it neatly by the handle. "Ah, but he *did* mutter something about 'damned anatomy charts,' which, as any reasonable person would agree, counts as cursing." He twirled the instrument between his fingers again, the sunlight from the high windows glinting off the blade. "Admit it, Belle—you owe me."
Belle finally snapped her ledger shut with a thud, fixing him with a look that would’ve sent lesser men scrambling for the door. "What I *owe*," she said, stepping closer, "is a thorough explanation to Hetty about why you thought it appropriate to use her best linen sheets as a makeshift sling for General Boxer yesterday." Her voice dropped to a whisper as she jabbed a finger into his chest. "She’s still fuming."
Jack caught her finger mid-jab, holding it gently against his chest where she could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat. "Hetty's got a soft spot for me," he said, grinning when Belle scoffed. "Besides, the general's leg needed stabilizing *immediately*, and linen’s sturdier than muslin. Medical improvisation, love. You’d have done the same."
Belle yanked her hand back, but the corner of her mouth twitched. "I’d have *asked* first." She turned toward the shelves lining the operating theater, stacking her notes with sharp precision. "And don’t call me 'love' in front of patients. It’s unprofessional."
Jack pocketed the scalpel with a flourish and followed Belle across the room, his boots scuffing against the newly moored floorboards—another of Belle’s recent obsessions. "Unprofessional?" He plucked a jar of leeches from the shelf beside her and held it up, waggling his eyebrows. "Says the woman who threatened to drain *my* blood last Tuesday when I rearranged her suture kit."
Belle snatched the jar from him, her cheeks pinkening. "That was *before* we—" She cut herself off, glancing toward the open doorway where the distant murmur of patients and nurses carried through the hall.
Jack leaned against the shelf, crossing his arms as he watched Belle fumble with the jar, her fingers slipping slightly on the glass. The flush creeping up her neck was far more entertaining than any leech. "Before we what, exactly?" he prompted, voice low and teasing. "Before you realized my unparalleled charm was irresistible? Or before you—"
"Before you nearly got yourself killed trying to outdrink those dockworkers," Belle hissed, shoving the jar back onto the shelf with unnecessary force. The clatter made Jack wince—those were expensive, and Snead’s budget was already stretched thinner than a sailor’s patience on a becalmed ship. But Belle wasn’t done. "Honestly, Jack, you can’t keep *borrowing* supplies without—"
"—without *thinking*," Belle finished, her voice sharp as the scalpel still tucked in Jack’s pocket. She crossed her arms, the fabric of her sleeves straining slightly where she’d rolled them up past her elbows—a habit Jack knew meant she was either preparing for surgery or preparing to throttle him. Today, it could go either way.
Jack opened his mouth, ready to deflect with some quip about his stellar survival instincts, but a sudden commotion in the hallway cut him off. The sound of hurried footsteps and Hetty’s unmistakable bark of "Mind the basin, you lout!" sent them both turning toward the door. A moment later, a sweaty-faced dockworker staggered in, clutching a bloody hand to his chest like a macabre bouquet. Behind him, two more men hovered, their faces pale beneath layers of grime.
Jack’s grin vanished as he took in the dockworker’s mangled fingers—crushed and bleeding, the nail beds already purpling. Belle didn’t hesitate. She grabbed a clean linen from the shelf and tossed it to Jack. "Pressure," she ordered, already moving toward the basin to scrub her hands. "Hetty! I need splints, carbolic, and—"
"Boiling water, aye, already on it," Hetty called from the hallway, her footsteps retreating toward the supply room. The dockworker groaned, swaying dangerously, and Jack caught him by the shoulder, steering him toward the operating table with a firm grip.
Jack pressed the linen firmly against the dockworker’s hand, feeling the warm seep of blood through the fabric. "Easy now," he murmured, guiding the man to sit on the table. The dockworker’s breath came in ragged gasps, his eyes darting between Jack and Belle with a mix of pain and awe. "Looks like you’ve made friends with a steam press," Jack added, keeping his tone light as he peeled back the cloth to assess the damage. The fingers were a mess—crushed bone, torn skin—but nothing a steady hand and a bit of luck couldn’t fix.
Belle returned, sleeves rolled higher, her forearms glistening with carbolic-scented water. She spared Jack a glance—just a flicker—before focusing on the dockworker’s hand. "Crushed metacarpals," she muttered, prodding gently. The man hissed, his knees jerking. "Two fractures, possibly three. We’ll need to reset before necrosis sets in."
Jack nodded, already reaching for the laudanum. "Drink this," he instructed, pressing the vial to the man’s lips. The dockworker gulped greedily, some of the amber liquid dribbling down his stubbled chin. Jack wiped it away with his thumb, then tossed the empty vial aside. It rolled under the table with a hollow clink.
The dockworker's pupils dilated as the laudanum took hold, his breathing slowing to ragged, heavy pulls. Jack kept a firm grip on his wrist, thumb pressed to the pulse point—still too fast, but steadying. "Belle," he said lowly, nodding toward the mangled fingers. "The index metacarpal's snapped clean. Middle finger's a mess, but the ring and pinky might salvage if we—"
"I *know*," Belle cut in, though her tone lacked its usual bite. She was already threading a needle with catgut, her fingers moving with the same precision Jack had seen her use to dissect cadavers back in London. The dockworker groaned as she prodded the swollen flesh again, his free hand clutching the edge of the table. "Hetty!" Belle called, sharper this time. "Where's that boiling—"
The door swung open with a bang as Hetty barreled in, balancing a steaming kettle in one hand and a tray of splints in the crook of her arm. "Move your feet,Jack," she says, nudging Jack aside with her hip. The boiling water sloshed dangerously close to the rim as she set it down, her weathered face pinched with urgency. "Splints, carbolic, and your wits about you—though I doubt the latter's possible with *him*," she added, jerking her chin toward Jack.
Jack flashed her a grin, already reaching for the carbolic solution. "Hetty, if I didn't know better, I'd think you missed me." He uncorked the bottle with his teeth, spitting the stopper into his palm before dousing a clean rag. The sharp, medicinal scent filled the air as he pressed the cloth to the dockworker's mangled fingers, earning a strangled curse from the man.
The dockworker's scream was cut short as his head lolled back, the laudanum finally dragging him under. Jack exhaled, tossing the bloodied rag aside. "Charming fellow," he muttered, rolling his own sleeves higher. The man's hand lay splayed like a gutted fish—pale, swollen flesh giving way to jagged bone where the steam press had won its argument.
Belle didn't look up from threading her needle. "Hold the index finger straight," she ordered, voice clipped. Jack obeyed, pinning the man's wrist to the table with one hand while his other straightened the broken digit. The bone grated audibly beneath the skin. Belle's suture flashed in the lamplight as she pierced the torn flesh, her stitches neat as piano keys.
….. Updated part ….
Hetty snorted from the corner where she was boiling instruments. “Should’ve seen his first day here,” Hetty muttered. “Thought he could charm every nurse in the colony. Near got himself slapped by half of them.” Jack sighed. “That story gets less accurate every time you tell it.” “And yet somehow more entertaining.”
Jack opened his mouth to retort when the door burst open again. A gangly boy—couldn't have been more than twelve—stood panting in the doorway, his knees grass-stained and one eye already swelling shut. "There's a brawl at the docks," he gasped. "Two crews goin' at it with rigging hooks. Mr.Jonathan says fetch you quick—says it's bad."