Title: "Same Ghost Every Night"
Author: Lila
Rating: R
Character/Pairing: Jack/Elizabeth
Spoiler: "At World's End"
Length: one-shot
Summary: There's more than one way to live forever.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just borrowing them for a few paragraphs
Author's Note: I'm a bit unsure of this fic, but I've spent way too much time on it when I should be updating my BSG masterpiece, so here it is! Not a sequel, but somewhat exists in the universe I created with "Say Hello to the Angels" and "A Wolf at the Door" because the themes mesh well. Title and quote courtesy of Wolf Parade. I hope you enjoy.
They drag him, drag him, drag him into black night
Dropped from the great height
It was strange
Constant blue
And the same ghost every night
- Wolf Parade
- - - - -
You think, perhaps, you all died a little along with Will Turner.
You would know – it's not like you've never died before.
Every time you close your eyes it's like dying all over again. No matter the passing of days, when you wake in the morning your fingers creep across the flesh of your chest and search for new scars. They pause, every time, when they meet only smooth, unblemished skin, and they still over the slow beat of your heart.
Your past whispers in your ear, "It's not about living forever, Jackie. It's about living forever with yourself." You haven't seen your father in near ten years, haven't spoken to him in twice that, but it doesn't make him any less right.
You spent eternity with yourself. You quickly ran out of rum and there were no accommodating women and at the end of days that never really ended, you had only yourself for company. Sometimes, when the sea breeze blows just right and parts your braids, you still expect to see miniature versions of your own likeness clinging to the beads and jewels glinting in the sunlight.
You know who you are, feel comfortable in your bones, but your first and only love has always been the sea. Without it, there's a part of you missing, a pitch in your step that has none to do with the rum flowing as freely through your veins as blood. When Jones condemned you to a hell of his own making, you were surrounded by sand and salt and sun, but the sea was naught but a memory. You had a crew who hoisted your colors high and pulled the lines tight, but the only words coming out of their mouths, the only thoughts sprouting in their minds, the only company they held was your own.
You've heard it said, there's a thin line between madness and genius, and you know which side of the line you're on. The next time you cross over, you need more than your own face waiting for you on the other side.
- - - - -
You think, perhaps, you left something behind in the land of the dead.
The Pearl is as you left her, worn and sea-roughened, and the wind still sings through her tattered frame the way you remember. You tread over worn planks, your boots filling familiar grooves you carved in her decks a lifetime ago, but you no longer feel at home. You don't recognize the faces of half the men under your command, and everywhere you turn there are reminders of things you'd rather forget.
You won't go into the belly of your ship, even for the rum, and Gibbs is an excellent sailor and better friend, and wordlessly retrieves a fresh bottle each night. You went, once, and it had been dark and dank and the air had closed around you like the Kraken blotting out the sun. You'd spent the night on deck, the smell and sound and feel of the sea surrounding you, because you were once again in the land of the living.
You won't go near the mast, and make a big show of skirting the edges of the deck when you traipse from stern to bow. You blink the first time you return to your ship, and the manacles wink at you in the sunlight. When your vision settles it's only the light catching on a loose cleat, but doesn't make the block of ice clutching your heart melt any quicker. You shiver, despite the heat, and disappear under the stairs with a bottle of rum. Your crew doesn't complain; they know you share the same name, but the Jack Sparrow they knew isn't the one they pulled from the land of the dead.
You can't sleep when you're at sea. Land is what you understand. Land is what you know. Land is what lasts. You try the cabin first, but there's a dress hanging in the wardrobe, fine wine in color and whore in form, and you can feel its presence long after Giselle and Scarlett tear to pieces on the Tortugan dock. It's bad luck to have a woman on board, even the ghost of one.
You spend your second night on deck, face pressed against the Pearl's splintering boards, the roll of the waves lulling you to sleep. There's a crack in the board beneath your cheek, and in your mind's eye the crack grows deeper, wider, until the ship is torn into kindling around you. Splinters pierce your skin and sharp teeth tear at your flesh and you're undone by the pain of it all. You wake up gasping for breath, tentacles clamped around your heart, and it's not until you're leaning over the rail, sea air spraying across your face, that you realize the endless stretch of black is just a starless sky and the tightness closing in around you is a muggy Caribbean night.
You give up on sleep and keep to the rum instead. You like it better this way. When you close your eyes, you no longer dream.
- - - - -
You think, perhaps, you're not suited for the sea.
Every now and then, when you've had enough rum to numb the ghouls that haunt the cabin, you run your hands over the muscles of your chest, your back, your legs, just to see if they're still there. You're leaner than you remember, and you're not eating well. Sometimes, you don't eat anything at all.
Gibbs jokes that you're the living dead but the smile quickly fades from his face because he's not so far off his mark. You died and you returned to life and your place in the world is no longer clear.
You have the Pearl back, but she comes at a price. Barbossa clings to the helm but you put him out of mind. He's nothing you can't handle because you understand prices, obligations, making the right choices. There's a thin band circling your left wrist, a rumpled line of bruised flesh that never fully heals, betrayal and treachery embedded in your skin. Sometimes, when the sea breeze blows just right, you can still smell her on the wind and feel the silken soft touch of her skin against yours as she shackled you to your doom.
Scars and foreign marks are nothing new to you, but your pirate brand is a badge of honor. This is something different altogether. Calypso's laughter catches on the breeze, i "What vexes all men?" "What indeed?"
You knew, even then, a woman would be your undoing. "…a woman, as changing and harsh and untamable as the sea..." It's been months since she condemned you to death, but the ring around your wrist still burns.
You won't forget it; you can't forgive her.
- - - - -
You think, perhaps, she always knew your destinies would be intertwined.
It's dark, like the aching blackness of the Kraken's belly, and the air is stale from too much sleep and too much rum. Your porthole opens and jasmine and spice filter through, drawing moonlight into the dank cavern of the bedroom. You can barely make her out in the feeble light but even blind you would know her – you'll never forget the woman who put an end to Jack Sparrow's nine lives.
She settles over you, so the smooth skin of her thighs cling to your breeches, and the sharp tip of her dagger rests against skin exposed by your unlaced shirt. Your wrists are bound and you curse the empty bottle of rum resting against your heel and the headache pounding mildly against your temple. It pains you to even think it, but perhaps Elizabeth is onto something with the rum. You like to think of yourself as a man who knows women but the burning tingle shooting through arms pulled tight over your head is a sure sign that you'll never quite understand Elizabeth Swann. Five minutes you've been in her company and you're already locked the mast while she has her way with you.
Her skin is soft, the way you remember, and her palm splays over the warm skin covering your heart. She sucks in a breath as your heartbeat strikes a tattoo against the tender bones of her hand and the dagger trembles between her fingers. You recognize its corroded form, the barnacle clinging to the hilt, and when you look into Elizabeth's haunted eyes you think you maybe understand her better than you ever thought. She's learned what a harsh mistress the sea can be – the Dutchman must always have a captain, no matter the price.
She no longer looks like herself.
Her hair remains streaked with gold but her skin is a sallow shade of pale and her eyes are dark bruises in purple-tinged sockets. She still wears Sao Feng's garb but the bright shades of teal and red have faded in the sunlight and there's a crust of salt gathering at the hem of her gown. She looks worn and weathered, like the Pearl after years at sea. Elizabeth was beautiful, but Captain Swann is broken like the Pearl when she sank into the depths and took you down with her.
"Hello Jack," she whispers, and her voice is rough and tattered, like your sails catching the wind.
"Elizabeth," you manage to say, flexing your wrists against the pain. "To what occasion do I owe this visit?" You shift beneath her, because the guns and knives holstered to her sides prick your skin like the Kraken's teeth slicing through your flesh, and she sucks in a breath as her hips settle over yours. You grin, because your arms are still stretched painfully over your head and her dagger is a hair's breath from taking your life again, but for a moment you're the one in control.
"This is my husband's dagger," she says and this time it's bitterness that catches in her voice. "A gift from his father." The dagger slips the tiniest bit and you drag your gaze from the wild look in her eyes to the sharp point holding your life in her hands. "This is the dagger he used to cut out Will's heart." It spins on its tip, like the compass searching for a heading, because Elizabeth Turner doesn't know what she wants.
"Do you mean to cut out mine as well?" You half wish she would, because you've been to hell and have no desire to go back, and what's death if not a great adventure? You did what she asked, you were a good man, and paid in purgatory for your sacrifice. You eye the dagger, your dreams of forever clinging to its hilt, and you know that when you cross over for the final time, it will be rum and sea and the Pearl waiting for you.
"You owe me, "she hisses and the dagger twists, the sharp point slipping through the skin right over your heart. "You owe me this."
You try to smile through the dagger digging deeper, pressing against the thing beating a steady rhythm against the blood and bones inside your chest. "It's been but two months, Captain Swann. Have you forgotten young William already?"
She shudders, just a tiny flutter of her shoulders, when you mention her husband's name, and when she speaks her words are laced with anger. "I killed you once. I can kill you again."
You know what's waiting for you on the other side. You want it. You've always wanted it. You're tired of living a waking dream. The chest, the blasted, infernal chest, is no where in sight, and you know that when Elizabeth twists the knife one last time you'll have forever on your own terms.
You can smell freedom catching in the breeze. "Go ahead."
You catch her off-guard and her mask slips so you can see the raw guilt exposed in her eyes. She has you bound to the mast, but there's no beastie on your tail, just her regret. "You don't mean that," she whispers.
"I'll have company," you shrug. "Your father, my mother. It will make for a lovely party."
Something changes in her face, something sweet and wistful, and you think you see Governor Swann's daughter hidden behind Captain Swann's mask. "My mother will be there too." Her fingers shake on the hilt and her lip quivers, betraying the flint and steel she's trying so hard to maintain. "Everyone I love is dead." She pauses and when she looks at you, you can see the grief in her eyes. "They're all dead except for you."
You can't give her what she needs. You can't tell her that it doesn't hurt and it isn't hard and that paradise is always waiting on the other side. "Been there, done that," you return, watching the conflicting emotions shift through her eyes. "I'm Jack Sparrow, love. Even if I die, there'll still be the stories."
"A ship with black sails that's crewed by the damned and captained by a man so evil that hell itself spat him back out." You heard those words once, a long time ago, before you knew there were places worse than hell. "Jack Sparrow, sailing the seas until eternity, is it?"
"Something like that." The Pearl catches on a wave and rolls beneath you. She slides against you and the dagger twists the way you feared. A bead of blood drips down your chest and she sees it, eyes clouding with regret, and she presses her palm over the wound to staunch the flow of blood.
"I remember, Jack. I remember even if you've forgotten. A ship is more than a keel and a hull and a deck and sails. It's what a ship needs, right? But what a ship is? A ship is freedom. You have the Pearl back. You can do what you like with your life. Will never had a choice of what to do with his."
Tia Dalma whispers in your ear as the emotions in Elizabeth's eye rage like Calypso scorned. "A touch of destiny…" You knew, the moment you laid eyes on Bill Turner's boy, that your fate would no longer be of your own choosing. The sea calls to you, but was never yours to claim. "What would you have had me do?"
Something hot and wet rains against the bare skin of your chest, salty and full of grief, and her voice breaks as the tears slide down her cheeks. "Will's dead," she whispers. "Dead men leave no heirs." Her palm slides up your chest, through the trail of blood, so the pulse in her wrist beats in time with the pounding of your heart. "You're alive, Jack." She ducks her head, lowers her mouth a hairs-width from your ear so her breath falls warm and wet against your skin. "Don't you want to live forever?"
You think, perhaps, you're dreaming, that the only person who managed to kill you is granting you eternal life. "I will never work out between us."
She smiles, laughs even, and you're seeing Elizabeth Swann as you first met her. "It only has to work once."
"Persuade me," you say and a devious glint begins to replace the pain in her eyes.
"It's time to do the right thing, Jack."
You flex your wrists, and both your breathing stills as her hips shift against yours. "I'd rather wave as the moment passes by."
Her mouth brushes feather light against yours and you feel the burn clear to your chained wrists. "You'll want to know what it tastes like."
You already know and you survived it once. You think you can make it through again. "Pirate," you say and it crests over a moan.
"Pirate King," she counters and her voice is shaky, even as strong fingers pull at your chin, nudging your mouth open. "As my subject, you'll do as I say."
You're Captain Jack Sparrow and beholden to no one, but you're also a man and she's a woman, and when her lips part and her tongue slides against yours, you open your mouth wider and let her in.
- - - - -
You think, perhaps, you were wrong. If every night were like this one, perhaps it could work between you.
She's different than you remember, leaner and tougher, but still achingly feminine beneath the men's clothes she favors. You want to touch her, feel her, shape her, and it doesn't take long to slip your wrists from the bonds holding them tight.
You contemplate winding the ropes around the fragile bones of her wrists, but you've no interest in chained women. Elizabeth has always been bound in her bones; shackles will make no difference.
She tugs at your clothes and your shirt slips over your head, your unblemished chest laid bare in the moonlight. She pauses for a moment, just a moment, stares at the tiny gash she's carved into the skin right above your heart, and you think she's changed her mind. Women, the sea, one and the same.
"I lied," she says as her fingers swiftly work the ties at your breeches. "I didn't want you to die."
You take her hand, press it over your heart. "I'm still living, love."
The ties part, and sea-roughened fingers wrap around you. "I'm sorry," she whispers, eyes thick and heady, lighting up like a stars glinting on the sea. "I'm so sorry."
It's your turn to work her ties, and she gasps as your fingers meet wet heat. "There's no going back," you say, fingers twisting inside her. "Savvy?"
"Savvy," she breathes and tight, wet heat surrounds you.
- - - - -
You think, perhaps, Will would have wanted it this way.
You should know – an eternity with yourself is a hell of your own making.
Elizabeth is draped across your chest, her cheek pulsing in time with the erratic beat of your heart. She lifts her head and her eyes meet yours, and they're strangely focused even though her breath hisses between her lips in uneven gusts. "You saved my life once," she says, and when you close your eyes Elizabeth is in your arms for the first time, decency and order and propriety weighing her down. You wonder, when you sliced through the corset and let her breathe, if you set her free instead. "It was my turn to save yours."
"Sticks and stones, love," you murmur and it's dark and shadows cross her face but you know she smiles.
"We're square," she agrees, and takes your hand to drag it down the still flat length of her belly.
Your fingers flex once, twice, before settling, like the Pearl on windless waters. You think, perhaps, as she shifts and slides and her mouth moves over yours again, that you were meant for the sea after all. "Aye love," you whisper against her mouth, your legacy caught between you. "Bring me that horizon."
- - - - -
You think, perhaps, when you set her free that you tied your own bonds.
The child comes early, and arrives in a rush of blood and guts upon the splintering deck of your ship. You wipe the oils from your hands, and they stain your clothes like the Kraken's breath clogged your senses. You think, perhaps, you'll never separate the two, the death Elizabeth stole from you and the life she gives you.
It's a boy, just as she said it would be, with a mop of dark hair and eyes of grey-blue that remind you of dawn rising over a storming sea. The boy is small, but his breathing is strong and you know he'll live. You look at Elizabeth, sweaty and pale but smiling and alive, and you think, perhaps, it's as it should be. A new captain came through the maelstrom in tact, and his line will sail the seas.
She shrugs off names the crew suggest, because William and Weatherby and even James were good, strong men, but she wants her son firmly entrenched in the land of living. She names him Jonah, for his father – a man of the sea, a great sailor – she says, and the significance of it all takes your breath away.
She sleeps, sleeps constantly, and Ragetti hovers over her like a nervous biddy and sees to her every need. You sneak inside just before dawn and she lies in your bed, a snow-white nightdress drawn to her neck, and it brings you back to the moment you plucked her from the sea and changed the course of your life.
You watch her for a long while, as the sunlight creeps through the curtains to highlight the bones of her face and you smile because she's still beautiful. You won't see her again, not in the flesh, but you don't memorize her face because you know it will be waiting for you every time you meet the horizon.
What vexes all men? You simply stare at the sleeping beauty in your bed.
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