Disclaimer: If I owned these characters would I be writing FANfiction? If I
could be making money from this, would I be posting it HERE (sorry,
ff.net)? Yeah. Thought not.
Flames welcomed - nay, encouraged! I never feel one is a proper fanfiction author unless one has gotten at least one flame. So go ahead, collective punks. Make my day. *does review-whore jig*
A.N.: // denotes italics. And now, meine damen und herren, the Kit Kat Klub is proud to present: The Story.
As the Black Pearl creaked gently in the breeze, Gibbs and Anamaria sat morosely in the main cabin, mugs of rum untouched in front of them. Three days after they had left Jack to his fate on the Isla de Muerta, a heavy pall hung over the ship like a fog. The crew were listless and gloomy, and whilst Gibbs and Anamaria shouted orders like there was no tomorrow, it was obvious their hearts weren't really in it.
They shared equally the duties of captain and first mate, as neither of them felt fully comfortable taking command of the ship. This ship. Jack's ship. It felt.wrong, like sleeping in a strange bed, or wearing somebody else's clothes. Everywhere, there were little echoes of the Pearl's rightful captain - a loose bead rolled into a corner, an abandoned stick of kohl. Above Gibbs' bunk, carved into the wall, was a sparrow against a sunset - the same emblem Jack had tattooed on his arm. At one stage, somebody (presumably Barbossa) had tried to have it sanded off, but still it lingered, and would not fade.
Whatever gloomy thoughts were running through the two pirates' minds were interrupted by a knock at the cabin door.
'Come in,' called Anamaria. The door opened, and a few sailors sidled in. Cotton shoved his way to the front, something clasped under one arm.
'Cotton found this here below decks,' said the man beside him, 'and we thought you might be wanting to keep it.' Cotton laid the object on the table, between Gibbs and Anamaria. Battered, tatty old leather, cross- stitches coming apart, and several chunks of varying sizes missing from the brim. But still possessed of the same roguish charm as its owner. It was Jack's hat.
In the long silence that followed, Cotton and the others edged back out of the cabin, leaving their leaders to face the mute accusations of the hat. For what seemed an age, the two did nothing but gaze at the leather tri- corner, each immersed in their own private memories of the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow. At length, something crumbled inside Gibbs, and when he met Anamaria's eyes, he saw in them the same decision he had just reached. Outside, there was a sudden snapping of canvas, as the wind changed.
They grinned.
On deck, the crew were startled by the noise of the cabin door slamming open. As Anamaria raced for the helm, Gibbs strode forwards, bellowing orders like his old self.
'Weigh anchor, you rum-soaked bilge-rats, and bring her around! We make for Port Royale!' The crew raised a ragged cheer, and Gibbs smiled grimly. He /was/ a pirate, after all. He'd hang the code, and hang the rules, but by the powers, he wasn't going to let them hang Jack.
Flames welcomed - nay, encouraged! I never feel one is a proper fanfiction author unless one has gotten at least one flame. So go ahead, collective punks. Make my day. *does review-whore jig*
A.N.: // denotes italics. And now, meine damen und herren, the Kit Kat Klub is proud to present: The Story.
As the Black Pearl creaked gently in the breeze, Gibbs and Anamaria sat morosely in the main cabin, mugs of rum untouched in front of them. Three days after they had left Jack to his fate on the Isla de Muerta, a heavy pall hung over the ship like a fog. The crew were listless and gloomy, and whilst Gibbs and Anamaria shouted orders like there was no tomorrow, it was obvious their hearts weren't really in it.
They shared equally the duties of captain and first mate, as neither of them felt fully comfortable taking command of the ship. This ship. Jack's ship. It felt.wrong, like sleeping in a strange bed, or wearing somebody else's clothes. Everywhere, there were little echoes of the Pearl's rightful captain - a loose bead rolled into a corner, an abandoned stick of kohl. Above Gibbs' bunk, carved into the wall, was a sparrow against a sunset - the same emblem Jack had tattooed on his arm. At one stage, somebody (presumably Barbossa) had tried to have it sanded off, but still it lingered, and would not fade.
Whatever gloomy thoughts were running through the two pirates' minds were interrupted by a knock at the cabin door.
'Come in,' called Anamaria. The door opened, and a few sailors sidled in. Cotton shoved his way to the front, something clasped under one arm.
'Cotton found this here below decks,' said the man beside him, 'and we thought you might be wanting to keep it.' Cotton laid the object on the table, between Gibbs and Anamaria. Battered, tatty old leather, cross- stitches coming apart, and several chunks of varying sizes missing from the brim. But still possessed of the same roguish charm as its owner. It was Jack's hat.
In the long silence that followed, Cotton and the others edged back out of the cabin, leaving their leaders to face the mute accusations of the hat. For what seemed an age, the two did nothing but gaze at the leather tri- corner, each immersed in their own private memories of the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow. At length, something crumbled inside Gibbs, and when he met Anamaria's eyes, he saw in them the same decision he had just reached. Outside, there was a sudden snapping of canvas, as the wind changed.
They grinned.
On deck, the crew were startled by the noise of the cabin door slamming open. As Anamaria raced for the helm, Gibbs strode forwards, bellowing orders like his old self.
'Weigh anchor, you rum-soaked bilge-rats, and bring her around! We make for Port Royale!' The crew raised a ragged cheer, and Gibbs smiled grimly. He /was/ a pirate, after all. He'd hang the code, and hang the rules, but by the powers, he wasn't going to let them hang Jack.