Drinking Song
AN: I, Lasgalendil, hereby dedicate this piece to fellow pirate FreedomOftheSeas for her many wonderful colorations of multiple Jacks that inspired this fic.
The setting—naturally—was a derelict, damaged and otherwise shabby boat with no business being out on the open sea and whose many short timbers seemed to groan in resignation with every slap of the ever undulating waves. The antics of the dingy's sole occupant, however, would be much more better best suited to an inn or tavern such as the Faithful Bride that graced Tortuga's sprawling seafront. His unkempt carelessness and inebriation at his current predicament suggested he had either long ago resigned himself to his fate to die here marooned and alone on the seven seas or he had, in some infortuitous manner, grown so accustomed to braving open water in a non-seaworthy craft that it had simply become habit.
The man was, of course, Captain Jack Sparrow, and he had—of course—once again lost his ship The Black Pearl; yet still (of course!) muttered Captain, it's Captain Jack Sparrow insistently under his breath to the open ocean air as though perhaps some company unseen to any but himself had called said position into question given his rather (and quite glaringly) obvious lack of ship.
Still, there was something noble about this strange man and his antics. Ignoring his ill-begotten luck, the salt water now sloshing around his knees, and the slow, steady careening of the mast towards the distant horizon, his ringed fingers rummaged almost absently for another bottle of rum. Successful at last, he brought the cork to his flashing teeth, and with a gold-glinted grimace did away with the stopper standing between himself and drowning his sorrows. The cork he spat into ocean like all the countless others, but within seconds it eddied unnoticed back through the listing gunnels to bob ingratiatingly beside him, as though affirming his hurt.
And hurt he had been. He'd both successfully lost the love of his life, his ship, his crew, gotten mutinied against yet again by Hector Barbossa and—perhaps worst of all—had bare-handedly carved the living heart out of the still warm chest of a one William Turner in front of the eyes of yet another by that name. In short, it was overwhelming, and much more than a simple pirate with only humble ambitions towards immortality could hope to bear.
"At least the rum isn't gone," Jack muttered to himself. Then, he jolted up alarmedly. "The rum is always gone. Why is it that the rum isn't gone?" By some extreme error on the part of the gods, fate, or happenstance, the said supplies had yet to dwindle. He set out then to rectify that error while there was still rum to be had, and rectify it he did.
…Posthaste.
Over the steady course of the next hour or so, Captain Sparrow's mood began to change. One moment he slouched glumly against the remains of the portside gunnel, the next (having finally imbibed the necessary amount of rum to either drown, dampen, or drunken whatever ailment he'd been unhappily plagued with) he burst into song:
We're rascals, scoundrels, villains, and knaves
Drink up me hearties, yo ho!
We're devils and black sheep, really bad eggs
Drink up me hearties, yo ho!
Without warning, two men appeared on either side of him. While another man might have recoiled from such a monstrous interruption of reality, Jack Sparrow seemed hardly bothered to be joined by said apparitions. The men were identical in dress and face, but their postures and mannerisms so drastically varied that the effect was startling. One wore a look of patient consternation, the other, impish amusement. They were, of course, Mr.'s Sparrow and Sparrow, and had been his long companions.
Mr. Sparrow of the ill-postured variety reached nonchalantly for the last bottle of rum. His compatriot snatched it instantly, pulled the stopper, and presented it graciously to their inebriated friend. Captain Jack Sparrow took the pro-offered present, but continued his singing. He wound up wearing more than drinking it.
Don't sing that song, Jackie-boy, urged Mr. Sparrow. Like as not it'll only make things worse.
But the other only scoffed. Don't listen to 'im, mate, Sing away! What's a drink without a drinking song? Herein, his toes were thoroughly stomped, and he uttered a quiet moan of pain. Mr. Sparrow of the well-mannered variety was met with a glare of vengeance, but paid it no heed.
Lizzie taught you that one, mate, he remonstrated in his most sympathetic tones. Singing it'll make you think of her, and it'll only make it harder.
Jack, while content to tolerate their presence, met their critique of his musical choice with far less patience. He straightened and addressed his shipmates with slurred words and floundering wit. "Gentlemen, I must thank you, as concerned for my welfare as you are; but this is a private ship—boat, really—and I don't recall inviting company. Certainly didn't stock enough rum for the three of us, which is either a careless oversight on my part, or you two are here stowing away," Jack meandered, but then his voice grew cold and biting. "Now quiet, the both of you, or I'll take you straight to the next port and have you hanged, savvy?"
Mr. Sparrow, however, quite ignored his threats as he had found and was now subsequently devouring the ill-stocked provisions of the larder. Make what harder? he yawned, nibbling daintily on a peanut and wiping crumbs from his braided beard. He's said it himself, you heard him! Barbossa can't keep the Pearl forever if he doesn't live forever, he enunciated cheerfully. How's this any different?
Jack started, jaw gaping.
Mr. Sparrow sensed the danger immediately. Ignore him, Jackie-boy. But Jack Sparrow was capricious, selfish, already drunk, and above all a master persuader. He was one man of few who had the uncanny ability-or misfortune-to fool everyone, and this often included himself. Long ago he'd obtained a magic compass to help control these impulses, but said compass was only as good as the mind that chose to use it, and right now that mind existed in a state of complacent stupor and gave no thought to the compass whatsoever. It remained forlornly and most thoroughly unused in his waistcoat.
"The man has a valid point," he replied. Mr. Sparrow smirked triumphantly around the corners of the last peanut, dabbing the corners of his mouth with the coattails of the Captain's oilcoat as insolent as you please. The damage was done.
But his comrade was not giving in without a fight. I think you've forgotten the part where Lizzie chose him over you, Mr. Sparrow reminded him crossly. And married him, too, might I add.
"'Til death do we part." Jack said, sobering slightly at the mention of matrimony. "I believe those are the exact words-"
And what will you do, Jackie-boy, hang around a harbor waiting for the boy to die just so you can have her? Mr. Sparrow interrupted heatedly before the plan could be further schemed. Seems like an awful grand way to spend your immortality.
Their Captain considered that thought for a moment. "True, that." Why sit around pining after Turner's lass when there were wenches and the Sea and treasure and rum and more wenches to be had?
But Mr. Sparrow shook his head and waggled a finger in reply as he swallowed the very last peanut. You forget: last time I checked, gentlemen, the boy had already died, savvy? His words were met with stunned silence by his shipmates. Then-
"Never mind the rum's gone, mates!" their Captain shouted, springing into action to feverishly bail the waist high water he'd so successfully ignored not seconds before. "We've got ourselves a new heading!" Within minutes, their derelict craft had been haphazardly repaired, and the once slack sail now billowed in the salty breeze. Jack Sparrow stood at the stern, one booted leg resting on the gunwale, peering purposefully towards the waiting new heading, of course, was none other than the tragically (and quite recently) widowed Mrs. Elizabeth Turner, who no doubt needed their expert comfort and intuition of the female creature to console her during this time of grief. Mr. Sparrow sniggered.
This is all your fault, the other Mr. Sparrow sulked from the bow.
But his doppelganger only grinned and threw a chummy arm around his resisting shoulders. Cheers, mate, he winked devilishly. What should we tell him next time he's drunk?
Mr. Sparrow turned his gaze with the Captain's to the distant horizon's blazing sunset with the utmost dignity to ignore his erstwhile companion. However, under his guise of genteel long-suffering (and his breath) he managed to steal the last word: You're an unspeakable cad.