Disclaimer: Some witty banter about how I don't own shi—
AN: Obviously a sequel, and one I would not recommend reading without intimate knowledge of the prequel.
Now that that's done, I'd also like to point out that this "half" of the How My Perfect Life Was Inverted franchise will (hopefully) have a slightly different feel and tone to its predecessor. There'll also be the introduction of another plotline (yes, I know) that I'd only vaguely hinted at in the prequel; basically, a lot more scene-changing/time-jumping. Remember how Janelle would randomly appear to clear up/introduce certain plot points? Well, think of those happening more regularly, only not with Janelle, and nothing to do with the current plot. As a matter of fact, it's barely fan fiction, but the way I see it, if you were able to drag your way through all fifty-two chapters of the first story, then you must have somehow "clicked" with the protagonist, and I'm certain that you'll be intrigued to know what happens to her afterwards. And if not… tough.
You'll know when the scene changes occur because there'll be a page break, and then the narrative would have switched from first- to third-person. But enough rambling technicalities:
How My Perfect Life Was Inverted II
Prologue: The Price of Happiness
The rain was still pelting heavily upon the timbers of the Pearl when I was awakened by a gentle shaking. I furrowed my brow at this and stirred slightly, curling up on my side. My actions seemed to elicit a strange sort of a sound from the shaker; what seemed to be a chuckle of amusement, yet completely devoid of mirth. I frowned at this, burying my head further into the pillow, my senses muddled and blurred. I felt dizzy, my heartbeat an obnoxious pounding that made me wince. Someone murmured my name, gently, questioningly at first, and then louder. His voice was low, gruff, and brought to the surface of my mind fractured memories; memories of lying in this bed, kissing, touching… Kisses in the dark, some affectionate, some violent… Hazy conversations whispered by candlelight, followed by playful banters as the morning light streamed across our naked bodies… "Our" naked bodies? And that voice, with its dark, seductive timbre…
A face materialised before me, a dark face that I knew well. I smiled.
"Hello, Jack," I murmured softly, turning on the mattress and opening my eyes to see the pirate looking at me urgently. My lids felt heavy, and his features seemed to swim in and out of focus. I reached out towards him, my fingers brushing tenderly against his cheek, and saw his eyes flicker close at the ghost of a touch.
Suddenly, he jerked away, his hand pushing my fingers back to rest on the mattress.
"You have to dress," he said, and I felt his arms wrapping about me, hands resting on my back the better to lift me into a sitting position. I collapsed, my head falling to rest on his bare shoulder, my lips caressing the skin.
"Sierra…" he growled, almost impatiently, yet he made no attempt to push me away. I said nothing, inhaling deeply, and frowned as the sweet smell of cannabis overtook my senses. That was why I'd felt so lethargic, I thought to myself, too busy attempting to piece together my memories to wonder where the drug had come from. Visions flashed before my eyes, unconnected and disjointed: crying pitifully in the rain; stumbling into his cabin, grief having long since converted into lust… There was rum, of course, liquor which burnt like acid down my throat, and then there was some red wine which had appeared in my hand from seemingly out of nowhere… There could have been some… laudanum? I thought hazily to myself as I continued to nuzzle his skin, unheeding of his orders.
All I saw was an unmistakable flash of Pearl's big blue eyes, wide and intense, and then my head was spinning, and I felt my body crumble as I collapsed.
The first thing I noticed, when I had eventually regained consciousness, was how warm and soft everything was. The second was the merciless pounding of my head, and I groaned, my eyelids squeezing shut as I burrowed further into a muscular chest, mewling like a pained kitten. I felt rather than heard the chuckle of amusement that rippled through him, sighing as a hand reached up to massage my skull.
"Hello, darling," a voice murmured, low so as not to cause me further pain. I mumbled some sort of greeting into his scarred skin in return, kissing a healed wound gently before looking up into his darkened eyes.
"What happened?" I asked softly, my fingers reaching up to trace his jaw, flickering as it was in and out of shadow. Only one small, weak candle was lit, and I found it frustrating that it didn't illuminate his face as well as it should.
"You don't remember?" he replied, and followed this with a hollow smile. "Try to remember."
I closed my eyes and shook my head, tears gathering beneath my lashes as I grabbed his arms. I felt so numb and vulnerable, and I didn't want to let go of the only man in the world who knew and understood why. I heard his head fall back onto the pillow as he hissed in pain, and frowned, gently releasing his limbs, slowly realising that my nails were wet with a warm, sticky substance.
"Oh, Christ…" I heard him mutter as I opened my eyes, dragging my hand across his skin before resting on his shoulder, my fingers spread the better for me to examine my fingernails.
"Jack, you're bleeding," I told him, my quiet voice laced with concern.
"You've only yourself to blame," he replied, hand reaching up to rest upon mine, and I winced in guilt.
"What happened last night?" I asked again, and he smiled at me, gently. "Jack…" I sighed in frustration, but he wouldn't—or couldn't—answer. I pulled away from him, blearily noting that I was clad in my shift, when I was certain that I had been naked before, and looked around at my surroundings, frowning; the room, luxuriously decorated as it was, certainly didn't belong to any cabin of the Black Pearl. But we were on the ship, weren't we? We were, and we'd abused several substances, and had sex, and collapsed, and then… Did we wake up again? I could vaguely recall awakening to find the captain frustratingly clad, and then clumsily disrobing him, but still… and yet… I…
"Where am I?" I queried, vulnerability evident in my voice. "Jack… Where are we?" I turned back to him, my lips trembling for some unknown reason. "I thought we were on the Pearl; I thought…" I paused, trailing off; I was going to say that I thought he was going to take me back, but then I'd mentioned Pearl's namesake, and…
Oh, Pearl… My little Pearl…
My baby…
I looked down at my shift, tears prickling at my eyes, and whimpered. I felt Jack move closer to me, his arms wrapping about my waist, and my head fell to rest on his shoulder as my own shuddered with sobs.
"She's gone…" I whispered brokenly, uncaring of what I said or how I said it. "My little girl… She's gone…"
He shushed me, his hands rubbing my back, his breath brushing my ear as he muttered miscellaneous words of comfort.
"My baby…"
"It'll be fine, love; I'm here… It'll all be alright…"
I pulled away from him, wiping at my eyes as I looked up at him with a sniffle.
"She's your daughter…" I told him needlessly. "Pearl's your daughter, and I'm the one who…" I was unable to finish, studying his naked skin intently. "A… An… And you're bleeding…"
Jack merely shrugged his shoulders. "It's just a scratch," he said to me, his fingers reaching down to gently wrap about my wrist. "Well; several…" I watched in a sort of clingy fascination as he brought my wrist to his lips, and it was only then that I noticed the bruises. I smiled thinly.
"Looks like we both hurt each other…" I commented before looking around me again.
"Where am I?" I demanded petulantly.
"Your room."
"…My room?"
"Yes," he confirmed, tucking my hair behind my ear. "In the governor's mansion… Nicolette…"
I looked at him in confusion.
"But… But we were on the Pearl…"
"Indeed we were."
"And I'm not… I don't… How could have known…? H-How did you get me into the governor's home when you're…?" I stuttered in a most pathetic imitation of eloquence.
He put a finger to my lips, and I fell silent.
"Don't concern yourself with the minor details," he advised me, his tone one of love. "You've had a… You've been through a fair bit of—"
"The footman!"
He halted in his speech, looking at me in confusion. "What? Sierra, what's wrong?" he added worriedly as I clung to his arm.
"There was a coachman!" I gibbered wildly, my eyes widening in panic, tears streaming down my face. "The driver—when I went to see you, I was in a carriage, and I had an accent, and I told him to wait for me whilst I went for a walk and now I haven't returned and it's well past an hour and if he followed he'd have seen me with you and realise that I'm not Nicolette and then what will happen to me? I mean, I don't know anyone, I have no friends or family to turn to and the only thing that I can do—"
His lips caught my own in a gentle kiss, but I didn't let my eyes slip close, choosing instead to keep them open—as did he. We stared at each other for a long moment, reading each other as best we could, and for once his emotions were not covered by a fathomless mask. Love and pain and grief and a sort of frail, reluctant tenderness came together in a darkened dance as I felt his tongue softly trail across my lower lip; gently, my lips parted, welcoming the comforting, familiar taste of his mouth as my tongue slid teasingly across his own, and I heard a sort of guttural purr as his lashes flickered shut. With a heavy heart, I followed suit, and soon I was lost in the sensations.
When he pulled away, at long last, it was with a heavy sort of sigh, and I found myself reaching up to touch him, tracing his beard.
"What's your coachman look like, then?" he asked at long last.
"Tall, and black—he's a slave, I'm sure… He had a livery, of green, dark green, and a wig—it was powdered; um… He had a strong accent…"
"He's a slave, you say?" Jack asked me sharply, and I nodded.
"Well, he's black, with an accent, so yes, I'm certain. Why?"
Jack held my gaze for a moment longer, looking at me intensely.
"I'll talk to your footman," he reassured me quietly. "And he shan't expose you as a charlatan, you've my word on that."
"But Jack…" I began, suddenly fearful; for me, for him, for the footman… "What would you do to convince him otherwise?"
Jack caught the panic in my voice, and rushed to reassure me.
"Being a slave, he'll hate his master," he told me. "All I need do is imply his master's young French niece is… involved with a common rake and have him keep his own silence, waiting for you to fall and disgrace said master's good name—which you better not do," he added sharply, looking down at me intently. "No, Sierra, I'm serious—I won't be coming back for you, I can't pick up any pieces you—"
He stopped at the look I was giving him, and sighed. "What's wrong now?"
"Are… Are you really never… not going to see me again?" I asked him apprehensively. "Not even going to try?"
I saw him hesitate, and my clumsily-repaired heart began to crack once more.
"Oh darling, don't make me promise that which I've no inclination to keep."
"But… But I can't live—like this… And," I added suddenly, masochist that I was, "And won't you miss me… just a little bit?"
He paused, looking at me critically. "Yes," he decided softly. "Yes, I rather think I will."
I bowed my head, the tears still coursing down my cheeks.
"I can't believe that you're still… And with Pearl gone, and me being so…" I looked up at him from under my lashes. "Jack, I need to have someone. Someone who will g-guard and pro-protect me…"
Jack grinned at me slightly, tilting my head up and giving me a slight peck.
"I know, my love," he said to me, his voice having long ago lost that slur, becoming far more cultured than anyone would ever have given him credit for.
At that very moment, there came a sudden, sturdy rapping on my door. I shrank away, grabbing Jack's arm to prevent him from leaving the mattress.
"Jack! What if it's the guards, and they've found you?"
He merely shot me an incredulous look.
"Do you honestly think they'll have the common decency to knock first?"
I narrowed my eyes at him even as I dabbed at them with a sleeve whilst Jack strolled leisurely across the room, pausing only to slip on his shirt and pick up his pistol, priming the weapon as he went. Cautiously, he slipped the door open a crack—a lesson he may have learnt merely today (or was it last night?), because the last time he'd swung the door open, he had found—
No, my mind said to me in warning. No: don't go there, girl.
"Sierra," Jack said to me, his voice quiet but cheerily bright, "it is with great pleasure that I introduce to you your French lady's maid, J—"
"What?" I interrupted, uncertain of what I had heard, and saw him scowl as he pushed the door gently closed behind the female stranger with her lowered head, hair covered by a white cap.
"Your lady's maid, Je—"
"My lady's maid?"
"Aye," he confirmed, a note of irritation colouring his voice. "All great ladies have them, I'll have you know. Now may I please introduce this sad, pathetic creature? Thank you." Clearing his throat, he straightened slightly, and with a dramatic flourish, intoned, "I present to you Jeanne-Louise-Françoise-Marianne-Cosette-Christine-Victoire-Justine-Antoinette-Danielle-Coralie-Clémence-Marguerite-Henriette-Éponine-Sophie-Diane-Juliette-Hélène-Flavie-Na—Bugger this," he gave up with a dark scowl. "It's only Flavio."
I simply stared at him.
"…Flavio?"
"In a cunning and subtle disguise, of course," he informed me, clearly pleased with himself.
"…Disguised?"
"Aye; bewigged, befrocked, and behaving. Aren't you?" he added dangerously to the transvestite in the cheap dress, and the man nodded vigorously. "Good queer little sodomite," he complimented before turning back to me with a grin. "So, what do you think?"
"…What do I think?" I repeated, unable to respond.
"That's right; I know you've always liked him, sweet, misguided, kind-hearted wench that you are at heart."
I just stared at the pair of them for a moment longer.
"Um…" I began, looking from one man to one that may have been a man and back again. "Is he supposed to be my… guardian angel?"
Jack merely shrugged. "Guardian angel, fairy godmother… Some feminine occupation along those lines, yes," he agreed, still looking at me expectantly.
"I… I, um… I honestly don't know what to say…"
Jack simply smiled at me. "I know, love," he said gently, and I watched with a heavy heart as he donned what remained of his garments. He didn't come back to the bed, where I still sat, watching the scene unfold, but his eyes stayed glued to my own.
"So…" he said to me casually when he was done, his hat in his hand. He looked at me, tenderly, and smiled sadly.
"I suppose this really is goodbye, isn't it?" I asked him, and he inclined his head in a nod.
"Keep your hands to yourself!" he snapped unexpectedly at Flavio, who froze, a clawed hand outstretched at some point behind Jack's back. Pulling his coat protectively about himself, the rogue gave me a mock salute when I blew the captain a kiss, and was about to leave, had it not been for Flavio's insistent tugging on the pirate's coat.
"Yes?" he asked abruptly, impatient to desert the house, converse with the footman, and be on his merry way into the sunset.
"My reward?" the 'woman' asked childishly. "You promised me that—"
"Yes, that I did," Jack snapped, a little too hurriedly, it seemed to me, and I knitted my eyebrows together at this.
"No!" Flavio whinged, stamping his foot as the captain attempted to escape. "Now! I want it now! You promised me now!"
"Flavio, please calm—"
"NOW!" the man half-shrieked, half-bellowed, and Jack, clearly fearing a discovery, allowed his hat to fall to the floor as he buried one hand in Flavio's golden scalp and wrapped the other around his waist, bringing his lips to the younger man's in a hurried, false mockery of a kiss.
My jaw dropped, and I simply stared as Flavio kissed fervently back, hands reaching up to rest on either side of the pirate's face, clearly to prevent the thief from pulling away later on. And try to pull away Jack did, with relatively little success, which resulted in him making grunts of alarm with comically widened eyes for several side-splittingly long minutes.
Eventually, Flavio's grip slackened, and Jack rudely pushed the light-headed and giggling creature away even as he brought a hand to cover his lips, making retching noises of distaste. "You've the tongue of a…" he was able to cough, but was unable to finish. Hastily, he snatched up his hat, and placed it firmly above his red headscarf, a hand reaching down to rest on the hilt of his sword as he shot Flavio a warning look, my own presence having long been forgotten.
"Oh, Jack?" I called out, my voice mildly flirtatious, as he started forwards, towards the door. The pirate paused, swivelling slightly to look at me with a curiously tilted head. I beamed at him, somewhat falsely.
"Don't I get a goodbye kiss?" I pouted, waiting for the obvious response.
For a moment, Jack simply stared at me, his mouth falling open once more, much like what had occurred when I had kissed Cate. And then his handsome, tanned face broke into a smile, and he shook his head, chuckling light-heartedly.
"'That was your goodbye kiss,'" he threw back at me, and I smiled in spite of myself.
It was a bitter autumn wind that blew Sierra's dark hair into her face, causing her to impatiently push the locks haphazardly back and adjust her coat. She was walking down Wardour Street, in Soho, walking swiftly, steadily south, pass Peter Street, pass Meard Street, her eyes stinging from the arctic wind. Her hands were full, carrying several bags of clearly-labelled designers' items ranging from the aesthetic to the expensive to the downright inconvenient. (Now really, when was she ever going to wear an edible thong? Those sort of "deviancies" could only really be practised with a steady and somewhat reliable boyfriend, not the emotionless, mostly unsatisfying sex in which she now most regularly participated in with men who were as good as strangers.)
She hadn't bought or worn clothes so luxurious in six, seven years, and now that she'd turned her hand to a very rewarding profession, she found herself in a position to pay a visit to her beloved and dearly missed Oxford Street, where she'd spent the day buying her happiness. It was odd how her happiness came in the form of shoes, dresses, various lingerie and a gorgeous Swarovski necklace as opposed to the traditional labour, kittens, children and charity; hence how the total cost of Sierra's happiness amounted to a diamond-studded arm and leg, when there would have indubitably been less of a strain on her debit cards had she taken the traditional approach… And yet she found that she didn't much care.
But now her day-long session of retail therapy was at an end, and after it was successfully concluded, she had found herself turning away from the various tube stations and walking back down a street she rarely—if ever—visited. She honestly had no idea why she was strolling hurriedly along it now, and she felt as though she ought to turn back, but some strange force of nature—or perhaps it was just the wind—urged her onwards, ever closer to a cheap, vaguely pretentious pub with The Intrepid Fox stamped above the darkened windows.
For a moment, she paused, ignoring the wind at her back, and stood still, staring up at the bright golden lettering, her blue eyes taking in the looming gargoyle gruesomely illuminated by the green light strategically placed beneath that crouching figure. She didn't feel fear, of course, but there did lurk in the pit of her stomach a sense of… trepidation.
Oh, sweet irony; how I love thee, she thought with a shadow of a smile as her eyes flickered over the word Intrepid once more.
She wasn't going to go in, of course she wasn't; it was not, and had never been, a place for a girl like her, even in her most rebellious stages. And yet, there she stood, compelled by the golden lettering that swirled across the uncluttered background like sunlight would dance across a sea of blood.
It's so dark, she thought, her eyes roving across the hunchbacked gargoyle once more, noting how it seemed to leer down at her, and shivered. And so obviously, undeniably satanic; so why am I…?
Damn those BBC bastards, with their "local news reports," she thought in a moment of uncharacteristic (or so she believed) savagery.
This was stupid; this really, truly was utterly and compellingly stupid: and why was she still staring at the name? Her feet were not moving her forward, nor were they rooting her to the spot; rather, she was slowly backing away, not in fear, but in—
"You saw the feature too, then?"
The voice came from behind her, seemingly mere inches away; the familiarity of the tone, the amused warmth in his casual words, sending shivers down her spine, and she'd spun, her blue eyes widening as they fell upon him, somehow giving off the impression of being casually dressed, though clad as he was in a dark suit. If Sierra was to be completely honest with herself, she wouldn't have been surprised to see him there; if she was really honest, she'd have admitted that she was hoping he would appear.
But Sierra could never be an honest person when it suited her, and instead wrote off the tingling of her skin as a side effect from the late autumn cold.
"I couldn't help but find the headline laughable," he continued to drawl, stepping closer yet maintaining a respectful distance between the two of them. "'Goth pub closes after two-hundred-and-twenty-two years.'"
She smiled at him then; thinly, it seemed to her, and attempted to shrug with the fruits of her shopping still clenched in her tightly-clutched hands.
"The BBC are more known for their government bias than originality," she reminded him, suddenly aware that not once in the afternoon had she re-applied her makeup. He moved closer still, and she was overcome with the urge to offer him her hand to shake—but too late! his lips were already pressing against her cheek, and she prayed to all who cared that he couldn't taste the powder, which she was absolutely certain was dry and flaking… This was what happened when one partook in a shopping spree without planning any touch-ups beforehand.
The contact was brief, and friendly, but not overly so, and yet Sierra was shivering. He noticed her discomfort, and smirked in triumph, but held himself back from commenting. His hand moved upwards, hovered hesitantly, before gently resting on her upper arm, rubbing the limb soothingly, and she found her eyes falling to rest on his bare fingers as they gently massaged the covered skin.
"It's been a few years, hasn't it?" he asked her, and she noticed how he was gently turning her so that she now stood beside him, his arm slinging about her shoulders. She knew she should be protesting, but she wasn't.
And it's not surprising, really; Jack's gone. And even if he was here, he probably wouldn't give a shit.
And with this bitter thought happily concluded, she found herself wanting to kiss him. But she didn't, of course; he wasn't her boyfriend anymore, and after what she'd done to him, and what he'd done before that, he never would be again.
No matter how much she wanted it.
"Shall we?" he asked as he gently steered her towards the partly-open door, even though the decision had already been made; yet still she nodded her acquiescence, more out of politeness than consent. And then she looked up at him and smiled.
"So how have you been, Steve?"
-x!x-
AN: I'm not actually certain whether marijuana was used as a recreational drug in the eighteenth century, although there have been references to it being smoked by the Assyrians, some Sanskrit texts proclaiming it as a "plant to be revered," and whatnot, and Jack's travelled quite a bit, and it's artistic bloody licence, so why don't you put that in your pipe and smoke it? (Literally or otherwise.)
The Intrepid Fox is a real London pub that has recently been closed; it was known for its gothic music/culture/patrons, and in addition to ornamental gargoyles, also boasted a less childish Halloween-esque décor all year round.