Disclaimer: Don't own a single thing of the PotC franchise. Sorry; I hate to disappoint.
AN: Alright, I've had something resembling writer's block with "How My Perfect Life Was Inverted". However, attempting to work on it did give me a random idea, and here it is: how Pearl came to be named. And Beth's reaction. I hope this one-shot is somewhat amusing, and not completely pointless…
What's In A Name?
Jack never could understand women. No matter how many he knew, or how many he actually spoke to, or how long he cowered in a cramped closet whenever their cuckolded husbands unexpectedly returned to conduct a ninety-seven-minute search for their favourite feathered hat, the dark, arcane mysteries of the female mind remained shrouded in black shadows of the more sinister nature.
Which was why, on this glorious, shining morning, in the uncharacteristically tranquil town of Tortuga, he was extremely confused when Beth had rejected each and every single one of his suggestions after hounding him for the past twenty-eight hours or so about this particular subject matter.
"Jack, be serious," she chastised, her voice low so as not to disturb the sleeping bundle of rags in her arms. "Do you realise how important this actually is?"
Well, naturally, of course he did, and he'd assured her of the fact many times before, as he then proceeded to remind her whilst secretly marvelling at how she was able to recall how he'd briefly abandoned her so as to be reunited with Nell upon the night of the missing haddock in surprisingly high detail, yet could instantly forget his half-sincere, almost-honest declarations of affection for her only half an hour ago.
He was, of course, referring to his daughter, a creature so small and insignificant he found himself wondering if she wasn't in fact an oversized pixie. And a rather fat one too, judging by her rounded cheeks, although Beth had seemed a little affronted when he'd told her of his observations, and had immediately attempted to crush his cheekbone.
Not that he wasn't somewhat… fond of the little moving bundle; it had been at his suggestion that the pair had abandoned swaddling the babe altogether. He didn't like the idea of his daughter being unable to move her little limbs. Actually, the entire concept of swaddling sounded a little too similar to certain aspects of the embalming process for his own tastes.
"I want it to be French," Beth told him confidentially. "French names are always nice, and they sound so elegant…"
Well, in that case, what about Jacqueline?
"For the last time Jack," Beth warned, her eyes flashing dangerously in a vaguely familiar manner that made his hand immediately reach up to protect his cheek. "We will not give her a name that can be shortened to 'Jack'. I told you to take this seriously."
But Jacqueline was a real name, he'd insisted, a legitimate claim which she'd automatically dismissed.
"Of course it is," she'd retorted, her soft sweet face twisted by an uncharacteristic sneer. "And I'm certain that Jackella, Jackine, Jackalexandra, Jacklexia, Jackera, Jackiette, Jackethany and Jackia are also names you stumble across in everyday conversation."
He'd forgotten about that last one: Jackia. Hmm. He quite liked the sound of that name, come to think of it. Wasn't certain where he got it from, though.
"Jack!" Beth hissed, a delicate white hand waving worryingly close to his face. Just as the foreign limb registered in his mind, he'd felt a hard, firm palm slam harshly into his cheek, sending him toppling off of the mattress with a yelp born of pain, surprise, and simple exasperation she'd struck him yet again. Somewhere above him, he heard the small nameless creature let out a cry of concern, followed swiftly by soft, soothing words of meaningless affection.
He'd found it rather odd how declarations of eternal adoration could comfort his daughter when in reality the concern of his own personal welfare was the cause of her distress. Selfish little bint.
On the bright side, it shut her up.
Beth peered curiously over the side of the bed as soon as she was certain that the little child was asleep. Jack could clearly see from the expression on her face that she was not faintly sympathetic, let alone remorseful.
"Just one name, Jack Sparrow," she'd muttered through clenched teeth. "One inoffensive, pleasant, realistic name—that's all that I ask for."
He gave her a hurt glare that communicated his resentment of how swiftly she'd dismissed his thoughtful, thoroughly-considered suggestions as 'unrealistic', but said nothing, choosing to knit his brow and purse his lips in thought. Occasionally, he'd hummed.
Finally, he'd found it: a simple, pronounceable, monosyllabic word that effectively combined Beth's French pretensions with his sentimental attachments and spoke of how highly their daughter was cherished.
"We are not naming our daughter after a boat," Beth snapped.
He'd tried to explain to her that he was using the French word, P-E-R-L-E as opposed to P-E-A-R-L, but Beth was illiterate, and this fact effectively rendered the entire argument worthless. And so it came to pass that the two disgruntled new parents of the unnamed infant settled into an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the sound of their daughter's slow, steady breathing.
"I suppose she'll have to go without a name for now," Beth eventually spoke, her voice both wistful and irritated. Jack immediately leaped upon the opportunity to communicate with this angry young woman in the only true language that all members of the female sex understood:
Complete, entire, total, and utter agreement.
"How about Isabelle?" Beth eventually asked thirty-four days later in a manner so detached that Jack immediately suspected she'd already decided on the name. "Isabelle is a lovely name, don't you agree, Jack?"
He immediately knew that, for the sake of his already gratuitously-abused cheek, unquestioning acquiescence would be the correct answer to the extremely delicate query placed before him.
However, there was one slight problem…
"Hello, poppet," Beth cooed, leaning over the little basket used as the babe's bassinet. The infant stirred slightly, her blue eyes opening sleepily at the familiar sound of her mother's voice. Beth drew even closer, her fingers hovering directly above the child, and laughed in delight when a small chubby hand reached up and wrapped about her finger.
"Why don't you say 'good morning' to your papa, Isabelle?" she encouraged gently.
The child blinked in confusion at the foreign word, and stared wordlessly up at the woman in response before turning slightly, as though attempting to find Jack. Beth frowned at the odd behaviour.
"Isabelle?" she asked. The child let out a small whimper, and Beth immediately spun on her heel to clap eyes on Jack, temporarily motionless with one leg out of the window.
"Jack…" Beth spoke suspiciously, and the pirate immediately attempted to cover his escape attempt by rearranging his body in what can only be described as casual.
At least, that was the desired message. With one leg hanging out of the window, and the other attempting to retain the smallest sliver of balance, the effect was a tad difficult to accomplish.
Beth raised an eyebrow, biting her lower lip in concentration as she attempted to unravel the riddle of Jack Sparrow's mind. Suddenly, everything clicked together.
Very slowly, almost menacingly, she turned back to look down upon the questioning face of the bewildered baby, and uttered the one single syllable that made Jack's heart freeze:
"Pearl."
The effect the short word had on the usually restful child was instantaneous: the beginnings of a smile began to form on her innocent little face; her small little arms lifted ever so slightly as she attempted to embrace the speaker; a small, gurgling sound that greatly resembled a giggle issued from between her little lips.
There was no doubt about it; the signs were unmistakable: Beth's worst fears were confirmed.
Jack had named their little angel. Without consulting her.
In that one single instance, Jack knew he was in for it.
Now, Captain Jack Sparrow had always been a sharp, quick-witted man, a strategist, one well-used to swiftly analysing situations—particularly life-threatening ones such as this—and more than capable of seizing the opportune moment when it presented itself.
Well, the window of opportunity was before him, and, not being what one would exactly call a fool, the petrified pirate immediately dived through it.
(Well, not so much as dive through it, as his leg was already hanging out of it, but you get the general idea.)
There were a few yelps of surprise as Jack landed into a conveniently-passing cart full to the brim with—as luck would have it—hay, but the majority of the populace paid him no heed. After all, this was Tortuga: strangers things had happened than panicked men falling out of the sky to land in a large pile of hay.
Wrinkling his nose in distaste at finding he'd landed facedown in a stack of scratchy yellow grass, Jack sat up, blowing the dried vegetation out of his mouth, and shook his head, his hands expertly locating and removing the bold strands that dared to intertwine with his own rebellious locks. When he was done, he dared glance up at the room he'd so recently vacated.
Beth stood framed at the window, looking down at him with narrowed eyes, and Jack felt a horrible jolt of fear as he realised that if the sparks flying from her eyes travelled any closer, the entire cartload of hay would indubitably catch fire. So it came as almost a relief when she'd reached out and slammed both of the wooden shutters shut without another word.
The message was clear: he wouldn't be welcomed in her lodgings tonight.
Not that he was exactly disappointed: a whole night without an infant's pitiable wails to jerk him awake every two hours or so? A few hours, perhaps even a day, during the course of which he would be free to attend to his own wants and needs as opposed to those of a child and complaining mother—what man could ask for more?
Besides, he'd never really been particularly fond of the brat anyway, even though the fact that he'd willingly spent the entire thirty-eight days of her existence caring for her alongside Beth implied otherwise. Why was this the case? The answer was simple, almost superficial:
She excreted a little too regularly for his liking.
With these comforting thoughts to accompany him, Jack fell back onto the hay where, due in great part to his many wakeful nights of the preceding weeks, he promptly fell asleep.
Only a few minutes later, however, his well-earned slumber was once again disturbed. Only this time, it wasn't due to a hungry infant begging to be fed; it was due to a couple of merciless farming hands that had unceremoniously thrown him into what smelt worryingly like a pigpen.
Instantly alert, the sailor had sat up, recoiling as a creature (which, to his disappointment, actually was a pig) sniffed curiously at him. He leapt unsteadily to his feet, swaying slightly as he attempted to brush off whatever it was he thought clung to his coat, and observed his surroundings.
Imagine his confusion when his eyes settled upon the sleeping form of a shorter, older man, a fellow sailor—Navy, judging from his dirty clothing. As Jack stood in the pigpen, ignoring the farm animals' curious prodding and attempted molestations, it suddenly occurred to him that he barely had two groats to rub together, and if this unconscious sailor was fresh off of a Navy ship—well…
Just as he'd finished stealthily approaching the portly man, the naval tar stirred, and Jack silently cursed his damnable luck before schooling his features into one of concern. With a little luck, and a lot of skill, he might still be able to make off with the stranger's purse…
And these, gentle readers, were the many various and complicated events that led to the very first encounter of Captain Jack Sparrow and Joshamee Gibbs. To this day, the elder of the pair still remains blissfully oblivious to the true identity of that pickpocket of so many years ago…
Fin.