Title: Gratitude, Drinks, and Mr. Smith
Author: Eurothrashed
Feedback: Yes, please. E-mail in bio.
Disclaimer: One day, none of this will be ours.
Rating: Pg
Summary: What if Jack hadn't been captured or even suspected of being a pirate?
Spoilers: First movie AU.
A/N I'm planning on this becoming a series.

"Father! Commodore, do you really intend to kill my rescuer?"

And that was how the strange man known as Mr. Smith had found himself standing in the study of the Governor's Mansion, drinking a glass of Governor Weatherby Swann's finest brandy. Weatherby normally wouldn't have spared the man a glance, but this rogue had saved his daughter's life, and propriety, not to mention his overwhelming gratitude, demanded that he at least give the man some dry clothes and a drink to warm his bones - no matter how uncouth and... bizarre he was.

Bizarre, oh yes, what a wonderfully perfect word to use, because bizarre was exactly what Mr. Smith was.

His weaving, drunken walk hinted of a life spent on the rolling sway of a ship's deck, rather than of one spent trudging about on land. There were bits of polished stone and sparkling odds and ends braided into his unkempt hair and sewn into his mismatched clothing. Everything about Mr. Smith clearly stated that he didn't stay in any one port for long, and his exaggerated gesticulations only further imbedded the image of a fluttery magpie in the Governor's mind.

Weatherby almost smiled as he noticed Mr. Smith's kohl-rimmed eyes flicking around the room, merely to stop and linger upon the glinting letter opener and ink well that sat on his desk.

A magpie, indeed, he thought.

"What brings you to Port Royal, Mr. Smith?" Weatherby asked, gesturing for his guest to take a seat.

"Ah, that's the question of the day, innit?" Mr. Smith lazily sunk into the proffered chair in front of Weatherby's desk, the beads and trinkets in his hair clinking with the motion.

"Between you an' me, Governor," he said, leaning forward and lowering his voice, "I like you. So, let's just think of me as the good-intentioned philanthropist who saved your lovely daughter from the clutches of a horrible fashion faux pas and almost certain death, savvy?" He flashed a broad, gold-capped smile and took a mouthful of his drink.

Weatherby would have argued, but this Smith - which he seriously doubted was the man's real name - had something about him, something double edged that made the Governor quietly sip his brandy and incline his head. "Your business is your own, of course, Mr. Smith, but I doubt my daughter will accept such vagueness lightly."

Weatherby let his eyes drift toward the open doorway, where he could just see the staircase that led to his daughter's room. With every passing day, it seemed as though Elizabeth grew increasingly like her mother, in beauty and in will. Weatherby frowned to himself, remembering her strong words on Mr. Smith's behalf - especially in will.

"She's a headstrong one, I'll give you that," Mr. Smith agreed.

This man had only known his daughter for little over an hour, and he could already see that she was an outspoken and willful child.

Weatherby sighed and sat down at his desk. He would never tell her so, but he found Elizabeth's spirited nature to be one of her more endearing qualities. He could only hope that Commodore Norrington (he still stubbornly clung to the fact that she hadn't said no to Commodore Norrington's proposal yet), or whomever she chose to marry, would find it endearing also.

Ah, yes, yet another thing he really didn't wish to dwell on - whomever she chose to marry. They had had many fights on that particular issue, usually ending in Elizabeth on the verge of angry tears, and him apologizing to her bedroom door. Weatherby was just thankful that Elizabeth had been suitably preoccupied with her new dress and underthings lest she question his motives for having her attend (then Captain, now Commodore) Norrington's promotion ceremony too closely.

She knew why he did it, just as she knew that every time she found herself in the Commodore's company that it was his doing. He knew she knew, but pretended he didn't.

Let an old man have his fancies, he thought, smiling at whatever grand sailing adventure Mr. Smith was currently making more grand and more adventurous with a simple sweep of his rope-callused hands. In his last days, let him play the bumbling buffoon. Grant him his indulgences. And, if he so desires, let him pretend to be gradely ignorant.

"You will have to excuse my lack of enthusiasm, Mr. Smith," Weatherby said, slowly standing to refill his eccentric guest's glass. "My knowledge of sailing is very little. Although, if you do not mind waiting," he smiled, pouring himself another glass as well, "you can regal my daughter with tales of your adventures out at sea."

Mr. Smith sat up a little straighter and tilted his head, obviously realizing that, like himself, there was more to Governor Swann than met the eye.

"You're sure?" Mr. Smith asked, the playing lilt in his voice gone. "No offence meant, Governor, but you seem to - " he gave a pointed look to Weatherby's clothing and then to the glass of brandy in his own hand, " - put a lot on propriety."

"Do you have children, Mr. Smith?" Weatherby asked, reclaiming the chair behind his desk.

"No," Mr. Smith said with a small frown. "Can't say as I do."

"Well, daughters tend to have a certain way with their fathers," Weatherby explained, chuckling slightly. "If you ever have one, you will find it exceedingly difficult to deny her anything. My daughter enjoys watching the ships come in and hearing stories of high sea adventure. I might not share, nor entirely approve of her fascination, Mr. Smith," he said with a weary smile, "but I am nothing, if not a doting father."

"Apple of your eye, eh?" Mr. Smith asked, lifting his glass to eye level. "Aye, a'course, shouldn't doubt that," he said, more to himself than Weatherby. "Then again, it isn't everyday I find myself privy to such heartfelt sentiments."

With easy movements of his wrist, Mr. Smith intently stared at his glass, watching the brandy ebb and flow inside its hand-blown prison, his mind obviously elsewhere.

The silence reigned for only a moment, because just as quickly as the somber mood had overtaken the study, it was banished by a lazy flash of gold teeth and Mr. Smith's hand absently setting his, once again, empty glass onto a nearby table.

"Well," Mr. Smith said with an air of finality, clapping his hands together and standing - his every movement laced with so much flamboyant showmanship, that it made Weatherby smile to see it. "If a tale or two is what fair lady wants, then a tale or two is what she shall have."

Yes, Weatherby decided as he sent Estrella to go retrieve Elizabeth and ushered his guest out of his study, directing him towards the sitting room. Mr. Smith (or whatever his name really was), was undoubtedly strange, but that was just part of what made him so charming a fellow - even if the rogue was currently in possession of his letter opener and ink well.

END