A/N: I have no idea if this story is any good; I wrote it four years ago, let it to moulder on my computer for a while, then picked it back up and dusted it off. At this point I've read it so many times that I cannot judge its quality anymore. Hopefully people enjoy it anyway!

The cover: Created by me, using the Pirates logo, some font from a website called cooltext, and a doll creator that can be found here (just remove the asterisks): htt*p:/*/azaleasdolls.*com/portraits.h*tml

Catherine hated makeup. She hated its sticky pastes, the stiff coat it left on her face, the way she couldn't eat, stand out in the rain, or even smile too brightly without it being ruined. She hated the way that she looked like a stranger in it.

So why would she wear it? Why would she coat her face with the gloopy, gloppy mask each and every night? How could she stare in the mirror at that stranger and pretend it was her? Why, she asked herself, brushing rouge onto her cheeks, am I doing this?

She could blame it on her sister. Felicia was two years younger than her and about ten years more mature. A few weeks ago she'd slapped a tin into her hands and said, "This will make you look more comely. Less . . . well, ugly." Most people loved Felicia's inability to use tact. They thought it was sweet. Adults and boys flocked to Felicia to coo over her bluntness, unable to get enough of it. Catherine wanted to strangle her sister for it — and, at the same time, she envied it.

She was blunt, in her own way. She'd never call anyone ugly, of course, but she'd tell someone if their ideas were stupid. This happened a lot, as Catherine spent most of her time reading and learning, and knew a little about almost everything. However, no one thought it was cute. They thought it was rude. Perhaps this was because Felicia's cruel comments were accompanied by batting her long eyelashes and pouting her perfect little lips, whereas Catherine's opinions were said with a scowl and — more often than not — a blow to the head. A gentle one, she always insisted.

The world was not a fair place. This fact was only to be confirmed as Felicia came bounding into their shared room, snatching the pink lip color out of Catherine's hands and settling down on her bed.

"No, Catherine," she said, scolding her older sister like she was a naughty pet. "You are too dark for this." She dug through Catherine's makeup collection and pulled out a jar of deep red. "Do try this," she said, dabbing the pink color on her own lips. "It'll look far better." Felicia was dressed up in a light pink dress and light makeup, just enough to give her blonde hair a golden shine and her pale skin a rosy tint. With her small frame, light coloring, and large blue eyes, she looked like a perfect porcelain doll, beautiful and fragile. Catherine scowled at her own face, which was square and dark, bedecked with almost-black eyes and thick eyebrows, framed by a mane of curly red hair. Tall and broad, she would never be confused with her lovely sister. "Are you just about ready?" Felicia asked, smoothing her dress. They were supposed to go out that evening. Nice ladies didn't do this, of course, but on Kimbal, there was no such thing as nice ladies, not really; it was too close to Tortuga for respectability. And if there were, the Blackwells were not rich enough to be nice.

"Almost," Catherine said. "You go downstairs. I shall be down in a moment."

Her sister nodded, climbing to her feet and looking into the mirror. Seeing perfection, she smiled (not enough to crack her makeup, of course) and left.

Catherine leaned forward, inspecting her face. Felicia had been right — she did look better with the red. Slowly, as though hypnotized, she raised her left hand, watching the girl in the mirror do the same. She pressed her hand against the glass, spreading her fingers out as wide as she could. She tugged a strand of her hair free from its bun, watching a lock of the mirror-girl's red hair fall in front of her face.

"You are me," she whispered. But that wasn't true. The mirror-girl didn't look anything like Catherine — she looked better. And it seemed Felicia was right; the true reason she wore makeup was because it made her look less ugly. In the mirror, her nose didn't look so large, or her eyes so small. And the red color made her mouth look less wide. Somehow her face didn't even seem as square, either. Catherine pulled another strand of hair out of her bun. With the hair framing her face, it looked softer, rounder. Still nothing like Felicia's — no one could achieve that kind of magnificence — but not so bad. "You are me," she repeated, "only better."

With that, she stood, gathering her skirts around her and trying to step into her skin. Imagine you are lovely, she thought. Pretend, for just one evening, that the girl in mirror is you.

Nonetheless, she felt like an impostor as she walked out of her room, took her sister's arm, and stepped out onto the street.

Catherine tilted forward onto the bar, trying to signal to the serving girl that she'd like another drink. The girl didn't seem to notice, which was understandable, as she was trying to fend off a drunken man at least twice her age and three times her size. He was leaning heavily on her and trying to kiss her neck while simultaneously rubbing her butt. It embarrassed Catherine to watch, and she dropped her eyes to the table, thanking the Lord that her father was farmer and not a barkeep.

The serving girl managed to extricate herself from her assailant and stumbled over to where Catherine was sitting. "Another ale, miss?" she asked, brushing her hair out of her face.

"Yes," she replied. "But, please, take your time," she added as the girl turned with a start to see that the man she'd escaped before was coming up behind her. The girl shot her a grateful smile before disappearing into the crowd.

There were a lot of people there, she noted. Well, it would have been hard to miss that fact, as everyone was packed shoulder-to-shoulder in the small tavern. To her left was a group of boys she'd known since childhood. None of them seemed to notice her presence, though, despite the fact that they were practically on top of her. As a young man's elbow jabbed her in the ribs, she questioned why so many people were there. It wasn't like Kimbal was a large town — it was a small port quite a ways from Tortuga (which was where most people would go for a good time).

She wondered vaguely if she'd ever get her drink, then waved the thought away and swiveled around in her seat so that she was facing the rest of the room instead of the bar. She might as well watch the people around her while she waited; Felicia certainly wasn't paying her much attention. As soon as they'd arrived, she'd found a group of friends and settled down with them, caring long enough about her sister to make sure that she got a seat next to them before ignoring her. In a table directly in front of her, there was a girl she recognized. She was one of Felicia's friends, and was having a spectacular argument with the barkeep's son. She couldn't quite make out what they were saying, but she enjoyed watching their arms flail wildly and their faces turn red.

Catherine glanced around again in search of the serving girl and almost lost her balance. Maybe it's a good thing she is not here, she thought, holding onto the bar stool for support. I've already had four drinks. Maybe that's enough. She didn't want to spend the rest of her evening vomiting, after all, and while Felicia would consider a night wasted if she didn't drink at least six, Catherine had always been a bit of a lightweight — despite her larger weight, an irony that hadn't been lost on either sister.

Suddenly she realized why the bar was much more crowded. There were several raggedy-looking men and women — mostly men — of all ages and races. They were also five times louder and bawdier than everyone else, making the small room feel fuller than it was. As she watched a group of such people, she couldn't believe she hadn't noticed it before. Everyone in her town was clean-cut and . . . well, if not polite, at least civilized, and the number of girls was about equal to the number of boys. It was unsettling to see so many dirty strangers there. Her eyes darted from person to person, seeing as many unfamiliar faces as familiar.

"Looking for someone, love?"

She jerked, her shoulders hunching up around her ears, and turned. The group of boys who'd been sitting next to her were gone, and in the seat next to her was one of the raggedy-est and dirtiest of the newcomers. His hat was pulled low over his eyes, and all she could see was his dark hair — which had been pulled into many thick braids — and his beard, which was styled in much the same way. His clothes were grimy and unusual by their town's standards — she was used to crisp, high-collared shirts and clean pants when men went out. He had one of his hands resting on the bar, and she counted at least one ring on each finger.

She shifted in her seat, so that she was a little farther away from this off-putting and somewhat malodorous man. "Polite people do not wear hats inside," she said, blurting out the first thing that popped into her head. "It's not proper."

A smile pulled at one corner of his mouth, and he swiped his hat off of his head, setting it down gingerly on the bar. "Apologies," he said. "Don't mean to be improper." His tone was sincere, but his smile was mocking. Catherine stiffened — clearly this was one of the "dangerous" men her father had warned her and Felicia away from.

Sensing her tension, his smile grew, softening and becoming friendlier. "So," he asked casually, leaning back in his chair, "are you looking for someone?"

"I . . . no, I'm not." She turned back toward the rest of the room, crossing her legs. The man mimicked her position, resting his chin on his fist and staring intently into the throng.

"What are we looking at, then?"

"People."

"Ah." He nodded in exaggerated understanding. "Sounds highly enjoyable."

"Well . . . no, not usually. But there are a lot of interesting men here tonight." She didn't really wish to talk to him, but she couldn't think of a way to get rid of him. She wasn't the confrontational type (well, except for when she hit people, but that was only with her sister, and only when she was being really stupid), and the hints she'd been dropping were having no effect.

His eyebrows shot up. "Oh, yes. Terribly sorry, that would be my fault. I needed a place for my crew to rest." Surveying them with pride, he added, "They are a bit odd, aren't they?"

"Somewhat." It wasn't a Christian thing to say, but at least it was honest. She folded her arms over her chest, staring resolutely at the crew. Counting quickly, she realized that there were only ten or so extra people. It had simply seemed like more because they were so loud and unruly.

"'Tis a valuable trait if you're to sail under the pirate flag."

Catherine could think of several other valuable traits, but felt it wouldn't be polite to say them. "Oh. Good, then." Nodding, she returned her gaze to the crew.

The man waited a moment before saying, "Are you enjoying your pastime?"

"I suppose, a bit."

"Well, if you're not enjoying it a lot, why don't you watch more interesting people?"

She pursed her lips, feeling her makeup crack. "Like who?"

He turned so that his entire body was facing her, cradling his head in one hand and giving her a sardonic smile. "Like me."

She hesitated, and then turned so that she was facing him. She blamed the alcohol for that, and for the conversation that followed. "So, what is it?"

He blinked, clearly taken aback. "What is what?"

"Why, out of all the girls in this tavern, are you talking to me? Am I just that lovely?" The last part had a bite to it that she hadn't intended — it made her words bitter instead of merely sarcastic.

"Ah, that's easy," he said, then paused dramatically. "It's unusual to see a woman sitting alone, especially in an inn filled with dangerous pirates." He beamed, showing off a golden tooth, obviously hoping she'd be impressed or terrified by this information.

Her breath caught in her throat, but she fought to keep her face blank. He was a pirate? She knew what they were like, having read plenty of books about them. They were crude, and violent, and nothing but trouble. The serving girl arrived, setting a mug of ale down in front of both of them. Catherine took a long drink as he watched, his dark eyes shining with amusement. She drew herself up and said, "I am not alone. My sister . . ."

She turned as she was speaking, searching for honey hair and rose-petal cheeks in the crowd of swarthy complexions, and trailed off. Her sister wasn't there. In fact, Felicia wasn't even in the tavern anymore. Where had she gone?

The man's smirk had widened. "Problem, darling?"

She clenched her jaw. "My sister was here," she said coolly. "And I'm certain she shall be back momentarily."

"Of course," he agreed smoothly.

"And besides, if she were here, I would not be the one you chose to talk to." Why had she said that? Bitterness was an ugly habit, her mother had always said, and there was already plenty of ugliness in this tavern.

He raised one eyebrow, a feat that made his face look much younger. "Oh?"

"Yes," she continued, still not sure why she was talking. "Felicia Blackwell: petite, blonde and perfect. Trust me, she's the kind of maiden who inspires ballads." Catherine tapped the side of her nose and snickered, beginning to enjoy herself despite the company and topic of conversation. "Yet between you and me, though she might be pretty enough to inspire a . . . you know, the front of a ship where nude harlots go" — the pirate looked slightly affronted and muttered "a figurehead" — "she lacks the wits of one of those wooden beauties." The next morning she'd be appalled that these vulgar, resentful words had escaped her lips, but at the moment she couldn't bring herself to care.

"Ah." He nodded, then slapped his hat on his head and climbed to his feet without another word. Swaying slightly, he shoved his way through the bodies along the bar, headed in the direction of the door.

Catherine, confused and slightly disappointed, called out, "Where are you going?"

"To find your sister!" This was flung over his shoulder, he not even turning around as he continued on his tipsy way.

Her mouth dropped open, knowing that her face paint had cracked yet again. "Of all the — !" She couldn't say she was surprised, since this was simply a more exaggerated version of what usually happened whenever a man met both her and Felicia, but it was still insulting to be abandoned mid-conversation. And her sister wasn't even in the building! Stinging from the rejection, she accepted another drink from the barmaid, settling herself in for an evening of moping.

"You know what your problem is?" Catherine turned around, wide-eyed, to see the man sliding back into his seat as though he'd never left. He was chuckling to himself as he regarded her amazement. "You lack a sense of humor." When she continued to stare at him, he added, "You really thought I'd leave, didn't you? Are the others here so serious-like, or are they more like bonny Felicia Blackwell?"

Somewhat mollified, but still irritated about being laughed at, she circled the lip of her glass with one finger and said, "Most lack the intelligence to be serious about anything." Shooting him a sideways glance, she continued, "But evidently you would know nothing of such foolishness."

The man laughed, leaning back on his chair. "Of course not," he said cockily. "I am, after all, Captain Jack Sparrow." He grinned at her, his expression saying, "Well, you must have heard of me."

For a long while she simply stared at him. Then she took a huge gulp of her drink, and, setting it down, slowly clapped once, twice, three times. "Congratulations," she said dryly, feeling the warm buzz of alcohol increase with each sip. "Captain. With a boat and crew and everything?"

His face fell slightly. "Well, I have a crew," he said. "I'm still looking for that boat — ship."

She lifted her tankard and took another impressive slug. Swallowing thickly, she wiped her mouth and grimaced. "Foul stuff, isn't it?" she muttered, noticing that her words weren't as clear as she would have preferred. Furthermore, she was beginning to feel ill. Nothing another drink won't fix, she thought, reaching for the mug again. That is what Felicia always says, anyway. Carry on and it shall taste smooth and pleasant again.

Jack's hand closed around her wrist. "You're going to make yourself sick, love," he said. "Drink slowly. It tastes better, and you feel less like you're going to vomit." He demonstrated, drinking with exaggerated slowness and raising his eyebrows at her. "See? Much better. You cannot drink like a pirate unless you've earned your sea liver, lass."

"Right," she said. Surprising, how fast the nausea had come upon her, unless it was this captain's smell — musky and salty with the ocean and sweat, it was making her feel heady. "T'would be a perfect end to a perfect evening if I became unwell."

"Now, Miss" — he faltered, and she supplied her name — "It hasn't been all bad, has it?"

She gently shoved at his shoulder, trying to get away from his smell and the heat of his body, the latter of which seemed almost overpowering. "I cannot know. Not in this condition." Her head was reeling, and she reached for the mug.

Jack grabbed her wrist again. "I'd wait a good long time before drinking again if I were you," he warned.

"Oh, I s'pose." How many had she had, anyway? Six? Seven? It was Felicia's idea of a successful night, anyway. Her eyelids were growing heavy, and she swayed a little in her seat. His hand was still on hers, and he didn't seem inclined to move it. "Jack," she began, "why're you here?"

He smiled — it was a nice smile, even with the gold teeth: a blend of sincere and mischievous. "Here, in Kimbal, or here, talking to you?"

She shrugged, resting her free elbow on the bar and dropping her head into it, still staring up at the pirate. "Both."

He took a deep breath, his eyes unfocusing for a second — Catherine thought maybe she wasn't the only one who was drunk, though his sea liver was far more sturdy than hers. "I am in Kimbal because it's a long way to Tortuga in rowboats," he said. "We had to rest sometime, didn't we?" When she nodded, he continued. "And I'm here, talking to you, because you're much better company than my crew at the moment." He looked over her shoulder at his crew, which had broken into singing a broken and slurring rendition of "A Pirate's Life For Me," but she didn't trust herself to turn around without falling over. When she heard a crash and the harried cry of the barmaid, she suspected that she could take Jack's word.

His hand was warm on hers, and his thumb began rubbing small circles on her wrist. They both looked down at their hands for a moment before meeting each other's eyes. She knew she was supposed to be scandalized by this — what if someone saw her? — but found the task of moving her hand away a Herculean effort she couldn't handle. Besides, it was nice. Men weren't exactly arranging duels for the honor of holding her hand, after all, and she was a woman, was she not?

Still, propriety was a difficult habit to shake, even under the influence of the devil's brew, and Catherine cast her mind around for something to say. "Why're you goin' to Tortuga?" she asked, hoping her words had come out in some coherent order.

"You can get anything there," he said. She waited for him to elaborate — the man seemed to love talking, after all, especially about himself — but he didn't. He just sat there, making those circles on her wrist.

"What time is it?" she finally mumbled, letting her eyes fall closed.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out an old, battered pocket watch. He flipped it open. "Almost midnight."

"Oh," she said. Then her eyes snapped open as she took in what he'd said. "Oh!" She slid off her bar stool and tried to stand, but her right leg wasn't cooperating and she went down, landing hard on her hip on the dirty tavern floor with an oath that was far from appropriate, even for someone as unladylike as herself.

Jack knelt down and pulled her arm over his shoulder, hauling her to her feet. They both froze, swaying for a moment, before they were sure they weren't going to fall over again. "What's wrong?"

"I'm going to be late!"

His eyebrows furrowed. "For what?"

"For . . . returning home! I'll be in trouble!" Her thoughts were scrambled, her mind fuzzy. "Blast it all to hell! Bloody, stupid Felicia — she should have fetched me! Would I not do . . . do the same for her? Damn it!"

He watched this semi-coherent rant with a small smile, both shocked and impressed by the ferocity of this awkward red-haired wench. "All right, then," he said, putting his hat back on with the hand that wasn't holding her up. "Let's get you home."

A/N: The other chapters are shorter, I promise! There was just no good way to cut this one in half.

Apologies for the fact that this is so OC-centered; I wrote it in response to so many Sue-marries-Jack fanfics, so I tried to mimic that form with a little more realism, and I really hope it works.