Disclaimer: They belong to the Mouse. But I'm a pirate, an' I steals things, savvy?
Author's note: In my fics, William and Elizabeth are members of Jack's crew. William was released from the curse of the Flying Dutchman early with Jack's help. Many times my fics are tied to other fics that I have written by events that are mentioned.
I dedicate this moody little one shot to purplediamond7. Thanks for the "shirtless Jack" challenge. Fair winds, mate. (Pirate Cat raises her mug of rum and tips her tricorn...)
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Jack had several shirts just like it, so it really should not matter that this particular shirt had finally worn through during this day, and needed to be discarded. He looked at it in his hands, as he ruefully prepared to give it it's own burial at sea... it was, by far, the softest of the cotton shirts that he'd had made with the thinnest of linen that he'd picked up in India; this one was the original one that he'd worn and washed countless times, prior to finally getting his ship back, twice, now, with William's help. It was a wonder that it had not worn out before now. He opened up the cabinet that was next to his bunk.
He was startled, as he looked up, to see his own reflection in the looking glass that was attached to the inside of the cabinet. He had forgotten that it was there... he seemed to forget many things these days, he thought, as he continued to stare at his own image; his vest, yards of unwound striped sash and two bulky leather belts were laying upon the mahogany table beside him. He had almost forgotten what he looked like, shirtless, until his reflection caught his attention by surprise. His waist long ebony dreadlocks and trailing strands of beads draped over bare skin. As the captain's dark brown eyes took in the reflection, his slender hand rubbed absently over his chest, much like William's did, these days. He studied himself with a slight frown.
He was only 37 years old, yet he always tried to put forth the image that he was older, as many pirates that might sail under him would not take kindly to having such a young man as their captain, no matter how good he was to them. Sometimes he wondered if he was too good to them, but then, it was not in him to be malevolent. He had been naive... it was because of this naivete and his young age that he had been brutally mutineed upon.
He had been roughed up that night, and had been kicked in the chest rather hard as he had been pitched overboard... no ribs were broken, and it had only knocked the wind out of him, but there had been a pretty hefty gash left there by the toe of a boot. At least his ribs were no longer visible, like they were when he was a starving child chained in the hold of a slave ship. His ribs had shone through, then... Jack ran his fingers over them, and was glad that they were not sticking out like they had 30 years ago.
Jack's troubled eyes wandered to the two old, healed gunshot wounds on the right side of his breastbone... he should have been dead from these, but he had lived. One of the rounds had been dug out by Bootstrap Bill Turner, with the very dagger that William now carried in his own striped sash. The other round was still rattling about in his chest somewhere. Jack smiled to himself, absently, as he thought of the whelp, who made a friendly joke of Jack's almost delicate appearance... William always called him "scrawny".
Jack continued to look at his reflection, as his hands quieted, uncharacteristically at his sides. His chest was not broad, nor were his shoulders. His waist was wasp-thin, as were his arms... it was at this moment that it truly dawned upon him that William was right, although he had never meant to be hurtful. Jack was scrawny.
A pang of sadness krept into him for a moment, his hand once again tracing the various scars and tattoos that told their stories upon his naturally dark body. It was interesting to think that most people thought that he was tanned by the sun, when the truth of the matter was that he was born this color... the sun only darkened him further. He sighed heavily, as he thought of his mother, who also had beautiful dark skin and thick black hair... his own hair was in what they called dreadlocks in the Caribbean... in his native land they were called Celtic ropes. He had nearly forgotten that.
As his hand finally rested over his heart, he could feel it beating under his ribs. It had stopped for a while... he had been dead. He could not remember what it had felt like when it started again, as the Black Pearl righted itself in the water after the escape from the dreaded Locker. There had been no time... everyone had an agenda... a reason for rescuing him... he did not have time to celebrate being alive at that point, but had discovered that, in the end, the ones that meant to most to him and were the dearest to him were glad that he was alive. He smiled. His heart was beating under that dark skin... beating strong and true, thanks to those who truly wanted it to... those who had finally proven themselves to be his true friends.
As his eyes traveled back up to gaze into themselves in the looking glass, they regained their trademark sparkle. He might be the most likely one to be blown overboard in a gale, yet he was one that always held onto the wheel and tamed the sea with the Black Pearl responding to his wispy hands. Jack Sparrow was not tall, but no one seemed to notice it when mesmerized by the ocean movement that overtook his lithe body, naturally. Sao Feng might have easily picked the captain up with one hand, as he delivered him to Lord Cutler Beckett... but who was the one left alive?
Jack Sparrow tilted his head back and smiled at his shirtless reflection for a moment longer. He then donned the shirt with the puffy sleeves that hid his thin arms, his vest that was worn to make his shoulders look a bit broader, and he wound his long sash around his waist three times before ornately tying it. As the captain buckled both of the belts that he wore in order to appear brawnier than he was, he grinned. He might be slender, delicate looking, downright scrawny... but there was one thing that was true... in spite of his appearance, he was could always muster up strength from within, and an amazing amount of it...
As he placed his hat upon his head, he took one last look at his reflection in the looking glass, nodded to himself with a wink... then quietly closed and locked the cabinet door.
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