A/N: i know this has been done millions of times, but i just had to do my own. this is a drabble from the mind of Jack during 'the kiss' in potc2. enjoy! and please review!
"Thank you, Jack."
Elizabeth's voice reaches my ears over the din and I fight the grimace that threatens to push its way to the surface of my emotions. She's so naïve, I think, and then reply grimly, "We're not free yet, love."
She ignores my bleak cynicism. "You came back. I always knew you were a good man," she says in a way that strikes me as most coquettish as she sidles up to me.
I want to say, You don't know what you're doing! Stop playing with fire! But nothing comes out, and wordlessly, she initiates a soul-searing kiss, pushing me back with aggression that I hadn't known she possessed. At first, I am surprised; She's a child. Does she realize what she's doing? Does she realize that she's tempting fate?
Gibbs shouts something, but neither of us is listening.
She can't possibly know what she's doing.
Or so I think.
She pulls away with the ever-familiar clink of shackles, and the cold metal closes around my wrist like a bracelet as I look down at her eyes. I expect to find innocence there, but am shocked by the determination, the steely cold deliberation that I find in her gaze. Grudgingly, I admit it. Perhaps not a child.
Her eyes flick down to the ground and then back up at me. "It's after you, not the ship," she whispers. "It's not us. This is the only way, don't you see?" Her face hardens in the blink of an eye, and suddenly it seems as if all of the angles in her youthful face are pulled tight with stress. Her gaze is firm and unwavering as she lifts her chin with defiance. "I'm not sorry."
She comes closer as if to kiss me again, but I'll not sink that low. I don't want her petty favors anymore; not now, in the face of death. "Pirate," I accuse, cutting her off with gibing acerbity.
And with that, the bloody minx heads back to safety in the arms of her fiancé. The things I could tell you, I think, sending my thoughts to Bootstrap's boy. The things I could tell you that would make you shrink away from her. That would make your blood boil. The boy doesn't seem to hear them.
I shake my head as if to clear it. If I must go down, I will go down fighting. My mind closes over at the prospect of death and now I am just going through the motions. My frantic need to escape my chains and cool-headed cleverness and nimble feet are mechanic to me now. My mildly witty comments breeze by me with no thought.
How does one greet death?
"Hello beastie."