One Day I'll Fly Away
Rating: K+
Disclaimer: Yeah. Like I could come up with such an amazing story as Pirates of the Carribbean
a/n: Oops. Jack's not in France, and I forgot to explain that. But I will in this one. Unless I have a lapse of stupid-ness.
Chapter Two
No matter how she tried, Celeste was unable to sleep. What little rest she got was fitful and uneasy, and woke from terrifying dreams that left her gasping. After a time, she stopped trying.
The next morning, she sat with her back resting against the wall, knees drawn to her chest, silent tears coursing down her cheeks. She was startled by quick, insistent pounding on her door. She wiped the tears from her face, and stood before the door, jaw set. The door swung open, and the man with graying hair stood before her, the midget beside him.
"'Morning, miss. My name is Gibbs, and this here's Marty. The Captain asks that you meet him in the Captain's Quarters after you've eaten and changed."
"Changed?" Gibbs held out a bundle with a pair of boots sitting on top. The one called Marty set a tray of food on the floor beside her with a smile. Celeste raised an eyebrow.
"I wouldn't dawdle if I were you. Captain Sparrow doesn't like to be kept waiting." The door was closed. Curious, she looked inside the bundle. There was a pair of breeches, a white shirt, a thick strip of red cloth for a belt, presumably, and a dagger. She took a sharp breath at that.
Once dressed, she was furious. The "shirt" Captain Sparrow had given was that of a common wench! It was about two sizes too small, clinging tightly to her. The shoulders were non-existent, leaving her feeling exposed and nervous. Unfortunately for Mr. Sparrow, not nervous enough to quell her rage. Oh, he won't be waiting, she thought, pulling on the boots fiercely.
Jack couldn't say exactly why he had sailed to Africa, and the French Porte Oiseau. It was where the compass had pointed, and so that was where he went. Niether could he tell why he had taken Celeste on board the Black Pearl. She was beautiful, yes. Spirited, certainly. But she was, after all, the daughter of a Lord—a French Lord at that. She had no skill outside of dancing, chaste flirting, how to communicate, the art of gossip, and discerning a good match from a poor one. She was nothing like anything he had ever seen. She certainly lived up to her name—Heavenly. She gave off an ethereal glow, as though she were one of God's own angels.
He was still astonished at her boldness. It was a rare woman indeed who would spit in the face of a pirate, especially one as renowned as he. It seemed she was as brash as Anamaria had been. But Jack preferred not to think about her. Her spirit could either be a good thing for him, or a thorn in his side. Violent pounding on his door indicated the latter.
"Come in," he called, poring over his map. The door was kicked open and Celeste stomped over to his table.
"Mr. Sparrow!" she shrieked, "I—" He interrupted her with a raised hand. He could hear her fuming, but she held her peace. After a time, he put down his compass, pushed back his chair, and put his feet on the table.
"What can I do for you, My Lady? My tremendous intuitive sense of the female creature informs me that you are troubled."
"Troubled," she said, shaking with fury. "Troubled? I'm outraged! I will not be a wench for your crew, Mr. Sparrow!"
"Captain Sparrow. Jack. You can call me Jack. And what might your name be, My Lady?"
"I don't think—"
"Your name?" he asked, interrupting her. She sighed, resignedly.
"Celeste Marguerite Selene Satine," she said tightly.
"Such a great name for such a slight lady." And it was true. Everything about her was long and slim. Her intense green eyes tended to fix themselves on you and claw there way inside your deepest thoughts. Now, they were flashing with anger. They were long and wide. Her lips were full and pouting, a pleasant pink color. Her hair was long, thick, and the color of a chest of gold coins, and just as shining. Celeste caught him staring.
"Well?" she said, impatient.
"Beg your pardon. Sometimes I get lost in me own thoughts." Celeste snorted. "Well! What do you do? Can you cook?"
"I—well, a little, I suppose."
"Marvelous! Then it seems you have a job! The men should keep you enough company." She paled. Jack laughed. "They're friendly enough. If talking's not your fancy, then spend some time with Mr. Cotton!" She left to the sound of his wild laughter, slamming the door behind her. Jack shook his head and went back to his map.
Celeste had worried about talking to these strange new people. She was a painfully shy person; the outburst in Captain Sparrow's rooms was unusual for her. Her shyness often got her in trouble, making people think she was so high-and-mighty. No doubt the trouble would increase two-fold as she was their prisoner, and would likely take her silence for insolence. But as far as things went, she left them alone, and they left her alone. The midget, Marty, she thought, never failed to smile at her, and she felt bad for looking at him so disdainfully that first day. As she was fixing their dinner a few days later (in a normal shirt; Jack had not been deaf to her cries), she heard Mr. Gibbs talking to some of the crew. She hadn't had any intention of listening until she heard, "That French girl…"
"I tell you, she's bad luck! A woman aboard! I thought Jack had learned better when Anamaria left."
"Who knows? Maybe another outburst like that, and he'll get so upset, he'll throw her overboard!" The men laughed.
"I'm not so sure. You know Jack—ever the gentleman. We may have to do it ourselves." Celeste's hand flew to her mouth. This trip was going to be more trouble than she had bargained for.