289 Days Before

"Comin' up to the old stomping grounds," Gibbs said, heralding their entrance back into the Caribbean. "Northeast from here?"

"North and then east, mate."

"That means comin' across more ships, Jack."

"Also means more chances at sacking some of those said ships before crossing the Atlantic." He tossed him his spyglass and lumbered over to the nets, catching whiff of the caught fish, writhing as desperately as their bait had on their hooks. One of the men threw a rusty knife to him, the blade dulled from use, but still good. Twitching his nose, he stuck a hand into the net and pulled out the slippery foot-long grouper.

Gutting it, he heard some of the innards slosh to the deck, but his eyes remained glued to horizon, specifically the clean-looking, seemingly empty water.

"Care for a drink while you're preppin' supper, Captain?" one of them asked.

"Not at present," he said, tossing the fish into the pot for the cook. He used to do this sort of thing all the time, working in a kitchen at a fort in Singapore, making meals for all those Navy men who would tell stories Jack had been too young to fully understand, more concerned with earning his income to take some of the burden off of his mother. Wringing chickens' necks and cutting up eels had eventually become as easy as pulling cakes out of the oven, save for the one eel that had enough fight left to slither up and bite him… The sailors had laughed at the scream-and-curse from the kitchen boy, jesting that he'd shown up to work drunk.

It is a foul drink that turns even the most respectable men into scoundrels.

Oh, shut it, he thought, gutting the second fish faster and with more flourish, showing off his regained muscle memory. It is a most fine drink, just not at the moment. He turned his head back out to sea.

Keep a weather eye open and you will see white sails on that horizon.

Bugger. Jack forced himself to look down at the third fish this time, able to gut it in one elongated motion. Thinking about her at night served a purpose—no tentacles or ships of death could be found so long as Lizzie Swann walked up and down that beach every night in his mind, wind-blown and sun-kissed. But now creeping up during the day? He turned his head back out towards the sea and did a double-take.

Indeed there were white sails on the horizon. Close. Hazardously close.

Letting the fish and the knife drop, he sprinted up the steps to where Gibbs had the helm and yanked the spyglass from him.

"Could have asked for it! No need to get all excited…"

"Says you." He closed an eye and peered into the spyglass.

"How's that?" Gibbs asked.

"That's the Commodore himself, coming up port side." He leaned down towards the deck, his hair falling in front of him. "Hard to port!"

"Jack! He'll run right into us if we do that."

"Right into the guns."

He gave the order for half the crew to ready the guns below decks, an itching hand on his pistol. The Dauntless sped closer, her sweeps at the ready. Just as everything on the deck shifted with deafening creaks, Jack inhaled.

"Fire!"

The delaying of return fire from the Dauntless elicited a guarded smile on Jack's face. Surprise, Jamie-lad. Ol' Jack can put up a fight with the best of ye.

The Pearl rollicked against the waves, reeling closer to the Dauntless, so close Jack could swing across onto the deck. Without having to give the order, a few of the men went on ahead, cutlass blades lodged in their mouths to free both hands. They disappeared into the smoke-covered deck, sounds of battle welcoming them. Descending the steps and scouting for a rope, an empty one lopped right onto his shoulder.

"Oh!" he said after glancing to his left and his right. Gripping it, he swung onto the opposing ship, sword ready. Just when his feet felt the edge of the rail, a deep scorching pain sliced right into both his knees. They buckled at the pressure, causing Jack to tumble down onto the deck. His hand spread and prodded the skin underneath the fresh slits in his trousers. Hot metallic blood drizzled onto his fingers. A flash of silver caught his eye just in time for him to grab his sword and block the blade coming from above him. He scampered to his feet at the sight of Norrington, sword in hand and as hawk-like as ever.

"You bloody cut me!" Jack blocked another advance.

"I'd savor that humanity if I were you, Sparrow. You don't have much left."

In spite of his knees burning, he held a decent parry, but it was more defensive than offensive. He swore at himself with every backward step. Norrington leapt onto the railing, one hand on the rigging, the high ground his. Jack thrust his sword harder, ready jab his blade right into his knees to see how the persistent scut liked it. Hobbling down the deck to keep up with him, he shook his head at himself. Ye need a plan, mate, need a plan.

Leaping back to the center of the deck, he grinned at Norrington bounding down from the railing and following him. One swift motion now, he warned himself. Drawing out his pistol, he shut one eye and fired right at the cross-guard of Norrington's sword. It clanged to the deck just as Jack whistled over at Gibbs.

Gibbs dispatched his own opponent and ran at Norrington, climbing all over him until he had him in a hold. Jack was ready with his pistol, taking a few steps forward, one hand on one of his knees, pointing it right into the Commodore's face.

"What say you to calling your men off?"

"I don't surrender to pirates."

"Fine. I'll do it, lazy bump-on-a-log." He rolled his eyes and cleared his throat just loud enough for the soldiers around him to hear him. "If I could have everyone's attention? Swords and pistols to the deck or I'll fire." From the corner of his eye, he could see the chain reaction beginning—the men closest to him laying down their weapons, the ones closest to them laying down theirs and so on until it was very much indeed a surrender.

"Wind in the sails! Wind in the sails!" he heard from Cotton's parrot, flying past him over to his companion.

"Mr. Cotton, I believe your bird is suggesting we find some rope."


The Dauntless was his. Even thinking it a second time failed to make it more real. The Dauntless, the ship that claimed more pirates' lives than scurvy, syphilis, and sharks combined was now his. Her crew locked in her own brig, he kept pacing around Norrington, tied to the mast. Seldom did the mere presence of a person present such a problem. You should kill him and you have every right to, self-defense and all that. Yes, but… He frowned at being unable to voice the argument that was so loud in his mind. Just kill him, he told himself again. It was the utter lack of killing that lost you the Pearl in the first place, too nice. But… He inhaled, knowing he at least couldn't look like the death of James Norrington felt downright distasteful.

"You aren't going to kill me?"

"Jamie-lad, it ain't worth the trouble," Jack snorted at him. "Ye have nothing I want."

"I did," he countered.

How did…when… Jack circled around him more, pretending to be deciding what to do with him while his thoughts played out for him. Had the Commodore of all people seen something? There wasn't a moment Jack could place where he had looked at Lizzie longer than he should have, more longingly than he should have. There hadn't even been any reason to, not then, had there?

You're a smart man, Jack.

God, he loved that every time he replayed it in his mind just as much as when the words had poured out of those sensual lips the first time.

But I don't entirely trust you.

Didn't love that one so much, but he was used to hearing things such as that. Something told him he could make her trust him, could make her trust him entirely, and it would all start with those lips, no, those eyebrows raised in inquiry, no, those hands that nervously scribbled nonsense into the railing of the ship.

Peas in a pod, darling.

With me, Sparrow.

Bugger. Norrington had seen such a moment. And he couldn't be talking about anything else. Well, everyone is entitled one moment of vulnerability, however fleeting. The Commodore certainly had been allotted his one, so much so Jack had no problem envisioning her ripping out the man's heart.

So this is where your heart truly lies then?

It is.

Jack smirked.

"As I recall, mate." He leaned down to him. "Ye never had it to begin with." Straightening, he flared out to his crew. "Gentlemen, what fate would ye propose befall the great Commodore?"

"Flog him!"

"Towing!"

"Not one creative mind among ye, eh? All borrowing from the great yet sadistic thinkers who brought us such turpitude?" Blank faces answered him. Jack sighed. "Anyone know what the Romans would do when they captured such prominent prisoners? They'd parade them in the streets. Gentlemen, I propose we take the Commodore to the most pirate-y streets we know of."

"Tortuga?" Gibbs asked, his eyebrows rising in hope.

"Tortuga."


A/N: Not trying to borrow from Rifftrax too much, but I really don't know what sweeps are. All I know is that Barbossa orders them during the Pearl vs. Dauntless scene and the Pearl ends up winning, so they must be a formidable threat. A scut is "a stubby, erect tail," according to The Free Dictionary website…no wonder it's an item on the Shakespearean Insult Kit list. Towing is a version of keelhauling, where the victim is tied to a line and dragged behind the ship, not as fatal as keelhauling, so pirates would tow for days and the poor bugger usually died of exposure and/or exhaustion, like waterskiing to death. I will post Jack's route later. Short chapter, and for the record, this chapter takes place on June 26. I'll post the exact day every once in a while if you want.