I'm back! My muse went on a vacation, but she seems to be back now, so… on with the story!
They made Tortuga's docks three days after the fight with the Harrier. And a good thing, too, Gibbs thought; they all needed time ashore and one of them more than the others.
James had gone down to the brig the day after the battle, perhaps out of some obscure sense of duty to the man who had once been his friend. Gibbs privately thought that he was daft for even wanting to see Gillette, but Norrington had been adamant; he had to know why, he said. Jack had finally acquiesced and "Ramrod" had gone down. He had been melancholy ever since; when questioned he would not say what had happened, but clearly whatever the Captain of the Harrier had said had been disheartening. To Gibbs' way of thinking, a night in Tortuga would go a long way toward making their newest crew member forget his troubles.
James, however, did not join the rest when the gangplank was lowered; Gibbs gave a disbelieving snort when he realized that the man honestly did not intend to go into Tortuga but rather stay on the Pearl. He had heard of being a workaholic, but for Pete's sake…!
"Oi, Ramrod, you coming?" he shouted, stopping halfway down the gangplank.
"No, thank you. I'd rather not," James answered calmly, never looking up from the book in his hand. He had borrowed a few things out of Jack's library recently; he had every intention of reading his way straight through this stop.
" 't won't do any good te sit here and mope, Jim," Gibbs said reasonably. "Take a bit of advice from old Gibbs; go into town, have a flagon or two o' rum, and find a nice girl te spend the night with. There's no good to be had o' worryin' it like a dog with a bone. Come with me."
"There is already a lady aboard the ship, or had you forgotten?" James asked acidly. "She cannot be expected…" but Gibbs cut him off.
"Cotton and Cook are stayin' on board te guard the ship – they'll look after Miss Helena just fine on their own." James hesitated; it was tempting to be sure. But he had sworn…
"Just one drink, no more," he said. He would simply not allow himself to become drunk, he resolved, finally giving in to Gibbs' suggestion.
"Not a drop more," Gibbs promised. James stood up and, firmly dismissing his misgivings for the moment, he followed Gibbs off the ship.
He woke the next morning to the sound of a drum pounding right next to his head. Certainly that was what it felt like; his head throbbed with every heartbeat. He moaned as the light hit his eyes, adding to his misery.
Memories of the night before come to him in bits and pieces; he thought he remembered a tavern and more than one flagon of rum. Someone had suggested that he didn't look much like a pirate – there had been some talk of getting a – dear God. A horrible suspicion dawned on him and he looked down. Sure enough, on the left side of his chest there was a fresh tattoo, what looked like a sheep's head with… were those words beneath it…? Yes – the name "Ramrod Jim" was emblazoned below the image. James closed his eyes tightly; he was having a nightmare, he had to be. He opened them again; no, he was awake alright.
Oh Lord.
He slowly looked around; he was on the Pearl. Gibbs must have brought him back – hold on. Hadn't it been Gibbs who had suggested – ah, he couldn't think for the headache! A pair of familiar but very unwelcome dark eyes swam into view.
"Go away," he managed. Gibbs laughed; James winced.
"Feeling a little under the weather, Jim?"
"You should know," came the retort. Gibbs grinned.
"Aye, and so do most of the crew," he said, gesturing to James' new decoration. James groaned. How on Earth had he allowed himself to get so drunk as to get a tattoo, much less one with that abominable nickname?
"Bloody pirate," he accused. This time it was Annamaria who answered him.
"And you're not, Ramrod?" She tossed him a shirt and he flushed as he realized that he had been lying on deck half-clothed. "Get dressed," she advised with a wicked smirk.
Helena was in trouble. She had no idea where she was; one moment she was running from Buffington again and the next she woke to find herself in the Tortugan street. With a sinking feeling, she realized that she must have reverted to her old habit of sleepwalking; it was a normal occurrence when she was stressed, and the last month had been one long nightmare for her. She had been walking for what seemed like days, able to smell the harbor but never to get close enough to find the ship. She didn't dare ask directions; none of the men in this town were trustworthy and so she was on her own. She turned down yet another darkened street, wondering how she was ever going to get out of this mess, when a hand caught hold of her arm from behind. She turned to find a balding, stinking pirate leering at her, his intentions all too obvious. His grip was strong; she tried to twist away but found herself pinned even more firmly. She turned her face away…and suddenly heard a familiar voice.
"I don't think you want to be doin' that, mate," Jack Sparrow said. The other pirate spun around to find a pistol pointed at his head; he slowly backed away, letting Helena go. Jack cocked the pistol and the man took off at a dead run down the street. Sparrow waited until the man was out of sight before uncocking the pistol.
"Are you alright?" he asked. Helena nodded shakily; she was indeed fine, at least physically.
"If I may be so bold, what are you doing out here, luv?" he asked, an expression of both concern and exasperation crossing his face. "Tortuga's no place for a lady, as you may've noticed."
"I was sleepwalking," she replied shortly. "It happens occasionally; normally I don't get this far." Jack regarded her a moment longer.
"You'd best come with me," he said finally. "If I send you back to the ship you're liable to tip overboard next time." Helena, unfortunately, took the comment entirely the wrong way.
"It's not a normal habit, if that's what you think, Captain," she snapped, her temper made short by her recent fright. "I'm not insane, contrary to popular opinion, and I'm not going to fall into your bed just because you saved me from that… brigand." Jack appeared taken aback.
"I wasn't suggestin' that, luv," he said. He had abandoned his normal drunken swagger; his expression was suddenly very serious. "I don't want to see you get hurt, nor do I want to have the good Commodore's sword run through my gullet. You can stay with me for tonight an' I'll take you back to the Pearl in the morning, dignity and honor still intact. Agreed?" Helena regarded him suspiciously for a moment and then nodded. Without another word, she followed him up the street and into one of Tortuga's many inns.
It was about half-way through the night when Jack heard the sound of a woman weeping. He had been sleeping outside the door for propriety's sake, having spent entirely too much time around James, but he sat up at the sound; the lamentation was coming from inside the room. He pushed the door open slightly to find Helena sitting upright on the bed, her face in her hands.
She did not know why she was doing this now; it had been a month and more since her flight from Port Royal, and by all rights she should have gotten this over with immediately, rather than putting it off like this. However, something about the night's events had shaken her and she had woken herself up crying. She heard the door creak and buried her face in her hands, attempting to hide her tear-stained face.
"I wondered when you'd be doing this," a voice said behind her. Helena just shook her head; she could not think straight, much less handle Jack Sparrow's larking about right now.
"Please go," she managed to get out in a hoarse whisper.
"Can't do that, luv," he replied. He moved further into the room and sat down on the bed next to her. She moved away a little; he didn't.
"Why can't you just leave me alone?" she asked, both surprised and afraid.
"Where I come from you don't leave a lady to cry," he replied softly. That did it; Helena collapsed, the weight of the past month's happenings finally coming crashing in on her. Jack simply held her, allowing her to cry against him. At last the weeping subsided and she looked up, aware that she must look terrible. Some women could cry and only be more attractive; Helena wasn't one of them and she knew it.
"I'm sorry," she started, reaching for a handkerchief and realizing that she had none. The pirate offered her his sash; it was rough, but under the circumstances it would have to do. An awkward silence prevailed between them before, with a pat on the shoulder, Jack got up off the bed.
"You'll be alright, then?" he asked. Helena nodded; he inclined his head and walked away, shutting the door behind him as he went.