How My Perfect Life Was Inverted

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Discussions Of A Delicate Nature

The first thing I was aware of when I'd awoke the next morning was the raging storm outside: the crashing roar of thunder and the wretched howling of the wind. I groaned into the pillow, burrowing further into the mattress. It wasn't cold, but it was my natural reaction to the wailing gale.

"Ah, so there is life after all," a bemused voice murmured from somewhere to the foot of the bed. I grunted in response, making him chuckle. I heard the scraping of the chair, followed by the creaking of the floorboards as he moved towards me. There was a tugging on the blanket, and I furrowed my brow, curling tighter into a ball. I couldn't help the shiver of fear that went through me as Jack placed a hand on my back, and I didn't know why I'd reacted that way.

"Are you just going to stay there all day then?"

I yawned, pulling the cover up and over my head in response.

"I'll take that as a 'no' then."

Without warning, the blanket was ripped away from me, making me squeak with indignation. As I said before, it was impossible to be cold in the Caribbean, but without the coverlet, I noticed a definite drop in the room temperature.

The bed creaked as he sat on the mattress, and I felt it again: that strange, irrational jolt of fear that coursed through my every vein, causing my body to involuntarily shudder.

"I want my blanket back…" I croaked sleepily, hugging the other pillow tightly to my chest.

"You sound suspiciously like my daughter," Jack's voice observed thoughtfully whilst his hand wrapped about my waist. I noticeably flinched at the contact, and he stiffened at my reaction.

"How are you?" he asked, moving his warm palm away. I sighed at the loss of contact, burying my face further into the pillow, knowing my quivering was the culprit.

"I'm fine," I murmured groggily, yawning yet again. His finger marked a trail across my cheek, and if I'd had jumped any higher I'd very probably have hit the ceiling.

"No, you're not," he stated. He turned me onto my back, ignoring my grunts of protests, and happily pried the pillow that was the substitute for my suddenly longed-for teddy bears, Bubbles and Fluffy, with apparently few qualms.

Yes, I did have soft toys in my own time when I was well into my twenties. But not anymore. And Fluffy and Bubbles are respectively sheep and fish as opposed to bears, I'll have you know.

I groaned yet again, reaching out for the sheep/fish alternative and coming into contact with an elbow instead. Odd, how I wasn't quaking in fear when I touched him. Then again, he was normally the one that felt threatened by my advances. It was a strange, twisted world I was in.

The elbow twitched slightly, and then a hand was on my waist, joined shortly by the other, and I jerked yet again. He'll probably start to think I suffered from an abnormal epilepsy triggered by his touch if I did much more flinching.

He pulled me towards him, his arms wrapping tightly around my back, and lowered my head onto his shoulder. His body was so warm… I immediately nestled further into his embrace, sighing in contentment at finding something vaguely resembling a radiator. His hand stole up my spine, rubbing my shoulder blade in a comforting manner, and he murmured what I assumed were words of comfort in my ear. I smiled at his kindness, kissing his shoulder as a way of expressing my gratitude.

"Jack?" I asked him quietly. He nodded in response, his fingers now lazily tracing circles on my back. "Was what Doyle said true?" I knew I'd asked before, but I just had to know. Doyle was dead now; Doyle wasn't a threat anymore. But the rest of the crew were still alive, and even if they weren't a threat, they all possessed the potential for becoming a… a…

I just had to know the risk.

Jack understood my rather cryptic query. "Yes," he murmured honestly. "But in death Doyle's been set as an example—found a use for him at last." He pulled away, but only a little, looking concernedly into my face. "Are you sure you're alright?" he asked again.

I smiled at him, a little twitching of the lips that very probably didn't count as a smile by average standards. But then again, this wasn't an average situation, so perhaps Jack did recognise it as an expression of… joy, if I was capable of feeling such emotions in my current jumpy state. "Yes," I said to him.

He kissed me then, very gently, his hands pulling me completely into his lap. "I don't want you staying here," he whispered softly against my lips. "Not that I think any of the crew will try anything—they're good men, Sierra, good, mostly God-fearing men, with the ironic exception of Father Dickinson, who thinks that Satan is real whereas God is an illusion—you've my word they won't lay a hand on you." He paused. "Except perhaps for Father Dickinson, who's just in a league all his own, but I think it'll be a pathetic attempt at exorcism rather than attempted rape."

I chuckled a little, which, judging from his small smile, seemed to have been his intention. "What does Father Dickinson have to say about—about all of… this?"

"He claims that Doyle was a miscreant slave of the Devil—he still professes an unfounded strong hatred of you, darling, but when it really comes down to it, I'd wager he's in love with you."

I choked back a snigger. "He's in what with me?"

"He loves you," Jack insisted, eyes widened in innocence as he nodded, pressing his cheek against mine as he continued to speak into my ear. "Don't you think it a little odd that he always appear just as we're about to—" He paused, clearing his throat.

"Kiss?" I supplied.

"Any sort of intimate action," he agreed.

"I just thought he had really bad timing—bad for me, but good for him."

"Oh no, he's in love with you. And in lust, come to think of it—"

"In lust?"

"Aye, in lust."

"But—But he's a priest!"

"He was a priest," Jack corrected. "But after he was denounced from the Church of England, he came across the ingenious idea of saving the souls of rapscallions such as myself. And our women," he added thoughtfully as he continued to murmur into my ear.

"Am I your woman then?" I asked, speaking as softly as I could in the hopes that, by some miracle, he would be unable to here my query. He didn't react at all, his hand still tracing patterns on my back, and I mentally breathed out a sigh of relief. I didn't actually want to know; I didn't want to hear him lie and answer in the affirmative, simply because he pitied me after the whole incident with Doyle, or worse, hear the truth, that I was just a whore whom his daughter had smuggled onto his ship.

"Dickinson believes that all women he considers to be beautiful are the subjects of Lucifer," Jack continued. "He believes that any female able to send him panting into heat is an unholy concubine. He believes you're a succubus here to steal my soul and lead this crew into the deepest abyss, where your cannibalistic siren sisters hungrily await. He believes you're actually a withered crone with a decaying face but nevertheless disguise your true form by cunning spells and enchantments; he fancies you a witch and enchantress, you know. He believes you tempted Jesus, did you know that? And he believes it was you that misled Judas Iscariot—You really should drop in on his masses some time, they're exclusively about you and your corruption."

"You allow Sunday church services on your ship?" I asked in bemusement.

He shrugged in my arms. "For the entertainment value more than anything else," he replied. "I'm not a practising Christian, and certainly not a Protestant one at that."

I laughed quietly, catching his lips in a quick peck that had the pleasantly surprising effect of making his eyes widen before smiling. "So the entire crew are only listening to all of this… preaching simply to humour Dickinson?"

"Of course not," he replied. "Did I not just say my crew is comprised of an alarming percentage of God-fearing men?"

I lowered my eyebrows. "I didn't know that religion counted for so much in…" I stopped. I was going to say something along the lines of 'in this era', and that just wouldn't do, would it?

"It does count for quite a lot, much to my perplexity," Jack informed me, apparently unaware of my sudden hesitation. "Even people whom you certainly wouldn't expect of, like, well, pirates and whores. Even Beth wouldn't—" And he paused, clearly unwilling to continue. It was his turn to look away now, but it was too late; it was obvious to me that Jack's acknowledgement of his daughter didn't exclusively stem from paternal sentiments alone. I always suspected that Beth was a part of the reason, but it was a depressing thought that I didn't dwell on.

Well, she must've been married by now. He really should get over it.

"Where's Pearl?" I asked, changing the uncomfortable subject. "She must be so upset by what happened—I mean, what might've happened—not that I think that she's—that I'm…"

Jack's grip on my body was firm as he refused to permit my escape. I felt anger coursing through me; he was in love with Beth, not me. That much was obvious. So he had no right to hold me like… like this. He just couldn't have the both of us; he certainly couldn't have me at any rate, even without the knowledge of Beth's hold upon him.

"Jack…" I pleaded through gritted teeth, unwilling to allow my resentment to creep into my voice.

"She's asleep in my cabin," he soothed. "Don't worry about her, she—"

"Alone?" I interjected. "Jack, is she alone up there?"

"Of course not, she's with Gibbs, who's very probably awake—"

"I want to see her," I insisted.

"It's not fair on Pearl to wake her—"

"I don't want to wake her up, Jack," I explained exasperatedly. "I just want to see that she's—"

"And it's not fair on you to go up into the rain either," Jack said resolutely. "What's wrong with staying here with me?"

"You're not as cute and pretty as Pearl is," I pointed out.

"Yes, I am!" Jack instinctively snapped before furrowing his brow as he reconsidered his rather spontaneous and unintentional declaration. "Sierra, when Pearl wakes up, Gibbs will bring her straight down here, alright? You've my word on that."

"But I want to see her now," I pressed. "Why'd you keep her away from me anyway? I really need her—and her cute little complaints and mannerisms—I've been deprived of her little pearls of wisdom, if you'd forgive that horrible unintended pun…"

His fist seemed to tighten on my nightdress, as though angered that I'd considered an eight-year-old's wisdom far outstripped his own. "She's fine," he said shortly. "Do you think I'll let anything happen to my own daughter? Besides," he continued, his tone rather distant, "would it really be so terrible to spend one day in my company alone?"

I blinked, looking up at his inexpressive gaze. What was he getting at?

"I didn't mean to offend you, Jack," I murmured quietly. "I just miss Pearl, even though it's only been one night…"

"Well, that's very sweet of you," he acknowledged, his tone less than pleased that it was the daughter I was so desperate to spend time with rather than him. "How very moving, wishing to reassure yourself of a child's emotional state rather than examining your own; touchingly—" And he stopped, looking at me closely, eyes narrowed in suspicion as he examined my body rather than my face attentively.

"Touchingly what?" I asked, bewildered.

"…Touchingly maternal," he completed after a long pause that suggested he knew, or thought he knew, something that I didn't.

I shrugged uncomfortably. "She… She says that she sees me as a mother—a mother figure…" I imparted uneasily, not exactly relaxed by his searching gaze.

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh, does she now?"

"Yeah, but I… Well, I'm a little young to be anybody's mother, really…"

He snorted. "No, you're not," he waved away. "My own ma gave birth to her first child when she was barely sixteen."

"Well, that would've been the age I was when Pearl was born!"

"My point exactly." And then he said, rather abruptly:

"Do you want children, Sierra?"

My eyes widened in confusion. "What? No! Of course not! I hate the little brats! They're small and drool and are always jumping on you, general nuisances… With the exception of Pearl," I added hastily on catching his gaze. "Pearl's adorability far outweighs her very, very, very few negative characteristics."

"Are you sure? I thought they were somewhat balanced."

"Ah, that's where you're wrong: her lovability is unprecedented." I wasn't certain if praising his daughter would be the best course of action, as I'd always suspected he was faintly resentful of the swift, easy bond between Pearl and I. "She's very charming," I said to him. "Pretty as a doll, if not as innocent…"

His face seemed to darken, and I wondered if I'd somehow offended him. But when he spoke, I understood his sombre mood.

"She is, isn't she?" He agreed, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "Too beautiful for her own good, just like her mother…"

His fist tightened on the material of my skirt; I felt his fingers clenching against my leg. My hand fell upon his own, trembling with anger, my thumb stroking his skin.

"This is the first time I've heard you talk about it," I said quietly to him. "What happened to Pearl, I mean. You can't let it affect you like this, Jack."

"I know that!" he snapped at me over the howling of the wind, causing me to start yet again. "But it shouldn't have happened, not to a child… And you—It shouldn't have happened to you either…"

"You saved me from Doyle, Jack," I pointed out, worried he'll burst into tears and confess his childhood secrets, his dreams and ambitions, before recruiting me onto his worldwide anti-rape campaign, and that would all be a little overwhelming, to say the least, not to mention embarrassing for the both of us.

"But can you honestly tell me you've not been taken advantage of before?"

I felt my heart freezing. "What—What makes you think that?"

His eyes might mine unflinchingly. "You just seemed to understand everything Pearl went through a little too well, according to her God-honest account," he explained. "I'm sure your own personal affection assisted immensely, but it was the way you did it—how you talked to her, what you said to her, how you said it, how you—"

"How would you know what I said and how I said it!" I snapped at him, my temper flaring at his probing. "You weren't there!"

"What, you think my daughter hadn't noticed how you'll sometimes come back late at night with a bruise on your neck or a cut on your lip?" he threw at me. If I wasn't so unsettled, I'd have paid more heed to the gentle sympathy in his voice, the quiet compassion in his eyes. "Did you really think she was deaf to your tears, however late you waited to shed them? Did you think she hadn't overheard discussions between whores about how some men took perverse pleasure in forcing a woman, whether she was obliging or no?"

"Well, I—yes, I supposed I had—cried—a few times—it's hard for a woman—any woman—to accept that she's a lowly prostitute… And I suppose I—I did get hurt, but—but that doesn't mean—some men don't know their own strength, it—it doesn't mean I was a—a victim…" I stuttered ramblingly.

He brought a finger to my lips, silencing my irregular speech. "There's more," he stated once he was certain my breathing was somewhat steady. "You had a nightmare last night."

"I don't remember." I stated flatly.

"Someone called David…" he trailed off meaningfully.

"I don't know any Davids!" I defensively snapped. "Do you?"

He just shrugged. "Look, it's perfectly acceptable for you to be a little upset—"

"Jack, why can't you just accept the fact that I'm an unrapeable?"

"Yes, I can understand your anger—You're a—I'm sorry, what?"

"An unrapeable," I repeated exasperatedly. "One that cannot be raped."

He was looking worriedly at me. "Is that even a word?"

"I've said it twice already; it must be." He was still staring at me, clearly more than a little dumbfounded at my flippant manner and coining of words. "Un-rape-able," I repeated slowly.

Jack had found his voice at last. "Well if that's the case, then it appears that Doyle had very nearly accomplished a rather prestigious achievement," he commented, clearly still a little flabbergasted at my lack of tears and wails.

"That's because he was too shy to ask," I dismissed with a wave of my hand.

"You would've agreed? With Doyle?"

"Alright, so he's not the most attractive of men, but—"

"Doyle?"

"—it'll be a lot less painful for me if I'd said 'yes' though, so I would've said 'yes' and then tried to think of something pleasant," I continued, ignoring his interruption.

"Doyle?" he continued to ask for confirmation, brown eyes comically widened.

"And it doesn't actually matter about physical appearance, not really, so the fact he was extremely repulsive was more a—a colossal hindrance than it was, say an unconquerable impediment," I elaborated. "Yes, Jack, even Doyle," I added as he opened his mouth.

His jaw snapped shut, and he was looking at me with a noticeably void expression that was a little discomforting.

"Perhaps I should just share you out around the crew," he said at last as the silence reached its most awkward moment.

My palm stung as it connected with his cheekbone. "What kind of loose, wanton slut do you take me for?" I hissed furiously at him as Jack yelped.

The captain threw his hands up in despair. "Why? Why? Why?" he implored. "Why do I even bother? Everything time I try to—to comfort you, to help you, to explain the workings of the male mind, you hit me!"

"You insulted me," I insisted. "It's not very polite—"

"You brought it upon yourself!"

"Jack, that's completely off the point," I dismissed. "And besides, I've only hit you today—"

"And yesterday!" he reminded. "Threatened me with an extremely heavy kitchen utensil as well, come to think of it—"

"It was only a frying pan, it can't do a lot of damage—"

"Of course it can!"

"Oh, how so?"

"It's a frying pan! It's big and round and made of metal. Do you realise how many lethal medieval weapons fit that description? The noble frying pan," he concluded solemnly, "is the cook's last defence against—"

"Is Anamaria anywhere near?" I interrupted.

He paused mid-tirade, looking at me suspiciously. "First Pearl, now Anamaria, eh?" he murmured, catching my chin and drawing up my gaze to meet his. "Why do I have the sudden feeling that you're attempting to avoid me?"

"I'm sorry, Jack," I apologised sincerely. "I just don't really feel like being around anything that's an owner of male genitalia today, and that, as luck so has it, includes you."

"Oh, so I'm a 'thing' now?" he complained in a distinctly feminine manner.

"You're a man," I explained patiently. "You don't honestly expect me to think of men as living, breathing, thinking human beings, do you?"

His response was to give me an extremely odd look. "I'm starting to think that Anamaria's been a bad influence on you…"

"Oh no, not at all, I've always despised the opposite sex," I waved away.

"Sierra, after everything last night, do you honestly not trust me enough to even spend twenty-four hours alone with me in this cabin?"

"Of course I do, Jack," I replied. "It's just I don't really feel like spending a whole day in bed with you right now."

He visibly flinched. "You must've been very upset by last night…"

"I'm not upset!" I told him once again. "God, Jack, I know I should be, I know I should be a little concerned by the fact that I'm floating in the middle of the ocean with a group of sexually-frustrated and largely unattractive men, but I'm not, alright! I'm not upset, I won't break down into a sobbing wreck, I won't jump at hearing distant voices or footsteps, I won't suspect every man of attempting to hurt me, so why not just drop it?"

His reply was to look mockingly into my eyes, silently saying once again that he knew something I was not yet aware of. Further enraged by his ridiculing eyes, I twisted myself out of his arms, glaring furiously at him when I'd reached the other side of the mattress, my legs drawn up as I glared furiously at him. "And I won't need you cuddling and coddling me like a child, either. Why don't you save your affection for someone who actually wants it, like Pearl? Lord knows she's been starved of it."

Jack's laughing eyes immediately hardened as he continued to look at me. "What makes you think I'm not fond of my daughter?"

"I think you don't show it," I explained as I gathered messily discarded clothing from the day before and began to dress. "She wants someone to dote and fawn over her—why else do you think she's grown so fond of me so quickly?"

He was silent as he watched me struggling to lace up the stay, my shaking fingers allowing the thin cords to slip through my fingers. "Would you like me to help you with that—"

"Didn't I just tell you that I don't want your bloody pity?" I snapped, succeeding in pulling the lace through the small holes at the very top.

"Sierra, it would appear that you are in a state of minor irritation—"

"Shut up!" I snapped at him. "Didn't I just tell you that—" And suddenly, for reasons completely unbeknownst to either of us, I burst into tears, covering my face as my shoulders wracked with badly-repressed sobs.

"…Uh… Will I be reprimanded if I was to extend the invitation of a sympathetic embrace?"

"…I don't even know what you just said…" I sniffled, wiping at my eyes and looking at his anxious face. "But I feel better now…" And just like that, my weeping had stopped, and I had all but fallen into his arms.

He appeared to be a little disconcerted by my sudden changes of mood. "Um… There, there," he awkwardly comforted with a self-conscious pat on the back. I heard him mutter to himself, "Unpredictable and volatile mood swings, an unmistakable sign…"

"An unmistakable sign of what?" I asked dejectedly.

"Of nothing! Nothing, nothing, nothing at all, no circumstance of particular consequence, no forthcoming event that will change our lives forever, no little parasitic bastard preying on our patience—nothing at all!"

From his lengthy lack of elaboration, it appeared that there was an unmistakable sign of something after all.

"An unmistakable sign of what, Captain Jack Sparrow?"

"Just 'Jack', if you'd be so accommodating—"

"An unmistakable sign of what, Jack?" I repeated.

There was a pause in which the storm once again made its presence known by allowing a roar of thunder to echo across the sky.

"Come to think of it, 'Captain Jack Sparrow' has an altogether more—"

"Jack, just answer the question, please."

He hesitated. "Well… I'd only ever had experience of one woman during this no doubt taxing stage, but…"

"Jack…"

"Well, unpredictable and volatile mood swings such as yours—which have not, in any way, deducted from your charm—tends to be associated with—with—" He audibly gulped.

"A woman's time of month?" I'd guessed.

"Or, in some cases, conspicuous lack thereof," he agreed, clearly a little ill at ease with the personal subject matter breached.

I patted his shoulder comfortingly. "Aw, aren't you adorable?" I cooed. "I think I will stay with you today. It'll be very amusing, if nothing else."

He let out a frustrated sigh. "Case in point," he exclaimed, releasing my body only to gesture helplessly at it.

"No, you're right," I sighed. "I was a little… emotional just now. Then again, I'll be getting my—well, you know—in a couple of days…"

He pulled away, studying my face closely.

"Yes, I sincerely hope that that's the cause of your rather fickle disposition of late," he enigmatically agreed. "Or Doyle, or a combination of the two, and not what I suspect…"

When I enquired as to the nature of his suspicion, he flatly refused to answer, saying that he'll only tell me if it was true, and only then if I hadn't figured out his perception of the situation that he refused to name all by myself. If the situation was not as he'd thought, and I hadn't guessed his notion, he just won't mention it at all, and my curiosity will never be satisfied. Frustrated at his skilful evasion of my questioning, I gave him a rather spontaneous slap before immediately regretting my action, cooing over the injured cheek.

After this and a few more similar incidents, we finally came to the agreement to drop the subject altogether and just talk of more pleasant affairs; which, in Jack's language, meant that he simply related a few of his grander adventures whilst I sat curled on his lap listening avidly to his questionable tales. After the overwhelming incidents that had transpired the previous day, I found that I much preferred the incredible events that mostly made up Jack's repertoire of 'God-honest' escapades than I did experiencing my own.

-x!x-

AN: Well, wasn't that a rather long chapter dealing with absolutely nothing of particular significance? And as I have been officially forbidden by the omnipotent site admin to responding to reviews within chapters, I have decided to post replies to anonymous reviews on my profile page, for future reference. I should have already responded to all signed reviews by now; if not, I'll get round to it sometime.