AN: I disappear for a month, and now at last I am returned, armed with a chapter that can be pulled straight out of a soap opera/romance novel. Still, it might provide some more revealing insights into the character of Sierra, so I'll shut up now.

How My Perfect Life Was Inverted

Chapter Thirty-Six: Unfulfilled Longings

"Sierra," Anamaria sighed in exasperation after I'd finished recounting my encounters with the three unfortunately-marooned pirates later that evening, "what have you done to the poor man?"

Needless to say, Flavio was a main topic of discussion.

"Absolutely nothing whatsoever," I replied, offended that she would think otherwise.

Anamaria gave me a sidelong glance before focusing all her attention on the strip of wild boar that was her simple meal. I couldn't help but stare at the meat in longing as she examined it from every angle, silently contemplating whether she was hungry enough to subject herself to eating the faintly charred pork.

"Are you going to eat that?" I almost snapped, unable to restrain myself any longer. She jumped slightly in surprise at my tone of voice, her eyes flicking to meet my own famished gaze.

"Haven't you already…?" she began.

"Uh-huh."

"…had three helpings and two whole fish?"

"Yeah, but I'm still hungry," I argued.

Anamaria looked from me to the barely-touched sliver of food in doubt. "It's not even that nice."

"That's a 'yes' then," I said, and snatched the remains of a wild pig away before she could actually protest.

The woman rolled her eyes as I chewed happily away, occasionally pulling faces when I tasted burned flesh. Well, I suppose beggars can't be choosers.

"Are you sure you haven't said anything to frighten him?" she interrogated once again. "You must've at least said something to the bugger…"

"Ana," I said impatiently, swallowing an extremely large mouthful, "have you not been listening to a word I've been saying? I didn't even get a chance to speak to him, what with all his screaming and panicking and running…" I trailed off, licking my dry lips and secretly wondering if there was any way I could re-hydrate myself without the aid of water; my throat was faintly parched from all of my talking and eating, but the only drink that appeared to be available was rum, which I obviously didn't even consider touching.

"Come now, what did you do?" Anamaria continued to prod, and I shot her a faintly-insulted glare before sighing and turning to face the only eyewitness available to me in the hopes that he would provide evidence for my case.

"Jean," I began in English, for Anamaria's benefit, "did I do or say anything earlier today that you would consider intimidating, threatening, or some other equally unpleasant action?" For Jean-François' own comprehension, I repeated the enquiry in his own native tongue. A little redundant, perhaps, but at least my two monolingual companions would both stand some chance of learning the other's language, doubtful though it may be.

"Non," the Frenchman replied immediately, shaking his head to further emphasise the point whilst his fingers fidgeted with the cork of his own barely-touched liquor.

"'No'," I repeated smugly, and Anamaria narrowed her black eyes in response.

"Excepté…" Jean-François began, then stopped, apparently changing his mind. My head snapped towards him as I narrowed my eyes in annoyance, whilst on my other side, I heard Anamaria's faint chuckle.

"I think the bugger's got more to say on the matter than you'd 'oped."

Scowling, I shifted a little closer to him on the sand, my arms crossed, eyebrow raised in curiosity. "Except…?" I nudged gently.

The ex-captain looked down at his bare sandy feet and cleared his throat nervously, clearly uncomfortable, and refused to acknowledge my attempt at conversation.

"I'm still waiting for that explanation, Jean," I attempted to encourage. He shook his head and drew his knees up to his chest in an almost defensive gesture.

"You must've done something terrible, love," Anamaria chimed in, and I twisted my body to glare at her.

"I. Did. Nothing." I said through gritted teeth. She gave me a condescending smile, humouring me as though I was a young child who insisted that one and one made eleven, which I ignored as I refocused my gaze on the nervous Frenchman beside me.

"Why won't you tell me?" I whined, and he muttered something quickly under his breath.

"What's he saying?" Anamaria demanded, and I shrugged.

"Um… something about not wishing to cause me unjust and undue offence, I think…" The English pirate snorted in a way as though to say that she'd doubted such a feat was possible, which I once again ignored.

"Go on," I encouraged, leaning closer and tilting my head so that my ear was only inches from his lips. "I promise I won't be insulted. And if in the doubtful case that I am, I swear I will not in any way hold you accountable."

My reassurance seemed to put the currently-friendless Frenchman at ease, for he leaned a little closer, close enough for his warm breath to tickle my hair and skin, and slowly, awkwardly began to provide an insight into his blond companion's state of mind.

"What?" I exclaimed after, with some difficulty and plenty of stammering, he completed his first sentence. "Mais—il est un homme!"

"That's not what he thinks," Jean said gravely.

"…Oh…"

"Well?" Anamaria interjected rudely. "What is it that you did do but claimed that you didn't?"

"I…" I began, pausing and raising my head so that I was nose-to-nose with Jean-François. "Are you sure…?"

He nodded, leaning slightly away so that our noses were no longer touching.

"Is there no other reason?" I pressed. "Are you sure there's no other reason? Are you sure that's it?"

Jean-François paused, eyebrows furrowed in thought, before beckoning me closer with his finger once more. I complied, and felt the tickling sensation of his breath on my ear once again as he divulged another theory which I, personally, thought sounded much more probable.

"Do you think that's the real reason?" I looked up hopefully when he drew away.

"Non," he replied. "The first reason's more likely."

I tried my best not to look too disappointed. "Alright," I relented grudgingly, and turned to face the wrath of Anamaria's unsated curiosity once more. "It was because…" I trailed off, shooting Jean-François a doubtful glance. He gave me an encouraging smile, gesturing with his hands for me to continue.

"Are you absolutely certain?" I asked once more. "I don't want to sound arrogant; I like this girl…"

"Oui."

"Mes seins?" I gestured, and he nodded his dark head vigorously.

"Oui. Votre seins."

"What about her breasts?" Jack's unexpected voice interrupted our redundant and repetitive wordplay, and I jumped, accidentally pushing Jean-François away.

"Oh! Um, good evening, Jack," I greeted, my heart still hammering from the unexpected interruption. I noticed in the blazing, flickering light of the bonfire that he was dressed in a whiter shirt and darker breeches of a less-used quality than his usual attire; up until this moment, I was under the impression that he only possessed the clothes on his back. A closer examination told me that the garments were made of a finer material—silk, I think, although I wasn't certain, so I reached out and ran my fingers on the unbuttoned hem of his shirt.

"I take it you went back to the ship then?" I asked, playing with a small cream button. "Is Pearl there?"

"She's deceptively sleeping like an angel," he agreed, not-so-subtly pulling me away from my new French friend.

"What did you do to Flavio, Sierra?" Anamaria asked once more, clearly not about to be deterred so easily. "You've been dodging the question e'er since I first asked it…"

"Well…" I began, glancing at Jean once more, and Anamaria groaned, a hand reaching up to massage her head.

"Just answer the bloody question and be done with it," she tiredly intoned, and I scowled at the order before burying my face in Jack's unbuttoned shirt, feeling him involuntarily stiffen as I breathed on his bare skin.

"The only crime," I began, " that I have committed against this Flavio is this: I…" I buried my face further into Jack's chest, wrapping my arms about him. "Oh God, why does he have to be so weird?" I muttered to myself before lifting my head and looking Anamaria straight in the eye. "Basically, in the eyes of Flavio, apparently, my breasts are…" I hesitated "…criminal."

Jack laughed, his shoulders shaking comfortingly whilst Anamaria gaped at me for a moment before also joining in with her captain's sniggering. "What?" she asked, taking a swig of her rum.

"Well," I began with a glance at Jean-François, who nodded happily for me to continue. "Apparently Flavio feels intimidated by any woman with bigger breasts then him. Needless to say, that includes me."

"That includes a rather high percentage of the female sex," Jack contributed, still chuckling slightly to himself, and I could detect the faintest trace of rum on his breath. Even as I thought it, his arm snaked around my shoulders, reaching out to grasp my untouched bottle. He frowned at the bottle, glancing back down at me in undisguised curiosity before shrugging and bringing the trapped substance to his mouth, pulling the cork out with his teeth.

"Why?" Anamaria asked, clearly confused, and my eyes returned to hers. "I mean, he's a man, ain't he? Surely with all men bigger is better."

"That's what I asked," I agreed, "and Jean said that Flavio was under the impression that he was a woman, so you can see the logic in his reasoning…"

Anamaria shook her head, and I became uncomfortably aware of Jack's long, uninterrupted draught. "So what's he like then?" she asked next, not completely changing topic.

"Well, um…" I stuttered, still aware of Jack's obnoxious, unending swallowing, "he… looks exactly like Cate—God knows where they're off to—only he's more…" I paused. "Well, I was going to say 'masculine', but that wouldn't exactly be true—Could you do that a little more courteously?" I snapped at Jack in reference to his obvious slurping, making him jump and sputter. "That's making me thirsty," I explained at his bewildered expression.

He blinked before offering the beverage, but I shook my head, moving away from him, guilt and embarrassment vying for supremacy inside of me. Of course, moving away from him meant that I was unconsciously huddling closer to Jean-François, but I don't think either of the men actually noticed.

"Sorry," I offered meekly, glaring at the sand, "I don't drink. I mean, I don't feel like drinking tonight; is there anything else?"

Jack tilted his head to the side, brow furrowed as he slowly contemplated the question before shaking his head.

"Oh, come on," I argued, "are you honestly telling me that rum is only liquid here? You must have some water for Pearl."

"Ships don't drink water, Sierra," Jack explained drunkenly. "They glide on it, and make ripples." For some strange reason unbeknownst to me, he started to giggle.

"I meant Pearl," I stressed. "Your daughter, Pearl? The small, bouncy human being with the big blue eyes and irresistible pouting?"

"Oh, that Pearl!" Jack exclaimed, beaming at his ability to comprehend this simple statement. "Oh, she's fine. She's perfect, actually. Never been better. Sound asleep, like a lil' angle…"

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Don't you mean 'angel'?"

"That's what I said," Jack waved away, his hands still dancing in their intricate gesturing circles even in his inebriated state. His uncharacteristically clumsy fingers fell onto my shoulders, whilst his other hand dropped his bottle into my lap as he groped for my chin, turning my face upwards, and he attempted to kiss me, catching the corner of my mouth by accident. He laughed at his miscalculation, moving his head slightly, and I smiled in spite of myself when our lips eventually met: Jack's technique worsened considerably when intoxicated. Before I knew it, he'd pushed me back onto the sand, spilling his rum all over my skirt as he did so, and apparently neither noticing nor caring.

"Stop it," I said as I turned my face away, but he ignored me completely, his mouth nuzzling the side of my neck. "Stop it, Jack." It wasn't that I minded his attention, obviously; it was just that there were many others—literally a whole boatload—that were in a position to witness the act. That was probably why he was doing it, I realised, and tried to push him away.

"Jack…" I pleaded, my struggling growing frantic as irrational panic swiftly gripped my mind. "Get off me!"

I hadn't realised that I was on the verge of crying until I heard the tears creeping into my voice. Jack must've also realised that all was not well, as he'd immediately released me, falling drunkenly back onto his haunches and clumsily brushing himself off whilst I sat up, shakily running my fingers through my hair in a silent search for any stray grains of sand. Only when I was somewhat presentable did I shakily meet his gaze, uncertain of how he'll take my unexpected reaction: even I though it odd that Doyle's ghost would suddenly return to cast a spectral shadow over Jack's drunken advances, so God only knows how the captain's liquored mind was interpreting it.

The distinctly sweet fragrance of rum pulled me back to reality, and I realised that Jack had retrieved his rum bottle and was impatiently waving it under my nose. "Do you know what your problem is, darling?" he said to me, now completely oblivious to my short-lived panic attack. "Your problem is, you haven't been drinking." And he swiftly pushed the tip of the bottle against my mouth, the warm glass trembling against my lower lip.

I wrinkled my nose at him, shaking my head. "I don't drink," I repeated, pushing the substance away. "For God's sake, Jack!" I snapped at his persistence, ignoring his look of confused pain. A slight tugging caught my attention, and I turned to see Jean-François looking vaguely perplexed as he asked, firstly who Jack was, and secondly what the two of us were arguing over. Jack very rudely answered for me, saying that I was in a foul mood and, for reasons unknown to him, completely refused all offers of alcoholic substances. Naturally, I protested, albeit half-heartedly.

And that was when Jean-François asked me the question: the one single question that would be the first of many incidences that endangered my budding relationship with Jack.

"Do you like coconuts?"

Of course, I was faintly perplexed at the supposedly unconnected randomness of this enquiry, and blinked at him. "Pardon?"

"Coconuts," he repeated. "Have you ever had one?"

I stared at him, still vaguely uncertain of how to answer. "I… don't mind coconuts…" I replied cautiously. "Why…?"

He waved his hand somewhere in the general direction of pitch darkness. "There are palm trees here," he began, "and if you're thirsty, I can always just…"

I was touched by his kindness.

"That's very thoughtful of you," I told him. "Yes, that would be nice, but—won't that be a little bit of a hassle for you?"

"'Course it won't!" Jack chimed happily in, calloused hands once again dancing in a shooing motion clearly calculated to push Jean-François away from our merry fire-lit gathering. He really could be quite obnoxious when he was drunk, as I was discovering to my distaste. We both ignored his unwanted contribution.

"No no no, it won't be any trouble at all," the Frenchman reassured me, casting glances laced with undisguised anxiety towards Jack, who had suddenly fallen silent was glaring at the well-meaning man with unfocused black eyes.

"Oh, I'm sure it won't," the distempered captain snapped at the older man, in his inebriation forgetting his rival couldn't understand a word of English. I hastily translated the unexpectedly passionate exclamation whilst silently wondering if Jack's foul mood could grow any worse.

"What do you mean?" I asked him, casting a sideway glance at Anamaria, who was calmly sitting the side observing the proceedings with unconcerned interest.

"'What do I mean?'" he parroted spitefully, and I have to admit I was vaguely hurt at hearing him use that particular tone of voice when addressing me, "What do I mean? I'll bloody well tell you what I mean, young missy!" This last he shouted aloud, to the utter lack of notice of his carousing crew; out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw a few men swinging each other around in circles of a drunken dance they'd have well forgotten come morning.

Jack had paused after this enthusiastic yelp for what I believed were two reasons: one, for the much-beloved and overused dramatic effect; and two, to swallow several mouthfuls of his darling rum.

"What I mean," he finally began after I'd wrestled the bottle away from his oddly parched lips and gently prompted him to continue with a sharp poke to the rib, "is that your friend's here a dir'y little liar's what I meant."

Good God, his customarily perfect pronunciation was falling apart… I shot his rum a filthy look, whilst Anamaria snorted at his reasoning, gleefully coughing in the background in a clear gesture that she believed he had no right to call others liars. Leaning back, I placed the hated bottle of liquor as far out of Jack's reach as I could without moving from my position myself, flashed Jean-François a half-apologetic, half-embarrassed smile, and leaned back to my original sitting position, fluttering my lashes disarmingly in a manner that I hoped was both sincerely innocent yet irresistibly seductive.

It had no effect whatsoever; Jack merely scowled at my uncharacteristically coy features and attempted to push me aside, long fingers reaching out for his pilfered bottle. I immediately dropped my most innocent mask and narrowed my eyes, using my entire body weight to push him back from his addictive goal. "A dirty liar? What are you talking about?"

"Oh, you know what I'm talking about," he hissed as his hands rested on both of my shoulders, unmistakably calculating how much energy he would need to pick me up and drop in a place away from his liquor. A playful kiss on the nose did nothing to relieve him of his inebriated intentions, and before I knew it, I had been roughly disappointed at the feet of the still standing Jean-François. How charming.

"Him saying it's no trouble a' all to get you a damned coconut," Jack was muttering, sweeping up his fiery liquid just as Jean offered me a helping hand. "That's what I'm talking about."

"What do you mean?" I turned to look at him, ignoring the marooned man's hand for the moment.

"It's a bloody amount of trouble!" he said by way of explanation.

I was looking at him in concern now. "…I still don't quite follow…"

"Look!" he exclaimed, waving his arms, rum and all, to further emphasise his point. "Look all 'round you and tell me, me angle, what do you see?"

"My angel," I corrected huffily; I had (well, I could've had) a university degree in English and a healthy dislike for all things mathematical, and did not wish to be referred to as an angle.

"Don't change the subject," he reprimanded sternly. "Now answer me, my angle" (he was doing it deliberately now, I was almost sure) "what do you spy with your beautiful blue eyes?"

"Nothing," I replied stoutly, "it's pitch-black, Jack."

"Yes!" he pounced, pointing a triumphant finger directly at my nose and ignoring my little jump of involuntary surprise. "Exactly! You can't see a single damned thing on this night! How, if I may be so bold as to enquire, is your lovely French friend planning on fetching you a coconut if he can't even see which tree bears the bloody fruit!"

I smiled nervously and shifted a little closer to Jean-François, who was slowly edging away from the extremely vocal Englishman.

"How, exactly," Jack continued, apparently hell-bent on a drunken tirade, "does he plan to climb up a tree he can't actually see, let alone cut down this brown, hairy source of primitive rehydration if he can't even see three inches past his pestiferous French nose!"

Something inside me snapped at these words: here was Jean-François, a poor, marooned, lonely, and temporarily friendless, surrounded by a group of foreign men he no doubt found intimidating, yet he was willing to trot off and perform this one little thoughtful gesture upon seeing how uncomfortable I was, and Jack's just sitting, there, drunk off his arse and hurling uncalled-for insults when really, if anyone should offer to fetch me a coconut, it should be him, as it was his fault I couldn't touch any of his cherished alcohol in the first place! The injustice of it all hit me like one of Anamaria's infamous slaps in the face, and I clenched my jaw, sat up straighter, and unflinchingly met his gaze.

"He's had a few pretty awful experiences lately, Jack; he's been marooned, he's been hiding out with one petrified blond freak and one blonde bitch for days, he hasn't anything really decent to eat—and believe me, this doesn't count as decent food… Try to see things from his point of view, Jack: how would you feel? …And he doesn't actually have to get me anything; no one asked him to, he offered his…" I hesitated groping for an appropriate word, and cursed myself when one failed to reveal itself. "…Services," I settled, "of his own accord, and that's all the more reason to treat him with a little more courtesy to show him that this little act of compassion isn't going unappreciated, don't you think?"

The look Jack gave me was the most hurtful I had ever received: he looked upon me with such concentrated hatred I'd nearly open my mouth to apologise for a wrong I hadn't committed, but stopped myself in time, clenching my jaw as I tilted my head up defiantly. "Well?" I demanded. "Do you have anything to say to that?"

"Only that there's more reason to suppose his intentions aren't entirely selfless."

"Why?" I challenged.

"Two reasons, really: firstly, he's a pirate, and secondly, he's a man in the presence of a beautiful woman."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, darlin', that I've more reason to believe his act of coconut-fetching kindness is more to do with a skilfully concealed desire to get under your skirts."

I turned to look at the man under so much discussion alone to find that he'd obviously gotten very bored—or scared—and had wandered off to locate saner company.

"Do you know what I think?" I said, turning back to face my lover. "I think that you're just being really immature—and drunk. I think that rum's gone to your head—but do you know what I really can't believe? That it's so easy for you to think that I'll just go fuck any man who's even remotely more attractive than you are—why is that? What could I have possibly done to make you think that, are you just too drunk to think anything through?"

"Well," Jack began, "his voice low and mockingly cruel, "you are a whore."

For several long moments I merely sat there, held in place by a mixture of shock, anger, and, let's be frank, hurt. Reaching a decision, I stood, murmured some parting words to Anamaria, and stormed away from the drunken rogue who couldn't let a low blow pass him by, following the footprints of a certain Frenchman. I felt the captain's eyes on my back as I melted away into the darkness, but resisted the urge to look back, choosing instead to look towards my uncertain destination. Did the pirate make any effort to call me back, to run after me and grab my arm and apologise for the unwarranted insult? No, he did not, and I hated him all the more for it.

But most of all, I couldn't help but hate myself: hate how I refused to bear in mind that the man was intoxicated and probably didn't know what he was saying; hate how I didn't acknowledge his drunken slurs at Jean-François for the protective jealousy that they truly revealed; hate how I allowed my emotions to completely take over me and perform ill-advised acts. But most of all, I hated how, for all of my pretensions and unsavoury behaviour, I was still just a spoilt little girl who still cried at the slightest slur; I was slowly beginning to see what sort of miserable, unpleasant, ungrateful woman I really was.

And in a way, I also hated myself for the merciless betrayal I was about to commit.

"Jean!" I called softly as I drew nearer to the broad-shouldered silhouette faintly limping away from the warmth of the campfires. He stopped and turned back to look at me, a quizzical expression on his face.

"Is your captain… all right?" he asked after a brief moment's of hesitation as I fell into step with him.

"He's not always like that," I reassured him, snaking my hand about his forearm, my fingers tracing patterns on the firm, weathered flesh. I felt a grim satisfaction course through me as he shivered at the contact, but otherwise made no acknowledgement of the intimate gesture.

"He's not exactly fond of me, is he?"

"He's just had too much to drink," I reassured him, "He's not thinking things through. Speaking of which…"

I leaned closer to him, so close that he felt my warm breath on the sensitive bare skin of his neck; heard him swallow, and, with a suppressed smirk, continued. "Is that offer for coconuts still open?"

"…Yes…" he answered, attempting to readjust his body so that I was no longer intruding on his personal space without appearing impolite and failing miserably at both.

"Good," I purred, my hand sliding down to tightly grip his own fingers.

"Is that why—? Would you like—?"

"Maybe later," I cut short, secretly enjoying his uneasiness; it had been such a long time since I could make a man feel nervous in my presence, I'd half-forgotten the exhilaration that coursed through me as I watched the unfortunate male in question stammer and stutter as he grew more and more uncomfortable.

We'd stopped walking now, and I began to gently but firmly rotate his body so that he was facing me; even though he was the larger and certainly the stronger of the two of us, his body responded to my every faintest touch, obeying my every unspoken command. A sudden thought occurred to me as I watched him; Jack had never been like this with me. Never. Even when I was the seductress, Jack had always ended up as the one in control. And even in our most passionate moments, he'd never once looked at me the way Jean-François, and countless others before him, was looking at me now.

The man whose arms were wrapped around me was content with merely looking at me; studying every individual feature of my face, memorising every detail, appreciating this one single moment. It was moments like these, and not the innumerable glances in the mirror, nor the empty compliments received by polite acquaintances, that made me realise I was truly beautiful. And had Jack ever taken the time to simply look at me? If he knew that I was beautiful, he certainly didn't show it, much less take the time to appreciate it. Perhaps I really was just a harlot to him; a piece of skirt to be used and then tossed aside.

So now you know; the real reason for my sexual depravity isn't just all down to raging hormones, but also due in part to the simple fact that I wanted to feel appreciated. It's strange, isn't it? So many minutes, hours, days of my life consumed by fornication, and all of it driven by my selfish longing for a few seconds of unabashed admiration like these. Perhaps I should just settle down with a kind, sensitive romantic; probably a poet…

But one thing was suddenly clear to me, standing there looking up into a stranger's shadowed eyes: I was never going to receive the romantic moments I so desperately yearned for from Jack. Which was quite an upsetting fact to come to terms with, as I was almost certain I was half in love with him already. Damn my romantic ways.

Jean shuddered as my fingers flitted against his cheek. He found me intimidating: I couldn't help but find this thought amusing. Here was a man with scars from battle, a man who'd endured years of shabbily-rewarded hardships at sea, a man who'd murdered and injured and maimed and Lord only knows what other forms of physical pains he had both endured and inflicted; and here I was, a weak, unimposing young woman who found washing dishes an agony beyond endurance, and yet he was unsettled by me. I knew how to proceed.

I looked up into his eyes, and slowly reached up to kiss the corner of his lip. He was numb, at first; scared, uncertain of how to proceed, fearful of the consequences: he had no idea of who I was—was I the ship's harlot, passed from one deckhand to another until all were satisfied? Or was I the captain's woman; strictly off limits, with terrible consequences if the lines were crossed, the rules broken?

But here's another more pressing question: was I betraying Jack? As the two of us stood together in the comforting veil of darkness, I felt a wave of guilt wash over me, and briefly considered pulling away. But then I recalled Cate, with her silky mane of golden threads, her flawless ivory skin and red lips, the long black lashes framing her unusual violet eyes, and I remembered that soon she would appear by the fire, no doubt ready to comfort Jack in any way necessary whilst her odd brother showed off his wedding dress, and for some reason, the feeling of guilt dissipated as swiftly as it had come.

I no longer felt any qualms or hesitation; I was ready. Now I merely had to wait for Jean-François to reach a decision.

He turned his head slightly, responding to my kiss as he pulled me closer. To be honest, I think he gave as much thought to the consequences of his actions as I had when I'd first formed the plan:

He just didn't care.

-x!x-