Summary: "'Leave him on the island he left us on.'" Elizabeth saves Jack's life when he washes up on her island all but dead. At least he's in a tolerable mood when he wakes up. One-shot. Sparrabeth. Post AWE.
Add That To The List
She was on her evening walk along the shore of the island when her eyes caught sight of a couple of shapes silhouetted against the setting sun.
One of the shapes was clearly a small dinghy, whilst the other appeared to be a man on his hands and knees. She could just make out the sound of him hacking and coughing violently, could see a substance spewing from his mouth and dripping into the sand from his lips. She had no idea who he was, but he was in dire need of her aid.
She hurried across the beach, to his side. His outfit and matted black dreadlocks looked familiar, but she could not get a glimpse of his face, for it was angled toward the ground as blood trickled from his mouth- and probably some cuts. His breathing was worryingly ragged, his body shaking weakly as he tried to remain upright. If she didn't know better, she'd say he was dying.
"Are you alright?" She forced the words out, moving to kneel down beside the man.
His head snapped up at the sound of her voice. She recognized him almost immediately, by the chocolate brown eyes, the twin-braided beard, the red bandanna. It was Jack Sparrow.
Her breath caught in her throat as she took in his beaten features. Blood leaked from beneath one side of his bandanna. It trickled from both his nose and mouth. The right side of his beard was caked crimson, warning of a jaw wound. His eyes were unsteady, refusing to focus on her form. But she could see the recognition in them.
"Jack, what happened to you?" She managed in concerned horror, reaching out to cup his bleeding jaw.
He let out a light hiss through his teeth, wincing as he pulled back from her grasp. His blood lingered on her fingers. He didn't answer her question; he didn't say anything. He simply stared at her.
Before she had a chance to further inquire about how he had come to be in such a state, his body slumped forward into the sand and fell still.
She held a hand beneath his nose, sighing in relief as she felt his warm breath against her skin; he was alive. On the brink of death, perhaps, but alive nonetheless.
*X*
When Jack woke up, he found himself laying on a cot in a small home. His first thoughts weren't of his wounds, which ached profusely, but of his rescuer. Elizabeth wasn't at his side, which he was thankful for, but also baffled by. She'd appeared very concerned at the state he was in when she'd found him. Of course, by now, she would have treated his wounds, but still...
He grimaced as he sat up, a new wave of fresh pain flooding through his cut-up form. He'd been stripped to his trousers. There were several stitched wounds spanning across his torso, and he could feel more stitches on his leg. The tear in his trousers had been mended.
He found that his bandanna had been removed, recalling that his forehead had been bleeding a bit. His beard had been trimmed back, to his annoyance, so that she'd be able to examine his injured jaw. He couldn't find fault in it, even if he didn't appreciate that she'd done it. He supposed coughing up blood and leaking the crimson liquid from nigh everywhere was a bit of a cause for concern, after all.
He slipped from the cot he'd been on, bracing himself for his leg to buckle like it had when he'd climbed from the boat. He let out a breath of relief when it held his weight. His eyes flickered across the room, finding nothing of interest other than his own clothing and effects. He grabbed his black coat and threw it over his bare shoulders, slipping his arms through the sleeves.
When he entered the next room of the cottage, it was clear that the little home contained a small total of two rooms. With little guilt, he noted that he'd been occupying the only bed- he reminded himself that it was her choice. Honestly, she couldn've left him outside if she'd wanted to.
It appeared that she was not around, probably out searching for food or something. He decided it wouldn't hurt to greet her outside, leaving the cottage and limping down towards the beach with no more than a glance back at the small structure.
The sand burned beneath his feet, and part of him wished he'd grabbed his boots. The damp sand down by the water soothed the bottoms of his heated feet.
He spotted his dinghy moored to a makeshift stake in the sand, not far from him. He approached it, examining the integrity of the pole and ensuring that the boat wasn't going to drift off; he'd need it later.
"You shouldn't be up." Elizabeth's voice called from the front of the cottage, catching his attention.
"What makes ye say that?" He called back, making his way towards her.
"You're limping." She pointed out.
He waved it off. "It's fine."
"Coughing up blood is not fine." She reminded him. "You were nearly dead when I found you."
Jack paused as he reached her, his eyes narrowing as he calculated what to say next. "Nearly."
She shook her head in annoyance, vanishing inside the cottage with him on her tail. "You're unbelievable, Jack. Unbelievable and insufferable."
"Ye're welcome." He shot back, smirking slightly.
Elizabeth scoffed, setting down a basket he hadn't noticed her to be carrying. Curious, he peered inside. It was full of different tropical fruits, no doubt scavenged from the native trees of the island. He recognized a few of them.
"Ye're doin' well for yourself." Jack remarked.
"I wish I could say the same about you." She replied with a hint of amusement.
He held a hand to his chest in mock offense. "Oi, I didn't mean for that to happen. How long have I been 'ere for, then?"
"Almost a week." She told him.
"Hmmph." He frowned as he sat down in one of the few armchairs in the main room, the pressure in his injured leg releasing. "I s'pose that's not too bad. Been out longer for worse."
He watched her sort through the fruit at one of the two only tables in the room. There were some mangos, papayas, coconuts, bananas, and some others he couldn't name. They were all varying in degrees of ripeness, but he figured she wouldn't eat much of it a day. He guessed that the haul she'd brought in could be enough for about a week.
She offered him a mango. He turned it down; he wasn't hungry. All he wanted was rum to sooth his aching cuts, something which he knew she didn't have.
"You look younger." Elizabeth commented.
"No thanks to ye." He pointed out with a pout, tracing the stitches in the skin of his exposed jawline. "I would have preferred that ye didn't cut me beard off, love."
She rolled her eyes. "It'll grow back."
"'M too old to look this young." Jack muttered to himself.
"How old are you?" She sounded genuinely curious, having overheard him.
"Easily twice your age."
"Really?"
"Positively." He leaned back thoughtfully. "Ye're what, eighteen? Nineteen, perhaps? I wish I was still that young. Had a lot less problems."
Elizabeth snorted. "You're a trouble magnet, Jack."
"Beginnin' to believe so meself, love." He agreed, crossing his arms across his chest. "Though the last few months have been rather nice up 'til recent."
"What happened to you anyway?" She questioned.
"Nothin' ye need to concern yourself over." Jack assured her. "Ye haven't seen Barbossa by chance, have ye?"
"No. Why?" She asked. "Don't tell me he took the Black Pearl again."
He grinned sheepishly.
"Unbelievable."
"I know. I don't want to kill him again, but he's makin' it harder."
"Leave him on the island he left us on." She suggested.
A roar of laughter burst from him at the idea. Barbossa, left on the very island he'd left Jack himself on twice. The irony...He had to try it. "I'll add that to the list, love."