A/N: Posted the last chapter, went to bed, woke up and found my inbox exploding ahaha. Thank you guys! Also I began revisions on my original novel this week, and my courage to do so has been massively bolstered by the insanely positive feedback you guys have been sending my way, so thank you for that!
James sat before Jack Sparrow in the captain's quarters, hands chained. It was a wise decision on the pirate's part, for if he wasn't, James would have murdered him several times over by now. As it was, all he could do in that moment was fantasise about it - and fantasise he did. It didn't make him feel much better. In fact, other than the white-hot rage that burned through him right down to the marrow of his bones, he felt utterly sick with worry for Theodora. Was she still unconscious, at the mercy of Jones and his band of monsters? Or was she awake and at the mercy of them all the same? Sparrow waited until the door shut behind Gibbs - who had been the one to escort James in, and was now off to oversee the scrubbing of the copious amounts of blood from the main deck - before he spoke.
"Oh, don't look at me like that," he said sourly.
"Do you wish to know the one consistent point of disagreement that Theodora and I have discussed endlessly since being reunited in Tortuga?" James asked.
"I'm sure you're going to tell me either way," Sparrow shrugged.
"Whether or not you could be trusted. Whether or not you were good," James said.
"Where did you fall on the matter?"
"I expected to be proven right at some point or another, but never like this," James sneered.
"Well. You're welcome, then."
"I'm going to kill you."
"S'that so?"
"Yes. I can't say when, nor can I say how, but I am going to kill you for what you just did."
"So what you're saying is that I should slit your throat now and throw you overboard just for peace of mind?"
James glared at him. He wouldn't beg. Not like Theodora had. He could still hear it, and it made him feel sick whenever her voice rang in his head, breathing his name and begging for his help. He'd tried. He'd failed. He would not fail again.
"I'm saying that when the time comes, you'll know that it's because of what you did tonight."
"Do you expect me to remember it from now until then, or will you remind me when that fabled time is upon us?"
James tested the grip of the manacles around his wrists, but they were clamped tight.
"Oh, you're finished?" Sparrow added when he didn't respond "Good. Dora knew the risks, mate."
"Of helping you."
"If Jones wanted her dead, he'd have killed her in front of us with the rest of them. But he didn't, so he mustn't. That gives us time."
"Time?"
"To devise a way of getting her back. Can't just leave her there - someone with her knowledge in the hands of Jones? Not ideal."
"I find your sentimentality truly moving."
"We don't have the time to go and get another hundred souls - I know it, Jones knows it, Dora knows it."
Every time he called her Dora, it only made James want to drive his fist into the man's smug face even more.
"So," he continued, leaning back in his chair and bringing his boots up to rest at the corner of his desk "I'm forced to revert to my original plan. What I would've done had Dora not been around to begin with. She knew what it was, she told me as much, and if she's half the woman I know her to be, she'll know that I'm returning to it, and find a way to work with it."
"From the brig of the Dutchman?"
Jack shrugged "That's not exactly convenient, I'll grant you that, but she's a resourceful lass."
James wondered if he could reach him and wrap the chains on his wrists around the man's neck before he could draw a sword or a pistol. He supposed he could lunge across the desk, grab him by his hair and slam his face into the corner of the surface. That would be a nice start. Sparrow looked to him, rolling his eyes.
"Don't tell me I'm going to have to spoon feed you the entire plan, Commodore, I thought you were meant to be at least vaguely intelligent."
"You're going after the heart," James ground out.
He'd heard tell of the heart - he'd heard Sparrow discussing it with Elizabeth up on deck, along with the pardons Beckett offered in exchange for it. Sparrow continued to watch him expectantly.
"Well, are you going to help? One might think you'd be enthusiastic about the idea of getting the leverage we need over Jones to win back your darling little Irishwoman. Unless you've turned your sights back to Miss Swann already?"
"Hold your tongue."
"Redheads can be a bit more troublesome to handle for a less experienced man, I'll grant you that, and Dora does seem like she'd be very troublesome."
James began to test the hardiness of the chains linking the manacles now. They held firm.
"If Jones catches wind of what you mean to do, he'll kill her," he pointed out rather than rising to the attempt at agitating him.
"If we get the heart first, he won't get a chance to make such threats."
"We?"
"So you'd prefer not to help at all, and simply wish your betrothed, or your betrothed-to-be, or whatever little arrangement it is that the two of you have, well from the brig, then?"
"You don't really mean to imply that you'll unchain me and trust me to help you?" He sneered.
"I'm telling you that's exactly what I'll do," Sparrow slid his boots from the desk in favour of leaning forward "Because you've got just as much need for us to get to that heart as I do, and I need somebody with that sort of motivation to make sure it happens. Elizabeth needs it to save her dear William, you need it to be reunited with Dora, and I need it for…well, meself."
"Your favourite person indeed."
Sparrow nodded and grinned as though James was finally understanding his point and not casting aspersions on his character "Exactly. Between the three of us, there'll be no stopping us from getting our hands on the heart."
He kept using those words. Us. Our. We. Like they were all on some merry little team together. As if he hadn't decimated any chance of James' willingness to work with him the moment he'd as good as delivered Theodora to Jones with a bow atop her head. But he didn't need to tell Sparrow that - not now that James knew the oaf was actually foolish enough to contemplate freeing him, not if it meant getting these chains off from around his wrists, and not if it meant getting that heart - for Theodora, and for himself. He'd tried playing things the way she'd sworn up and down would help, he'd tried trusting her word on Sparrow and on how things had to be done. He'd tried approaching things her way. Now that Theodora's way had ended with her being Jones' captive, he wasn't quite content to do so any longer. Admittedly, it wasn't something he'd exactly been comfortable in that approach to begin with, but he'd resigned himself to his discomfort, even told himself that his history with Sparrow possibly made him biased in his disdain for the man, and done his best to grin and bear it. Albeit without much grinning.
He still trusted Theodora's judgement. He'd never known her to be naive - not overly so, not in ways that couldn't now be explained by the difference in the times in which they'd lived most of their lives thus far - nor foolish, nor idealistic. But the fact remained that she'd formed her opinions on a version of events that did not now exist. On theatre, by the sounds of it. That version of events dictated that he should now be pining over Elizabeth, and he was not. So it stood to reason that perhaps they were also incorrect that Sparrow was good. He certainly couldn't be trusted. No, it was time he followed his own intuition. But Sparrow didn't have to know that. He would get the heart, he would see Theodora safe, and he would listen to his own instincts so that nothing like this happened again.
Making a show of mulling it over, he finally pressed his lips into a thin line, glared at him and lifted his hands.
"I'm going to need your word on it, mate. On your honour. You understand, surely."
James wanted to laugh in his face. In fact, it was almost difficult not to - and that was saying a lot, considering he'd seen new recruits do things that truly strained the bounds of logic and reason and kept an entirely straight face to punish them. Whatever his men liked to say, he wasn't entirely without a sense of humour, and Sparrow's assumption truly tickled it. Was James usually a man of his word? Yes. He endeavoured to be such - a man was only as good as his word, after all. But did he really think that he'd hold his word as sacred when given to him? Sparrow had shown a willingness to double-cross anybody and everybody, whenever it became even so much as fleetingly necessary, and James had less than no problem with doing the same in turn. In fact, he would take great pleasure in it when the time came.
But he had to maintain the charade, and he allowed even more of his anger to show on his face now, regarding him with a glower as he made a show of wrestling with the condition. And then he finally sighed, shook his head, and ground out.
"You have my word."
Sparrow grinned, James continued to fantasise about knocking the teeth from his mouth, and then the pirate rounded the desk and undid the manacles. James couldn't wait for the moment he made him regret it. Once Theodora was safe, he would make sure that he did.
When Theodora woke up, she was certain she was going to vomit. Her head pounded, her empty stomach felt like it was gnawing at the rest of her insides, and every sensation felt like it was multiplied tenfold…which made lying in the sea water swilling about at the bottom of her the cell she'd been dumped in all the more unpleasant than it already would have been. That in itself was saying a lot. And the nausea wasn't just physically motivated, either. Jack had betrayed her - and what was even worse was that she'd been utterly fucking idiotic enough to actually be surprised by it. Not only that, but she'd begged. Tears pricked at her eyes - of shame, of embarrassment, of fury, of betrayal. Of fear.
"Best not let the captain see your tears, girl," a voice rasped behind her "They'll earn you no pity here."
She was on her feet in an instant, hand grasping for a knife that was no longer at her belt. Bootstrap Bill watched her reaction with something caught between exhaustion and resignation…which only showed the vaguest flicker of interest when she calmed upon registering who she was looking at.
"Bill Turner?" She breathed.
"Do we know each other?"
"No, I- I know your son," it had been ages since she'd watched the films, but it was still difficult to say those words and not hear them in Elizabeth's voice.
He regarded her for a few moments "You're not Elizabeth, are you?"
"No, I'm not. We're friends - just friends. I'm Theodora. Theodora Byrne. I…doubt he'd have mentioned me."
Not even a glimmer of recognition showed in his face, confirming her suspicions. He did, however, blink in surprise as she sloshed forward to offer her hand, staring at it distrustfully for a moment before finally shaking it - and only incredibly briefly at that. Theo was glad for it, for with the exception of Jones and Beckett, this was the man she least wanted to share a room with while she was here. If only she had her sword on her. But that was a line of thought she abandoned as it came up. Even if she could do that to Will, even if she could do that at all, even if she was capable of not only making such a choice but also following through with it, she wasn't sure it was technically possible. Jones' crew seemed at least almost as immortal as he was. All the same, sharing a cell with the man who might very well end the life of the man she loved did nothing to help her nausea. Neither did the fact that the Dutchman absolutely stank - like bad sushi, like damp, like rot and decay. Every attempt at a calming breath just had her stomach turning while she debated whether breathing through her mouth would even be an improvement, given that she would then taste it.
Wrapping her arms around herself, she sighed and then paused when her hand laid flat across the band of her sports bra beneath her arm. Too flat. Her wallet was gone. The cold water that had seeped into her hair and clothing suddenly felt much, much colder. No. No, no, no. It had to have fallen out - in the skirmish or while she'd lain unconscious on the floor of the brig. When she continued to feel herself up and come up empty, she turned her attention to the floor, getting on her hands and knees to inspect it.
"The first mate took your effects to the captain. They searched you, but they didn't-"
"I had a- a pocketbook. Hidden on my person. Did they find it?"
Bootstrap nodded.
"Fuck," she hissed "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
Lifting a hand to smooth it over her hair, she paused when her palm came away tacky and smeared with blood. Her day was not improving. It took several deep, ragged breaths in for her to be sure she wasn't about to begin crying again. She had to calm down. She had to calm the fuck down, and she had to think, and she had to do both right now. When she opened her eyes, she found Bootstrap watching her.
"How long ago did they take it?"
"Not ten minutes past, you weren't unconscious for very long."
She wasn't sure whether she should be reassured or not by that. It sent pangs of genuine, physical pain streaking through her chest to know that James might not be even that far away in the grand scheme of things, but how he might as well have been on the other side of the planet all things considered. Christ. He'd be worried sick. He'd be murderous. At this rate it would be a miracle if Jack lived long enough for the kraken to even begin pursuing him once again.
"You helped Will escape, yeah? When? What's Jones doing now?"
Was he back aboard the Dutchman already? She thought not. Surely in that case William Sr. would be a bit more shaken, having supposedly witnessed the death of his son.
Bootstrap frowned "The men said you were a witch. It was true, then?"
"That's not important. I need you to answer me - please. I need to fix this. If you answer me, I can help you."
The man scoffed, shaking his head - his damp hair shaking limply as he did so. But then he sighed, and he answered.
"Jones is in pursuit of William now. I suspect I'll be dragged above deck if they find him to bear witness to..."
He trailed off, but that wasn't what she paid attention to. If they find him. Not when. So he had hope. That was good, she could work with that. The movies always showed that his deterioration truly began when he gave up hoping. So what if she could undo that? What if she could secure James' life by negating the threat that Bootstrap posed before he even posed it? What if her being here was fortuitous rather than the end of the world entirely?
"Listen, I need you to trust me when I tell you this. Jones will find Will, and he'll make you watch as the kraken destroys the ship he's on," the man's face faltered, but Theo pressed on quickly "But Will survives - he'll survive it, do you hear me? It won't look like it at the time, but he will, and he'll keep working to free you. But you have to keep believing that."
"The promises of witches are always lies and tricks," he murmured.
"I'm not lying."
"You'd be better off if you were," he said dully "Liars he can stand, but Jones' hatred of witches is famed. He'll show you no mercy."
Mercy wasn't something she'd expected from him in the first place.
"Listen, Will still has the knife - he'll hang onto it, and he'll use it to-"
Footsteps rang out then - the dreaded asymmetrical gait of Jones entirely unmistakeable. Theo fell silent. It took a great deal of self control not to back up against the wall and curl up in on herself in an effort to make herself as small as possible. Instead, though, she stood firm - even though it meant physically tensing every muscle in her damn body. Whatever was coming, she'd face it on her feet even if doing so killed her. She just sort of hoped that it wouldn't.
By the time Jones strode into sight, practically ripping the door of the cell open almost before the quartermaster even had time to unlock it, her heart was competing with the pounding of his crab-like leg in an attempt to drown out her ability to think straight. Clenching her fists at her side, it was willpower and willpower alone that stopped her from stumbling backwards as Jones marched towards her, glaring as he brandished her wallet.
"What is this?" He spat out the words, punching the final syllable which had this sounding more like this-a.
She had the feeling it wasn't intended to be a very angry Super Mario impression. Part of her was tempted to lie outright - to insist that she didn't know what it was and play clueless. But it had been taken off of her by his men. He knew it was hers, he knew she knew, and lying would only anger him.
"It's my pocketbook," she said finally.
Jones' anger flared, his eyes widening slightly as if in an attempt to glare at her even harder, the tentacle of his malformed hand writhing so that it opened the wallet, displaying the photos wedged inside.
"Port-" her voice came out thin and reedy, and she had to clear her throat and begin again "Portraits. They're portraits. I-I have an artist friend who specialises in hyper-detailed miniatures, he paints strange images for fun, he-"
His claw came up to seize her throat in a bruising grip that felt much too tight to be an empty warning.
"Are you under the impression that any realms beyond that of the living and the dead are beyond my ken?" He challenged lowly.
Theo stared at him in horror.
"How came you by this land?" He demanded.
"I don't know," she croaked.
His grip tightened, he lifted the claw until the tips of her boots barely scraped against the ground, and for one terrible moment she was certain that she was going to die. That he'd keep squeezing, that she'd feel the flesh of her neck give way, and that there would be no more…well, anything. Theo closed her eyes, screwing them tightly shut, and she waited. Jones let go, and she hit the floor hard. Pain shot through her left hip and elbow as they took the brunt of the impact.
"How?" He demanded again.
She had to convince herself that she wasn't lying - if she wanted to convince him, that was what she had to do. And really, it wasn't a lie. Or at least it wouldn't have been if he'd asked her very recently. For most of her time here, she hadn't known. For most of her time here, she'd been wondering and panicking - dreading and pining to know all at once. So she channelled that. It came surprisingly easily - because it wasn't so far in the past, and because her life likely depended on it.
"I don't know," she breathed "I don't know. I woke up here, I don't know how, I've been trying to make sense of it but there aren't any answers. I don't know."
He was silent. Unsure of whether it was a good or a bad thing, Theo allowed herself to nervously babble.
"I didn't know it was possible, I didn't do it on purpose, I don't know how it happened. I don't know how it's possible. I don't kno-"
"Enough," Jones snapped.
With oxygen returning to her system, the ability to think came with it. That wasn't much of a good thing. Jones was aware of her world. He knew who she was - or at least that she wasn't exactly a local. What else did he know? Did he…? No, he couldn't know how things were going to turn out. They didn't exactly end well for him, he wouldn't be acting…well, like this, if he knew how things shaped up. He wouldn't walk docile into the fate that awaited him. So he knew of her world, but he didn't know it. Didn't know of the phenomenon that was Pirates of the Caribbean. Right? If he knew, he'd be demanding answers. Demanding information. He was doing none of that. This was bad, but it wasn't as bad as it could be. Not yet.
Jones took a step forward and she shrank away, not even attempting to get her feet under her. He inhaled, about to speak, and then one of his men tore into the room. Theo didn't look up.
"Captain! We need you ondeck, sir. We have a heading for Turner - we'll be on him come daybreak."
Bootstrap inhaled sharply to her left, and Jones gave a growl. Theo resisted the urge to close her eyes again, and prayed his need for revenge would seem more pressing than his need for answers.
"When I return, you'll recount your story to me - and if you lie, I'll kill the commodore first when Sparrow fails."
Ah. So he'd heard Jack name him, then - in a manner of speaking. Theo said nothing, and remained there in the manky water until he left and slammed the cell door shut in his wake. He took the wallet with him.
A/N: So the thing is, right, when it comes to writing Jones' dialogue I'm very aware of his vocal tics - dragging out vowels, really punching the final consonant of words and so on - but it's a very difficult thing to type out without it either being comical at worst, or distracting at best. It's also really easy to over-do without a whole lot of pay-off. So I'm not doing it, I'm writing his dialogue with his voice in my head, and instead I'm describing it here and there where I can while hoping that not typing it doesn't make his lines sound less like him. But I figure if those tics were the only thing keeping him sounding in character, my characterisation would be iffy to begin with and there would be bigger problems at play. Just my line of thought!
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