Click. Click. Clickety-click.
Captain Jack Sparrow peered over the girl's shoulder as she worked at the odd instrument. "Wouldn't it be easier just to write it on some of yer paper ?" he asked. There was enough paper littering the room.
"No," she said, shortly, absorbed in her work. "I'm posting this on line." she turned, glared up at him. "Look, don't read over my shoulder. I hate when people do that." She waved vaguely. "Make yourself at home."
I have no intention of doing that, he thought, aghast. Still, he obeyed. Jack prowled around the tiny room. His fingers traced the top of the clock radio, watching the glowing red numbers change. One finger hovered over a switch. On/Off. The finger abandoned the switch, waved through the air, describing a large arc as Jack turned. A larger switch was on the wall. On/Off. This one was irresistible. He circled his finger toward it, flicked it. On. The room was lit up from above by a glowing glass orb. Windmill blades spun in a circle. Off. He leaned to one side, flicked the switch again. On. The light and the breeze returned.
Lauren sighed theatrically, turned and frowned at him. Off. "Just stay out of my drawers, ok ?" she pleaded, nervous.
He bowed slightly in assent, hiding a sudden smile. It's poor me whose drawers ye've always been wantin' to get into, love. He paced to the open door, glanced out into the hallway, turned away with a slight shudder. If I step out of her sight, will I disappear ? She had wreaked havoc in his world without ever leaving his cabin. He had no desire to leave the confines of the room.
Jacks eyes roamed over the ceiling. Smooth and white, it provided even less inspiration than the beams of his cabin. He was acutely aware of the afternoon sunlight through the curtains, the changing red numbers on the clock. Time runs differently here. His fingers circled, imagining the hands of a clock in his world. He tried not to think of young Eddy dying of starvation and thirst on a barren isle while his captain loitered in a world not his own. Have to trust the girl. The pirate's nerves jangled.
His hands roamed across cluttered surfaces of their own volition, his eyes following, sometimes turning to watch the girl. She worked steadily, occasionally pausing to lean her head on one hand. A row of colorful little bottles drew him in. He picked them up one at a time, turning them in his fingers. Nail Polish. The paint she wears on her fingernails. That's rather interesting. He selected a silvery bottle, opened it. A tiny brush was attached to the cap. He ran it over the nail of his left index finger, surveyed the effect. Pleased, he dipped the brush in again.
Rumble.
Weaving and stumbling, Jack crossed to the window. The floor was solid, unmoving under his feet. I hate that. Fingers plucked at the frills of the curtain, pulled it aside slightly. A boy rolled down the street on some sort of conveyance; a plank on wheels. The faint rumbling noise was what had caught his attention in the first place. The boy looked up toward the house as he rolled by. Jack's eyes widened and he flinched back from the window. Eddy. He swooped back, peered again. No, not Eddy. This boy was much younger. A good foot shorter, too. The captain of the Black Pearl turned slowly and regarded Lauren, brown Kohl-rimmed eyes wide. That's really interesting.
Jack's body ached, the aftereffects of adrenaline pinging through him. Now that his rage and fear had subsided, he could feel the ravages of the immense quantity of rum he'd recently consumed. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. The girl showed no sign of being done. He looked at the narrow bed, a small shudder running through his tired limbs. There was no other seat in the room. The pirate sprawled, propped against the pillows, hands folded across his chest. His stared hard at the girl's back. Against his will, his eyelids drooped as he watched her.
Clickety-click.
Lauren turned. "I'm finished !" The captain of the Black Pearl lay on her bed, staring at her through heavy-lidded eyes. "Um, well," she stammered, getting up and pushing the chair to one side gracelessly. She nearly knocked it over.
Jack watched, hiding his amusement. He was still more than a bit angry with her. The girl backed away, blushing furiously. Captain Jack Sparrow is in my bed. Her skin crawled. No matter that she had imagined it, fantasized about it, the reality was that he did not belong there.
"Not so much fun when the tables are turned, is it love ?" Jack drawled lazily. She had retreated as far away from him as she could. Her back was pressed up against the chest of drawers. Finally taking pity on her, he sat up on the edge of the bed. Hooking the little chair with his foot, he motioned for her to sit down. "Taken care of our Eddy ?" he asked.
She nodded, taking her seat across from
him.
He waited. Looked at her encouragingly. "I don't
suppose ye'd provide me with a hint as to where to find him ?"
he said, finally. "Coordinates ?" His eyebrows raised.
"Ye know, love, latitude and longitude ? It would be helpful."
His hands described horizontal and vertical lines. Please, he
thought to himself.
"Um, no," she replied.
No, ye wouldn't, would ye, he thought, annoyed. Then his warped mind gave him the image of Lauren coming up with a pair of random numbers. Latitude 78.3 by longitude -72.75, he imagined. Which would put Eddy somewhere slightly north of Greenland. Probably for the best that she didn't try. He looked at her with exaggerated patience. "So I'm to find him...how ?"
"Oh, easy. You just run up the Trades a bit, get the wind, you'll come right down to him," she said, relieved.
Like Mr. Cotton's parrot, the girl repeated a phrase she had heard, or more likely, read somewhere, without understanding. His heart sank. Hands rose in defeat, then fell to his sides. "I won't be able to find him."
She frowned. "Yes, you will," she said with conviction. "I wrote that you found him. You will find him." Impulsively, she patted his arm. Blue eyes met his, confident. "He's going to be all right," she said.
"Well, then. Good," he said, rising to his feet. Just have to trust her. "Take me back, so I can get to it, then. There's a good girl," he ordered, reaching for her arm.
Lauren shook her head. She was exhausted herself from the afternoon's events. "You can do it yourself. Just poof."
He swayed on the solid floor, raised an eyebrow at her. "No. Ye have to take me back."
"You don't need me to," she disagreed. "You can take yourself back. Poof," she imitated his finger splaying motion.
He drew himself up to his full height. "I'm Captain Jack Sparrow, love. I don't poof," he said with dignity. His fingers splayed mockingly. The nails on the left hand were polished silver, the right hand bare.
Lauren stifled a giggle. He didn't bother to do both hands. She resumed the argument. "You did today, you poofed here."
"No, love," he explained patiently. "Ye poofed here. I just came along for the ride."
"You poofed too."
"Ye did it first," he accused. He was starting to feel foolish. Why must she defy me ?
"You invented it." Jack glared at her, affronted. She refused to be intimidated. "You did ! That first night, you told me to just go poof."
Jack folded his arms across his chest. He braced his feet against the hateful, unmoving floor. "Captain Jack Sparrow does not poof."
"Aah !" Lauren waved her hands at him, a shooing motion, exasperated. "My mom will be home soon. You have to leave. Come on !" He lifted his chin, stubbornly. She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. Inspiration struck.
"Ok, you don't poof. Fine." She raised one hand in front of his face, pressed her thumb against her middle finger. His eyes followed, quizzical. She snapped her fingers.
The pirate blinked bloodshot eyes, startled. "Ah, that just might work," he agreed. He raised his hand in salute, thumb and finger coming together as he did so.
Snap.
Lauren flinched and startled back, knocking over her chair. Her eyes rolled around the room. She breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief and picked up the chair. She was alone.
