Disclaimer: Jack and Company aren't mine, as you well know, but Annick is my own creation. A different kind of Mary Sue, if you will.
Chapter One
I don't care for the way this chapter ends, so it may be changed, but enjoy anyway and tell me what you think so far. Rated PG-13 for a little French vulgarity, assuming you read French, and Jack being generally blasphemous. --Janvier
The lights of Tortuga are never dimmed. They are kept blazing all through the night, and the roars of laughter and fighting in the narrow streets make it impossible to sleep, even out here where the Black Pearl is anchored.
But who needs sleep? Not Captain Jack Sparrow. His personal best is four nights and five days, enjoying the revelry of the pirate haven. Right now he's going on a good two-and-a-half nights, but it seems like forever. Revelry, for some reason, seems beyond him. He slumps across the rail, watching the city lights dance on the water until he is almost sick from the optical illusion. He hasn't been sick in years, but now it feels like the first time he ever tried rum (to excess, anyway; he's been drinking rum since he was old enough to grab it). How old was he? Nine? Ten? Eleven? He can't recall. A long time ago at any rate.
Jack straightens and plunges his hand into his pocket, then slumps again, hand extended over the water, to inspect what he retrieved. A gold necklace is crumpled in his palm: a locket, to be exact. The kind of trinket a mother would give to a daughter. How precious.
The girl and her mother pictured in miniature are pretty--every time he looks at it, it strikes him how much the girl looks like her mother (who must be dead) now. Elizabeth. A pretty lass, indeed, but prickly as a sea urchin. He can bet Will Turner has his hands full.
"JACK!"
"What?" He whirls around, shoving the locket in his pocket again, and receives a sound crack in the forehead from a salt-withered leather boot. "By salty Christ, woman, what do you want?"
A figure as wavered itself out on deck. It's a woman, and a rather average one by Tortuga's standards. Blonde, with a bust that is disappointingly modest when not cinched to her chin with a corset. The only difference in this one was that she has managed to locate and don Jack's hat and captain's coat.
"Oi!" She finds one accusing ring-adorned finger pointed at her. "Off. Now."
"But look, I can be a pirate!" She attempts to twirl, but in her inebriated stupor finds herself instead teetering over a barrel of resin someone has left open. With a yelp Jack flings himself forward and yanks her away. A moment later his head thuds against the deck and he finds his breath replaced by a hundred pounds of woman sprawled across his chest.
"Bloody stupid bitch," he coughs, "Y' almost ruined me coat and me hat!"
"Ach." He feels her spit spatter across his hand with the noise she makes. "Serves you right for bruising' me earlier."
"Beg your pardon!" He shoves her away and begins to strip coat and hat from her. "Tha' was all in fun. Y've no reason t' foul me clothing when y 've got yer own."
She gives a squeal of delight and tries to clamor upon him again. "You wanna do it again? Righ' here?"
"I'd sooner climb into bed with a sock o' dead chickens," he growls, "Get up, I'm takin' you back to shore, savvy?" It amazes him how much less obnoxious a girl can be when he's drunk than when he's beginning to sober up. She, however, is still too drunk to give any comprehensible protests as he propels her to one of the rowboats.
"You must be soberin' up," the woman observes. She has taken up the majority of the boat by the time they are halfway to shore and is now regarding Jack with an irritable-drunk gaze. "You sure were sweet in that tavern."
"That's 'cause I wanted in your blouse, love." He feels the old Jack, the normal Jack, shine through for a moment and feels better. At least, until the broad's donkey bray of the laugh splits his head open.
When they reach the jetties he doesn't even feel like rowing back to the ship. From here he can see one of the crew in the crow's nest, and at least two more have appeared on deck since his departure--they've learned to deal with Jack's most recent mood swings by disappearing below decks. Secure in the knowledge that his beloved Pearl is safe, he swings himself onto the jetty and sends the broad on her way with a few coins in her corset. He follows her up the walk to the streets for a few yards, but is hit by an overwhelming wave if dizziness. He almost thinks he's been struck in the back of the head until he realizes he's alone.
He hasn't been this drunk in a long time.
But wait…he isn't that drunk anymore. Who knows.
Jack is staggering up a relatively quiet side street when he realizes he is no longer alone. It occurs to him that he probably figured this out some time ago and is just now realizing it. By the time he has turned, and drawn his gun he finds one already pressed to his temple.
"Sparrow." It's a standard greeting to him amongst pirates, and the standard grating voice bears no distinction from any other in Tortuga. It's the hand holding the gun and the otherwise complete lack of any features that strikes him.
"My savior!" Jack crows. "Annick!"
"Your zavior?" The hammer clicks back to a neutral position and the gun withdraws. "Your only 'ope for a savior is God, Sparrow, an' 'e doesn't like you very much."
"Ten years from Martinique an' you still can't get rid o' that Frog accent, eh?" Jack takes a step away and does not put away his pistol.
"Watch 'oo you call a Frog, Sparrow, you putain." A large black man steps into the pool of lamplight just beyond Jack, pushing past him. "But me a drink."
"Now, I think you ought to buy me a drink, see, for a comment like that." Jack doesn't speak a word of French, and so ignores Annick's muttering. He is a full head taller than Jack, and winds his way through the crowd as if there is no one in his way.
"Jack!"
"Oh, bloody baby Jesus." Ignoring Annick's glance, Jack stops and casts an irritable gaze about them. He sees his companion's eyebrows lift, and follows his gaze to the approaching figure. It's Anamaria, much more sober than she should be and as irritable as he's ever remembered her.
"Sparrow, what were you thinking, bringing some cheap whore onto the Pearl? Don't deny it, I saw you, and--"
"I don't deny it, love," he says sweetly, "but I don' have to explain it. I'm the captain, savvy?"
Anamaria gives him a curled-lip incredulous look and meets Annick's eyes, as if to ask if it's his fault Jack is acting so strangely. Irritated and unsure why, Jack rattles on. "And seein' that I'm the captain I must have my reasons, and bein' that you're a woman you probably don' want to know them, so ignorance is bliss for all involved, savvy?"
Only silence greets his words, maddening him beyond measure. He is just about to growl one of the more creative and colorful insults he's been reserving and stalk back to the ship when Anamaria speaks again.
"Who are you?" Her accusing gaze is turned on Annick, who gives a toothy smile. Like any pirate worth his salt and splinters, not all of his teeth are his own.
"Ah bien, madamoiselle. Je m'appelle Annick. Et quel est le nom de la jolie dame?"
Anamaria starts, glances at Jack, and scowls at both of them. "You're mad, Sparrow." With a one-fingered gesture over her shoulder at Annick, she stalks away.
"Captain Sparrow!" he calls after her. He didn't understand a word of what Annick said, but it makes him grin nonetheless.
"Your lady?" Annick questions as they make for the tavern again. Jack snorts.
"Aye, maybe once if I hadn' commandeered her boat." The nearer the tavern they get, the easier it is to form the familiar glib, gold-encrusted grin. "I don' believe she'd 'ave me anywhere but hell, now."
Annick gives a barking laugh. "Zat's where you belong, Sparrow. Sitting at de right 'and of de Devil 'imself."
"Captain Jack Sparrow sitting right 'and? I don' fancy that, mate. I wear the captain's 'at here." On impulse he ducks his hand into his pocket to make sure the locket is still there, then follows Annick inside.
"Evenin', Cap'n Jack!" The plump, bawdy matron of the place (who, Jack thinks, is still as attractive as her flock of 'girls', as she calls them) calls out to them from the counter. "Back already? Beth got too drunk t' function again, eh?"
Beth. Ugh. Too close to Elizabeth. Jack plants a fat kiss on the matron's forehead and forces a roguish grin. "Y' never disappoint, May. T'was good while it lasted, anyway." He gestures to Annick. "This be me old mate, Annick."
The matron's eyes cloud over as she inspects the tall black man. "You ain't got a last name?"
"Slaves aren't given last names, madame." In spite of her mostly unwelcoming expression and invasive question, Annick is suave, even giving her a polite smile. But both Jack and May can see the coldness in his eyes.
"A rum, lass, and a pint for me mate," Jack says, interrupting the silence. As they retreat to a table with their drinks, Sparrow turns his eyes over his shoulder to his companion. "There're plenty o' pirates who'd jump at the chance t' return a slave for a reward, mate. Best keep that tidbit to yourself."
"Oui, Jacque, if anyone knows dat, I do. Don't t'ink I haven't heard before I'm not blonde-'aired wiz eyes of blue, but neider are you, my friend. You look like a Spaniard. I've been free ten year, zere 'as to be a reason for zat, no?" He shrugs. "Je ne sais pas."
"It's Jack," Sparrow corrects. "I don' doubt your skills, mate, it's just a warning."
"Alors," Annick interrupts. "You ought to be more worried about yourself, Jacque. You look like 'ell. 'Aven't you slept?"
Jack takes a gulp of rum and flops into a chair, muttering at the table rather than Annick. "Who needs bloody sleep."
He can't see Annick's raised eyebrows. "I am t'inking you do. What is wrong?"
Sparrow begins to scratch at the table with one of his rings, watching the pale raw wood appear after a moment from beneath the thick varnish. "I'm goin' bloody insane, mate."
Annick reserves his snide remark, but smirks at the thought of it. "What is it you mean by saying dat?"
Jack gives him an incredulous look, but passes it off as Annick's shaky hold on the English language. "I mean I'm goin' insane. I can't concentrate on any one bleedin' thing. I keep havin' these bizarre dreams, assuming I can sleep. I don' even enjoy rummin', if y' know what I mean. I woke up a few days ago an' couldn' manage command o' me Pearl."
Annick seems to realize the significance of this and makes no immediate comment. Sparrow spent ten years hunting his sip and his mutinous first mate--it isn't hard to tell that the Black Pearl is Jack's pride and joy. "Zo what are you going to do about it?"
The incredulous look turns almost disgusted, and Jack drains the rest of his drink before he answers. "I don't bloody know."
Next chapter coming soon.
Chapter One
I don't care for the way this chapter ends, so it may be changed, but enjoy anyway and tell me what you think so far. Rated PG-13 for a little French vulgarity, assuming you read French, and Jack being generally blasphemous. --Janvier
The lights of Tortuga are never dimmed. They are kept blazing all through the night, and the roars of laughter and fighting in the narrow streets make it impossible to sleep, even out here where the Black Pearl is anchored.
But who needs sleep? Not Captain Jack Sparrow. His personal best is four nights and five days, enjoying the revelry of the pirate haven. Right now he's going on a good two-and-a-half nights, but it seems like forever. Revelry, for some reason, seems beyond him. He slumps across the rail, watching the city lights dance on the water until he is almost sick from the optical illusion. He hasn't been sick in years, but now it feels like the first time he ever tried rum (to excess, anyway; he's been drinking rum since he was old enough to grab it). How old was he? Nine? Ten? Eleven? He can't recall. A long time ago at any rate.
Jack straightens and plunges his hand into his pocket, then slumps again, hand extended over the water, to inspect what he retrieved. A gold necklace is crumpled in his palm: a locket, to be exact. The kind of trinket a mother would give to a daughter. How precious.
The girl and her mother pictured in miniature are pretty--every time he looks at it, it strikes him how much the girl looks like her mother (who must be dead) now. Elizabeth. A pretty lass, indeed, but prickly as a sea urchin. He can bet Will Turner has his hands full.
"JACK!"
"What?" He whirls around, shoving the locket in his pocket again, and receives a sound crack in the forehead from a salt-withered leather boot. "By salty Christ, woman, what do you want?"
A figure as wavered itself out on deck. It's a woman, and a rather average one by Tortuga's standards. Blonde, with a bust that is disappointingly modest when not cinched to her chin with a corset. The only difference in this one was that she has managed to locate and don Jack's hat and captain's coat.
"Oi!" She finds one accusing ring-adorned finger pointed at her. "Off. Now."
"But look, I can be a pirate!" She attempts to twirl, but in her inebriated stupor finds herself instead teetering over a barrel of resin someone has left open. With a yelp Jack flings himself forward and yanks her away. A moment later his head thuds against the deck and he finds his breath replaced by a hundred pounds of woman sprawled across his chest.
"Bloody stupid bitch," he coughs, "Y' almost ruined me coat and me hat!"
"Ach." He feels her spit spatter across his hand with the noise she makes. "Serves you right for bruising' me earlier."
"Beg your pardon!" He shoves her away and begins to strip coat and hat from her. "Tha' was all in fun. Y've no reason t' foul me clothing when y 've got yer own."
She gives a squeal of delight and tries to clamor upon him again. "You wanna do it again? Righ' here?"
"I'd sooner climb into bed with a sock o' dead chickens," he growls, "Get up, I'm takin' you back to shore, savvy?" It amazes him how much less obnoxious a girl can be when he's drunk than when he's beginning to sober up. She, however, is still too drunk to give any comprehensible protests as he propels her to one of the rowboats.
"You must be soberin' up," the woman observes. She has taken up the majority of the boat by the time they are halfway to shore and is now regarding Jack with an irritable-drunk gaze. "You sure were sweet in that tavern."
"That's 'cause I wanted in your blouse, love." He feels the old Jack, the normal Jack, shine through for a moment and feels better. At least, until the broad's donkey bray of the laugh splits his head open.
When they reach the jetties he doesn't even feel like rowing back to the ship. From here he can see one of the crew in the crow's nest, and at least two more have appeared on deck since his departure--they've learned to deal with Jack's most recent mood swings by disappearing below decks. Secure in the knowledge that his beloved Pearl is safe, he swings himself onto the jetty and sends the broad on her way with a few coins in her corset. He follows her up the walk to the streets for a few yards, but is hit by an overwhelming wave if dizziness. He almost thinks he's been struck in the back of the head until he realizes he's alone.
He hasn't been this drunk in a long time.
But wait…he isn't that drunk anymore. Who knows.
Jack is staggering up a relatively quiet side street when he realizes he is no longer alone. It occurs to him that he probably figured this out some time ago and is just now realizing it. By the time he has turned, and drawn his gun he finds one already pressed to his temple.
"Sparrow." It's a standard greeting to him amongst pirates, and the standard grating voice bears no distinction from any other in Tortuga. It's the hand holding the gun and the otherwise complete lack of any features that strikes him.
"My savior!" Jack crows. "Annick!"
"Your zavior?" The hammer clicks back to a neutral position and the gun withdraws. "Your only 'ope for a savior is God, Sparrow, an' 'e doesn't like you very much."
"Ten years from Martinique an' you still can't get rid o' that Frog accent, eh?" Jack takes a step away and does not put away his pistol.
"Watch 'oo you call a Frog, Sparrow, you putain." A large black man steps into the pool of lamplight just beyond Jack, pushing past him. "But me a drink."
"Now, I think you ought to buy me a drink, see, for a comment like that." Jack doesn't speak a word of French, and so ignores Annick's muttering. He is a full head taller than Jack, and winds his way through the crowd as if there is no one in his way.
"Jack!"
"Oh, bloody baby Jesus." Ignoring Annick's glance, Jack stops and casts an irritable gaze about them. He sees his companion's eyebrows lift, and follows his gaze to the approaching figure. It's Anamaria, much more sober than she should be and as irritable as he's ever remembered her.
"Sparrow, what were you thinking, bringing some cheap whore onto the Pearl? Don't deny it, I saw you, and--"
"I don't deny it, love," he says sweetly, "but I don' have to explain it. I'm the captain, savvy?"
Anamaria gives him a curled-lip incredulous look and meets Annick's eyes, as if to ask if it's his fault Jack is acting so strangely. Irritated and unsure why, Jack rattles on. "And seein' that I'm the captain I must have my reasons, and bein' that you're a woman you probably don' want to know them, so ignorance is bliss for all involved, savvy?"
Only silence greets his words, maddening him beyond measure. He is just about to growl one of the more creative and colorful insults he's been reserving and stalk back to the ship when Anamaria speaks again.
"Who are you?" Her accusing gaze is turned on Annick, who gives a toothy smile. Like any pirate worth his salt and splinters, not all of his teeth are his own.
"Ah bien, madamoiselle. Je m'appelle Annick. Et quel est le nom de la jolie dame?"
Anamaria starts, glances at Jack, and scowls at both of them. "You're mad, Sparrow." With a one-fingered gesture over her shoulder at Annick, she stalks away.
"Captain Sparrow!" he calls after her. He didn't understand a word of what Annick said, but it makes him grin nonetheless.
"Your lady?" Annick questions as they make for the tavern again. Jack snorts.
"Aye, maybe once if I hadn' commandeered her boat." The nearer the tavern they get, the easier it is to form the familiar glib, gold-encrusted grin. "I don' believe she'd 'ave me anywhere but hell, now."
Annick gives a barking laugh. "Zat's where you belong, Sparrow. Sitting at de right 'and of de Devil 'imself."
"Captain Jack Sparrow sitting right 'and? I don' fancy that, mate. I wear the captain's 'at here." On impulse he ducks his hand into his pocket to make sure the locket is still there, then follows Annick inside.
"Evenin', Cap'n Jack!" The plump, bawdy matron of the place (who, Jack thinks, is still as attractive as her flock of 'girls', as she calls them) calls out to them from the counter. "Back already? Beth got too drunk t' function again, eh?"
Beth. Ugh. Too close to Elizabeth. Jack plants a fat kiss on the matron's forehead and forces a roguish grin. "Y' never disappoint, May. T'was good while it lasted, anyway." He gestures to Annick. "This be me old mate, Annick."
The matron's eyes cloud over as she inspects the tall black man. "You ain't got a last name?"
"Slaves aren't given last names, madame." In spite of her mostly unwelcoming expression and invasive question, Annick is suave, even giving her a polite smile. But both Jack and May can see the coldness in his eyes.
"A rum, lass, and a pint for me mate," Jack says, interrupting the silence. As they retreat to a table with their drinks, Sparrow turns his eyes over his shoulder to his companion. "There're plenty o' pirates who'd jump at the chance t' return a slave for a reward, mate. Best keep that tidbit to yourself."
"Oui, Jacque, if anyone knows dat, I do. Don't t'ink I haven't heard before I'm not blonde-'aired wiz eyes of blue, but neider are you, my friend. You look like a Spaniard. I've been free ten year, zere 'as to be a reason for zat, no?" He shrugs. "Je ne sais pas."
"It's Jack," Sparrow corrects. "I don' doubt your skills, mate, it's just a warning."
"Alors," Annick interrupts. "You ought to be more worried about yourself, Jacque. You look like 'ell. 'Aven't you slept?"
Jack takes a gulp of rum and flops into a chair, muttering at the table rather than Annick. "Who needs bloody sleep."
He can't see Annick's raised eyebrows. "I am t'inking you do. What is wrong?"
Sparrow begins to scratch at the table with one of his rings, watching the pale raw wood appear after a moment from beneath the thick varnish. "I'm goin' bloody insane, mate."
Annick reserves his snide remark, but smirks at the thought of it. "What is it you mean by saying dat?"
Jack gives him an incredulous look, but passes it off as Annick's shaky hold on the English language. "I mean I'm goin' insane. I can't concentrate on any one bleedin' thing. I keep havin' these bizarre dreams, assuming I can sleep. I don' even enjoy rummin', if y' know what I mean. I woke up a few days ago an' couldn' manage command o' me Pearl."
Annick seems to realize the significance of this and makes no immediate comment. Sparrow spent ten years hunting his sip and his mutinous first mate--it isn't hard to tell that the Black Pearl is Jack's pride and joy. "Zo what are you going to do about it?"
The incredulous look turns almost disgusted, and Jack drains the rest of his drink before he answers. "I don't bloody know."
Next chapter coming soon.