The storm let loose about the time Jack and his company reached their destination. They'd made it to Port Royale around midnight and dropped anchor just out of sight of the beach Jack had crossed the afternoon before. They rowed two of the longboats to the sheer wall of rock that was one of the cliffs that bordered the white sand. It was Jack who scaled it first, followed by the sharp-eyed Moises, the brawny Kursar, and the quick-thinking young Matelot. Carefully, the quartet made its way across the rocky, uneven ground until they came to the drop-off that bordered the beach. Jack's normal swagger was there, and any observers would probably wonder how he made it across the pitted surface without falling flat on his face. Moises glanced at his captain, who nodded wordlessly, then sank down to his belly, pulled out a scope and began to spy through the trees for observers. Jack, too, sank to his belly, grinning like a madman when he saw the four chests on the beach. Kursar kept watch on the ship and longboats while Matelot prowled along the cliff's edge, searching, like Moises, for any sign of an ambush.
A rough shake of his shoulder alerted Jack, who had been doing some very promising mental calculations, that Moises had spotted something. He took the offered scope and followed the direction of the pirate's finger. Below them, concealed in the trees, crouched a large man. Jack thought he could make out a sword at his side, but he wasn't sure about any other weapons. Well, that's not Grace's dear old da…Maybe it's that fiancée of hers, he mused as he handed the scope back to Moises. After a few minutes, Matelot returned, telling Jack with a shake of the head that he'd found no one. Moises, too, shook his head. There was only one man in those trees. He'd been right, after all—Mr. Allister hadn't gone to the authorities.
With a smirk, he drew back from the edge of the cliff, then stood. That's when the rain began to fall in droves. He had Kursar signal—as well as he could in the blinding downpour—to the longboats to stay put. Then the four men made their way inland, where the harsh rocks of the coast gave way to Caribbean greenery. The drop-off to the beach ward side of the small plateau slowly became shorter and shorter, until the men could easily jump down to the hill that gave way to the beach. As they neared the spot in the forest where the man was waiting, he signaled to his companions to stay put and continued on alone.
Jack's smirk had grown and a spring had come into his step. The rain on the palm leaves above him eliminated any great need for stealth. He even forgave it for getting him soaking wet. He drew his sword the moment he caught sight of the man. He was well dressed, from his pristine—if more than slightly damp—white shirt to his sand-covered buckle shoes. Jack made his way forward, now with a bit more care, until the point of his blade was under an inch from the back of the man's neck—right beside the waterlogged brown tail of the man's hair. Jack wondered briefly if this was Grace's fiancée, then decided to be polite and greet the soon-to-be-unconscious man.
"'Ello, mate, what brings you out on a night like this?" he spoke loudly, but retained a conversational tone. The man spun around, trying to rise as he did, but falling backwards when he saw the naked steel before him. Jack smirked. Will's gift sure was intimidating.
"Who do you think you are?" the man spat out.
"Well, now, that's no way to see 'ello, matey," this was, Jack realized, going to be fun. "Ye kin call me Grant. Captain Grant, that is."
"Captain Grant, eh?" the man peered around Jack. "Where's Grace?"
"Grace is all safe, sound and settled in for the night," he replied. "Now, just who might you be?" he asked, branding the sword in the man's face.
"I am her fiancée and I insist that she be returned before you touch a single piece of gold," the man replied, suddenly trying to seem brave and in control of the situation. Jack grinned a cockeyed grin—so this was the swine of a man. Grace had told him plenty about young Brody Fenton and Jack hadn't liked what he'd heard. Women hitting him was one thing—it just wasn't right the other way around.
"Well, I'm afraid you're sorely mistaken, because I'm here for that swag and I really don't think you'll be able to stop me."
"I can certainly try," the man snarled. Brody moved in a flash and a shot rang out. Apparently, Jack thought, he has a pistol. The next moment he was inescapably aware of a searing pain in his upper left arm. Well, he missed my vitals, Jack was trying to put an upward spin on things. He still had his sword arm, after all. Brody scrambled to his feet, drawing his own sword instead of bothering to reload his pistol. The Captain brought his blade up into a guard position as the man thrust forward. He's certainly no Will Turner, he mused as the man thrust again, this time putting as much force as he could muster into the blow. Jack stepped to the right, tripping the man with his left foot. Brody got a mouthful of coarse dirt. He's certainly no Captain Jack Sparrow, either. The man was trying to prop himself up with one hand and trying to wipe the sand from his eyes with the other. Jack squatted beside him and Brody looked up, his dark brown eyes wide with surprise.
"G'night, matey," Jack smiled nastily at him before giving him a sound blow from his blade's hilt. There was a resounding thud as the hilt collided with the back of the man's skull. Brody fell back to the ground, out like a flame in the wind. Jack whistled loudly, realized he could hardly hear himself in the gale and called out to the three waiting pirates, instead. They appeared at a jog and Jack led them to the beach. His left arm was burning, but Jack had soundly decided to ignore it until the chests were safely on the Pearl.
Kursar ran across the wet sand to the water's edge and signaled the longboats to join them.
"Merry Christmas, mates," Jack muttered under his breath as the crew began loading the chests—two to each boat. He began to hum his eternal song as Mr. Gibbs approached him, the bloodstained blue dress in his arms.
"Ye've got ta' be the craziest man I know, Jack," he said, clapping the man on the back. "But, I'll be struck down if ye don' always pull it off some'ow." They stood for a moment before Gibbs realized that Jack was bleeding.
"What 'appened, Jack? That son of a jackal cut ye?" he asked, concern in his voice.
"Not quite," Jack grinned his familiar cockeyed grin, not wanting to worry his friend. Matelot interrupted any further inquires from Gibbs by trudging through the sand to inform them that the boats were loaded—the pirates were ready to go. The Captain strolled across the beach with his usual drunken pace and climbed into the first of the boats. Gibbs dropped the dress on the dark sand, then heaved himself into the second boat. Those pirates still on the beach followed.
"Let's get on home, eh mates?" Jack called over the roar of the wind and rain. They rowed across the rough, pitted surface of the water, making for the ship. A sudden flash of lightning lit their surrounds until it was bright as day, with all the vibrant colors to match. There, in the distance, rolling gently on the waves was his ship. Jack felt a sudden swell of pride. The Black Pearl—she was his ship.
Anamaria climbed to her feet and spotted Grace's shadowy figure in a heap on the floor. She made her way over to the girl, taking care to balance herself against the waves. She held a hand out to the young woman.
"Perhaps ye'd best get some shut-eye, eh?" she said as Grace stared at her hand. Ana did feel a bit sorry for the girl—from what Jack had told her, she'd had one hell of a day—but no good came from sitting about being frustrated, as the lass seemed to be.
"I don't think I could get back to sleep even if I wanted to," she replied, finally taking her hand. Anamaria helped her up and the two just stood there for a moment. She had a feeling it would be best that Grace cool down a little before Jack returned. Shouts from the deck told her she was too late. It seemed that the party had returned. By the look on Grace's face in the next flash of lightning—angled toward the door behind her with a frown and narrowed eyes—she had a feeling the girl knew the Captain was back as well. Grace started toward the door, but Anamaria grabbed onto her obviously too-large shirt and held her back.
"I wouldn't be doin' that, missy," she warned. "If ye want to take it out on 'im that much ye kin wait 'till he's in here." Ana didn't need any light to know that Grace was glaring at her.
"Fine," the word was cold. Anamaria let out a silent sigh. She was about to begin to try to talk the girl out of doing anything rash when the door was jerked open. A waterlogged Jack stood silhouetted in the doorway. Anamaria suddenly knew that she didn't want to be there when the shite 'hit the fan', so to speak. She sent a last glance in Grace's direction before slipping past Jack to help the rest of the crew with their newly acquired swag.
Grace's mood had fluctuated back to seething. She watched as Jack sent a look after Anamaria's receding back before closing the door. He crossed the floor with his usual swaggering step—she marveled that he could do it in such stormy conditions. He came to a stop almost directly it front of her and ruffled her hair as he leaned past her to snatch up the only apple remaining in the table's (now not-so centered) centerpiece.
"You're certainly up early, Gracie," he said before taking a bite. The gale had come down just enough that he needn't yell—just speak loudly.
"You…You swine," she stammered. Jack was obviously a bit surprised and she heard him coughing as he choked on his bite of apple.
"Pardon?" he asked after a few moments of catching his breath.
"You used me, you vile, ill-bred…" she paused for a moment, searching for the right word in frustration. "Pirate!" She could just barely make out the sound of Jack chomping on another bite of apple, which didn't help her temper one bit. "You ransomed me off to make a quick buck and didn't even tell me, let along offer me a share! I thought you were actually trying to help me! We made a deal!" Jack put a finger to her lips, which effectively shut her up. She stared at it cross-eyed for a moment. His hand—not to mention the rest of him—was still soaking, and the cool water on his finger felt good against her chapped lips.
"Now, first of all, I've kept to my end of the deal. Your father and fiancée think you're dead and unless you want to swim to shore, I'll still take you to Tortuga. Secondly, you assumed I was only trying to help you, which is a very silly thing to assume, indeed—but I'm willing to overlook that. Last of all, you have passage on this ship, which happens to belong to me, for next to a song. So let's just say you got a share in the ransom and, in turn, gave it to me so as to pay for your little voyage to Tortuga. I see no cause whatsoever for name calling on your part, love, so let's stop that right now—unless you want to be swimming to Port Royale, that is," he cocked his head to the side, dark eyebrows raised. Grace let out an anger-filled sigh that escaped around the finger still in front of her mouth. He'd left it there through his spiel, restricting himself to only one avidly speaking hand. "Now let's be a good little girl and get some more sleep, aye?"
"I'm not a little girl," she growled, knocking his hand out of her face. She growled, knocking his hand out of her face. She wasn't quite sure what possessed her to commit to her next movement when she looked back, the fatigue that gripped her bones, her anger at herself or Jack, the pain of leaving a home yet again, or something else entirely, but she had feeling that he'd deserve it at sometime or another if he didn't entirely deserve it at that moment. The next thing Grace knew, she'd pulled her right arm back, gathered every last ounce of strength she had, and, with her hand balled into a tight fist, swung at the man. There was a sharp thud as her knuckles connected with Jack's cheekbone, her ring connecting solidly with the bone below his eye. Jack's head moved with the blow and Grace could just barely make out the pained expression on his face when he turned back to face her.
The girl rubbed her knuckles, which were hurting more than a little. Why did punching someone have to cause such pain?
"I don't really think I deserved that," he said, reaching across his body to rub his left cheek with his right hand. Grace's only reply was a ruffled 'hmph!' She glared at him with as much venom as she could muster. Bloody pirate…I'm not a little girl. Some logical part of her realized that she was misdirecting the anger she had for herself, but the rest of her was trying its best to ignore that little fact. Jack's hand, she noticed, had moved to his arm and she wondered briefly why. Then came yet another flash of lightning, followed by a resounding crack of thunder. Beneath his hand and trailing down the wet, off-white shirt was a new stain—a deep, dark burgundy in color.
Grace felt her stomach sink to her knees. She felt suddenly horrible, the anger seeping quickly out of her to be replaced by the cold logic that was so critical of her. Yet again, she was a fool. Could she do nothing right? She'd just punched an injured man.
"What happened?" she demanded.
"Your fiancée and I had a nice little chat. 'E doesn't seem to like pirates much—he took a little shot at me," he was grinning again, she noticed, with a little annoyance. Was the man really stupid enough to walk around with an open wound, spilling blood like a leaky bucket?
"Didn't you cover it with anything?"
"Haven't really had the chance, love," he shrugged. Apparently, he was stupid enough. She reached down and ripped a strip of cloth from her nightshirt. "That's my shirt!" he complained as she stepped closer to investigate the gash. Jack refused to move his hand. She cleared her throat menacingly and he was suddenly more apt to comply. She pushed his left sleeve up as far as it would go, then moved her hands down to the still-bleeding cut. The sleeve promptly fell down, getting in her way, and she pushed it up again—her motions speaking worlds of her annoyance. She grabbed Jack's free hand and placed it on the rolled sleeve before going back to her work. He seemed to get the message.
It wasn't deep—the bullet seemed to have done little more than graze his arm midway between his elbow and shoulder. She didn't have to worry about getting a bullet out and she was glad—according to the gardener who'd taught her sword work, that was a messy piece of business. She wrapped the fraying strip of cloth around his arm tightly, winding it around his arm as many times as she could before tying it off. She leaned back a bit to review her handiwork. It had slowed the bleeding considerably, though there was still a trail of it down his dark, well-muscled arm. Why am I looking at his muscles? She asked herself, feeling a warm blush creep into her face. She watched as the shadowy figure that was Jack brought his hands together in a prayer-like gesture and bowed both his head and his hands toward her in a symbol of thanks.
"I assume ye'll be staying aboard, then, aye love?" he asked.
"I don't particularly want to go home, so I suppose I don't have much of a choice," she grumbled, eyes boring into the floorboards and Jack's brown boots, which had been dyed black by the rain. A sudden wave—more violent than any since the one that had knocked Grace into the counter—sent her falling forward. She sucked in her breath as she held out her hands to catch herself before she hit the floor. To her mild surprise, they ran into cloth covering flesh and she remembered that Jack was standing right in front of her. As they were both still upright, the wave didn't seem to have affected him much. All of a sudden, she noticed that she was leaning against the pirate captain's still drenched chest and his arms were around her. Her face was pressed against his neck—one strand of his braided beard tickling her nose. He smelled of sweat and saltwater, a mixture she didn't find at all unpleasant. For a moment she didn't move—wet as he was, Jack was warm. Not to mention as comfortable to lean against as her pillow was to lie on. Then again, that might've been the lack of sleep talking. She looked up to see Jack's familiar toothy grin.
"We're rather friendly all of a sudden," he said in a mirthful tone. Annoyance picked at her once again—he certainly thought quite a lot of himself. She pushed her way out of his grasp and took several steps back. His grin did nothing but grow wider. She gave a loud 'hmph' before turning on her heel and returning to her borrowed room and slamming the door.
Wheeee! Second chapter in two days.^_^ I think this is my favorite so far—Jack seems a little more in character to me, though I might be mistaken.
I'm having trouble deciding whether or not Grace is Mary Sue-ish—I'm trying to avoid that, so let me know if you notice that little aspect. I think she was a bit of a brat in this chapter, the silly girl. Maybe once she gets a good night's sleep she'll think things through a little better, eh? In her defense, she has only gotten about six hours of shut-eye in the past forty-one hours.
Anyway, I hope this is an enjoyable chapter. Chapter the Eighth will give a bit more perspective from the views of other characters—it's hinting at being a long chapter.^_^
I'm still waiting for confirmation on whether or not Grace's punch will give Jack a black eye—My buddy Bob would know, but he's at work (Gift shop boy at Omaha's Henry Doorly Zoo).
Thanks yet again to everyone who's reviewed. *huggles you all* Everytime I see that reviewbot I get a warm fuzzy feeling. There'll be a really long section at the end of this fic with actual replies to your comments—the insanity of the moment prevents me from doing so now. .
Thanks for reading!^_^