One . One Rum Too Many
Captain Jack Sparrow staggered down the crowded night street, randomly jostled by brawling men, richly powdered women, assorted unidentifiable forms and drunken scoundrels - drunken obviously being defined as more drunk than himself. Tortuga was indeed a place where a man could satisfy his appetites, and burn off his hard-won gold coins.
Jamming his hat on more securely, Jack tilted his head and glared narrowly at the man who had bumped into him, then sauntered onwards, grumbling to himself.
Of course the louts couldn't be expected to pay attention to whomever they were bumping into. It wasn't like he, formerly (which meant more adamantly than ever) Captain Jack Sparrow, was anyone worth avoiding. Even women had no qualms about hitting him, he moped to himself, setting a wavering hand adorned with marks and rings to his stinging cheek. This one's name, he was fairly certain, had been Laura. Or Holly. Yes, maybe she had been Holly. Anyhow, what did it matter? The point was, really, that he didn't quite remember what he had done to deserve this. As always.
A few more paces into the darkness, he walked into someone decidedly larger than himself.
"Watch where you're going, runt," the man growled, taking hold of Jack's shirt collar with an oversized, grubby mass of flesh that Jack deemed to be a hand. Normally, Jack would not have been considered a runt - tall, stately and of noble bearing perhaps not, but at least dignified and intimidating on his better days. He made up for in attitude the inch or two he maybe lacked in height. Normally, he wouldn't have put up with such an insult. But when he was especially drunk, he either became bold and stupid or easily intimidated - or both, depending on the situation. At this particular instant he felt intimidated, whatever he may have appeared. And he was most definitely especially drunk.
"Ah." Jack squirmed, trying to hold his ground. "Apologies - sir," he spoke with an exaggerated nod, "I was at that unfortunate moment unable to watch where I was going for cause of not bein' able to see in the dark." His deep-voiced speech drawled even more than usual. "If you would be so kind as to let me go, I solemnly vow it will never happen again." He tried to look threatening, though he was fairly certain his expression was lost in the darkness, and opted for a plea instead. "Never," he added for emphasis.
The hand momentarily tightened on the material of his shirt, and Jack's eyes widened. But somewhat to his relief, the massive man released him with a shove. Jack stumbled backwards, landing against a stack of crates on the other side of the street.
Happy to escape relatively unscathed, Jack picked himself up, brushed himself off, righted his hat, and swept the long tangled ropes of his dark hair out of his face.
With an indignant grimace made in the general direction of the large man, Jack turned and stumbled into the nearest tavern. What he really needed was a drink.
He was used to the noise, he was used to the smell. Hell, he hardly noticed it. Though the salty air in his nose at sea was the only time he felt truly happy and free . a flagon of rum would have to suffice for the present.
Extravagantly picking his way across fallen bodies on the dirt and sawdust floor, and carefully avoiding men being knocked in all directions by the fists of others, he made his way to the presiding godsend selling drinks at the counter.
"Ah'dlikeuhrumplease," he mumbled to the man in charge of the bar. Jack leaned against the counter and studied its surface, which was littered with tobacco stubs, the odd coin or button, and stained with spilt drinks.
"Ay?" the man asked.
"Ahrum," Jack declared more loudly, his usually slurred voice stagnated further by tiredness and alcohol.
The man understood, having dealt in his time with a great number of people less eloquent than Jack.
Jack seated himself inelegantly but with a self-assured composure at one of the high chairs and waited, intently fingering a ring on his right hand. He glanced beside him, nearly oblivious to the fighting taking place elsewhere in the tavern.
A pirate with an especially big hat sat on the chair next to his. It was the hat that caught his attention, and he raised his chin in defiance, trying to appear menacing despite his own suddenly inadequate tricorn hat. The pirate was facing away from him, so Jack slid down a bit in his chair, trying to become more obscure. He watched the form seated next to him out of the corner of his eye, narrowly wondering who it could be, or where he might be able to get a similar hat.
The man behind the counter cleared his throat. Jack focused his attention on what was being asked. Fishing in his pocket, he grasped a coin between two fingers, and gave it to the man in exchange for a large bottle and a small glass.
Pleased that his drink had arrived, he smiled, picked up the bottle, then suspiciously examined the smaller glass for signs of previous use. Satisfied at its cleanliness, he set it down, and removed the stopper from the bottle, immediately cheered by the warm scent of rum. Despite his blurred senses, he managed to pour the drink expertly into the smaller glass, spilling none.
A short time passed before the bottle was empty. He called for another.
Somewhere, someone began singing an old sailing song. In lighter times, he might have joined in. It didn't matter that he didn't know half the words. His dark eyes darkened some more, and he remembered another song he had sung once, with a girl on a desert island. He could almost feel the blaze of the bonfire on his face. Elizabeth, nearly within his grasp. That had been almost a year ago now. No, two. He rarely dwelt on the moment. Briefly he wondered how she and Will were faring. He had not seen them since the day of his trial and near-hanging, not since Will had rescued him.
It hadn't been his first brush with death, and as sure as he was Captain Jack Sparrow, it would not be his last. As sure as he was Captain Jack Sparrow. He let the words seep through his rum-saturated mind. There was no crew under his command now - they had disbanded shortly after pillaging the treasure from the Island. For a short time, he had been filthy rich. Now he was just drunk, several pounds heavier, two years older, and filthy. All right, he amended his thoughts. It wouldn't be his last brush with death at least until he stopped living like Captain Jack Sparrow. And he knew that would be 'til the day he died. He thought of Will with mixed emotions, most of them fond. Bootstrap Bill's son. Young Will was an oddity, to be sure. But he was a good fighter and had a head fixed squarely on his shoulders. Maybe a bit too squarely to ever live a life on the sea. Will would have made a damn fine pirate if he hadn't fallen in love with Elizabeth. It wasn't that Jack wanted her for himself. Jack had learned the hard way, a long time ago, that love and pirates didn't mix. In the end, it had been the sea and not his love's arms that called to him. In the end, he knew with a certainty beyond all else that this was the better way.
And yet, these were all thoughts that he rarely dwelt on. Was he losing his edge? He smiled to himself from beneath his moustache. There were very few edges at the moment. His rum glass was too small, nevertheless.
Giving up on the glass, he raised the bottle to his lips and took a long gulp. He glanced over at the pirate with the big hat seated beside him.
Funny, he could have sworn that - he whipped his head around to do a double take, as his eyebrows drew together. Now that he could see her - yes, her face . he laughed. Oh, what a tremendously funny joke. He glanced around. Was there someone waiting to see his reaction? It was the kind of joke his old mate Barbossa might have played. They had had an ongoing competition about hats. No, he reminded himself, Barbossa was dead for good. The curse of the Black Pearl had ended close to two years ago, and Jack himself had shot a bullet through Barbossa's miserable, mutineering body.
Jack stared at the girl. She paid no attention to him, but was busily looking into her own drink. She looked to be a harmless thing, which made him stare all the more. What was a girl like her doing in a place like this? He supposed the big hat kept the sun off her face, because she was rather pale. And the few tendrils of hair that had escaped from beneath her hat were a dark blonde. His char-lined ebony eyes narrowed in question.
Finally, she looked over at him. Her eyes widened a little, whether in surprise, fear or something else, he couldn't tell. Then the darkness got darker and his world turned sideways.
The girl stared, a little uncertainly, down at where he had fallen, sprawled out on the floor. She seemed to consider what she ought to do under the circumstances. She glanced around, but of course through the commotion no one was likely to notice her anyhow. Carefully she stood up and pushed herself away from the counter. Taking Jack by his tall, square- toed black boots, she dragged him towards the door, avoiding wherever possible sharp objects on the floor and other bodies. Some men just didn't know when to stop.
.
Jack was used to headaches and waking up in strange places. But the back of his head literally felt bruised and numb. And he really didn't know where he was. Sitting up, his head pounding, he put a hand to his temple and tried to look around. His vision blurred again, and he could have sworn he could hear someone talking.
"Careful now," the voice warned. It was a girl's voice. He drew his eyebrows together, thinking hard. As his vision cleared, he could see that he was sitting on a bed, and that he was in a small room with light streaming through a window to his right. The facts seemed to imply that he had spent a wild night in a brothel somewhere or other: typically aching head, strange place, and a girl in the same room as him. Usually that only happened when .
He sat up straighter, turning to look at the girl. She walked between himself and the window and became little more than a silhouette. He could tell, though, that she was fully clothed - in pirate attire. He looked down at himself. He was fully clothed as well. This was getting stranger and stranger. So if his clothes weren't on her, but she was dressed like a pirate . her big hat jostled his memory. Wherever he had been last night, he remembered the hat. So he supposed that he remembered her, too. He stared at her, and noticed that she was staring at him.
"Haven't you got anything better to do?" he asked, referring to the fact that she was staring.
"Haven't you?" she countered, referring to the fact that he was too.
He seemed taken aback, and looked away. Then he reconsidered and went back to glaring at her. Who was she to tell him what to do?
"What happened?" he asked after a moment.
She smiled darkly. "You had a bit too much to drink, me thinks. You passed out at the tavern. I brought you back here so that the rest of the pirates on Tortuga couldn't rummage through your pockets."
Yes, he realized that unconscious, he would have been pray to curious hands of passers-by.
"Where indeed is here, pray tell?" he asked, his hand travelling to his pockets. Had her curious pirate hands searched through his belongings already? He wasn't sure whether to hope one way or the other, now able to see her more clearly, his eyes adjusting to the bright light.
"You're in a room at the Red Parrot Inn," she explained, then added, "All I took were some coins to pay for lodging."
Jack's eyes flared. "You .?" She had rifled through his clothing then, she had seen his compass, his lack of plentiful coins . he wasn't even sure what else had been in his pockets.
"Where's me hat?" he demanded, his hands flying to the top of his head. Only a worn red bandanna served to hold his long bead-laden dreds back from his face.
She laughed. "No 'thank-you,' no introductions, no pleased-to-meet- you?"
Jack pursed his lips. "Thank you, pleased to meet you," he said in a sarcastically obliging tone, "can I have me hat now?"
"What's your name?" she asked, evading his demand.
"Ladies first," he insisted.
She held her chin up a little, perhaps offended at the label. After all, not many women bothered going to all the trouble of becoming pirates. And she certainly hadn't gone through the hassle just to be called a 'lady.'
"India," she answered in a sultry growl.
He grinned, revealing several gold teeth. "What's your real name?"
She looked angry. They glared at each other for a moment before her eyes dropped. "I'm not sure," she admitted. Then she looked back up at him, "All I know is that my father was a man named Captain Barbossa."
"Oh good," Jack breathed.
Captain Jack Sparrow staggered down the crowded night street, randomly jostled by brawling men, richly powdered women, assorted unidentifiable forms and drunken scoundrels - drunken obviously being defined as more drunk than himself. Tortuga was indeed a place where a man could satisfy his appetites, and burn off his hard-won gold coins.
Jamming his hat on more securely, Jack tilted his head and glared narrowly at the man who had bumped into him, then sauntered onwards, grumbling to himself.
Of course the louts couldn't be expected to pay attention to whomever they were bumping into. It wasn't like he, formerly (which meant more adamantly than ever) Captain Jack Sparrow, was anyone worth avoiding. Even women had no qualms about hitting him, he moped to himself, setting a wavering hand adorned with marks and rings to his stinging cheek. This one's name, he was fairly certain, had been Laura. Or Holly. Yes, maybe she had been Holly. Anyhow, what did it matter? The point was, really, that he didn't quite remember what he had done to deserve this. As always.
A few more paces into the darkness, he walked into someone decidedly larger than himself.
"Watch where you're going, runt," the man growled, taking hold of Jack's shirt collar with an oversized, grubby mass of flesh that Jack deemed to be a hand. Normally, Jack would not have been considered a runt - tall, stately and of noble bearing perhaps not, but at least dignified and intimidating on his better days. He made up for in attitude the inch or two he maybe lacked in height. Normally, he wouldn't have put up with such an insult. But when he was especially drunk, he either became bold and stupid or easily intimidated - or both, depending on the situation. At this particular instant he felt intimidated, whatever he may have appeared. And he was most definitely especially drunk.
"Ah." Jack squirmed, trying to hold his ground. "Apologies - sir," he spoke with an exaggerated nod, "I was at that unfortunate moment unable to watch where I was going for cause of not bein' able to see in the dark." His deep-voiced speech drawled even more than usual. "If you would be so kind as to let me go, I solemnly vow it will never happen again." He tried to look threatening, though he was fairly certain his expression was lost in the darkness, and opted for a plea instead. "Never," he added for emphasis.
The hand momentarily tightened on the material of his shirt, and Jack's eyes widened. But somewhat to his relief, the massive man released him with a shove. Jack stumbled backwards, landing against a stack of crates on the other side of the street.
Happy to escape relatively unscathed, Jack picked himself up, brushed himself off, righted his hat, and swept the long tangled ropes of his dark hair out of his face.
With an indignant grimace made in the general direction of the large man, Jack turned and stumbled into the nearest tavern. What he really needed was a drink.
He was used to the noise, he was used to the smell. Hell, he hardly noticed it. Though the salty air in his nose at sea was the only time he felt truly happy and free . a flagon of rum would have to suffice for the present.
Extravagantly picking his way across fallen bodies on the dirt and sawdust floor, and carefully avoiding men being knocked in all directions by the fists of others, he made his way to the presiding godsend selling drinks at the counter.
"Ah'dlikeuhrumplease," he mumbled to the man in charge of the bar. Jack leaned against the counter and studied its surface, which was littered with tobacco stubs, the odd coin or button, and stained with spilt drinks.
"Ay?" the man asked.
"Ahrum," Jack declared more loudly, his usually slurred voice stagnated further by tiredness and alcohol.
The man understood, having dealt in his time with a great number of people less eloquent than Jack.
Jack seated himself inelegantly but with a self-assured composure at one of the high chairs and waited, intently fingering a ring on his right hand. He glanced beside him, nearly oblivious to the fighting taking place elsewhere in the tavern.
A pirate with an especially big hat sat on the chair next to his. It was the hat that caught his attention, and he raised his chin in defiance, trying to appear menacing despite his own suddenly inadequate tricorn hat. The pirate was facing away from him, so Jack slid down a bit in his chair, trying to become more obscure. He watched the form seated next to him out of the corner of his eye, narrowly wondering who it could be, or where he might be able to get a similar hat.
The man behind the counter cleared his throat. Jack focused his attention on what was being asked. Fishing in his pocket, he grasped a coin between two fingers, and gave it to the man in exchange for a large bottle and a small glass.
Pleased that his drink had arrived, he smiled, picked up the bottle, then suspiciously examined the smaller glass for signs of previous use. Satisfied at its cleanliness, he set it down, and removed the stopper from the bottle, immediately cheered by the warm scent of rum. Despite his blurred senses, he managed to pour the drink expertly into the smaller glass, spilling none.
A short time passed before the bottle was empty. He called for another.
Somewhere, someone began singing an old sailing song. In lighter times, he might have joined in. It didn't matter that he didn't know half the words. His dark eyes darkened some more, and he remembered another song he had sung once, with a girl on a desert island. He could almost feel the blaze of the bonfire on his face. Elizabeth, nearly within his grasp. That had been almost a year ago now. No, two. He rarely dwelt on the moment. Briefly he wondered how she and Will were faring. He had not seen them since the day of his trial and near-hanging, not since Will had rescued him.
It hadn't been his first brush with death, and as sure as he was Captain Jack Sparrow, it would not be his last. As sure as he was Captain Jack Sparrow. He let the words seep through his rum-saturated mind. There was no crew under his command now - they had disbanded shortly after pillaging the treasure from the Island. For a short time, he had been filthy rich. Now he was just drunk, several pounds heavier, two years older, and filthy. All right, he amended his thoughts. It wouldn't be his last brush with death at least until he stopped living like Captain Jack Sparrow. And he knew that would be 'til the day he died. He thought of Will with mixed emotions, most of them fond. Bootstrap Bill's son. Young Will was an oddity, to be sure. But he was a good fighter and had a head fixed squarely on his shoulders. Maybe a bit too squarely to ever live a life on the sea. Will would have made a damn fine pirate if he hadn't fallen in love with Elizabeth. It wasn't that Jack wanted her for himself. Jack had learned the hard way, a long time ago, that love and pirates didn't mix. In the end, it had been the sea and not his love's arms that called to him. In the end, he knew with a certainty beyond all else that this was the better way.
And yet, these were all thoughts that he rarely dwelt on. Was he losing his edge? He smiled to himself from beneath his moustache. There were very few edges at the moment. His rum glass was too small, nevertheless.
Giving up on the glass, he raised the bottle to his lips and took a long gulp. He glanced over at the pirate with the big hat seated beside him.
Funny, he could have sworn that - he whipped his head around to do a double take, as his eyebrows drew together. Now that he could see her - yes, her face . he laughed. Oh, what a tremendously funny joke. He glanced around. Was there someone waiting to see his reaction? It was the kind of joke his old mate Barbossa might have played. They had had an ongoing competition about hats. No, he reminded himself, Barbossa was dead for good. The curse of the Black Pearl had ended close to two years ago, and Jack himself had shot a bullet through Barbossa's miserable, mutineering body.
Jack stared at the girl. She paid no attention to him, but was busily looking into her own drink. She looked to be a harmless thing, which made him stare all the more. What was a girl like her doing in a place like this? He supposed the big hat kept the sun off her face, because she was rather pale. And the few tendrils of hair that had escaped from beneath her hat were a dark blonde. His char-lined ebony eyes narrowed in question.
Finally, she looked over at him. Her eyes widened a little, whether in surprise, fear or something else, he couldn't tell. Then the darkness got darker and his world turned sideways.
The girl stared, a little uncertainly, down at where he had fallen, sprawled out on the floor. She seemed to consider what she ought to do under the circumstances. She glanced around, but of course through the commotion no one was likely to notice her anyhow. Carefully she stood up and pushed herself away from the counter. Taking Jack by his tall, square- toed black boots, she dragged him towards the door, avoiding wherever possible sharp objects on the floor and other bodies. Some men just didn't know when to stop.
.
Jack was used to headaches and waking up in strange places. But the back of his head literally felt bruised and numb. And he really didn't know where he was. Sitting up, his head pounding, he put a hand to his temple and tried to look around. His vision blurred again, and he could have sworn he could hear someone talking.
"Careful now," the voice warned. It was a girl's voice. He drew his eyebrows together, thinking hard. As his vision cleared, he could see that he was sitting on a bed, and that he was in a small room with light streaming through a window to his right. The facts seemed to imply that he had spent a wild night in a brothel somewhere or other: typically aching head, strange place, and a girl in the same room as him. Usually that only happened when .
He sat up straighter, turning to look at the girl. She walked between himself and the window and became little more than a silhouette. He could tell, though, that she was fully clothed - in pirate attire. He looked down at himself. He was fully clothed as well. This was getting stranger and stranger. So if his clothes weren't on her, but she was dressed like a pirate . her big hat jostled his memory. Wherever he had been last night, he remembered the hat. So he supposed that he remembered her, too. He stared at her, and noticed that she was staring at him.
"Haven't you got anything better to do?" he asked, referring to the fact that she was staring.
"Haven't you?" she countered, referring to the fact that he was too.
He seemed taken aback, and looked away. Then he reconsidered and went back to glaring at her. Who was she to tell him what to do?
"What happened?" he asked after a moment.
She smiled darkly. "You had a bit too much to drink, me thinks. You passed out at the tavern. I brought you back here so that the rest of the pirates on Tortuga couldn't rummage through your pockets."
Yes, he realized that unconscious, he would have been pray to curious hands of passers-by.
"Where indeed is here, pray tell?" he asked, his hand travelling to his pockets. Had her curious pirate hands searched through his belongings already? He wasn't sure whether to hope one way or the other, now able to see her more clearly, his eyes adjusting to the bright light.
"You're in a room at the Red Parrot Inn," she explained, then added, "All I took were some coins to pay for lodging."
Jack's eyes flared. "You .?" She had rifled through his clothing then, she had seen his compass, his lack of plentiful coins . he wasn't even sure what else had been in his pockets.
"Where's me hat?" he demanded, his hands flying to the top of his head. Only a worn red bandanna served to hold his long bead-laden dreds back from his face.
She laughed. "No 'thank-you,' no introductions, no pleased-to-meet- you?"
Jack pursed his lips. "Thank you, pleased to meet you," he said in a sarcastically obliging tone, "can I have me hat now?"
"What's your name?" she asked, evading his demand.
"Ladies first," he insisted.
She held her chin up a little, perhaps offended at the label. After all, not many women bothered going to all the trouble of becoming pirates. And she certainly hadn't gone through the hassle just to be called a 'lady.'
"India," she answered in a sultry growl.
He grinned, revealing several gold teeth. "What's your real name?"
She looked angry. They glared at each other for a moment before her eyes dropped. "I'm not sure," she admitted. Then she looked back up at him, "All I know is that my father was a man named Captain Barbossa."
"Oh good," Jack breathed.