A/N: Thanks and virtual truffles to ShadowElfBard, SoraHawk, Lucinda, Bob the Almighty, wllw979, jezowen, smile7499 and Emma Z for reviewing. Ya'll gave me the nice warm fuzzies.

Chapter 4 - Famous Last Words

We're rascals, scoundrels, villans and knaves.
Drink up me 'earties, Yo Ho!
We're devils and black sheep, really bad eggs!
Drink up me 'earties, Yo Ho!



Giles had come to a conclusion. Not the most earth-shattering revelation he'd ever stumbled on to, and not as of as great importance as some, but of interest none the less.

Sailing was boring.

Sailing was boring even if you'd just foolishly paid a few hundred pounds for a cruise to an island with a silly name upon a ship with an even sillier name. Sailing was boring even if you were in the middle of a yacht race. Sailing on the Black Pearl? Giles would not only rather take Dawn to see some insipid boy band in concert, he'd bloody well pay for front row tickets. And buy her a souvenir t-shirt.

He'd been on the ship for two weeks now. Two weeks trapped in the Captain's Quarters with Captain Jack bloody Sparrow. Not by choice, oh no, far from it. He'd done his best to make room for himself on every part of the ship he fit into, but luck still wasn't with him. On his first day he'd tried to find a spot on the quarterdeck, out of the way where the crew could work around him. Isabella dragged him to the Captain's quarters six times before noon, claiming that he'd cast a hex and should be killed. Being the selfless team player she was, she volunteered to step forward and perform this unpleasant duty herself. Of course.

He had tried going below decks into the hold, but the dwarf pinched his cheeks - the only ones he could reach - and told him he smelled nice. The gun deck was off reach for similar reasons, a shirtless red-head having demonstrated some things with his tongue and a gap from a missing front tooth that Giles would have rather not seen. Though he couldn't say that the man wasn't talented. He'd lasted on the forecastle deck an hour before the parrot told him to leave. The rest of the ship was eliminated from his list of options section by section, until he found himself once again sitting across from the insane captain. At this point, had Isabella suggested using him as a figure head, he would have patted her shoulder, told her she was clever, and run off to fetch some rope.

Two weeks, and he was wearing the same clothes as when he'd arrived here. Everyone else had been wearing the same outfit for months, so he was still the cleanest person on board, but that was like comparing his ability to speak English to that of a seven year old raised by lemurs. He'd tried to at least wash his underclothes in a bucket of sea water, but that had been such a novel concept to the pirates that half the crew had gathered around to watch him. Including the dwarf and the red head, who had glanced at the underwear in his hands, back at his rear, and then put one and two together into something worth leering over. He decided to put them back on as they were and tried not to think about it in any great detail.

There wasn't much that could be said about the food, except to say that when people ate things like this on television they got to go home with cash prizes. Somewhere around the fifth day he reached the point where he could tolerate the green fuzz on hardtack biscuits, by closing his eyes and telling himself it was raw penicillin. But the mealworms? For God's sake, a man had to draw the line somewhere. Jack had told him that he was a fool when he protested, and had bitten into a biscuit to show that it was safe eating. But that just left half a dead mealworm, and that really wasn't any kind of improvement at all.

On this particular morning a crew member had managed to net a sea turtle, and there had been a general ruckus as to how the meat would be distributed. The Captain took the lion's share, leaving the rest standing around like wolves contemplating a dead elk. There was a positive side to Isabella's constant nattering on about witchcraft and hexes, as Giles discovered. One threat of a curse and he found himself the proud owner of one dead sea turtle. They did seem to be particularly touchy about curses. He took Jack's suggestion and cooked the turtle himself. He found the meat to be a bit rubbery, yet infinitely better then biscuits that moved by themselves after you sat them on the table.

Jack had long since finished his meal (Giles hadn't expected much in the way of table manners from a pirate, but really, he'd seen dogs eat slower) and had his nose stuck in a demonology book. He wasn't sure why, the man barely read English, much less Latin, but he wasn't going to comment as long as it was keeping the man quiet. Not that quiet' was a state of being Jack Sparrow ever dwelled in for long.

You ever seen one of these, Ru? He was around the table before Giles even realized he'd gotten up, shoving the book in his face and spilling his mug over. There were only two small casks of English ale on the entire ship, and he'd traded his wristwatch to Mr. Gibbs for both. It tasted like stale cat piss, but as it was neither rum nor grog the mug's contents were sorely missed.

He mopped the spilled ale up as best as he could with his shirt sleeve, and pushed the book back a bit. Ru has never seen anything, as he doesn't exist except for in your mind. Rupert however, has come across that particular demon once before.

Is it as bad as they say? The picture he had his finger on showed a badly done illustration of a Bezoar hatchling.

Well, to a point. I got a rather visceral satisfaction out of breaking eggs for some time afterwards, but all in all it was fairly mild. Considering I spent two days serving as the host for a demonic being and came out of it without suffering any physical trauma.

Took you over, did it? He brought the book up to his face until his nose was nearly touching the page, studying the illustration. Does look rather small to be taking anyone over, mate. Not saying you were easy, but...

Yes well, it's sneaky, he snapped. Is there a point to this?

Had a fellow I met in Tortuga tell me about one of these livin' under the castle where we're headed. Thought I'd read up on it.

And you only thought to mention it now? Count to ten, that's it. Think about your blood pressure. It might have been a fairly decent idea to start preparing for that situation sometime earlier. What were pirates doing discussing demons anyway?

Sparrow shrugged, his usual overdone rolling of the shoulders forward and back like it was an aerobics exercise. Didn't seem much important. I've fought the dead and won, what trouble can I have killing a demon that lays eggs like a chicken?

You'd be surprised. There wasn't anything left of the turtle that he cared to eat, so he walked it over to the door and held the plate out where the crew could see it. It was promptly snatched out of his hand and a fight begun over it. Jack moved back to his previous spot as Giles settled himself down again, pouring through another book. He kicked his legs out in front of him and leaned back, relaxing as much as the wooden chair would allow him to. He'd spent as many nights sleeping here as he had on the floor, as they each made different areas of his body ache. Rotating the spots kept him from becoming a complete cripple. How much longer before we reach land, anyway? And if he heard a day or two one more damn time....

We're a few weeks yet short of Cyprus, but there's a bit of business what that needs doing first.

What? Don't tell me you want to stop and stock up. He'd been shown their approximate location on one of Jack's maps, and while it wasn't the worst spot in the entire Atlantic for them to be in, you could probably see that spot from the quarterdeck. They had been sailing right through the Spanish Main, the strip of ocean territory that marked the main trading route between Spain and it's New World Colonies. Saying this was not a very good place for an English-speaking crew to be found was like saying that it wasn't a very good idea to show up on Angelus's doorstep bearing beer and nachos on Superbowl Sunday.

Sorry mate. We've just been through a fine adventure and the Pearl needs some loving care before we hit the Mediterranean. We'll be running for all we have once we're past Gibraltar. No way for us to dry dock her, so we'll be headed for the north side of Corvo to careen the Pearl. Like all the crew, he spoke of the Black Pearl as though she was a fine lady and not merely the sum of her parts of wood and canvas and pitch.

It sounded like English, he was fairly sure it was English, and yet it made no sense at all. A phenomenon he was quickly growing used to.

Ay, careen.

If I didn't understand you the first time you said it, I doubt repeating the word will trigger an epiphany.

Run her aground so we can scrape off the barnacles and fix what needs it. Captain that had my girl while I was, temporarily disadvantaged, he marked the last two words with finger quotations, leaving Giles puzzled as to where he'd picked up that particular modern gesture, didn't do anything in the way of keeping her up to standards. She's a right sorry mess as she is.

You're going to run the ship ground. Purposely. Jack didn't move to correct him. The trouble obviously lay with the man's logic and not Giles's hearing. Is that really wise?

Run slower than a peg-legged whore if we don't, and we've got to get by the English, French and Spanish navy as well as the Barbary corsairs and the Ottoman ships. It's not a friendly place we're going to, luv. We'll need every bit of speed we can coax out of the Pearl if we're to live to spend our gold in Tortuga. Jack shuffled through the maps that were spread out on the table, pulling one out from the bottom and smoothing it out.

This venture just keeps growing in appeal with every word you say, Giles muttered. It's a wonder they don't market this as a luxury cruise. He walked around the table so that he could get a clear view at the map from over Jack's shoulder.

See, this is where we need to be, Sparrow pointed to Cyprus, nestled up in a small corner formed by the southern side of what would one day be Turkey, and the western side of modern-day Syria. On Jack's yellowed old map the entire area was simply labeled Ottoman' and marked with a little skull and bones as well as other miscellaneous Danger: Stay Away' symbols. Once past the Strait of Gibraltar, they would need to cover the entire length of the Mediterranean to reach the island. This is where we are, he continued, pointing. About a quarter inch short of the Azores islands, a little chain just off the western coast of Portugal. Corvo was the smallest and northernmost of these. We'll be sailing clear until we're in site of the rock of Gilbralter, then the area gets thick with British regulars.

He'd forgotten that Gibraltar was a British colony for a time. That realization triggered another bit of submerged knowledge to rise. What year is it anyway? Specifics, he added. Jack had already told him they were in the Eighteenth century, but hadn't narrowed it down.

Not quite sure. He shrugged again at the annoyed glare Giles gave him. Doesn't really matter much out here, luv. Not like I have to keep track of when to pay me taxes. That idea amused him greatly, and it took nearly a minute for him to quit chuckling to himself. But if I was to make a guess, I'd say 1750 or whereabouts. Think it was a 4' number last time I checked, and that was a few years ago. That make you happy?

The Great Siege of Gibraltar by the Spanish wouldn't start for another twenty or so years. That was rather something he was glad to avoid. Giles went back to his previous spot and sat down again, propping his elbows up on the table and resting his head in his hands. Are you sure we have to crash the ship before going on? He'd never been one for whining, but at the moment he was getting an idea of why Buffy enjoyed engaging in it to such a degree.

Careening is a normal bit of sailing, lest ways if you're a pirate. Jack fixed Giles with one of his trademark condescending smiles, as if lack of sailing experience gave Giles the mental faculty of a four-year old. A few days and we'll be off.

I still don't like any of this. Only few drops of ale had stayed in his battered tin mug. He was going to have go back into the hold to get more, and that meant going by the dwarf. Lovely.

You worry too much luv, Sparrow said, laughing as he rolled the map back up. What could go wrong? You're with Captain Jack Sparrow!